#(as much as i make him suffer lmao) like. yeah that man's fucked up enough to punch someone while on the clock

[bravevolunteer]

sometimes i just. remember that scene in the movie where mike is beating some guy up in a fountain..... whatcha doing there bud

[twistedwonderlandshenanigans]

Valentine's Day...Gifts They Give You?? I Think. IDK.

HAH SCHOOL CAN KICK MY BUTT BUT BY GOD AND THE DEVIL WILL I SHARE A LITTLE BIT OF LOVE!! (I'm suffering Jesus fucking CHRIST this course is gonna eat my fried up brain for breakfast lunch and dinner) This is done assuming they're pining for Yuu, save for Ortho he's Idia's little wingman. GN reader as always bbssssssssss if anything seems canon divergent, check out my HCs lmao

Heartslaybul Ace: He thought about making it super romantic, like he spent the week leading up to Valentine's day brainstorming ideas on napkins and doodling on scrap paper, trying to come up with a way to ask to hang out that would make it feel different than normal, but not so obvious that he...you know, likes you. He ends up showing up at Ramshackle before class with a box of chocolates he bought the day before and a bit of a blushing mess. "I just got these because who knows how much Sam will have by the end of today, you owe me half, ok?"

Deuce: He absolutely called his mom to ask for some advice, and asked his dorm mom (Trey), to proofread the hand written note he had meticulously written and supervise while he tries to make a heartshaped quiche. Why quiche? Well he knows you guys have...Memories about eggs, and he remembers it fondly, and he knows that quiche freezes well, so if he makes a big batch, you can eat what you want and have a readily available breakfast to just pop back in the oven whenever you want it - hopefully you'll remember him each time you do, and you'll ask for more when you finish it! He ends up at Ramshackle a little disheveled and out of breath, trying to make the quiche early enough in the day that he could make it there before breakfast so maybe you could share a meal before class. "It's still warm??" "Yeah, I ran here as fast as I could once it was cool enough to handle." "You didn't have to..." "I wanted to! You're more than worth the effort it took to be here on time." Trey: Mans has a major advantage in that he is great in the kitchen, but he can't just make your favourite dessert. He can do that any day. No, for weeks ahead of time, he plans, makes, tests, and revises a new recipe, something that is unique and meant to be for you. It's more effort than he normally puts into his work, but it's so worth it when he shows up at Ramshackle in the evening to deliver his gift and a small note, though he gets shy. He leaves it on the front door step, knocks once, and moves to hide by the side of the house, relying on Grim's nose to bring you to the door if you didn't hear him knock. Seeing the way your face go from confusion to joy and excitement as you read the note is worth every moment he spent crouching. He knows tomorrow you'll want to talk to him in person, but for now, that's more than enough for him.

Cater: Consumerism Capital lmao. He has a really sweet, genuine gift to give to you, but the time he's spent with his sisters makes him second guess whether or not something is "good enough". So, yes, he will have spent 72 hours painting a fucking masterpiece on a phone case for you, or a pair of shoes you said you wanted, or a skateboard so you guys can skateboard together, or something you mentioned you wanted offhandedly months ago, but he's not sure if it's enough, so to "make up" for his "shitty handmade gift", he buys a shit ton of Valentine's day merchandise! He shows up with the giant teddy bear, the bouquet of flowers, the chocolates, the sappy movies, a trending perfume and some sort of specialty drink he picked up at a cafe. Depending on your reaction to all that stuff, he might actually give you the gift he worked on, otherwise you'll see it by accident or something and he gets embarrassed and a little flustered because What If You Don't Like It, Isn't Everything Else Better Than That Thing I Worked On Specifically For You. Treat him gently please. That's a personal request slkdjfhlskdjf

Riddle: He's new to this. So of course he researched long and hard on how to best express his interest in you without trying to push anything on you. Cater tried to show him cute stuff on social media, but it all seemed so scripted, disingenuous, or so over the top he couldn't see himself doing it that way. Or on the other end - they were couples, well into their relationships and living together- that wasn't where he was with you, at least....not yet. He ends up watching, reading and listening to tutorials on how to put together the perfect bouquet - his beloved rose garden would have more than an aesthetic use now, and with a little magic, a beautiful gradient came easily to the bunch of roses he arranged beautifully. Before you, this holiday just seemed ridiculous. Maybe it still was, but he would indulge if it meant it brought a smile to your face.

Savannaclaw

Jack: He can't be direct for the life of him, not in terms like this. The night before Valentine's day, he's still stumped on what to do for you that won't be...inherently romantic and obvious, but show that he cares about you!! His eyes end up settling on his little cactus and he ends up finally getting an idea. Somehow after class, but before you got home, he managed to gift you your own tiny cactus. He left it sitting in a box, a small knitted coaster of sorts sitting underneath the flower pot - he put it in the box just so that the yarn wouldn't snag on the uneven wood outside of Ramshackle- and a tiny cowboy hat sitting on top of your cactus. It had been from one of his little siblings dolls that ended up in his bag from the last time he'd gone home, but either they didn't even notice it was gone, or he could get them a replacement later.

Ruggie: "Do you have plans for Valentine's day?" "Yep. Wait for it to be over." He doesn't really care for Valentine's day, but the sale that starts on the 15th? Goddamn, yeah, he's gonna capitalize on that....and he might even like you enough to share a little bit of it...maybe while watching a movie....and snuggling up under the same blanket at Ramshackle...that he may or may not have snagged from Leona's pile of Really Nice blankets....all it takes is for you to say you want some chocolate or treats too.

Leona: He really doesn't care for Valentine's day and all the shit that comes with it, but his sister in law asked him to at least try to make the best of the day. Initially, he was going to...at least try to contest it, but ultimately decided there was a simple way to do it. He ends up firing you a quick text to meet him in the greenhouse. While the way he pulls you into his little nest for napping is rather unceremonious, once you've settled he tucks a pink camellia behind your ear before abruptly telling you he's going to sleep and you're welcome to join him or you can get out of there if you want. He hopes, that just maybe, you'll be able to identify the flower he gave you and find out what it means.

Octavinelle

Floyd: Azul is making him work overtime for Valentine's day, he doesn't get up early enough to do anything Before classes, and by the end of his shift he's EXHAUSTED and MAD. He likely has the wherewithall to bring you a serving from the special menu in a takeout container before flopping down on the couch next to you, then onto you, just looking for a little bit of physical affection. The next day he does feel a little bad for not making you feel as special as he could have, so he'll wake you up with breakfast in bed. Jade: Again, he's been working overtime but he was more ready for Valentine's day than Floyd. While he can't take you anywhere on the day of, he has an easy hike and picnic planned for the weekend if you'll join him. Despite being in the wild outdoors, he's determined to make you a dish that would be worthy of serving at the lounge. He will not handle being asked to stay home very well, but ultimately will if you want that more....but it's going to be in your backyard.

Azul: He had so much on his plate leading up to Valentine's day with marketing, organizing shifts and maximizing profit. But, some of that profit was already planned to be set aside specifically for you. It was about time that you got a bit of a leg up, right? I mean working for Crowley can only pay so much, and he's the head of the dorm that represents generosity anyways. So on the day after Valentine's day, he shows up in the evening with a laptop, and envelope with cash, and a grin, ready to show you the wonders of ✨investing✨. He may have forgotten you still...want to go home. He'll backtrack a bit and offer to help you find contractors that will renovate a part of Ramshackle for you.

Scarabia

Jamil: He didn't even bother trying to plan something for himself with you. How could he? It was a holiday, as ridiculous as it was, it meant that Kalim would inevitably want to celebrate it on the dorm level, and Jamil, of course, would have to plan and organize and arrange everything in order to make it work out. However, that didn't mean he wouldn't make sure to invite you. It didn't mean that he wouldn't make the time to ensure your favourite dish was served. Or that your favourite song would come on during the dance party portion of the celebration. Or that he wouldn't check on you just as, if not more frequently than he did on Kalim to make sure you're enjoying yourself. And if you're not, if it's all too much, he accounted for that already and will show you where you can stay until you feel okay again. Of course, if you show up an hour or two early and demand (you can't ask, he'll say no) to be given a task to lighten his burden, he might just admire you a little bit more (even if he still says no).

Kalim: Valentine's Day means partayyyyy time!! There's gonna be food, and dancing, and games, and lots of people, and live music because he, Cater, and Lilia are gonna perform, won't you come see him?? He needs you there so he can perform the best he ever has!! Come on Yuu, please??? They did actually practice, because they had to change a few lyrics so that it could be a better cover for Valentine's day and he was thinking of you when they modified it, so can you pleeeeeeeease come?

Pomefiore

Epel: He isn't sure whether he wants to continue a tradition he had from home or not, where he would show up at school with handmade lollipops and give them out to people....but his class at primary school was soooo much smaller, it wouldn't make sense to do it here for everyone. Not to mention, he usually had his grandma help him make them, he's never done it on his own. He likely does it for all the first years in his little friend group because he doesn't want to be obvious to anyone person that maybe...he likes them a little more...however your lollipop is the only one that seems to have no imperfections. Funny how that worked out.

Rook: Screw your alarm clock, he knows when you wake up anyways and will be outside your window, serenading you until you wake up. Even if you end up rolling out of bed lookin like a sewer rat and peaking out the window, once he knows you're awake he'll start reading poetry to you. He kinda just lingers until you're done getting ready enough to come great him outside, where he gives you a single rose and a few sheets of paper that he's written his poems about you on. He'll kiss the back of your hand and offer to escort you to class. ** I just want to say, for as much as I gripe about Rook in other posts, I genuinely believe that if he knew or found out you had no Valentine, no plans, and nobody treated you, he would, by the end of the day, at least have left a rose and handwritten note on in front of your door apologizing for not having asked to be your Valentine earlier and going through and complimenting you, though the note is completely anonymous. Rook is a bleeding heart (hehe Snow White ref) and regardless of his feelings for you/your feelings for him, he wants to make sure Valentine's day is positive for you.

Vil: Ugh, Valentine's day. It's a tacky, meaningless holiday that corporations push for the sake of profit. He agrees to model stuff still, sure, he has to in order to try and keep up with Neige, but he hates it. He gets his nails done so that they are jet black. Part of him wants to go goth for the day, but really that would be an overreaction to something so minor. He rejects any Valentine's day gifts, and likely won't want to do anything special, so if anything, you get to see a slightly out of character Vil as he either facetimes you to make sure you've been drinking water today and rant about the industry and how it's ruined Valentine's day, or. You send him a really cheesy gif wishing him a happy Valentines day and he very reluctantly replies, but tells you to never do that again (and it segues into Above).

Ignihyde

Idia (+ wingman/little shit Ortho): Ortho didn't really intend to snoop, but his big brother just left his phone out in the open...well he threw it onto his bed and mumbled something about being a loser. According to Ortho's analysis of Idia's phone, he hadn't been on a mobile game, so what got him so worked up? He sifted through until he found the culprit- the draft of a really sweet...and yeah, kinda cringey message he had written out addressed to the prefect of Ramshackle. Eugh he didn't need to read that...but...but Yuu should. He sends the message for Idia right before his brother comes back into the room, mumbling about how he needs to delete something. His eyes go wide as saucers as he sees not only has the message been sent, but the prefect has read it and is replying in that very moment. Idia reprimands Ortho immediately, but gently until the Prefects response comes through and Ortho confirms the tone is positive. Diasomnia lord help me it's one in the morning

Sebek: Wasn't going to do anything until Lilia mentioned...."exaggerated"...just how important Valentine's Day can be to humans. His decision to try and come up with a last minute gift only amplifies if he sees someone else give Yuu a gift, and ultimately decides with a certain degree of defeat just to buy something from Sam's shop. He decides something practical is best, but gets a little distracted around the candles. Surely in Ramshackle you would appreciate something small, aromatic and it even offers a small bit of heat! He decides to go through with it, but it's only noon, surely he can customize it a bit more before the end of the day. Lilia ends up walking into Sebek's room at around 10:30, only to see him struggling to stay awake as he wipes off paint from the lid. Based on the discarded tissues around, he hasn't been satisfied with any customizations he's tried to make. Lilia gently encourages him just to write a quick note, and he'll deliver it to the prefects doorstep for him so he can get to sleep. Sebek insists it's not perfect, but is forced to accept defeat as Lilia ushers him to bed, reassuring him that the prefect will still appreciate it.

Silver: He knows that he struggles to stay awake, so he starts on his project long before Valentine's day so that he can work on it whenever he has the wherewithall to do so. Come Valentine's day, he has the gift with him during class, and ends up sitting outside of Ramshackle, passed out next to the door waiting for you to show up so he can hand you his gift, which turns out to be a dagger. No, he didn't make it, but he wanted to research the best option for someone of your size and stature, the quality, where to purchase it reliably, to make a small write up on how to care for it properly, what it can and should be used for, and activities it's not suggested to use it for, but you technically "can". It also gives him an excuse to come see you more often to teach you how to use it- often teaching someone is a great way to learn and will add another layer to his training. Lilia: He's been around for so many Valentine's Days, he probably knew the fucking saint it was named after. That being said, he loves to make the most of life, and that doesn't stop here! Get ready for a home cooked meal, you don't have to worry about dinner tonight sweetheart, Lilia's got it covered. Or he'll pay for take out. Or both, to make up for the mess in your kitchen.

Malleus: He's been aware of the holiday for years, but has never really had a reason to celebrate it. But now there's someone who isn't scared of him. Someone who, perhaps if he asked, you would allow him to spend time with you. He ends up daydreaming about the activities the two of you could do together, from making gargoyles to learning to make ice cream together, he ends up spending the entire day like that. Though he's a bit frustrated at his loss of time, he writes out a heartfelt letter to invite you to join him in those activities at a later date. He'll either wait for you outside, or if its too late in the night, simply slide the letter under your door.

---------------------------------------------------------

I was gonna do Che'nya and Neige and even Rollo but its. its way too late, I'm hungry and I have a STATS class tomorrow RIP me.

[jeonqkooks]

our beloved summer | jjk (06)

You made a vow to hate Jeon Jungkook ever since he packed up and left you without a single explanation, but when he shows up at your door after years of radio silence, it turns out that maybe your resolve isn’t as strong as you thought.

pairing: producer!jungkook x songwriter!reader

genre/warnings: exes au, fluff, angst, eventual smut, swearing, kissing (omg k1ss1ng omg WHO IS IT ??? 😦), tbh this is the only warning i wanted u guys to read cuz 6 chapters in and we finally get sum action i feel like that's a win lmaooooo, jimin being Real as fook, unbeta'd cuz uhm i'm a godless menace who should be conked on the head, once again we are severely lacking jk in his own fic lol i'm owning up to this 🤗 BUT! this is probably the last chapter where jk feels like a side character lol apologies my dudes

rating: PG-13

word count: 8.1k (honestly i wrote obs6 just so i could get to obs7 lmao that's why it's a lil bit shorter)

note: my apologies if this sucks. you are legally allowed to stone me if you hate it. but i hope you don't hate it. but if you do hate it don't tell me just stone me lol 🤐 why am i so unhinged with this update

series masterpost / playlist ; moodboards ; taglist

— as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

I can see you starin', honey Like he's just your understudy Like you'd get your knuckles bloody for me

Exile - Taylor Swift (ft. Bon Iver)

The picture is fucking terrible.

“Jimin, what the fuck,” you grumble, staring at the huge framed photo on the wall, taken on the day of the opening party. You, Taehyung and Jimin are gathered on the floor of the dance studio, with boxes of takeout neatly sitting between the three of you. “I look like ass.”

Jimin barely glances at the wall, just continues to stuff his face with the dumplings that you ordered. “You look fine,” he says absentmindedly, mouth full, continuing to munch on the food despite your little dilemma.

“Bitch, I have my eyes closed.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“I look like I’m in the middle of a sneeze.” You cross your arms in front of your chest, squinting at your photographed self again. The more you look at it, the more irritated you become.

Realistically, you know nobody would pay enough attention to notice the immortalized visual of your fluttering eyes, and you yourself wouldn’t care about it that much. Maybe you would even laugh in good spirits and poke fun at yourself as you often do. Make a meme of it for the group chat.

“What’s the big deal?” Jimin asks.

You shrug petulantly. “I told you. I look like ass.”

Yeah, true, but it’s also more than that.

It’s the fact that the person standing next to you looks so good that you must voice your grievances. It’s the fact that he looks so much more than just good. 

The guys stop eating to look at you. You wonder just how much of what you’re feeling is written all over your face. Regardless, they don’t comment on it. 

One of them clears his throat, shaking the whole thing off.

“Did you tell Yoongi anything yet?” Jimin asks.

You poke at a lone dumpling with your chopsticks, popping the ‘p’ when you say, “Nope.”

“Damn, Y/N,” Jimin scolds you. “It’s been three weeks. He doesn’t want to push you for an answer but the man has got to be suffering.”

You flick a piece of spring onion garnish at him. It lands on his hair, a single bit of green sitting among golden locks. “I don’t know what to tell him!”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Jimin shakes the onion piece from his head and chucks it back at you. “Obviously you say yes!”

You exhale through your nose, then take a bite of your dumpling. You nibble on the fried dough, stretching out the silence, delaying your response.

It hasn’t even started, and it might not even start. But you’re already thinking about all the things that could go wrong. Yoong is your friend, first and foremost. He’s a good friend, and you would be crushed if you lose that relationship. 

What if he hurts you, or you hurt him?

Sometimes, people are meant to hurt each other even if they don’t mean to.

Yoongi hasn’t seen your pieces in all of their jagged glory, how they’re only meant to reflect the light but never be healed by it. He’s still blissfully unaware of the ugly thoughts that have a home inside your head, and you’re afraid if you let him in, he’d realize it’s a place he doesn’t want to be. It’s hard to love a broken thing. You wouldn’t want to love you either.

Maybe this is the real reason that’s been holding you back all this time. Maybe it isn’t Jungkook - though he certainly isn’t absolved - but it’s you, and how you just don’t know if you’re someone who deserves to love and be loved. You’ve felt inadequate more times than you can count. You’ve been left before. Who’s to say it isn’t going to happen again?

You’re well aware that this is a bad way to look at things, but can anyone really blame you? You still have a heart, and despite how fragmented it is, you still want to protect it.

“I know that look,” Taehyung says, parting your fog and pulling you back to him. “You’re overthinking again.”

You roll your eyes. He knows you so well, but does he have to call you out every time?

“I’m not overthinking. I’m regular thinking.”

“Right. And to normal people, that’s overthinking.”

“It’s just…” you wonder out loud, gaze on the floor. “What if I go all in, and Yoongi sees me for who I am and thinks that I’m just an utterly sad person who can’t be loved? That I’m too much work when he’s got literally thousands of people throwing themselves at him left and right?”

Taehyung stares at the side of your face as he bites the inside of his cheek. His tongue soothes the spot, his jaw clenching once. “He’s not going to think that.”

“You don’t know that,” you say, the corners of your mouth tugging down.

“You’re not unlovable just because one person didn’t love you right. So stop it with that bullshit, because I love you,” he says, voice serious. Even Jimin stays silent as he listens to his friend, his eyes flickering between you and Taehyung. “And Jimin loves you. Hobi loves you.”

You merely blink, because you hate it when he’s right. In all fairness, you understand. This is the same thing you would tell him if the situation were reversed.

You deflect anyway. That’s what you do best.

“You don’t count,” you tell him with an unserious scoff, your tone starkly contrasting his. “You’re my family.”

You taste something bitter as soon as the words leave your mouth. You should know better than anyone, that just because someone’s your family, doesn’t mean they have to love you.

Taehyung reenacts the blinking guy meme before chuckling, holding a hand over his chest like you’ve just wounded him. “Ouch.”

“You two are getting nowhere,” Jimin interjects. “Just call Yoongi.”

“And say what?” you ask.

“I told you. Say yes. God, you’re so dense sometimes.”

You reach over to jab a finger into his side, making him hiss and shuffle away from you.

“That wasn’t nice,” you grumble.

“Well, somebody’s gotta say it.” He gives you a look, eyebrows raised for a few seconds before he lowers them and grows more stern. “Come on, Y/N. You know you don’t want to say no, or else you would’ve turned him down already. You said you wanted to start dating again. Yoongi is practically on his knees offering himself to you. What are you waiting for?”

There’s a voice in the back of your head - tiny, barely audible - that whispers, Who are you waiting for?

“Fuck it, I’ll say it,” Jimin continues. “It sucks balls that Jungkook hurt you, but you can’t let that affect you for the rest of your life. Not everyone is going to hurt you. You’re not even giving Yoongi a chance just because someone else did you dirty. If you keep always thinking about the worst possible outcome and banking on it to happen, then you’re never going to get anywhere. I love you, dude, but y’know.”

You stare at Jimin with your mouth slightly open, stunned into silence. When you glance at Taehyung, he’s surprised too, though probably not as much as you.

After a couple of minutes, you say, “Wow.”

“Tough love. I have my moments.” Jimin shrugs casually, like he didn’t just drop a truth bomb on your head. “But also…” He picks his phone up and types something in. Your phone instantly buzzes with a notification.

“Open the link I just sent you,” he says.

“You are literally sitting across from me.”

“Just open it! I made you a playlist.”

“Aw, Jimin, that’s so cute,” you coo softly, reaching over to pinch his cheek before he swats your hand away. You unlock your phone to see what Jimin made you, because that is some friendship hall of fame stuff right there. However, when the link redirects you to your music app, your smile immediately drops.

Aaand he’s back.

You stare at the screen for a good ten seconds to try and find your bearings, flabbergasted at something that is quite honestly very on-brand for Jimin if you think about it. “You made me a playlist called Dick Appointment with an eggplant emoji and the tongue out emoji and it’s mostly just Yoongi’s songs. Even the playlist cover is from his Valentino shoot.”

“So you can get it on while Agust D plays in the background!” Jimin grins, and you could just smack it right off his face.

“Park Jimin, who raised you? You are vile.”

“Validate me,” he demands. Oh, you would smack him. You really would. “I spent hours making that playlist.”

“It’s literally just Yoongi’s songs.”

“Yeah, but I had to curate an experience. I can’t just dump every song into a playlist and call it a day. I gotta make sure they fit the vibe.”

“I literally just heard the most profound shit from you not even two minutes ago.” Then, you turn to Taehyung with an exasperated look on your face. “Why would you let him do this?”

He just waves a dismissive hand in the air, like Jimin isn’t even there. “I’m not responsible for the stupid shit he does.”

Jimin crosses his arms in front of his chest, both eyebrows raised dramatically as he gapes at you. “You both suck. From now on, you can make your own sexytime playlists.”

“Nobody even asked you to do that!” you cry.

“Yeah! Which makes me an even more considerate friend,” he says. “Ugh. Whatever. Go call Yoongi.”

“You want me to do it now?”

“Yes. Because I know you’ll wuss out when you’re alone. You can stay and put him on speakers for us to hear or you can go out into the hallway. Come on, chop chop.”

“No, I have to text him first,” you protest. “What if he’s busy?”

Jimin narrows his eyes at you suspiciously, but allows you this after a moment. “Fine.”

You take out your phone from your bag that’s lying carelessly on the floor to draft a quick message to Yoongi. 

[12:59] You: got a minute?

The three of you go back to the food, abandoning the previous topic of conversation in favor of something lighter and meaningless or else you would go crazy waiting for Yoongi’s reply. After you’re finished, you and Taehyung are in the middle of putting away all the empty containers and soda cans when your phone buzzes again. 

You go to grab it to look at the notification, hands already starting to sweat.

[13:17] Yoongi: for you? always :)

You turn back to the guys to find them already looking at you. Jimin wiggles his eyebrows suggestively while Taehyung just stares at you.

“Time to get your whore on,” Jimin says in an exaggeratedly sultry voice.

You turn to Taehyung for help. “He’s bullying me.”

“Ignore him,” your best friend tells you gently. “Go call Yoongi.”

When you take your phone out into the hallway, you make sure to go to the far end of it, near the main entrance so the two dorks can’t eavesdrop. You’ll tell them everything once you come back anyway, but you don’t want them within earshot while you’re in the middle of it.

Yoongi picks up your call on the third ring. In the background, your ear picks up on some chatter.

“Hey, princess,” he greets you. Then he holds the phone away from his ear to tell someone that he’d be back in a bit.

“Hey,” you say. “Where are you?”

“Just at a fitting. I have an ad campaign to film next week,” he answers. “Did you call just to get my whereabouts?”

“No, I… If you’re busy, we can talk later.”

“We’re still in the middle of lunch break anyway. What did you want to talk about?”

You briefly regret not taking a minute to psych yourself up before. You suck in a deep breath, which eases your nerves for just a second, long enough for you to say, “Yes.”

You’re met with brief silence from the other end of the line, which only makes your palms more clammy than they already are.

“Yes?” he echoes confusedly. “Yes what?”

“Yes,” you say again. “To…”

The silence commences once more, and lasts longer than you think you can handle. Then, you hear him stop in the middle of a breath.

“Oh.” A subsequent chuckle in response to the lightbulb that must’ve been switched on. “To that?”

“...Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

It feels like you two have invented a secret language that nobody else could understand. A single syllable, bouncing off the metaphorical walls of your conversation. Two idiots sharing the same brain cell.

“Yes?” he continues to prod, but at this point, you know he’s just teasing you.

“Yes! God, stop making me say it again. We sound so stupid.”

He graces you with a hearty laugh that makes you fight back a sheepish smile, even though there isn’t a single soul in sight to witness it. Yoongi makes you so fucking shy for some reason. Your nerves dissolve momentarily as you lean against the wall, your index finger running along a crack in the paint.

“Hmm, I wish you would’ve told me this in person,” he says, his voice soft.

“I can’t handle you in person. You’d tease me so much.”

“Because you’re adorable when you’re flustered, that’s why.” He waits a second before adding, “You’re blushing right now, aren’t you?”

“You’re being overly confident, Min.”

“Maybe,” he responds easily. “But am I right, though?”

“Shut up.”

When Yoongi said he would cook for you, you almost gasped.

“You can cook?” you had asked. It wasn’t an earth-shattering revelation or anything, but you suppose you’d never given much thought to the hidden sides of him. 

“Y/N,” he laughed then. “I’m a great cook. I could probably make a pretty decent career out of being a chef.”

“I didn’t know that,” you told him sheepishly.

“There’s a lot of things you still need to know about me.” It sounded like a promise. Like I’m willing to show you me. Like I’m willing to take the first step if you’d be in this with me too. “Does that sound like a good idea? You, me, dinner at your place?”

“My place?”

“Yeah, so you’ll be more comfortable. I’ll come over.”

This one simple gesture shouldn’t affect you that much, but it does. You appreciate that he’s considerate even when it comes to the littlest things. You swell with gratitude for the thought he puts into this, into putting your comfort first. It made you feel a bit better about yourself, calmed your stormy sea of thoughts enough to rationally accept the fact that he genuinely cares.

Regardless, it doesn’t stop you from spending most of the day obsessively cleaning your apartment. Even - and especially - your bedroom, although you’re sure that is not where the night will end. Every surface is spotless, not a single speck of dust to be found. It’s like the goddamn Pope is coming over for a house inspection. 

You haven’t had a first date in… fuck, how long has it been now? Nine years? It’s almost been a fucking decade already? You honestly can’t tell if that’s embarrassing or not.

But you remember the last time.

College, freshman year, with Jungkook. His yellow piece of sticky note that he slipped inside your favorite book. His adorably flustered expression when he timidly stood in front of you in the campus library. The way he was trying so hard to be confident and charming throughout your first dinner together. How he ran back to you after saying goodnight.

No.

You shut your eyes and shake your head, warding off any Jungkook-related thoughts before they could send you spiraling. You can’t reminisce about your ex while waiting for someone else to show. Yoongi deserves better, and that’s what you’re trying to be.

You’re not exactly sure how nice you should dress tonight. Yoongi told you that you could be clad in sweats for all he cares. If the dinner didn’t hold any connotation other than platonic, maybe you would’ve really donned your loungewear like you were merely having Taehyung and Jimin over for pizza.

You’d completely forgotten all the things people worry about in the early stages of dating, when you want to impress the other person but don’t want them to think that you’re trying too hard. 

Calm down. It’s just Yoongi. He’s seen you ugly crying with mascara running down your face, for fuck’s sake.

In the end, you opt for a sweater and a comfortable skirt. Casual. 

Yoongi rings your doorbell about ten minutes later than when he said he��d be there, holding a bag full of groceries. The visual alone makes you bite back a giggle and subsequently fail. You believe this is what people would call husband material.

You take his coat and guide him into your home. “Welcome to my humble abode,” you say shyly, gesturing around as you lead him into the kitchen to show him where everything is. Why are you acting like this? This isn’t you. If Taehyung or Jimin could see you right now, they would probably laugh. Hoseok would straight up be rolling on the floor.

You barely breathe as you watch Yoongi take in his surroundings. It’s intimidating, even though you know it’s just Yoongi. 

“I actually don’t know what I expected, but I like it. It’s very you,” he comments, smiling.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that it’s cute,” he says, throwing you a wink as he leans against your kitchen counter.

You avert your gaze immediately. “Oh… Thanks,” you reply, fiddling with the hem of your sweater. “So, uhm, what are you making? How can I help?”

“Just sit down. I got this.”

“Yoongi,” you say his name in protest. “I want to h-”

“I’m trying to romance you here. Let me do that,” Yoongi says, his smile turning lopsided as he starts emptying the contents of his grocery bags. Even though his tone is light, the gentle reminder of tonight being a date shuts you right up.

You take a seat at your dining table, though you can’t really sit still. As Yoongi starts working, you absentmindedly talk to each other about your day, about his campaign, about Seokjin’s album. At one point, you get up to creep over to his side when the smell of whatever he’s making becomes more prominent. You try to peek at the pot, curious, but he just shoos you away by bumping his hip against yours.

When you give him a small pout, you pretend not to notice the way his eyes dart to your mouth. You retract yourself from his personal space, choosing a spot on the other side of your kitchen island, staring at his back as he works.

You watch him expertly navigate your kitchen like he’s been here before. When he’s finished, he makes you sit down, not even letting you help bring the food to the table.

“What is it?” you ask once he’s settled in his seat, everything plated in front of you.

“Kimchi jjigae,” he says, a proud look on his face. “My mom’s recipe.”

It’s endearing, and it makes you smile.

For the most part, Yoongi lets you eat in peace, though there’s still a couple of flirtatious comments here and there. Every time it comes, you bite down on your bottom lip to try and snap out of that daze before you cough, as if that would help tone down the colors adorning your face. There’s no verbal response from you, and it seems like Yoongi doesn’t expect one either, because he just chuckles. You think he must notice the palpable nervousness that radiates off of you, but it’s not like you’re doing a very good job at hiding it.

You’re taking baby steps and he knows it. The fact that you even agreed to this at all is already major progress.

When you’re done eating, he clears the table while he asks you to open the expensive bottle of wine that he brought over. It does wonders for your nerves.

Three glasses in and you’re visibly more relaxed as you both sit on the couch in the living room, facing each other. There’s a small smile on your face that you can’t help, maybe it’s some of your inhibitions wearing off as a side effect of the alcohol. 

You glance around the room, and you take in the sight of Yoongi sitting here, this close to you. He feels bigger than your small world can handle.

“You know,” you start. If the wine didn’t make you more mellow, you probably wouldn’t be saying this. “There are thousands of people thirsting over you every day.”

Yoongi tilts his head, swirling the wine in his glass. “Really?”

“Don’t you look at the internet? I personally know two girls from college who are on the Yoongi Marry Me train,” you say matter-of-factly, like you aren’t borderline tipsy in front of him.

You aren’t an avid Twitter user, but every time you check the damn bird app, Yoongi is almost always trending. In every single one of his posts on social media, there is always an influx of comments asking him to marry them. Not only that, when word first got out about you collaborating with Agust D back then, people you knew - both old friends and acquaintances - practically bombarded your messages to see if it was true, and to ask if you could get them an autograph.

Yoongi stretches out his legs until they brush against yours. Your stomach flips even though it’s only your legs that are barely touching.

“The what train?”

“You seriously don’t know about the Yoongi Marry Me movement? Look it up. It’s a whole thing. People would do anything to, I don’t know, hold your hand or something.”

With an amused look on his face, he holds your gaze. “Would you?”

“What?”

“Would you do all of that just to hold my hand? Because you don’t have to, y’know.” He brings the wine glass to his lips, partially hiding his face from you, and you don’t know whether he’s doing it for your sake or his in preparation for the words he speaks next. “But I would do it to hold yours.”

You’re sure that your cheeks are burning bright, your stomach twisted in knots. It’s the wine, but it’s definitely the effect of his words too. You stare at Yoongi in surprise; no matter how many times he openly flirts with you, he’d still elicit the same reaction from you. It’ll be hard to get used to it. He just always seems to know what to say to make you blush like a schoolgirl, which you resent but you can’t deny the sparks of excitement that make your fingertips tingle.

Yoongi is smooth, and it’s even worse - or is it better? You haven’t decided yet - that you know he means every word he says. It makes you feel… wanted. It’s good to know that he’s being genuine, and to know that Yoongi isn’t the type of person who would ever pull the rug out from under you.

Yoongi is… stable.

You suppose, after everything you’ve been through, that stability is what you need. It’s good for you.

You try to swerve around the thoughts, to avoid them at all costs, but deep down you know now that they’re glaringly true.

That love is stored in two bags of groceries, so filled to the brim that some onions almost fall out. Love is stored in every flick of his wrist holding a knife, slicing the sharp blade across your cutboard. Clean cuts, yet he’s never this way when it comes to you.

Love is stored in a fond smile and adoring eyes when he sees how you cradle your expensive dishware like it’s a newborn baby before you set it carefully on the table.

Love is stored in a Yoongi-shaped silhouette, dancing over your countertops with practiced precision in every movement, filling in the cracks of your home. The love in him is reserved because you, like the moon when it crescents, still have a ways to go.

When he stands at your door an hour later with his coat in hand, you wait for him to speak first.

“Performance review?” he asks. “How did I do?”

“I… liked it. It was nice,” you say honestly. But you still feel the wine in your system, and it makes you bold enough to tease him for a change. “But it was my first date in a while, so it’s hard to tell if that opinion is objective.”

He rolls his eyes fondly. “Do I qualify for a second date then?”

You hum in thought, making him wait on purpose. “Yeah, I guess,” you say, feigning nonchalance, which earns you a hearty laugh.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” he asks, hopeful.

“Don’t know yet,” you answer, though you’ll probably end up going home and catching up on a kdrama. “Are you coming in tomorrow?”

“Just in the morning. I have a shoot in the afternoon.” He shifts to lean his weight on his other leg, tipping his body closer to you. “But I can pick you up after.”

“Yeah? And where would we go?”

Yoongi shrugs in earnest. “Just drive around? Grab a bite?” he thinks out loud, tilting his head slightly to one side for emphasis. “I could take you to that popup store you mentioned.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “You would stand in line with me to buy a novelty mug?”

“Pretty sure we wouldn’t have to stand in line if I gave them a call,” he says, grinning. “One of the perks of the job, y’know.”

“Must be nice,” you laugh, then shift to lean just a tad closer to him. You look at him for a brief moment before you agree, “Yeah, okay.”

You and Yoongi stand there at the door, each of you on either side of the threshold. This would be an appropriate moment for a kiss, you think. That explosive first kiss, if this were a movie. Exhilaration courses through your veins. You feel it from your head to the tips of your fingers to your toes. The feeling is rendering you a mere teenager again. 

It’s exciting because it’s new. You have the entire book ahead of you, waiting to be written. At this point, anything could happen. You’re a blank canvas waiting to be drawn, a blank page hoping to be written. 

Wait.

Back up.

A kiss?

A kiss?!

With Yoongi?

You’re thinking about kissing Yoongi?!

Fuck.

Fuck?!

It’s the wine.

Your thoughts knock against each other like bumper cars, echoing loudly in your brain that it almost gives you a headache.

You stay still as Yoongi leans down, your heart racing while your brain just keyboard-smashes. You can’t tell if you want him to kiss you or not, but when he only presses his lips against your cheek, you feel two emotions at once.

The first is disappointment, the second is relief. They press down on you with almost equal force, and you’re not really sure which one weighs heavier.

Baby steps.

You blink when he pulls away, and he just smiles fondly at you as if he can read your mind.

“Goodnight, princess.”

You watch him until he’s in the elevator, until the doors close and the lift descends. Even when you know that he must be on his way to his car and that someone else is making their way up, you stand there, with your hand loosely wrapped around the door handle, your breathing slightly erratic as you process what just happened. 

Déjà vu? 

It’s oddly reminiscent.

You’ve been here before.

Part of you thinks he’ll burst through the elevator doors, or rush up the stairs if the lift is occupied, and come back to grab your face and kiss you senseless.

He doesn’t.

Jungkook knows you’re probably waiting for Yoongi.

He’s seen Yoongi pick you up after work almost daily over the past couple of weeks, and it’s driving him insane. Even on the days that Yoongi comes to the studio during the day, the guy is all over you, so much so that he doesn’t even bother being a nuisance to Jungkook anymore, which just makes him a thousand times more insufferable.

Something is happening.

He can’t weasel shit out of Jimin anymore because Jimin has been especially tight-lipped after accidentally spilling Yoongi’s confession to you.

Because that should be him in Yoongi’s place. Or should he say his place, and Yoongi is just a placeholder. An imposter.

Because it used to be him that you smiled shyly at.

Jimin’s words have been plaguing his every waking hour since he was forced to hear them. If she wants to choose Yoongi, let her do that too. It feels like he’s rewinding all of your memories, retracing them with cautious fingers only to find that his every footstep is being erased to make room for someone else.

An abandoned dirt road, while you walk down a flower-filled path holding someone else’s hand.

Like you’re stamping him out.

Like he was never there at all.

Not only are you denying him a chance, you’re giving it to someone else. When he tries to move at someone else’s pace, all he gets is left behind.

It’s not about Yoongi; or at least, it’s not just about him. Yoongi doesn’t even really matter to Jungkook in this equation. It’s about what Yoongi represents. An idea of a person that Jungkook can never be.

A bigger life. A stable present and an even brighter future. Yoongi is everything better than him.

And that’s his own problem to deal with, not anyone else’s. At the end of the day, no one has to live with his insecurities but himself.

But still, he can’t help it. Whenever he sees you with Yoongi, his eyes burn. Please don’t let him take my place, he wishes every time, you’re the only good thing about me.

It’s jealousy, sure, of course it’s there. 

But what if you realize what everyone else already knows? That Yoongi is better in every single way. That Yoongi is the person who really deserves you.

What if you start to see Jungkook the way he sees himself?

You hating him - despising him with every cell in your body - is a thousand times better than you deeming him unworthy.

“I talked to Jihyo,” he speaks up suddenly, when it’s only the two of you.

“Okay,” you answer, never taking your eyes off the page in front of you. You must have circled the words daisy a thousand times already, wracking your brain for anything that rhymes. “I don’t know why you’re telling me this, but good for you.”

At this point, you wonder if you should just avoid the studio for the time being. It’s empty here again. You resent Seokjin for drowning in concept photos. You resent Namjoon for leaving Jungkook here to fend for himself, but it’s only fair, because Namjoon was only supposed to give him a helping hand, not take over the whole thing. You even resent Yoongi a bit, for not being here right this second.

“I talked to her,” Jungkook says again, ignoring your sass. “She won’t give you a hard time anymore.”

This makes you look at him. You never asked him to do this. You never asked him to do anything. In fact, you have only ever implored him to sit still and leave things alone.

“She never gave me a hard time,” you say. Sure, you don’t appreciate being given the death glare first thing in the morning, but it’s not something that you can’t ignore. It doesn’t actively affect you, and the only reason Jihyo does it is because of Jungkook.

Because he broke things off with her?

Because he gives you more attention?

Ugh. Attention?

This is the stupidest and most childish thing you have had to think about in ages.

“You said she acts differently toward you.”

“And aren’t you the reason why?” you counter. “Because you two were fucking?”

Jungkook visibly winces at your words, like he did when you mentioned it the first time in the break room. You don’t mean to be snarky; you’re just stating the facts. They were hooking up. 

You don’t harbor any ill will toward any of his past lovers, and that includes Jihyo. You know she doesn’t have anything against you either, at least not on a personal level because you don’t know each other well enough to do so. She’s just someone you pass by every day on your way to the elevator.

“So why did things end?” you ask just for the sake of it, since he was the one who brought it up. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t curious.

He hesitates for a moment. “She wanted something more and it wasn’t the same for me.”

It’s stupid that the tiny voice in the back of your head resurfaces, hoping that you were the reason why he couldn’t pursue things with another woman.

Jihyo isn’t you, that much is clear. You never asked for anything more from him, not once from start to finish. He was always the first one to pour love into you. It’s arguable which one of you loved the other more - maybe you loved each other equally, just in different ways - but it was a fact that Jungkook always took the initiative. He made the first move so you wouldn’t have to. He gave you the option to match his affection, and never have to worry about being left out to dry.

He took initiative, right until the very end.

You bite your bottom lip, then give him a curt response, “Okay.”

Your phone vibrates with a text from Yoongi but you don’t open it just yet. You look at Jungkook, who only looks back at you. His lips part slightly as he searches for the right words, or any word at all. It’s like you’re asking him to navigate a minefield when all he has to do is be honest. Even if he told you that he fell out of love with you, it wouldn’t be that bad. You would be hurt, yes, but you wouldn’t blame him. You would understand. It would be a reason.

Silence fills the room, save for the continuous tapping of your pen on paper.

He says your name, pleading. “I’m trying here.”

At Jimin’s party, Jungkook said you were someone important to him. You don’t doubt that he meant it, and that’s what infuriates you the most. You’re important, but he keeps running circles around you and making your head spin. You’re important, but everything he’s done makes you think that you’re the opposite. You’re important, just not important enough to get an explanation.

You know he’s genuine about everything he says, but that’s not enough. You can’t sustain yourself on just his words alone.

It’s another cycle of the same conversation, running over and over and over again. He’s reaching out but he’s holding back. You’re still getting nowhere. You don’t know how many times he has to make you ask this, only to not give you any clarity at all.

If there is a trait of Jungkook’s that you both love and hate at the same time, it is that he doesn’t know when to quit.

He texts you every day even when you don’t reply - one for good morning, and one for goodnight. He gets you a chai latte every day, which doesn’t do shit for your concentration because there’s not enough caffeine in it. He gets the door for you whenever you go into the same room together. He hounds your every waking moment. He makes sure that he’s the first thing you see when you wake up, and the last thought that crosses your mind before you go to sleep.

I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.

You suppose this is him, showing up again. In a lot of ways, it’s selfish. But it’s an effort too. Now your phone is full of meaningless messages that remain unread.

You barely glance at him. It’s routine at this point. He tries in ways that you don’t bother acknowledging anymore, because you figured that the best course of action is to let him wear himself out.  When he has had enough of it, when he deems his efforts to be enough to absolve his guilt, he’ll stop. He has to.

But at what point does it stop?

At what point will you stop wanting to give in to him? Your mind rages wars with itself every time you feel his eyes on you, and you have to kill the urge to not turn your head and look at him too. At what point will you stop wanting to go to him and let him in again? At what point will you stop unconsciously making him a priority?

All of this, you supposed, is to say: Do you still love him?

You know that if you sit down and get to the root of it, you’ll find an answer you don’t like. Even in this moment, you want him to tell you just a fraction of the truth, because that would probably be enough to reel you back in.

Your own heart claws at your chest but this is how it has to be for a while. All you can do is take it one day at a time, gently nudge your heart in one direction like a child that needs to be goaded, until he doesn’t live on the forefront of your mind anymore.

Until someone else does.

“No, you’re not.” You stand up then, closing your notebook with more force than necessary. “If you’re really trying, then I wouldn’t still be wondering why I wasn’t enough to make you stay.”

Even then, you’re still hoping that he’d say something else. But when you’re only met with silence, the anticipated disappointment in you bubbles, boiling. His reluctance to clue you in makes it easier for you to decide.

There's someone else who's willing to give you things that you don't even need to ask for.

In your mind, it's clear who you should choose.

Jungkook clenches his teeth, holding his breath as he watches you shove your things into your bag. “Are you going home?” he asks after a minute.

You could say yes and let the conversation die a swift and simple death. But for some reason, you choose to kill it violently. You bite the inside of your cheek before you tell him, “I don’t know. Yoongi’s picking me up.”

The chagrinned look that takes over his features for a split second is one that you immediately catch. Maybe it’s because he wants to make sure you know how he feels about this, or maybe you still have a way of reading him somehow. Regardless of what his face tells you, he doesn’t prod any further.

Your phone vibrates on the table, the sound ten times more thunderous amidst the silence that’s befallen the both of you. You don’t need to check the screen to know who’s calling, and neither does he. When you leave, the sound of your fading footsteps ricochets off the walls. It shoots right through him.

He hears every word of that conversation ringing in his ears then. He recalls that afternoon’s sunset; it was the most beautiful sunset he saw that year, despite the sun overhead mocking him with every magnificent glint of light. He sees the look on your face when his words finally register in your mind, the Oh moment when you understood what he was saying, when the smile you wore sunk helplessly to the floor because even though you knew that love had an expiration date, you hoped your love would be the exception. 

That memory fades, only to be replaced by something much worse. He sits there with Jimin’s words, echoing in his mind, reverberating around the room.

Technically, you and Yoongi haven’t been on a second date. You think.

You’ve seen him almost every night since the dinner, when he picks you up at the studio. Sometimes, you two just drive around. Sometimes, you sit by the river in the cold, eating hot ramen cups and giggling over nothing. Sometimes, he just takes you straight to your home if he has a packed schedule the next day.

These days, you see Yoongi even more than you see Taehyung. Even though he hasn’t explicitly implied that any of these outings is a date, you know you aren’t hanging out as just friends anymore.

It feels good to be wanted. The feeling is reinforced tenfold because it’s been so long that it’s like you’re experiencing it for the first time in a new body, as a different person.

But even after all of that, you two can still go back to being friends like nothing ever happened. Because in a way, maybe nothing did happen. Maybe things have always been like this between you, the only difference is now you’re noticing the meaning behind his words and glances.

You two can still go back, because technically, no line has been crossed.

But tonight, something feels different. It’s colder, but Yoongi keeps you warm with all the looks he’s been giving you all night.

It feels like you’re both toeing that line right now. 

You know that once you cross it, things can’t revert back to the way they were anymore.

You know that it will happen eventually, because Yoongi isn’t doing this just to half-ass it. He won’t back out, and he has made it crystal clear from the start. 

Usually, this is the part where he tells you goodnight and you have to pretend not to freak out when he kisses you on the cheek in goodbye.

He takes a step closer, you take no step back. 

“You know what I’m about to do, right?”

You do. You could say you’re even hopeful.

“I might have an idea…”

“Okay,” he says easily. He takes your waist in his hands and brings you closer. The way the corner of his mouth tugs upward tells you that he’s pleased, that you know what’s about to come and you’re letting it happen. Still, he asks, “Can I?”

You nod. That glowing sensation washes over you in waves.

“Words, princess,” he reminds you. 

Your hands land on the lapel of his coat. “Yes, you can.”

He chuckles, and squeezes you a little tighter. 

Then it happens.

The line you clumsily drew in the sand has been erased.

Yoongi is kissing you.

You’re kissing him back. 

He’s soft and warm and he holds you like you’re delicate. His sincerity, you can feel it in his kiss, and it’s only a fraction of it. Regardless, there is still life that blooms this winter. Inside of you, small and fragile, but it’s there.

You sigh into his mouth, feeling completely limbless if not for him holding your body upright. One of his arms wounds itself tighter around your middle while his other hand tucks your hair behind your ear so he could cup your cheek more easily. Yoongi tilts his head further to one side to deepen the kiss. You feel something in his kiss that you have never heard in his words, something soft and pleading. Wanting but still contained. Out of fear that you might run away, perhaps? You can’t blame him though. You are a bit of a flight risk.

The wind dances past like a nosy bystander, pressing you further into him like it wants you to be more sure in the way you move, in how much of yourself you’re willing to give to him. Instead, the cold just makes you shiver.

When you break away, his hand on your face moves to hold the back of your head. Yoongi doesn’t look half as flushed as you think you do, though his cheeks are slightly rosy.

Through a thin veil of clouds, the moon still shines down on his profile. 

The chill in the air, the mesmerizing view of moonlight dancing across his features, and most of all, the way you’re still lost in the kiss, in the feeling of being wanted.

“C’mon, I’ll walk you up,” he says, after you stay silent for a beat too long, hooded eyes basking in the warmth of a heart chasing your own. You want to want him. You do want him, but there’s still something missing. It doesn’t feel entirely right, but for now, you try not to dwell on it too much. Just let it be. Maybe in time, that void will inevitably fill.

Yoongi holds your hand through the lobby and on the whole way up even if neither of you says anything, just shy glances in the elevator and bashful half-hidden smiles. You don’t invite him in once you get to your door - because an invite now insinuates something that you just aren’t ready for - but he does kiss you again. If the kiss you shared downstairs is a proper goodnight kiss, then this one means see you later and doesn’t last half as long, but it makes you tingle just the same.

He pulls back, only to dive in again, and again, and again, until one chaste kiss turns into five and you have to push him away with a giggle so you can breathe.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, eyes still set on your mouth. “Couldn’t help myself.”

“Yoongi,” you say, a little breathily, like oxygen hasn’t sufficiently made its way into your lungs since downstairs.

He rests his forehead against yours. “You’ve never said my name like that before,” he sighs.

“Like what?”

“Like you want me to kiss you again.”

You tug your bottom lip between your teeth and pretend to consider this even though you know you would like to be kissed again. “Maybe I do,” you say after a beat, bravely. “Just one more.”

He gives you your final kiss of the night then, one that lasts a second longer than the others, like he’s trying to memorize how you taste.

You head in once Yoongi is out of sight. You lean your body against the door the second you snap the lock shut. You touch your lips lightly, reliving those moments again even though they happened mere seconds ago. You’re buzzing with excitement like a schoolgirl, every feeling coursing through your body all at once. 

You’re familiar with this. It’s the stage right before every love song you listen to suddenly reminds you of that one person.

You go through your regular evening routine with a pep in your step, thanks to a certain person tonight. You take off your carefully applied makeup and take a nice, hot shower. You think the heat would help melt away the high that you’re riding - like you’ve had too much coffee to drink and now your senses are beyond heightened - but it doesn’t. Once you’re fresh and comfortable in your PJs, you still feel that jittery feeling seeping through your pores, keeping you awake. There’s a message from Yoongi that tells you he has made it home safely.

It’s still early, and you’re far too restless to go to bed. You decided to brew yourself a mug of chamomile tea, even though you don’t even like chamomile and you can’t remember why you even have it, but they say that apparently chamomile is good for sleep. You decide to take the mug into the living room to sort through your mini mountain of mail that should’ve been dealt with days ago.

Sitting underneath that pile of junk mail and letters addressed to the previous tenant even though you’ve lived here for nearly two years, is a cream-colored card addressed to you. The material feels smooth under your fingertips, like velvet if that’s even possible. Inside, there are two names - one you recognize and another you don’t - typed out in a fancy calligraphy font and encircled by pretty flowers, all pinks and whites and romantic.

The saccharine sensation associated with the thought of Yoongi dissipates instantly. Instead, your mind blanks, only to buzz to life again momentarily with a newfound sinking feeling dragging you down.

You suddenly realize that Jungkook hasn’t crossed your mind once tonight. Not until now. That crestfallen look in his eyes from the other night appears in your mind again, clear as day.

You are, quite literally, holding someone’s declaration of love and yet, it’s not joy that you feel, having been asked to join them on their special day. 

You never thought you would see Jungkook’s family again - even though you always adored his parents and you felt that they loved you too - let alone receive an invitation to his brother’s wedding.

remember when y'all said u wanted a wedding?? well u didn't say whose wedding 😌

— all rights reserved © jeonqkooks. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted march 27, 2023]

[houseofhyde]

ii. a game of westerosi chess.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader

synopsis. the six chess pieces in the king’s game and how your uncle calls checkmate. read the first part here !

warnings. niece!reader, targcest, possessiveness, themes of sexual/romantic ownership, alicent slander (im sorry, i love her, but this is daemon’s pov and we all know that man wakes up every morning and makes the conscious decision to be a hater), daemon being a filthy pervert (affectionate), smut ( masturbation, breeding kink, voyeurism, dacriphilia, virgin kink- if that's even a thing-, implied bi!daemon )

word count. 11.3k

taglist. @nyctophilic0vitnir​

hyde’s input. yes, i could have just made them get married after the events in part one. no, that wouldn’t be as fun as watching daemon suffer. i went and fucked myself over a little though because i never realised how much i’d struggle to write from his point of view without the fear of making him too out of character or his behaviour feel, idk, fake? empty? idk what the right word is but yeah. i caught the flu and have had sick-brain the whole time while writing this so who knows if the writing is even comprehensible lmao :)

disclaimer: i’ve never played chess (i'm too dumb for that) so pretend any incorrect comparisons are simply because there’s different rules for chess in westeros <3

when daemon targaryen was five years old, no more than a mischievous little babe who haunted the halls of the red keep, there was no one greater in his eyes than his older brother.

his older brother who bonded with the largest dragon; who snuck wine into his cup when the adults were occupied with their political indiscretions; who stood up for him even in times where he was the culprit. 

his older brother who had the longest winning streak in the whole of the red keep when it came to chess.

from maesters to the king, and ladies in waiting down to his own mother, there was not a single person within the castle who could face viserys targaryen in the game of strategic moves and walk away undefeated.

it was an understood fact: viserys targaryen was a master at chess.

one day, after catching his younger brother, moon-eyed and fresh-faced from wondering the dragonpit in search of a dragon to claim, and now spying upon his winnings against a pretty maiden, viserys had called the boy over. with daemon captivated by the sight of the chess board, the older of the two felt the cogs in his brain turning, an idea spawning.

you see, when one becomes the best at something, there is no more challenge. no fun to be found when you’re no longer sat at the edge of your seat wondering if this person will finally be the one to best you. and, so, viserys thought if no one else was good enough to beat him, he’d need to create a worthy opponent.

enter onto the scene, daemon targaryen.

with him being but a child still, viserys began his teaching with what captivated the little boy most: the figures which sat atop the checkered board.

“this, brother, is the pawn. it’s the least worthy piece, but do not let that fool you into thinking it is weak, for anyone may wield power if they work hard enough. a pawn may become a queen, just as a fool may become a lord.”

the rogue prince, now a man of three and thirty, awakes with one thing on his mind: his niece.

he’s always been a restless sleeper, not even in dreams would he escape the havoc of his own head and the inner-workings of it. and, though he’d scarcely recall the images his sleeping mind would conjure, the evidence comes in the state he’d find himself in: sprawled diagonally across the bed, the pillows which had once provided rest for his head now scattered along the floor and the bedsheets- which scratched uncomfortably on his skin, a slick of sweat oozing from his pores and leaving him looking glazed, like a freshly cooked hog at a feast- now a wrinkled tangle around his waist, trapping his legs in the cotton confines.

he spies the familiar lick of sunlight casting through the closed curtains, affirming that dawn has indeed passed and a new day is upon him.

running a hand over his face, a disgruntled sound escapes him, sluggishly moving himself to sit up right, that familiar yet new ache in his back flaring up and begging for release in the form of stretching limbs and extended muscles. age has begun to sneak up on him, grabbing him in it’s clutches and reminding the egotistical man that he is just that: a man, not a god, much to his own displeasure.

the hand departs from his face only to pause midair. a smell, heady and musk infused, reaches his nostrils. it’s dirty and grimey in every way yet enticing him to seek it out again, to sniff out wherever the odour is coming from and bury himself in it till he suffocates.

tentatively, he retraces his movements till his fingers dance over his face once again and realisation kicks him like the hoof of a horse, hard and with a lingering pounding.

only, the pounding comes from his crotch rather than his skull.

the smell is you, in all your dribbling, soaking, honeysuckle glory, stained on his skin like the slaves of volantis are stained with ink.

another inhale floods his senses with the memories from last night, replaying the feel of your bodies pressed together in dance, and your hand squeezing his almost painfully tight as he leads the way to your chambers, and the eager spreading of your legs as he at last satisfies his hunger for you- a hunger which had started sometime after you’d first began to present the figure of a woman, all supple breasts and pouting lips and silhouettes made of dresses that hid from view the naughty parts of you your uncle’s cock ached to see.

the voice in his head, which more often than not drives him to behave erratically, this time is but a whisper, a seduction of craving and curiosity that has him slipping his hand further down, brushing over the fine line of his lips and awaiting entrance as he parts his mouth open, brushing his stained digits over his tongue.

a jolt of heat burns down his spine while the sweet tang of your taste invades his senses. like biting through a lemon, the taste should repel him in every way, flood his soul with shame and leave him disgusted in himself.

instead, he licks his tongue in a silent plea for more.

the thought of never bathing again crosses daemon’s mind, unwilling to wash away the evidence of the peak he’d driven you to with nothing but his fingers. gods help the world when he finally gets his cock in you, for he’s likely to become a deranged, dirty shell of a man too busy getting fill after fill of your pulsing cunny to ever plunder himself into the oil-infused waters of a bath.

you’d be so sweet for him, a little harlet for him to mold and bend and break into every which-way he desires you. and it’s that thought, plus the taste of your dried essence, which has the rogue prince’s cock stirring beneath the tangled sheets.

desire awakens much like a dragon would: slowly and, then, all at once, eyes wide, chest huffing and puffing, and body arising from the ground.

the prince kicks the tangled sheets off, no thought given to whatever corner in the chambers he tosses them towards, eyes and hand and mind too focused on the once flacid organ between his leg growing more solid and red in the tip as the moments pass.

“fuck...” he means to only think it, yet speaks it aloud into the solace of the room as the warmth of his hand makes itself familiar with his cock.

he gives himself a tug, dry hand meeting the movement with resistance yet the layer of skin which conceals his soon-to-be seed soaked slit retracts enough to allow the blushing head of his cock to poke through. while he’d typically prefer to wet it with a whore’s cunt, or slicken it with whatever mindless ointment he could find laying around, daemon finds himself gathering his own saliva and spitting a fat drop of it into the palm of his hand.

the glide of his digits over the organ becomes easier, allowing him to work himself into full-blown hardness, cock taking over the use of his brain and sending him into a state of restless lust, demanding to be fed and satiated with the emptying of his stones, preferably into the warm, pulsating, tight cunt of his little dove.

while the prince does debate his ability to throw on a robe- or, even, roam the halls in his nude glory- and seek out your likely sleeping form, to watch as you startle awake with the breaking of your maidenhead and cry out for your uncle to fill you with his spend till you’re swelling with his bastard, he decides he prefers the thought of making you wait a little longer, see how much he can test the limits of your impatient desires.

after all, a maiden always feels best when her cunt’s as soaked as her crying eyes and her mouth’s spewing plead after plead, begging for his cock.

while one hand works over himself, the other sneaks it’s way back into his mouth, lust bursting into bright colours as he licks over the taste of you, soaking it into his bloodstream and making you part of his genetics- just as he is part of yours.

daemon allows his eyes to slip shut, sinking into sweet fantasies and mental pictures of bouncing tits and blood stained sheets, only to reopen them within an instant at the sound of his chamber door slamming against the solid wall.

“oh my!” a young girl dressed in rags turns her back on him as quickly as she notices his naked form, as if allowing him to compose himself and make himself presentable. “i’m so sorry, my prince! i would have knocked but he said i should simply let myself in!”

daemon makes no attempt to find cover.

“do whatever it is you need to do.” he speaks with a tone far too relaxed for a man who’s still got a grip on his cock. if anything, the raggedness in his breaths comes from his frustrations of losing the flavour of you on his tongue. “don’t stop on my account.”

she hesitates upon facing him again, eyes clearly wandering off from her own commands and glancing down at his exposed crotch more times than he imagines she’s comfortable with. from the look of her, she’s young in age- likely only recently blossomed into a woman- and, at the thought of his being the first cock she’s ever seen, he feels himself grow closer to his peak, a sick and twisted satisfaction buzzing through his veins at the possibility of giving the sweet girl her first sense of visual arousal.

when the shock passes, yet still lingers in her features like a harsh cough irritates the throat, she makes her way fully into the room. in her arms, a tray with a mass of food, enough to feed a lord and his men for several nights. without a word, she lays the assortment out on the large table within his chambers, hands shaking under her own nerves.

meanwhile, daemon slows the flick of his own wrist, teasing his cock with the impending satisfaction. a smile, too faint to be seen yet present enough that he feels the slight stretch of his lips, births itself as he considers who this offering of a feast may be from.

“what’s this about, girl?” he throws the question out into the air, clear amusement in his tone.

“the king, my prince.” just as he expected. “he’s ordered this be sent to you.”

and so it begins, he thinks.

his brother is buttering him up, showing a sign of good-will to have daemon in his good graces when he orders the rogue prince betroths himself to the king’s pretty daughter, her supposed virtue now a pile of crumbled ruins in the eyes of the court. as if he needs convincing to take such a sweet young thing to wife, the perfect little bird made of blonde hair, valyrian blood, sugar-coated cum and the sweetest song of whimpers and pleas.

“then make sure you let my brother know how eager i am to receive his feast.” he can feel himself reaching the edge of his peak, tethering off the edge and seconds away from painting his hand white with wasted seed.

perhaps the serving girl will lick it clean for him.

“of course, my prince.” once finished with the arranging of the feast, the maiden straightens out some wrinkles in her skirt- though it does nothing to clean up her looks- and begins to make her way back toward the entry to his chambers. “the king will be surprised to see you so agreeable, though it will help soothe his unease, my lord.”

“his... unease?” daemon’s movements stop, the air runs dry and the girl visibly stiffens, hand curling around the door handle and clenching it as if it is the only thing giving her support.

clearly, she’s said something she shouldn’t have.

“i must go, my lord.”

“unease over what, girl?”

“you... you don’t know, do you?” she’s beginning to irritate him, speaking in riddles and shaking like a leaf in the winds of winter.

“answer me clearly or i’ll have your tongue.” the girl can not see the way he moves off the bed, nor the way he spies his eyes towards his trusted sword propped against a wall, but she certainly hears the loud thud of his feet meeting the floor, feels the darker shift of energy in the room as the rogue prince makes a threatening advance towards her.

“ser gerold royce, my prince...” he’s near certain she lets out a pathetic whimper, like a wounded doe. “he’s proclaimed himself as lord of runestone.”

the world comes to a stand still as her words flood over him.

while the prince is frozen in his spot, face an empty canvas devoid of emotion, the young girl makes a swift exit, wise enough to not wish to stick around long enough to bare witness to the hot-headed prince’s reaction. the slamming of the door on her way out seems to startle him back into motion, naked limbs striding across the room and grabbing at the door. he twists the handle and gives a harsh tug, strong enough to have the wood smash as it collides against the wall.

the door does not open.

he attempts again, and again, and again, and is met with the same resistance each time. only then does it dawn on him- the feast, the unease- this was never about his brother keeping him in his good graces.

this was about the king keeping him locked away in his chambers.

“next, you’ve got your knight. while still not a very point-worthy piece, this holds power in the way it moves, jumping over pawns like a real knight slices through his enemies with the point of his sword.”

four days pass by slowly within the confines of his chambers.

at first, he rages. pacing the floor till the plush carpeting runs thin, hacking away at hand-crafted furniture his ancestors had sat upon and broken fast at, mouth dropped open in a bellow of impassioned words of all the things he plans to do once he gets his hands on his older brother, most of which start and end with his grip on the king’s neck.

then, he tries rest.

it’s a hopeless attempt, though, as the thoughts are running far too rampant for him to ignore the fact he’s confined within his room, not a clue of what his brother has done in regards to runestone’s rebellion. then come the thoughts of you, his little dove, likely hurt, and confused, and needing your dear uncle’s guidance on how to continue onward, how to outsmart the wretched ladies within your father’s court, how to ensure you do not wind up married off to some boring oaf of a lord, with not a drop of valyrian blood in his veins.

after sleep evades him, and rage consumes him once more, he switches to pleasuring himself, hand squeezed tight around his cock and working over the sex organ till he’s completely spent, his sack drained and nothing but pathetic droplets of seed painting his skin by the eight, ninth, tenth peak he drives himself too, fuelling the fire of his lust with past rendevouz- the pentoshi whore he’d fucked in front of her own husband, the nights he’d spent in the streets of silk in rooms where cups and cunts were shared amongst the crowd, the young knight who’d sought him out after a tourney and cried out as daemon stretched the tight pink hole of his arse- and with future desires- the slapping of his stones against your pearl as he takes you from behind, your pretty eyes struggling back tears the first time he fucks his cock into your silky wet hole, the sick, and nasty, and down-right degenerate want to bend you over the small council table and shoot his seed into your womb for all those wrinkled cunts to bare witness to.

ultimately, it’s the memory of how you taste that sends him spiralling for a tenth time.

the rogue prince is a sexual deviant, that was the very first whisper that had flooded the keep about him. and oh how he’s worn it with pride over the years, a twisted joy found in watching their outrage each time he speaks of crass and acts on sin.

even so, there is only so much he can take until he reaches his limit. and, thus, with his cock feeling like it may fall off if he does not give it some recovery time, the prince returns to raging.

that is how the king finds him, sword in hand and the expensive fabrics that once made up the curtains leading onto a balcony now nothing but tattered rags on the floor.

“i must say, daemon, this takes me back.” viserys’ tone carries amusement, which licks at daemon’s ire and coaxes it back to life, hand gripping the hilt of his sword as the prince reminds himself- despite how infuriating the king may be- that he cares deeply for his older brother. “me entering your chambers and finding you amidst a temper tantrum.”

the prince is quick on his feet, turning on his ankle till he finds himself gazing upon the face of his brother. he’s dressed in his finest robes, a mixture of reds and blacks, yet daemon does not miss the green jewel on one of his fingers. the crown upon viserys’ head reflects the sun, shining offensively in the prince’s face as if to more harshly remind him of the inheritance he’ll never claim, the throne he’ll never sit.

“what is the meaning of this?” daemon bellows and instinctively raises dark sister, the tip of the blade pointed directly at his brother.

the sound of kingsguards drawing their own weapons floods the room yet the raise of viserys’ hand halts them all in their defence, calling his brother’s bluff.

“i had some business to attend to.” the king speaks so casually, as though he’s discussing the recent weather or what he’d eaten for his supper the evening before.

“so you imprison me in my chambers as if i am some ill-behaved child!” daemon means to question him yet his words come out as more of a statement, an acceptance of the matter at hand.

“yes, well, what kind of idiot would i be to let my brother wander free in my castle while i’m grasping at straws to prevent a war?” the room grows more tense with every exchanged word between the two brothers, a feat which doesn’t go unnoticed by the guards who stand by the king nor the maidens who had rushed in after the reopening of daemon’s chambers, scrambling around to tidy the place up. “a war which you started in the first place.”

it irks something in daemon, the way viserys remains level headed whilst he’s pacing the room, and gripping his sword, and releasing his frustrations in bursts of loud voices and disgruntled grunts. condescending in every way, it sends daemon into a headspace where he’s no longer a man-grown and, instead, a tear-stained child being reprimanded by his king and grandsire.

he liked to torture young daemon who, despite his best efforts, was always prone to outbursts of emotion- outbursts the old man liked to meet with calmed expressions and tired words of disappointment, dismissing his grandson to bed.

it seems to be a commonality shared among kings, antagonising daemon.

“a war i started?!” and yet he falls for the trap every time, meeting viserys’ passive with his aggressive, striding those few steps closer till he’s a hair away from touching the king with his blade. still, his brother holds off his guards. “and how do you suppose i done such a thing while being imprisoned!?”

“cool it with the theatrics, brother,” viserys punctuates his exhaustion with an eye roll and gives a single nod of his head, giving the kingsguards the go-ahead to swarm around daemon.

a pair of them, both young in their knighthood and matching in face, grab at the rogue prince’s arms and hold him in a stand-still while another guard plucks the weapon from his hand. daemon shoves against their hold and is met with more resistance.

dark sister is passed among the guards, each hand that touches it being added to a tally of people on daemon’s list of men to disembowel. finally, viserys holds the weapon, examining it like it is the very first time he’s seen it.

“daemon, it brings me no joy to do this,” the king starts up again, eyes meeting the glaring amethysts of his brother. “but with the tensions arising and war creeping over the horizon, i can not afford to risk anything going amiss.”

“get to the point, brother. you’re speaking in rhyme as if you were some bard.”

“very well. from now until i decide you are not a threat to this kingdom, your confinement will be stretched from your chambers to the red keep. you are to carry no weapon and you will step no foot out of this castle.”

“you’re a fool if you think i’ll agree to this.”

“it is an order from your king!” viserys lets the mask slip, intentionally or not, and his irritation shines through like the stars paint themself across the dark sky. “and if that’s not enough to keep you in line, you will also be monitored at all hours of the day, every move you make within these walls will be shadowed by that of a knight of my choosing.”

daemon targaryen considers murdering his brother.

“and i see no man more fit for the job than ser criston cole.”

for the first time in his life, daemon targaryen may just go through with it.

“the bishop may be similar to the knight in it’s point count, yet it moves differently. while a knight can not move three times in the same direction, a bishop must stay within the colour it started in. think of a bishop like a maester: chained to an oath it can never break”

he’d rather be forced to endure a lifetime of self-flagellation than another moment of this conversation.

“it is in your best interest, your grace, to cut this state of anarchy out from it’s roots before any other houses chose to follow in the footsteps of runestone.” the new hand of the king is certainly an improvement from the hightower cunt, daemon can’t deny it. yet a part of him feels the knife of betrayal twist deeper into his back upon realising his brother had not only ignored his own warnings of the green lord till rhaenyra brought them up too, but he’d once again given the role to a random lord in his court rather than his own brother. “we have cause to believe that the dandarrions may be next to follow, given the less than kind words your daughter had for them during her tour for a marriage.”

“then there is the matter with the lannisters and, of course, the never ending tensions with the dornish folk. they’re more weary than ever, since someone,” maester mellos has never been a subtle man, despite all his supposed wits and knowledge, and so it flies over no one’s head when he takes a glance at the rogue prince and his standing guard, the insufferable man who’s made himself daemon’s shadow. “went to war with the triarchy.”

“my apologies for riding you all of that tyrant crabfeeder!” daemon speaks for the first time since he’d been forced to sit at the small council. “i’ll be sure to stand by and allow the next one to rip you all to pieces.”

daemon drowns out the rest of the meeting, uninterested in hearing his brother grovel at ways to keep his subjects at bay, as though they are the ones that rule over him.

gifts of gold for the dandarrion, a knighting for the lannisters’ youngest lords, peace-offerings in the forms of poetic words, and sweetened fruits, and lavish silks for the dornish. each gift more empty than the last.

it’s the mention of your name that brings him back into the room.

“were she here, we could have used her as a bargaining plea for one of these stronger houses,” ser lyman beesbury is the one who speaks and, with each word, the rest of the councilmen grow wider in the eyes and stiffer in their seats.

daemon explains their otherwise odd reactions away with them simply feeling uncomfortable discussing you in his presence, everything changed and nothing the same since sometime between the night he had you pressed against your door and his confinement within the keep.

upon release back into the castle, he’d searched for you first of all, paying no mind to criston cole as the knight struggled to keep up with his rushed footfall, mind too focused on the renewed anger he wished to placate with his cock in your mouth and the further destruction of your purity, all in the name of spiting your father.

when he’d reached your chambers, however, he’d found nothing but a mess of emptied trunks and an unkept bed.

“the princess is not here.” ser criston had spoken between gasps of air, chest heaving beneath the unnecessary layers of chainmail and armor his position forces him to wear.

daemon had demanded an answer for your whereabouts, only to quickly realise the knight was none-the-wiser. it was the new hand, ultimately, that clued him in, over sips of wine and looks of caution from other council-men amid a private feast.

“driftmark, prince daemon.” he’d dabbed at the corners of his mouth with poise and composure, everything about the man seemingly perfected for politics, serving only to irritate the prince further. “the princess has accompanied her older sister and her new husband on their trip to laenor velaryon’s home.”

that was the last daemon had heard of you.

a near moon later and you were still out of reach, likely turning your nose at the smell of salt that coated the walls of the velaryon household and wondering why a certain red-speckled dragon had yet to swoop in on the island, carrying the cause and answer to all your problems upon it’s back.

“dare i say i agree, your grace,” another of the men chimes in, his words barely a whisper at first, glancing nervously toward the king. “perhaps we may write for her return and see to it that a betrothal be made.”

daemon chooses to observe viserys in this moment, eyes trailing over his features and taking note of every wrinkle in his brow, every greyed hair within his unshaven face, every upturn and scorn of his lip. there’s a wave of unease that’s fallen over his brother, and it only grows with every moment that the lords speak of you in the rogue prince’s presence, the air thick with the discussion the two brother’s had yet to have regarding the rumours of your deflowering.

“and, tell me, my lords, what you suggest we tell the princess’ current betrothed?” maester mellos, ever incapable of holding his tongue, barks across the table, deathly unaware of the looks that befall the council nor the tensing of daemon’s shoulders. “the king is trying to avoid war, not further instigate one by implying her current betrothal is not good enough, that house-”

“that’s enough!” the king rises from his chair all at once, slamming his hand down on the table and commanding the attention of everyone in the room, more so when he recoils in pain. all at once, the rumours of his declining health and the effect it’s had on his body feel all too true. “there will be no further discussions of my daughter nor the prospect of a new betrothal. what’s done is done and i will not go back on my word to appease your fear-mongering speculations. we will continue our diplomatic relationship with these houses and ensure they do good to remember who sits the iron throne.”

the men obey like sheep, each bowing their head and mumbling false reconciliations.

one by one, they all take their leave.

first, lyman beesbury, who with pale face and solemn eyes lays apologies at visery’s feet. next, the master of laws and maester mellos, neither of them wasting time with niceties and opting for a mere bow towards their king. when all the chairs lay empty, save for daemon’s and the king, silence runs thick through the room. neither brother moving, each testing their unnamed opponent and awaiting the first blow through the tension to be made.

daemon grows impatient.

“unless corlys velaryon fucked a new son into our lady cousin and had the babe birthed in a matter of days, i do wonder who you’ve betrothed my niece to on driftmark.”

“do you know what your problem is, daemon?” though viserys’ words come out with inquisitory tones, he leaves no space for the prince to answer. “you’re so busy with your own schemes and plans that you fail to see when you’re the one being played.”

daemon feels small.

for a moment, he’s no longer a man grown into a soldier, with a mighty sword and a fearsome dragon. instead, he’s frail and weak, and staring across at his older brother as he beats him once more in the game of knights and checkered spaces, a taunting look on his face as he knocks over the little boy’s king piece and declares himself victor.

when the moment passes, he straightens his posture and rises from his seat, and reminds himself of the words his mother would comfort her crying babe with each time he failed to win, whispers of how there’s always something to be gained in any loss he finds.

he settles with leading his brother further into the trap of rumours him and his niece have conjured up together.

“i hear your new wife is fond of the seven, brother.” the prince reaches to grip the hilt of his sword, only to find an empty space and the reminder that he carries no weapon as of late. “ask her to pray for your daughter, i don’t believe she tasted the bitterness of moon tea after our evening together.”

the king does not call daemon’s bluff.

“this right here? the rook, worth more than the bishop or knight, yet less than the king or queen, it is an allusive piece. play the game wisely and your rook may trap the king, leaving it with nowhere to run.”

with the passing of another moon, daemon plunders deeper into insanity.

he’s always been a man of possession, the kind who owns and conquers and takes. objects, lands, people. they’re all the same in daemon’s chequebook of ownership. and, while living a rather messy and unkept life, he enjoys the pleasantness of having his possessions in his line of sight, like the sword he’s worn at his hip since the old king bestowed it upon him, or the seating he takes at every royal feast, chair angled perfectly to keep his eyes on the brother, nieces, family he possesses.

with dark sister out of reach and his most recent favoured family member out of sight- the pretty niece he’s silently layed his claim on-, destruction is imminent.

no longer does he debate with his own inner-turmoil over if he will go against the king’s orders but, rather, he questions when.

when will he redeem his previous loss against ser criston cole, beat the knight to the ground and steal his weapon as he lays unconscious?

when will he slip through the cracks in the castle walls, making use of the secretive halls built by maegor the cruel himself and slice through any guard who may attempt to get in his way?

when will he take the skies atop his fire-breathing mount, fleeing the city of whispering cunts and chees-playing fools?

the answer to each questions comes back to one thing, one person, one possession he needs to locate first.

you.

the events to follow the council meeting had lead him to several conclusions.

the first, and most obvious one, was that you clearly were not on driftmark, as lord strong had so boldly claimed. the second took him a few sleeps to fully decide upon but, remembering the words spoken of your betrothal among the council men and the apparent greater houses they could have given your hand to, daemon crossed off the possibility of you being in winterfell, the young stark lord likely too prideful to entertain the king’s earlier propositions of marriage after the way you’d left him amid a feast to go and- falsely rumoured- fuck your uncle.

with the dandarrions, the lannisters and the dornish folk already ruled off the list, it left daemon with few options.

his strongest lead is the baratheons, a long-standing connection between the two houses and a recently widowed lord who’s previous wife had gifted nothing but girls from her womb, it took no genius to assume a targaryen bride would serve him well.

daemon will soon find out he's wrong.

there’s an unease that takes over someone’s chambers the moment they notice something has been tampered with, whether it be as silly as a glass moved a few inches across a table or something as significant as a chest of drawers laying open when they’d clearly been left shut.

it tickles the back of the prince’s neck this very evening, skin rising to mimic that of a goose as he trails his eyes over his surroundings.

he’d returned to his chambers later than usual this evening, the day spent cornering council-men and threatening them- daemon had quickly discovered they feared him less with no blade to slice through them and his own personal minder at his back, that ridiculous kingsguard armour reflecting every ray of sun and every burn of candlelight.

daemon had taken to tormenting the poor ser crispin only a matter of days into their forced companionship. he figured that, if he may no longer seek joy in the streets of silk or the bloodshed of his enemies, let him at least take pleasure in the squirming discomfort of a man he loathes entirely.

“my niece,” he’d spoke as the two sat through their usual quiet supper together. “did you enjoy fucking her?”

“i did not fuck princess y/n.”

“well, of course not,” daemon pushed his spoon back and forth, passing time while he thought up his next taunt. “my younger niece has always had the more refined taste out of the two of them. rhaenyra, on the other hand, well she’d fuck a hound if it licked her the right way.”

“all this from a man who preys on his own blood for his sexual deviance. you and i both know what you done to your niece, how you seduced such a-”

“my nieces have always seemed so alike. both pale haired, both sharing the same smile, both wearing the same dresses.” the knight and the prince had long abandoned their food now, discussion heavy with daemon’s accusation of ser criston abandoning his own vows and committing what he can only imagine would be declared treason, deflowering a princess. perhaps soon the two will share something in common. “now i wonder if they feel the same. you must know, so tell me, did rhaenyra’s cunt grip your pathetic cock in a vice that threatened to ruin any other woman for you? or is that a trait only my youngest niece possesses?”

even now, hours into the late night and several more cups of wine drowning in his system, daemon can not bite back a dry laugh as he recalls the astound look upon the knight’s face, a mixture of disgust and discomfort.

he’s seated- more accurately speaking, he’s draped- upon a chaise, muscles tense and mind racing, in need of distraction. most of his nights end like this now, several emptied pitchers of wine along the floor, red staining his mouth and his own figure collapsed over whatever surface he finds first. occasionally, he’d attempt to have his way with a serving girl, ignoring the looks of ser criston as he stands guard outside his chambers and watches the prince enter with his partner for the evening, yet most were dismissed before daemon could satisfy himself, a mixture of his own drunken incontinence and their far too placid natures.

at least the whores of the silk street make him believe they want him.

letting out a groan, he sinks further into the seat, legs bent at the knee and feet planted firmly on the ground as he lets himself lay back fully. he’s contemplating taking rest here for the evening, and weighing the likely-hood of awakening with a new pain in his neck. 

it would certainly be a more comfortable sleep than the would he’d taken last night, back slumped against a wall and body sat atop the cool marbled floor.

he makes his choice, limbs too tired to make the few paces to his bed, and resigns himself for the night, twisting once more to find the most comfortable position upon the chaise and closing his eyes.

only to reopen them instantly.

something rustles. that feeling of unease creeps in once again, slow like fog over the horizon, hazy and threatening, and cold in every sense of the word. someone has been in his chambers, is in his chambers, and they’ve left something askew.

his eyes dart over the room, trying to assess every nook and corner and crevice within it in hopes of spotting a pair of spying eyes or unsettled objects. struggling due to all the blind spots his position has created, daemon heaves himself back into the upright position, figure slouched and back curved uncomfortably.

the rustling happens again.

he shoots up from his seat, wondering if his inebriated state has begun to create delusions, or if the psychosis caused by staring at the same red walls of the keep nonstop has finally begun to take over. he must be going mad, he thinks, eyes scanning over the whole of his room as he turns in place, cursing the more he notices nothing out of the ordinary.

until he sees it.

there, placed exactly where his tired limbs had been mere moments ago, lays a note.

it’s folded over and sporting a strange yellow blotch in one of it’s corners while, in the centre, written in the blackest ink so delicately and flowery it near stirs his cock in his breeches, kepus.

he snatches at the paper, near tearing it in two with the speed he unfolds it, eyes racing over every scribble and every swirl of pretty inked words.

the rain is the only thing that brings me comfort these days.

the letter begins and, while the writer has still not identified themselves, the prince is more than certain he knows who is speaking.

i’ve never been a fan of change (i’m sure you recall my horrid tantrums as a child whenever my mother assigned me a new handmaiden), yet never have i faced one so large. where in the capital i spent my days with books and needles and rides upon dragon’s back, here i am told to sit quiet as a mouse, as though i am merely another ornament within the lord’s home. where i once spent nights rolling my eyes and wishing to be excused from public feasts, here i cry and ache for a morsel of socialising outside the lord’s inner circle. where once i slept sound over the small folk screaming and cheering into the late night, here i sit awake by the window and listen to each raindrop.

i am not built for the cold, both in weather and in people. they frighten me here, which is a thing i never thought i’d need admit to. there are no whispers here, only silence. but their eyes, they speak paragraphs of hatred and disdain and ill-intentions with a simple glance. i need not worry if they will eat me alive here, but rather whom will be the one to do so. in the capital i’ve always felt untouchable, first because i was my father’s daughter, a princess of the realm, and, when that began to lose effect, you stepped in and taught me safety can be found in another, with your advice and your combat training and your inability to let me fall asleep without you on my mind.

i’ve developed a sick obsession for you, uncle, and it is entirely your fault.

he’s sunk back onto the chaise, hand gripping the letter tighter as a mixture of worry and anger stirs up in his loins. worry over the tales you tell, anger for the possibility of this being a sick game, a note written by some pathetically bored serving wench aiming to ruffle some feathers.

he decides he must keep reading to uncover the truth.

and so, now, it is with heavy heart that i must admit i’m disappointed. don’t perceive me as foolish, for i am wiser than some maiden who believes the things i feel for you to be love. but i always believed there was understanding between us, two different souls yet so completely immersed and knowing of each other’s drives and needs. even when i was a child, you were always the first to notice once i was too tired to continue with the festivities or when i craved the thrill of sneaking down to the dragonpit to spy upon the great beasts. i thought you’d understand, too, that this is not the life i wishfor: a husband with the personality of a wet piece of parchment and a life of silence and gloom.

i am a dragon, just like my sister, and my father, and our ancestors. and a dragon can not grow in a cage, so why have you let them put me in one? you agreed to help me, to ruin me for any other lord so that my father would have no option to but to wed us, leaving us both to our own devices. you, gaining that valyrian wife you always wanted while not changing your whorish ways, and i, earning the freedom i would not find shackled to some low achieving, overbearing, egotistical man. yet i now have a betrothed who’s hair is brown and who’s house has no dragon.

i will risk writing this only once, for the spiders may not spin their thread here but they still bite, and ask this of you: speak sense into my father. tell him i’m with child, tell him i’m a threat to the realm, tell him i’m plotting my own death. tell him any lie you need to put a stop to this betrothal and bring me home, to where i belong.

or, outsmart him and simply come rescue me yourself, like some knight on his white stallion (caraxes would likely singe my hair off if i ever dared call him such a thing in his presence).

i’ll be awaiting your next move, uncle. be sure you play wisely and don’t lose both your princess and your king.

coldest regards,

your little dove.

p.s. i have cum to learn that, while my fingers are indeed skilled, they are nowhere near as good as yours were, kepus.

the intensity behind the stare he holds the note under may just set it alight.

no longer does he doubt who could have written such a thing, the mentions of your joint ploy to deceive the courtiers and the wording used to describe the connection shared between you both marking the undeniable truth of the letter’s author. 

perversion brings him to reread the final sentence, mind fully registering them and flooding him with pink hued paintings of his pretty niece, as nude as the day you were born, now flushed skin and hardened nipples and honey dripping down your thighs as your dainty hands fail to fuck themselves as deeply as his had.

daemon can’t help but wonder what his little dove must think of in moments of self-pleasure, questions of whether you were depraved enough to think of men doing unspeakable things to you or if you merely blush over the memory of your uncle.

reading over the last part two more times, his eyes scatter back up the page- first, in an effort to avoid having to deal with his own impending arousal, and then because he feels compelled to read over the letter once more, eyes scanning over every detail.

it takes an unknown number of reads for him to notice a code among the words, a subtleness of ink layered to appear harsher, darker, more noticeable than the other words upon the parchment.

i’m, where, you, once, were.

i’m where you once were.

an inexplicable sense of pride comes over him, the fact his little dove has found a way to tell him something whilst, simultaneously, telling him nothing. were your worries true of spiders and the risk of one of them reading this letter in the time it took to reach him, he doubts any of them would be wise enough to notice the message, much less decipher it’s meaning.

and, while he applauds your display of wits, he despises his own inability to comprehend it. if you are where he once was, where had he been?

just about everywhere in the seven kingdoms, is the unfortunate truth.

by the time sleep at lasts takes over him, daemon has gained two things: the letter you’ve sent and the unbreakable will to move in on the king at last.

“the objective of chess is to protect your king while attacking your opponent’s. you must back the king into a corner, leave him with no way out, place him in check. only then will you be able to call checkmate and win.”

daemon nudges the knight with his foot.

as they’d sat for supper that evening, the prince had felt doubtful of the contents in the vial. he’d pinched it from the grand maester himself and, though he payed no real coins, the prince would argue he payed a grater price: feigning interest in conversing with old crone. a near three hours he’d sat, listening to the man drone on and on, till at last he’d excused himself to relieve his bladder and left daemon with a window of opportunity, his ointments and medicine all in a neat little display.

having little time, he’d grabbed at what he was sure to be milk of the poppy- a significantly smaller dose remaining within the vial compared to the rest- and tucked it in his trousers, at last excusing himself from the bore of a lifetime.

it wasn’t difficult to slip the liquid into a cup of wine, nor was it particularly hard to convince ser criston to drink from it, inviting the knight to join in on his empty toast towards the hightower queen and yet another pregnancy.

hours later and ser crispin lays slumped over outside his door.

daemon gives one more nudge for safety and, when the man merely slouches even closer to the ground, he grabs at the knight’s weapon and nestles it in his own scabbard, making use of it for the first time in two moons.

the hour is late and most of the keep have given in to the temptations of rest, yet the prince still travels the halls with caution, one eye looking over his shoulder. he half expects every guard he passes to seize him on sight, spewing some nonsense of his wrongful weapon or non-permitted solitude. with luck he reaches his destination, no one to spy upon the way he enters into the emptied library nor to witness as he shoves a bookcase aside and steps into the tunnel.

his memory serves him well, even after all these years, navigating himself through the interconnected secrets of the keep. he passes rooms of lords laid in bed with women they do not call wife, and ladies disrobing for the evening, and the still empty chambers of his little dove, till, at last, he reaches where he wants to be, not bothering with patience before barging his way out of the tunnel and into the regal chambers of the king.

“it took you longer than i expected.” daemon had counted on his brother being the one wearing shock upon his face, yet it is the prince who plays the fool, stepping into the room to find his older brother sat at a table, goblet in hand and a familiar checkered board in front of him.

it irks him to hear the king even imply he’d been expecting his arrival.

“don’t you have a wife to be bedding, brother?” he steps deeper into the chambers with caution, eyes on the empty bed and the lack of sight of his brother’s breeding mare.

“pregnancy, daemon. it works wonders on a woman’s body,” he takes a sip of his drink before reaching to pour a second cup meant for the prince. “it’s just a shame one of those wonders comes in the form of my wife snoring louder than a lion roars.”

it’s strange to hear his brother discuss details of his new bride.

daemon had never sought answers for their marriage, yet he’d forever questioned what had driven his brother to marry such a girl, childhood friend of his eldest daughter and so clearly lacking the backbone needed to stand up for herself against the injustices forced against her by her own father. were the prince a more gentle person at heart, perhaps he’d find it in him to pity her.

instead, he sees her as just another thorn in his brother’s side, waiting for the chance to poison his mind and seat one of her wretched babes upon the throne.

“come, come,” dragging him out of his thoughts is viserys once more, now half-hovering over the table and moving his limbs back and forth, hands carefully placing each piece upon it’s designated checker. “sit down! let us play!”

only as he’s seated across from viserys does he notice he’s been bestowed with playing the blacks on the board. never before was he allowed, the older of the two always insisting black was his lucky colour and refusing to play the whites.

in truth, daemon has always suspected his brother had been to fearful to play white, not knowing how to make a good first move and relying on his opponent to instead kickstart the game and give him places to move his pieces.

“isn’t it a beautiful board?” the elder must confuse his staring as a sign of fascination, gawking at the splendour of it. “it’s the very same one mother gifted me after i bested her for the first time.”

there it is, that familiar lick of envy, a sick and cruel twist in his guts as he stares down at an object viserys gets to remember their parents by, while all daemon ever got was disapproving looks and half-hearted embraces. perhaps the rumours are true and the prince has a complex which forces him to pity himself, to cast a shadow upon his own image and declare that it was a wrong forced upon him by others.

or, more likely, the consequences of watching his parents prop viserys up on a mantelpiece whilst leaving him in a corner to collect dust had lead him down the path to the destructive man he’s become.

even when he’d claimed caraxes, he could only imagine what his father’s reaction would have been, were he still alive to witness it. 

impressive, but your brother claimed the greatest dragon to have ever lived, the one who the great conqueror rode upon and forged a throne under the black dread’s flames.

“‘tis exactly the same as any other chess board, brother.” he lets petty feelings spin lies on his tongue, rolling his eyes and disregarding the clear etherealness, the intricate carvings on each piece and the extravagant linings of the board, and each of it’s shimmering onyx and quartz squares.

daemon downs half his cup in one sip, eyes trained on his brother’s first move.

king’s pawn forward two spaces, a strong start and an immediate attack to the centre.

it’s fitting, daemon thinks, for this to be the first move his brother makes while leading a game. while a powerful start, it’s rather obvious, one he’d seen viserys defeat in a manner of mere seconds. perhaps age has taken away his astute mind and skill for the game.

daemon retaliates, moving one of his bishop’s pawns forward two spaces.

with the crease that forms in viserys’ brow, daemon delights. his brother was not expecting him to move in such a way, likely expecting him to do something erratic like bringing his queen’s pawn forward.

the pair continue to move in silence, sips of wine and scratching of pieces echoing around the chambers. it’s deceivingly peaceful, nothing like the confrontation the rogue prince had geared himself up to walk into. while he’d awaited bursts of anger and scathing accusations and marks of betrayal, the two sit like children once more, moving empty objects in an imitation of politics.

the only difference is daemon appears to have the upper hand, a growing collecting of white pieces stored to the right of his long-ago emptied and refilled cup.

as always, it’s daemon who takes the first bite.

“i’m afraid i must pay you your dues, brother.” his words slip through his own smirking lips, satisfaction rolling in by the hundreds as he spies the white king, slowly losing places to hide on the board. “it’s truly applaudable how you managed to not only secure one daughter a marriage amid questions of her virtue, but two! young helaena will follow in her half-sisters’ footsteps, surely.”

viserys’ hand pauses mid-air, his remaining bishop held in his grasp. his grip tightens with each passing second. the older has always been more level-headed, that no one can dispute, but the rogue prince will forever swear up and down, high and low, that it is his brother who carries the more foul temper.

viserys’ anger is just harder to weed out from behind false niceties and calmed breathing.

“if you mean to say that helaena will be so lucky as to marry a noble man, filled with honour,” he lays his bishop down at last, not managing to capture any of daemon’s blacks. “then yes, i should hope so. both the betrothal of my eldest daughter and my middle-born were to good men, faithful lords. my helaena will be lucky to do the same.”

“you never did quite tell me about y/n’s betrothal, brother.” the king chuckles at daemon’s words, empty amusement in the obvious statement the prince makes. still, he makes no attempt to stop him, letting him string the conversation along to the dreaded topic between them: the rumours of what daemon had done to you. “last i spoke with her, she was rather... occupied with something other than the prospect of marriage. when you announced her future union to her, did she drop on her knees and kiss your feet in gratitude? or did she spit at you and-”

“did she drop on her knees for you?” the raise in viserys’ voice is minimal yet enough to have daemon smirking over the rim of his cup, amused to see his brother being led into his trap for once.

he makes his next move on the board fist, plucking his knight and moving it over one of his own pawns. if he plays is cards right, messes with his brother’s head just the right amount, perhaps he won’t notice how he’s moving in on his king.

his only hope is to keep talking about his little dove.

“so that’s what you wish to discuss, brother? how it felt to fuck your young daughter?” for the first time he speaks the lie out loud, no hiding behind innuendos nor insinuations. they need to believe you’ve stolen my virtue, kepus, were the words you’d whispered to him, face still fresh from dried tears and teeth stained purple with the wine he’d let you sip from his glass late into the night as the rest of the world had slept, they need to think that you fucked me.  he’d sworn an oath to you, to put on a show and ruin you beneath the judgement of others. he’ll be damned if viserys becomes an exception to this oath. “because i can go into detail, you needn’t beg. i can tell you of how it felt to have her squeeze around my cock, and how she arched that little back like a cat, spine curving deeper each time i pounded into her. i can tell you of how she begged for her uncle, her kepus, to shoot his spend into her aching womb and-”

a screech rings out as viserys’ chair flies backwards, the king rising to a stand and glaring down at his brother, who only sinks deeper into the velvet lined seat and allows himself another sip of his glass, face painted in pure amusement as viserys’ reflects that of an angered dragon.

“enough! i will not have you speak such atrocities about your own niece!”

“oh spear me the lecture of the seven, brother!” the hypocrisy to shun him for lusting after his own kin, it has to be the hightower cunt’s doing. feeding lies into her new husband’s head, any means to have his true-blooded targaryen daughters removed from the line to the throne. daemon at last feels himself begin to irk, a scowl engraving itself into his forehead. “your own beloved, your late wife, shared blood with you and you never once objected to bedding her. it is our family’s birthright to keep the blood of the dragon burning hot, not dampen it with that of lesser folk. i mean our parents, for gods’ sake, they were siblings! are you going to tell me it’s wrong?”

“this is not about you being her uncle, daemon. this is about you being you! and her being my sweet girl, one of the last pieces of aemma-”

daemon can’t help himself, flying out of his own seat with the slam of his hand on the table. the pieces rattle under the impact, the white queen toppling over and sending her pawn flying off the board.

“your sweet girl who you let be slandered by the same lords who break bread at your table and drink from your cups!” the prince stands taller than the king, shoulders straight and head held high as he flips positions, becoming the one staring down upon his older brother, who’s slouched and frailer than he once was, hands searching for the steadying hold of the oak table. “tell me, brother, where were you when she drank herself sick as they spoke on her fertility? what did you do when they mocked her for being scared after an attack on her life, in her own chambers!? did you even ask her what happened between us before you shipped her off like cattle to the slaughter, let her tell you it was she who asked it of me? she detested the thought of marrying some unknown lord so much she’d rather destroy her maidenhood and her honour, but you wouldn’t see that, too blinded by your own downfall into becoming a boot-licker for all these cunts who hold land in your realm.”

viserys can only stare, frozen where he stands and eyes widened in bewilderment at his brother’s own outburst, chest heaving in anger and hands shaking with adrenaline as he points towards the king.

“are you in love with her?”

no more than a whisper, so quiet the rogue prince is almost sure he imagines it.

till the king repeats himself.

"gods, don't be ridiculous!" it’s neither a yes nor a no, and daemon is so painfully aware of this, aware that he gives no real answer to your father nor himself.

the concept of love and all it entails has never appealed to the prince, at least in the way it’s presented in song and written of in history. all his life he’d heard of knights who’s lady love was a gem they sought to hold, to sing songs of faithfulness and dance around with hands entwined by marriage. of men who made themselves better, kinder, more gentle, all in the hopes of pleasing their lover and winning her hand. daemon had never experienced such a feeling.

while love is something most feel in their heart, daemon feels it in his loins.

it’s a hunger that consumes his very being, aching, and growling, and demanding to be fed with bursts of passion and shouts of anger. it’s a possession he needs to take, to mark someone as his, in every sense of the words. his to own, his to touch, his to drown in expensive gifts. his love is not kind, but brutal, and loud, and forceful, never leaving room for the rest of the world to doubt it. it makes him want to march into battle, to burn down cities, to spill the blood of any who dare harm the object of his obsession. his love is a fire that burns him from within, spilling out from his skin and scorching everything in it’s path.

the prince is not sure if he wants you to burn in its flames.

“but i could give her a greater life than any other man in this realm.” what he is certain of is that he will not stand by as your father let’s you be ruined by someone other than him. “a good man means nothing if he can not keep her safe, or even happy. at the very least, wedding her to me would mean her husband is someone familiar. she wouldn’t have to leave her home, or change her ways, or even bare a child if she does not wish to.”

viserys sighs, tired body dropping back into his chair and his mangled hand reaches up to brush over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes squeeze shut. the prince almost believes he sees a flicker of resignation, winning his brother over at last or exhausting him so deeply he sees no choice but to accept his words as truth, if only to silence him.

instead, the king reaches for the board once more, an airy laugh escaping him as he examines the placement of each piece. leaning over, he sits his queen back up and drums his fingers on the table.

he laughs once more.

"after all these years, daemon, you still struggle to capture my queen."

“but your queen, daemon. the queen is where you hide all your power, look for where your opponent keeps their queen and there you shall find true victory.”

the words of years ago spin round and round in the prince’s head.

his eyes, glued to the board, watch as the king moves his queen out two spaces and captures daemon’s knight, snatching it off the board and tossing it over his shoulder. viserys looks up, awaiting for daemon to continue the match, to put an end to it at last.

but he’s too stuck on the phrasing his brother had used, stubborn in his belief that it’s meaning has little to do with the game upon the table and, rather, the one that’s being played with words and whispers and undisclosed betrothals.

the prince thinks of the queen, the hightower girl who parades around the courts in green silks and upon swollen ankles, face downtrodden each time she foolishly thinks no one is looking. if ever he believed viserys held true affection for her, he’d wonder if she was who the king refers to, if otto hightower had truly been sent back to oldtown empty handed or with a new bride on his arm.

but any fool with a set of eyes can see the king loves his second wife like he loves the iron throne: through duty and obligation.

it is, instead, the late queen aemma who viserys must speak of.

and, while her maiden home, house arryn, where she’d spent her girlhood in the days before she’d been betrothed to her cousin, possesses no lord nor man awaiting a wife, a neighbouring house had just recently named a new wifeless lord.

a house which remembers, especially those who wrong it.

“no…”

i'm where you once where.

“you have to understand, daemon, that the actions you take leave me with consequences to bare. after what happened to lady rhea… after what you done,” his brother, so clearly exhausted with the secrecy and the scheming, folds like a house of cards against a gentle breeze, collapsing further into his seat and shaking his head. he does not notice as daemon moves his own queen along the board. “the vale were at an unease. threatened, was the word they used. so when lord royce staked his claim over his house’s seat, demanding i compensate runestone for the marriage agreement you destroyed and the lady you took from them, i had to give them a show of good faith. i had to reassure them of the longstanding trust between our houses.”

“so you gave her to them, sold her like some slave!”

“i made a political deal!” he attempts to defend himself in both words and on the board. in both, he fails. “one where lord rhoyce gains a bride, i avoid war and my daughter gets to finally take on the duties bestowed upon her at birth.”

“you’re a fucking fool, viserys. you would have been better delivering her to the triarchy. least they would make her death a more swift one. that rhoyce twat’ll have her head on a pike, and her tits and cunt will be hand delivered to you. they’ll slaughter her, as payment for their-” daemon swallows every ill coloured word and expression of his despise that comes to mind at the memory of his bronze bitch, giving no out for his brother to twist this conversation into a matter of his own wrongdoings. “late lady.”

with no more hesitation, the rogue prince moves his queen one last time and delights in watching the white king fall into check.

he knocks the piece over, quietly declaring checkmate.

“brother, please,” the king’s words are as fragile as his health, failing and mute against daemon’s scowling features, which refuse to play nice any longer. “do you think this is what i wanted, for my daughter to be used as a bargaining tool for peace? but there’s no going back, what’s done is done.”

“then undo what is done!”

“how can i when they threaten violence and-”

“you’re the king! who gives a shit what they threaten, they have a dozen men to your thousands. you have dragons! if the threat of fire worked on the men of the vale once, it’ll do so again. so regain your pride and write to that cunt royce. tell him to have your daughter cleaned up and sent back to where she belongs, to find fulfilment in his new lordhood and to drop this notion that he even deserves to gaze upon a targaryen princess, much less stick his shrivelled cock within her. i urge you to send this letter post-haste,” that familiar blade of his sits neatly by the entrance of the chamber, attracting the prince over till he clutches it in his grasp at last, quickly returning dark sister to her rightful spot by his side and discarding the blade he’d stolen from ser criston. he glances back at the king, now risen once more, and twists the doorknob. “and pray, dear brother. pray that it reaches gerold royce before i do.”

with the slam of the door, daemon plunders into the halls of the keep, footsteps heavy and echoing with each one he takes. jaw clenched and hands fisted, he paints the image of a man enraged, sick and fed-up with the games being played.

by the time he reaches his chambers, shoving his way past the sleeping knight at it’s doors, there’s bound to be a flurry of gossiping fools who speak of the prince and his defiling of the king’s commands, but he cares little as he straps himself into leathers and steel, hell-bent on reaching the dragonpit before day breaks and the sun paints the sky alight.

daemon is done sitting idly by, waiting for the king to see reason.

because while at the age of five, naive and easily influenced, daemon targaryen had looked up to his chess-genius of a brother, it was at age five and ten that he realised why his brother kept winning, why pawns and knights and rooks would conveniently move to the places he needed them to be.

he cheated.

[karamazovposting]

On Ivan and bipolar disorder (part one)

I've never seen anyone talk about this and it doesn't surprise me considering most people don't really know what bipolar disorder actually is (the stereotypes are all wrong and good representation in media is rare, sigh) and while I'm not saying my interpretation is the only correct one as I'm a firm believer that anyone can see whatever they want in art and that's a beautiful thing, in my opinion there are enough things about Ivan's behaviour and character that make my bipolar Ivan Karamazov agenda worthy of being pushed a little.

This first part will be more of an introduction where I'll just talk, in general, about what I picked up on in the first half of the novel and then in the next parts (I don't know how many there'll be yet, there's a lot of stuff to say) I'll get more specific by going over Ivan's inner world and the more significant events that made me think yeah this young man definitely needs some lithium.

Let's start with this: I know every Dostoevsky character is fucked up in their own way, that's pretty much his thing, but there is a difference between being a little fucked up and being actually mentally ill. There's just something about Ivan that made something in my brain click and go bipolar, which has never really happened before.

Do I think Dostoevsky deliberately chose to make Ivan so bipolar coded? Considering at the time there was barely a name for this disorder (which isn't even the same name we use today), let alone an actual diagnosis, no. But as someone who is diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I think his character makes a lot more sense if we see him as suffering from it. I even talked about this to my therapist who has read the book and he sees my vision too (lmao).

The thing that I'm sure jumps to someone's mind when it comes to Ivan and the topic of mental illness is the psychotic episode he goes through after Fyodor's murder, and while it kind of sustains my thesis on its own already, I thought he was bipolar coded way before that, because in my opinion there are a lot of subtle signs and behaviours that are kind of like little puzzle pieces that need to be put together to get to see the bigger picture, as bipolar disorder is not just the episodes someone goes through but also the impact those episodes have on them. It's a disorder that shapes the person, their brain chemistry and patterns and therefore their life in an irreversible way.

What initially struck me was how angry Ivan actually is. We don't really see it at first solely because we don't really see much of him in general, but I think that after he pushes Maksimov off the carriage without saying a word or explaining himself to his father we open some sort of Pandora's box. After that, almost every time he appears in the first half of the novel, he's angry. At the top of my head I can only think of two instances where he's not: when talking to Katerina before leaving for Moscow, which is also the first time we see him show an emotion other than anger (and it only took him, what? More than 300 pages? Yeah, relatable), and when he's at lunch with Alyosha shortly after. Other than that, he's always angry, and it's so visceral that I couldn't help but think that he feels that particular kind of deep rage only someone with bipolar disorder is capable of feeling (I personally nicknamed bipolar disorder the always fucking angry disorder). The way he's so deeply and irrationally angry that he feels himself shake and has to collect himself in order to not beat up Smerdyakov? The way he can't let it go and engages in conversation with him even though he himself doesn't even know why he's feeling or doing any of that? The way he treats his father? That's undiagnosed/untreated behaviour, I've been there. It may feel weird or even absurd if you're not familiar with this disorder, but there's a reason why the term bipolar rage is a thing: it is indeed on another level. It also seems like the only emotion he's comfortable with showing is anger and that's why it seems to be his only emotional outlet, as he didn't seem that eager to open up in front of Katerina and even when alone with his own brother you can feel some sort of awkwardness coming from him. I'll go into the specifics of that particular interaction with Alyosha in the future, but I think that after that Ivan's, very emotion-centered, character arc officially starts to develop as his relationship with his own feelings finally and slowly starts to change and becomes a tool to get him closer to the other characters. It's obviously not linear and I really like that, it feels very realistic.

Anyway, at first I thought I was just projecting, lots of people have anger issues and showing one symptom of something doesn't mean you have it, diagnostic criterias exist for a reason. The thing is, the more I read the more I noticed that not only Ivan happens to meet a lot of them, but he also shows some behaviors and has some personality traits that can easily be interpreted as bipolar coded (as I said a few paragraphs ago): his complex and peculiar type of loneliness, the emotional outbursts, his own perception of himself compared to how the other characters speak of him, his traumatic childhood, his attitude towards life (and death), the reasons behind his relationship with God and religion, his curated persona, the fact that no one seems to understand him. Not to mention he's described as having experienced depression and anguish multiple times in the past, and in a particular occasion in the novel not even knowing why (this one point in particular is very important as it connects to his attitude towards life and death, which is the most bipolar coded thing about him to me). All things I'll go over with more detail in the future when I'll get to his inner world.

For now I'll say that the main thing about bipolar disorder is that it fucks up one's emotions a lot, causing "inappropriate" or "abnormal" (for a lack of better terms) and exaggerated emotional responses and reactions in the people who have it (which usually manifest as the epic highs and lows the average person has at least heard of, but it can and does get more complicated than that) and I genuinely don't think Ivan reacts normally to anything, ever; the most noticeable thing to me is that his default reaction to anything, no matter what it is, is laughter. We also see him get extremely anxious to the point of being physically unwell and spiral a little after Smerdyakov and Fyodor tell him to go to Cermašnja due to what the former told him, which made me go damn, no one died yet and he's already paranoid?. His emotional regulation is a mess and he's so real (and bipolar) for that.

Another quite important thing about bipolar disorder is that it makes every emotion more intense to the point of confusion and being all over the place, which causes a person with bipolar disorder's emotional responses and reactions to be the way they are. Now, I'm not proclaiming myself as the one and only True Ivan Karamazov Understander, but I do think people tend to focus too much on his façade of coldness and on the darker side of his story, causing them to forget about how actually fun, passionate and almost childish he is at times. Ivan feels, and he feels deeply, and it isn't fair to overlook that just because he rarely shows it. Extreme rationality and collectedness can often also be a way to try to gain control over your symptoms (I'm guilty of that). We get to see some of his less collected emotionality in how dramatic he gets (like a true Karamazov) when reciting poetry in German to Katerina and in The brothers get acquainted, Rebellion and The Grand Inquisitor, as I already mentioned. At this point of the novel, something in particular happens and at this point in the novel I decide that yes, Ivan is bipolar coded.

I think I'll stop here at this sort of "cliffhanger" because this got quite long and I need one post only to elaborate that last paragraph. This isn't as coherent as I hoped it would be and, honestly, I kind of feel stupid, like I read too much into this and am seeing things that aren't there (how familiar, how fitting), but I wanted to share my perspective (and I'm also open to discussion!). Also, I won't lie, Ivan is my favorite character of The Brothers Karamazov and I don't think he's talked about enough, I've even seen people say he's the least interesting one out of the brothers which kind of broke my heart because I personally think he's the most interesting (no shade to the uninteresting Ivan gang of course). I don't know if I feel like that towards him because for the first time ever I got to see myself in a character and it was very important to me, but I don't think it really matters, "meeting" him made me happy and he will always be special to me, even if his story has its fair share of tragedy. Or maybe because of it. I'm planning on making a post about that and his ending in particular, but for now I'll focus on finishing this bipolar Ivan Karamazov essay.

No idea when I'll write the rest though, but I will.

[underratedandoverit]

drain me of every memory

1,4k words hangman page/swerve strickland

im sleep deprived to hell and back but i couldnt sleep before i wrote this as i was finally struck with a vision i had to follow through. i also did not proofread this very carefully oops i have never written either of these two before so if they have terrible voices im so sorry also if this completely fucking sucks dont tell me please let me live in my tired ignorance lmao other than that i hope you enjoy it!! if its worth anything i'd love to know tho ;;

@midnightpretenders0 @stormbornpirate

on ao3

---------------------------

The night had absolutely not gone how he would have wanted. It was a very small comfort in Swerve’s mind that Hangman hadn’t managed to win either, that he was the one suffering the big loss in tonight's huge three-way match, but it clearly wasn’t enough to satisfy the need. The hunger he had to see the cowboy suffer even more, making him feel the pain of those opportunities he snatched away from Swerve with his little tricks.

It wasn’t difficult at all to seek him out later in the evening. They had all stayed around until the end of the main event, everyone wanted to give Sting that one big sendoff together, and Swerve had spied Hangman in the crowd among the rest of the roster in the building tonight, easily. To say that the man looked uneasy and disappointed was an understatement, no matter how much he tried to hide it beneath the mask of a celebration in the moment.

Even past the mass of people between them, Swerve could see that those eyes still weren’t quite right, as they hadn’t been for some time now.

He didn’t even bother to knock on the locker room door, thinking the worst that he could do was catch Hangman changing. It wasn’t like they hadn’t shared a locker room before, like he hadn’t seen almost everything this man had to offer, nothing that could faze him.

It wasn’t like they didn’t share an unspeakable bond created by a spur of a moment that they had to live with separately together with forever. A bond that was much more intimate than anything a naked eye could see.

A smirk tucked the corners of his lips as Swerve watched the confusion quickly take over the entire face of the blond, though the obvious anger quickly rose back on Hangman’s features. Maybe Swerve was able to see even a slight bit of embarrassment radiating from him, if he focused carefully enough.

“What the hell do you want?”

Swerve’s hands shot up, in both a defensive and calming manner, eyes never leaving Hangman and his obvious distress. “Calm down. I’m not here to wage more wars if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Yeah?” Swerve watched silently as Hangman stood up from his chair, staring daggers at him. “Well I’m not done with you, or afraid to kick your ass if I have to!”

“And fail at that task again? I doubt it.”

His calm demeanor was clearly agitating Hangman further, but the joy Swerve took in just watching his struggle to keep his emotions in check and his words coherent was immeasurable. Just seeing the small visual cues of Hangman’s eyes wandering as he tried to collect himself, hands squeezing into fists and opening up again, the way he almost, just almost wanted to start pacing the small room to calm himself down.

It was all almost too much, too good to be true. Too good to be a real thing he was witnessing with his own eyes, let alone causing.

“Well,” Swerve chuckled quietly, his low voice softly rumbling off the empty walls of the room around them. His hands dropped down again, finding comfort in the pockets of his jacket. “At least I’m not the one who lost that match out there. I think that gives me room to speak.”

That was the right button to push clearly, as Hangman’s eyes shot towards him again, narrowing almost dangerously as he closed the gap between the two men with just a few quick strides, both hands grabbing the front of Swerve’s jacket. He didn’t even flinch, just watched with a smirk as Hangman shook him slightly, his eyes burning with clear anger and frustration.

“Listen here, you little shit!” He wasn’t even trying to control the level of his voice anymore, the frustrations of the entire night pouring over in one fell swoop, manifesting out with a string of incoherent curses and hands trying to wildly shake the other man, whether to intimidate him or bring him to his senses, Swerve wasn’t sure. All he knew was that neither of those ideal options was working.

All Swerve needed to do, was to lean just a tiny bit closer to his face, to freeze Hangman on his tracks, quieting down, the sudden realization of how close they were washing over him. His eyes fixated on Swerve, who quite honestly looked like he was anything but hating this whole ordeal that he had once again managed to cause. Hands on him, his jacket, holding, pulling him close.

His first reaction was to look away, but Hangman clearly wasn’t done with him yet as the hands remained in their place, he just needed to collect himself to figure out how to proceed from here. Seeing his opening though, Swerve didn’t give him much time to think, soon a hand reaching for Hangman’s face, almost forcefully gripping his jaw, turning him back forward.

A soft blush dusted over the blond’s features. Just as Swerve had thought he briefly saw.

“What’s the matter?” His voice was taunting, clearly trying to push it even further than things had already advanced to. “I thought you said you weren’t done with me yet, cowboy.”

Hangman clearly struggled for words, mouth opening and closing without anything going in or coming out of it. His hands still had a tight grip of Swerve’s jacket, keeping him close even if neither would have wanted that, almost as if he was aware that if he let go, the situation would likewise disappear, slip away from his grip.

Swerve could see Hangman’s eyes wandering on his face, glancing down to his lips as Swerve licked them, almost as if giving him visual clues. Giving him ideas he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to act on them, to chase them, to realize them.

Thankfully there were two of them in the situation, as Swerve quickly closed the gap, pressing their lips together. Hangman let out almost a surprised gasp at the sudden touch, but it didn’t take a lot of persuading to pull him deeper into the feeling that he wasn’t going to admit that he had longed to feel for a while now. The blond’s grip almost tightened on Swerve’s jacket, just holding him close, holding his breath as he felt the pair of soft lips against his,  first just as a peck, slowly going for something deeper, more meaningful.

As the curious tongue slipped into the mix to lick over his lips, any thoughts of resistance were officially gone from Hangman’s mind as he gave into the temptation, the soft, deep kiss of a cursed rival.

Hangman still held him close by the front of his jacket, afraid of letting go, of potentially wasting this opportunity.  Opportunity to do what exactly, that he wasn’t so sure about. Swerve’s hand slipped from his jaw, up along it to brush a coil of rogue hair behind Hangman’s ear, finally slipping up his neck into his hair. He balled a good amount of his coils, giving it a firm, almost commanding tuck.

Hangman could feel Swerve smiling against his lips as he moaned quietly.

And almost as fast as the moment had begun, it was already over. Swerve pulled away with ease, leaving Hangman breathing heavily and chasing after those lips he wanted back onto him, but all he got back was a chuckle. The hand slipped away from his hair, grabbing a hold of his hand, still somewhat gently ripping it off from his jacket.

Hangman almost jumped as Swerve leaned back closer, lips brushing against his ear. A hot breath sent shivers down his spine.

“Maybe next time,” Swerve whispered to him, clear amusement in his voice over the state he had managed to put the other man in, “You actually try if you want to go for the gold.”

Hangman didn’t get a word out of his mouth, just watched, still stunned over the events that had transpired as Swerve finally fully pulled away, ripping himself away from the blond’s grip. Hands finding their way back into his pockets like before, Swerve just turned on his heels, heading out of the locker room without another word, without getting any resistance back.

At least Swerve had the mental victory over knowing whose name was living rent free in Hangman’s mind for the rest of the night.

[yarugawitch]

Nnoitra/reader: Non-specific SFW and NSFW headcanons

Copied from my main acc. Was originally a request. As I said in the original post I think I was a bit dry because imo the dynamic with him heavily depends on the circumstances so you can always leave a request for something more specific or for AU headcanons :3c

>Masterpost

SFW:

He'd deny having any feelings even to himself but he'd be so terribly obnoxious with it that it's literally impossible not to notice. He's too clingy, too possessive, too annoying, too prone to jealousy and likes to get in your face both literally and figuratively. There's no such thing as personal space for this man I fear. Grabbing you by the wrists? Yes. Tugging at your ears? Yeah. Leaning closer to grab you by the face or annoyingly lick it if you're not paying attention? Sure

He's in a constant battle with himself and gives mixed messages all the time. At some point Nnoitra can hint at something or make a borderline romantic/sexual comment but once you confront him or make your own move he'd just hit you with his usual "What the hell are you saying?!" bs. The gaslighting is so real. Nnoitra is like an aggressive cat that yearns for affection with this one. He keeps you at arm's length and even though it's obvious he wants something - trying to get close when he's not ready will result in a nasty scratch

Calling someone he doesn't hate by their name is very intimate to him. So usually it's just "hey you", "idiot", "woman", "human", "shinigami", "quincy", etc.

Nnoitra suffers from cute aggression. There's nothing he'd actually consider cute in this situation of course but if something you did made him feel a little too much or he just happened to be next to you for too long his first immediate response is to want to squash you, break one of your limbs or bite a chunk out of you. Both because he can't deal with his own emotions and because "how fucking dare you"

Both him and Jaegerjaquez are very sensitive to smell and to Nnoitra your scent is very calming. I don't think he's desperate enough to constantly follow you and sniff you lmao but he's definitely stealing something that belongs to you for later. If you're fortunate/unfortunate enough to have the fifth Espada as your roommate and you're away for too long he will rummage through your closet to make a nest out of your clothing or occupy your pillow

The way he sleeps in front of you and whether he does or not in general is very telling. Imo he's a very light and restless sleeper. Constantly on his toes even in his slumber. Eons in Hueco Mundo can do things to you. So if he doesn't take fetal position to hide his stomach with you, won't literally jump up at the slightest of sounds and naps in your presence sometimes - congrats

I think he'd confess only if the situation is so dire he'd rather die than not do this. Like for example if you're having a huge fight and you're so close to leaving he's almost shaking and ripping his hair out out of stress which doesn't happen a lot. Or if there's someone showing interest in you and they're very much successful at making you happy. Then it's a question of defending what he thinks is his even though he won't admit it. Would he actually try to kill the other person? I mean it depends really but if it's Grimmjow or Szayel then fucking sure. Any day. Anyone else is not that big of a competition. Even Ulquiorra. "I mean have you seen him? What a fucking nuisance. He makes me sick. As if he has a chance with anyone at all"

Speaking of which - would brag in front of you all the time

Once you're together he'll never leave and will always make sure others know you're taken. Well not at first of course but still

NSFW (heavily afab leaning)

Tbh I too can't imagine him as an aggressive alpha-dom-top (tm) if he actually has any feelings for the person. So a service top or a damn bottom it is

The worst size kink ever. He may constantly talk shit about people who are weaker, smaller or frailer than him but once feelings are involved he's aroused by the thought all of a sudden. I think his fingers are not the only thing that is unusually long so not fitting all the way in is not a problem for him - it's even better in fact

As fascinating as the thought of penetration may be to him I think foreplay is his favorite part. Mostly because making you squirm is fun but also because only here he can actually assert domination. After that he's just too soft

I don't care what anyone says this man is a MUNCH

So so painfully slow sometimes. If he's on top he would just stop to tease and watch your reaction. Other than that making the process as long as possible is one of his goals. It's not like he has no stamina - he has a lot of it actually but during sex he can be as intimate and as close to you as he wants to be because under normal circumstances he can't afford to put it into words without having to grab himself by the throat

Talks a lot. It's not exactly dirty talk (I don't like it I'm very sorry babes) but he loves saying nasty things and would comment on everything that is going on. Otherwise he's nervous

I'm convinced all of the arrancars must be infertile since they don't reproduce this way so. He likes finishing inside. He won't have it any other way. It's special to him because how are you even letting him do something like this? but he also shows affection this way

The more vocal his partner is the better. Everyone must know

I mentioned that he loves your scent before so yeahhh. I hope you don't mind stains on your clothes

[minimoefoe]

Rewatch Thoughts: Boom

I didn’t realise Mundy was played by Varada until I started watching Unleashed right after the ep yesterday icl

I HATE long intros at the beginning of eps that don’t feature the Doctor and/or companion. They did it a lot in Chib’s era iirc, also fucked me off then as well

Kinda woulda preffered if we didn't see the base at all in the beginning and it was just kept at that one location for the whole ep? Idk how it woulda worked with the bits with Mundy and that guy there but Splice's dad just being out where he was and talking to Splice and we hear her voice while he's still walking around woulda maybe been better than cutting back to Splice imo? Idrk what I'm talking about so maybe I'm waffling

This is the first time I’ve noticed Susan Twist in an ep but I won’t give myself too much credit lmao

Splice is kinda a cute name

‘Kiss kiss’ what if I kill myself

I love the thoughts and prayers thing

The initial scene when 15 is on the landmine and Ruby goes to him is so good like. 15’s vibes, the way Ncuti delivers things. I could write down like 10 dfiferent quotes that I liked but I won’t

It does feel very Moffat though liike. I can tell he wrote this. Which isn't necessarily a BAD thing bc I love 15's vibes in this ep I think. I’m just hoping 15 keeps this same vibe going forward when he’s in situations similar to this one bc otherwise it’s gonna feel like Moffat put his own spin on this Doctor rather than that actually being what 15 is like yknow? Idk how to explain it

Ruby pausing to look at the sky. Dumb that it’s her first planet but it’s a good scene

Smelted is a good word

Ruby going against what the Doctor wants her to do!! Love that for her

Using the song to time passing the fleshlight over and making use of Ruby being a music bitch okayyyy

‘Don’t you know there’s more to life than the moon and the president’s wife’, I don’t fully know what to make of that reference lol like. okay!

This whole ep is so Moffat like he’s very heavy handed with his messages yknow. Makes the Doctor have the same cynical(?) fuck you vibe. Which like, he isn't WRONG to have obviously bc what's going on IS fucked but it feels very same-y like he's writing 15 like he's 12 and not 15 idrk?

I like that 15 openly cries like oh we love growth but also I kinda want him to relax a bit and not cry but ALSO he’s literally stood on a landmine so.. I'd be crying too

Sentient mud oh we love a 13 reference

Splice is dumb as hell sorry, she spends half the ep being mildly annoying and stupid

I’m not sure if I love the choked cry 15 did when Ruby got shot or if I hate it.

While there’s snow, there’s ho

‘Dad to dad; is crazy

Mundy and that guy were kinda cute rip I guess

15 telling them to run when he knows he's gonna blow up half the planet is really dumb. I feel like 12 woulda been like yeah man you might as well just stay here and get the full impact and definitely die instead of running away and potentially getting far enough to get really injured and suffer before dying lmao

The Doctor being like all right that’s enough is so real

There’s no way after over a thousand years the Doctor STILL likes fishfingers and custard SORRY. I need to see him have a taste and realise it tastes gross and 11 was just insane

Overall a very needed ep vibe-wise like 15 and Ruby have been having too much fun, they needed a more serious ep. Idk if I liked this ep as much as I was expecting to but I did really like it. Some people seem to think it's like. the next best ep ever and I would defo not go that far

I liked the Doctor in this episode. I tbh still don't know how I feel about 15 overall liike. I defo love him in A LOT of moments but I'm also not 100% sure what the vision for him is yet. I feel like I won't be sure where he'd place in a ranking etc til we're at least at the end of this season.

Ruby also had some good moments - going against the Doctor, handing the fleshlight over, tackling an annoying child - but then spent half the ep part dead I feel bc they didn't really know what else to have her do

Also have seen a lot of Kerblam comparisons which like. YES Kerblam is clearly messy (bc otherwise so many ppl wouldn't misinterpret it), especially compared to this in your face Moffat messaging but its been like 6yrs. At this point it's been spoke about so much everyone defo knows what the intention of the scene in Kerblam actually is (or at least they should do) so STILL tryna paint it like the episode is pro-Amazon or pro-capitalism or whatever the fuck is genuinely embarrassing bc the ep is just. not doing that but for some reason you're determined to pretend it is. Like just say the ep is a bit clunky/could be worded better in like one scene and move tf on jfc

ALSO saw ppl take the 'lesbian gymkhana' bit as Moffat explicitly calling 13 a lesbian which.. first of all she's not a lesbian but second of all I don't think Moffat was thinking about it that deeply, he just loves to have the Doctor say they Did a Thing at a Place one time. HC what you want, whatever. I think ppl tryna paint it like a bad thing, like, 'WOW it took this long for her to be called a lesbian and it was MOFFAT that did it' is where I think you're weird/twatty bc like. you're using a HC that you've just made up to make a dig at Chibnall which is embarrassing and also.. the reason 13 was never explicitly called a lesbian could very well be bc she ISN'T one and also when has the Doctor EVER been explicitly called ANY sexuality in an episode like? Acting like it's about fuckin time 13 was explicitly called a lesbian when that isn't a thing that's happened with any previous Doctor is an insane level of Chibnall bad bias

Anyways gave the ep 4/5 stars, same as my first watch

Mini teaser for next ep looks so cool but the streets are saying it's Doctor-lite which pisses me of a bit. Hopefully it's good enough that I end up not minding

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Open Secret (m)

Hi @ghostlychill I promised you something Elijah-centric for being so incredibly kind in the tags of my last fic, so HERE IT IS. This takes place when Greyson is still relatively new, and also features Mark, the floor manager at Elijah’s restaurant. Based on a prompt from god-even-knows when: “The boss has a nasty cold but everyone knows not to say anything about it, even when he’s very obviously suffering.” Drabble-ish? Like 1200 words, is that a drabble? lmao

EDIT: the prompt is by @victoriablackrose and it is here! SUCH a good prompt 🤌

I really hope you like it! 

cw: male, cold, implied contagion, coughing

Open Secret

“So this is how it goes every time?”

Mark spun around in the chair beside Greyson and shrugged, noncommittal. “I mean, yeah. Pretty much.”

Greyson peeked around the office corner at his boss for the tenth time in less than a minute, then looked back to Mark with a look of incredulity. “You realize that’s fuckin’ bizarre, right?”

The younger man opened his mouth to say something, but closed it just as quickly with a pointed look over the top of Greyson’s head. Greyson spun around to see his boss standing in the doorway, very clearly on the verge of -

“Huhh....hhGTSHHH-oo!” Right on cue, Elijah pitched forward into the crook of his elbow with yet another massive sneeze. Greyson grimaced in sympathy, while Mark pretended to busy himself with something on the computer.

“Bless, boss,” Greyson said, standing up from the computer chair and offering it to the clearly-ailing GM. “Sounds like a nasty cold.”

Mark’s eyes widened and he stole a glance at the chef as Elijah sat down. Greyson rolled his eyes at the floor manager in return – this was so fucking juvenile.

When Elijah had walked in the back doors of the kitchen this morning, it had been almost comically clear that he was sick. The concealer Greyson knew he was wearing and the especially-well-pressed shirt and vest did nothing to hide the dark circles, red-rimmed nose, and constant shivering, despite Elijah’s best efforts. He’d greeted Elijah with a, “Morning, boss,” as he usually did, but Elijah hadn’t even acknowledged his presence before locking himself in the office.

“HNGSTTHH-ue!” Greyson had heard from behind the closed door. “Hhh-GTSHH-oo! HRSSHH! HUHESCHOO!”

Yikes, Greyson thought, putting down his knife and heading toward the office. He knew the cold that ripped through his kitchen last week had moved on to the front-of-house, but clearly it had hit Elijah much worse than any of the servers.

He’d gone to knock on the door and offer to make Elijah some soup or tea, but he’d been stopped cold in his tracks by the front-of-house manager, Mark. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” Mark said, his voice low enough for Elijah not to hear behind the door.

Greyson snorted in amusement. “Mark,” he said, “don’t worry about me. I had that cold last week, if anything Elijah got it from me. I just wanted to see if he wanted -”

“He doesn’t want anything,” Mark said, hurriedly. “Trust me. Don’t bring it up.”

Greyson raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Don’t bring what up?”

“His...situation.”

“His cold?”

At that moment, the office door swung open and Elijah gave them both a venomous look. “Do the two of you have ndothing else to do?” he asked, punctuating the sentence with a cough. Greyson and Mark looked at each other, not sure what to say. Greyson was the first to break the silence.

“Boss, I -”

“Do mbe a favor, Chef,” Elijah said, swiping under his nose. “Stop worryigg about the frondt of house and go mbake the goddamn food.”

With that, Elijah had stomped out of the kitchen and into the dining room, leaving Greyson with his mouth agape. He turned to Mark, who was visibly cringing beside him.

“What the fuck was that about?” he asked. Mark gave the chef an apologetic look and a weak shrug.

“Like I said,” he repeated, “don’t bring it up.”

So, Greyson didn’t. He kept his head down through a coughing fit when he and Elijah were seated next to one another doing schedules in the office. He didn’t say anything when he went outside to smoke and Elijah was sitting on a milk crate, clearly asleep with his head in his hands, and he pursed his lips together during pre-shift, when Elijah lost his voice halfway through discussing reservations with special requests. Without missing a beat, Mark had picked up where Elijah left off. What the fuck was going on? Greyson wondered.

It was in the quiet moments before service, when he and Mark were commiserating in the office and Elijah was washing his hands for the millionth time that day, that Greyson had finally had enough.

“I dond’t have a cold,” Elijah croaked in retaliation to Greyson’s overt call-out. “Do you ndot have prep to do or sombething?”

Greyson shrugged. “Nope. All prepped out. I’d be happy to make you something, though. Maybe some soup?” he offered. Elijah’s face darkened.

“Greysond,” he said, sniffling. “Drop – hhNGSTHH-uhh!” Elijah groaned into the sleeve of his shirt and attempted to clear his throat before turning back to the chef. “Drop it.”

Greyson threw his arms in the air in frustration. “Drop what, boss? Clearly you’re so well.” Greyson turned and walked to the hot line then, deciding to put his energy onto his cooks, instead of his ill boss. Obviously, that was time wasted.

The shift was steady enough to get Greyson to forget about Elijah and his unrelenting denial for a few hours. It was a good shift, all in all; his cooks worked well together, and the servers seemed to be on their best behavior – likely because they didn’t want to invoke the wrath of sick Elijah by fucking up. Maybe he should get sick more often, Greyson found himself thinking after the relatively-easy shift, but that thought quickly dissipated when he saw his boss slumped over and coughing into his sleeve in the office. Greyson sighed, gathered his strength, and walked into the office.

“Hey,” he said to Elijah, closing the door behind him. Elijah looked up at him through watering eyes, and attempted to suck in through his nose, to no avail.

“Hi,” he answered, his voice cracking on the single syllable. Greyson winced again and sat down next to his boss.

“I’m sorry,” Greyson said. “For, you know. Being an ass.”

Elijah coughed out a laugh in response. “You? Please,” he said, pulling a tissue from the box between them and blowing his nose. “I’mb the one who told you to get back in the kitchend.”

Greyson chuckled, a low and quiet sound. “Listen,” he said, “I know I haven’t been here that long. But I promise I’m not trying to, like, question your authority or anything. I know this is your restaurant, and I would never try to belittle you.” He looked up at Elijah then, who was resting his head in his hand and staring at Greyson with a confused expression. When Greyson didn’t continue, Elijah sighed and moved his glasses to rub one of his eyes.

“I appreciate that, Grey,” he said, surprising Greyson by using a nickname he hadn’t heard since childhood. “And I’mb really sorry. I kndow you were just tryigg to help.” Elijah shrugged, and sniffled. “I just…I don’t really kndow how to like… accept it. Help, that is.” Elijah looked like he was about to say something else, but instead he wrenched to the side to once again – “huh-GTSH-oo! HNGSTHH! HRSSHHH! Huhh…hhEZSTCHH-ue!”

Greyson winced; Christ, he sounded like shit. Unsure what else to say, Greyson just pushed the tissues closer to his boss. “Bless you, Lij,” he said. Elijah stole a surprised glance at the nickname, and took a few more tissues.

While Elijah blew his nose, Greyson reached into his backpack and pulled out a couple blisterpacks of dayquil from when he was sick the week before. He pushed them towards Elijah; a peace offering. Elijah took them without a word.

“So…” Greyson said, breaking the silence. “The soup offer still stands. I mean, if you’re up for it.”

Elijah coughed out a short laugh. “Hondestly,” he said, popping open the medicine and giving Greyson a genuine smile, “soup sounds ambazing.”

[chumpovodir]

Man I have so many Thoughts about Hector and Julia

Like. In a vacuum, they'd be cute together, right? Hector is kind and considerate to her. Julia is a little irriverent, but also cares about him and helps him through his journey. They can relate to each other, as outcasts, as people who knew Isaac, as people who have lost a dear one.

But man everything else around them ensures that a hypothetical relationship between them would be fucked up lmao. Hector just went on a rampage to avenge her recently dead lover - he's so dedicated and devoted, can he truly move on so easily? Julia just so happens to look like her - would Hector see her as her, or as a mockery of Rosaly? She's also Isaac's sister, with all that it entails. And then there's what Hector is for Julia...

The thing is, can he be considered Isaac's killer? That's ambiguous. What killed Isaac: being slashed by Hector's sword while his body was inhabited by Dracula's soul, or the ritual itself? I suspect Isaac died the moment Death put Dracula's soul inside him. If that's the case, Hector is not the direct cause of Isaac's death. But... Julia asked Hector to please save Isaac, and only kill him if there was no other choice. Hector didn't care. He did sympathize with her sadness, but then the cursed thoughts took hold of him again, and he kept insisting that Isaac had to die by his hand. He never tried to take a pacifist option, even after he realized that with his power he could nullify the Curse. By the time he put two and two together, Isaac's fate was already sealed.

So imagine from Julia's perspective. Hector reassures her that only he can "dispel the vile curse": this might make her hope that Isaac could be saved. An hour or so later, she sees his corpse abandoned on the floor, and Hector ready to die under the crumbling castle. He managed to save himself and Wallachia, but not her big brother.

I do believe part of her, in her grief, would blame Hector for not doing enough. But she would never express it, because if there's one thing that's certain about Julia, is that she represses a lot.

I think they'd stay friends. They'd be able to joke around and visit each other and maybe even open up to each other. But the ghosts of Rosaly and Isaac would always hang between them. Yes, it's complicated, and messy, and bittersweet.

(and hey, the ending of the game only shows Hector going to live with her. Nothing says they'd have to be together lol. Or that Hector won't be able to find himself a new arrangement later on.)

thoughts so Huge™ tumblr wouldn't dare show me this ask notification 'til i got back on desktop lmao

The thing is, can he be considered Isaac's killer? That's ambiguous

it's funny because even if Hector did spare Isaac, he really had no reason to after making that mistake the first time, in PtR, which arguably kicks off the whole chain of events in the first place

I do believe part of her, in her grief, would blame Hector for not doing enough. But she would never express it, because if there's one thing that's certain about Julia, is that she represses a lot.

oh, absolutely. she'd know it wouldn't be fair to begrudge Hector after putting his life on the line, doing Trevor's job for him, and basically saving the entirety of Wallachia by breaking the curse, all the while suffering from his own loss. what are her own personal desires to see her only living relative spared, compared to acting for the greater good, right? i see her as the kind of person that never complains about her lot in life, which is how she managed to survive living on the fringes of society without growing a misanthropic bone about it like Isaac did.

and yeah, honestly it's just such a disservice to relegate her to the new love interest. rosaly at least got fleshed out as her own person in both the mangas, but we don't get much insight to julia's character or how she feels about everything that went down. to make matters worse, it seems like the fanbase doesn't see much value in her so there's so little, if any, fanworks that feature her POV

[bardofavon]

Just realised that every unhinged speech the Darkling has made has been done in complete privacy. Just imagining him slipping up and doing one of his deranged monologues at Kaz with an audience next time and Inej and Jesper and Nikolai collectively being like '.......................okay what the FUCK' 'did he just say he wanted to vore you??' 'you were sleeping next to this guy?' like put kaz in protective custody right now. no wonder he looks like that. "'i'll kill everyone you love so you only have me" who SAYS that? who says that OUT LOUD?'

“I want to vore you” PLEASE 😭 I swear on my life he’ll never say that I can’t do it 😭 but yeah those are all limited edition Kaz exclusives, only reserved for the man himself.

If Genya knew she’d give him a FAT “I told you so”, Inej and Jesper would be more than just a little bit concerned and would somehow be more determined to snap Kaz out of whatever this is while also understanding a little bit more why Kaz has been so weird about navigating all of this??? Nikolai would also be like…a little more understanding of why Kaz is Like That right now but he doesn’t know Kaz enough yet to know if he’s like. into it or not. (but tbh Kaz also doesn’t know Kaz enough to know if he’s into it or not, let’s face it 😔) but regardless he sure as hell would not be throwing it in kaz’s face like he is.

It’s all “fight against the Darkling fight against the Darkling you have nothing to lose, we’re the better option, who cares if he’s mad you shouldn’t care about his feelings anyway, he KILLS PEOPLE KAZ, literally just leave him” until you hear the Darkling say shit like “I will pluck the ambition from your chest and fill you with new meaning” or “I will kill everyone you love until you have no one but me” or “I own you and you like it” or “it’s just us, it will always be just us” or “you would suffer and I would love you and I would make you thank me” or “I will never let you go and my love has no room for freedom or compassion or escape” or “you will outlive everyone you love, care to be alone for eternity?”

and then they’d all be like. “okay. reluctantly, we can see why you’re wary about the consequences of leaving this guy and have underestimated just how much he’s latched onto you but what the fuck lmao”

But the Darkling wouldn’t slip up and say that shit in public so anyone else finding out would rely solely on Kaz’s ability to be vulnerable and honest, admit he’s afraid, and share really really intimate conversations that he holds very personally and feels kind of ashamed at having been involved in because. like. the conversations were two way streets that Kaz kept walking down.

they’d also be like “why the fuck were you going to see him so much at night in os alta when he’d SAY THIS SHIT” without understanding how it’s kind of a little intoxicating at first to have someone that powerful obsessed with you and wrapped around your finger (presumably)

anyway yeah the Darkling is such a little freak

[rdbrainz]

Do you have any headcanons for how Nnoitra would act in a romantic relationship? I think he’d have a lot of trouble being honest about his feelings (he’d be so fucked up simply by crushing on someone, let alone dating) and he’d deny loving someone till his last breath lmao

Or nsfw thoughts if you’re up for it, since I can’t not think about fucking him 24/7, also my delusions are telling me he’s a sub who’ll never admit to it, but loves it

I don't have a favorite ship so let it be just some hypothetical "you"... I think I was a bit scarce here because imo the way he behaves depends on the situation (for example if his S/O is an arrancar, a human or a shinigami, if it's before his loss to Zaraki or after, etc.) so the h/c's can be a bit flavorless but I tried my best. And... I mean you guys can always ask me for more wink wink lmao. Might as well also make an account for xReader things like I wanted sheesh. Totally agree with what you said btw!! SFW:

Yeah he'd deny having any feelings even to himself but he'd be so terribly obnoxious with it that it's literally impossible not to notice. He's too clingy, too possessive, too annoying, too prone to jealousy and likes to get in your face both literally and figuratively. There's no such thing as personal space for this man I fear. Grabbing you by the wrists? Yes. Tugging at your ears? Yeah. Leaning closer to grab you by the face or annoyingly lick it if you're not paying attention? Sure

He's in a constant battle with himself and gives mixed messages all the time. At some point Nnoitra can hint at something or make a borderline romantic/sexual comment but once you confront him or make your own move he'd just hit you with his usual "What the hell are you saying?!" bs. The gaslighting is so real

Calling someone he doesn't hate by their name is very intimate to him. So usually it's just "hey you", "idiot", "woman", "human", "shinigami", "quincy", etc.

Nnoitra suffers from cute aggression. There's nothing he'd actually consider cute in this situation of course but if something you did made him feel a little too much or he just happened to be next to you for too long his first immediate response is to want to squash you, break one of your limbs or bite a chunk out of you. Both because he can't deal with his own emotions and because "how fucking dare you"

Both him and Jaegerjaquez are very sensitive to smell and to Nnoitra your scent is very calming. I don't think he's desperate enough to constantly follow you and sniff you lmao but he's definitely stealing something that belongs to you for later. If you're fortunate/unfortunate enough to have the fifth Espada as your roommate and you're away for too long he will rummage through your closet to make a nest out of your clothing or occupy your pillow

The way he sleeps in front of you and whether he does or not in general is very telling. Imo he's a very light and restless sleeper. Constantly on his toes even in his slumber. Eons in Hueco Mundo can do things to you. So if he doesn't take fetal position to hide his stomach with you, won't literally jump up at the slightest of sounds and naps in your presence sometimes - congrats

I think he'd confess only if the situation is so dire he'd rather die than not do this. Like for example if you're having a huge fight and you're so close to leaving he's almost shaking and ripping his hair out out of stress which doesn't happen a lot. Or if there's someone showing interest in you and they're very much successful at making you happy. Then it's a question of defending what he thinks is his even though he won't admit it. Would he actually try to kill the other person? I mean it depends really but if it's Grimmjow or Szayel then fucking sure. Any day. Anyone else is not that big of a competition. Even Ulquiorra. "I mean have you seen him? What a fucking nuisance. He makes me sick. As if he has a chance with anyone at all"

Speaking of which - would brag in front of you all the time

Once you're together he'll never leave and will always make sure others know you're taken. Well not at first of course but still

NSFW (heavily afab leaning because I need this man too oh my god):

Tbh I too can't imagine him as an aggressive alpha-dom-top (tm) if he actually has any feelings for the person. So a service top or a damn bottom it is

The worst size kink ever. He may constantly talk shit about people who are weaker, smaller or frailer than him but once feelings are involved he's aroused by the thought all of a sudden. I think his fingers are not the only thing that is unusually long so not fitting all the way in is not a problem for him - it's even better in fact

As fascinating as the thought of penetration may be to him I think foreplay is his favorite part. Mostly because making you squirm is fun but also because only here he can actually assert domination. After that he's just too soft

I don't care what anyone says this man is a MUNCH

So so painfully slow sometimes. If he's on top would just stop to tease and watch your reaction. Other than that making the process as long as possible is one of his goals. It's not like he has no stamina - he has a lot of it actually but during sex he can be as intimate and as close to you as he wants to be because under normal circumstances he can't afford to put it into words without having to grab himself by the throat

Talks a lot. It's not exactly dirty talk (I don't like it I'm very sorry babes) but he loves saying nasty things and comments on everything that is going on. Otherwise he's nervous

I'm convinced all of the arrancars must be infertile since they don't reproduce this way so. He likes finishing inside. He won't have it any other way. It's special to him because how are you even letting him do something like this but he also shows affection this way

The more vocal his partner is the better. Everyone must know

I mentioned that he loves your scent before so yeahhh. I hope you don't mind stains on your clothes ANYWAY THANKS

[allofthebees]

i can't remember if you've ever said anything about it before but as the resident Ronin Enjoyer do you have any thoughts on some of the more irredeemable or straight up bad parts of his writing (i.e. what he did to zane in skybound and possibly ToE? but mainly the one thing with nya. like i'm not gonna fault anyone for not liking him but i personally feel like that never should've been written in in the first place and it sucks seeing people act like liking him is a sin. you know :/)

Ronin my guy my scrungle he is not the best man but also he suffers from bad writing lol. The Nya thing.... As much as I personally prefer to pretend it didn't happen because it feels like in the early days of Ninjago the writers consistently kept forgetting that she's supposed to be a minor (SKYBOUND) as well as making her face the occasional casual sexual harassment/assault (evil Jay forcefully kissing her), this is actually consistent with Ronin's character because:

Yeah.

Granted, the reason I prefer to ignore this aspect of him is because it's just plain stupid and he gets no real backlash from it in canon. And with Misako it's very much out of nowhere and Ronin doesn't even seem like he's interested. He erased her memories to pit her against the ninja and nothing else, but for some reason it was decided she should be putting her hands all over him like that 💀 However, I don't blame people for looking at this and deciding he's unlikable for it.

With the Zane stuff, I look at him taking Zane and Pixal to Chen's as something he had no other choice to do. It's kinda confirmed in the book Way of the Departed that it's the case (though my own reasoning is a bit different compared to the book), but at the same time, this was during a time he was a bit more eviler lol. So if he did this with evil intent then well he's grown since then at least.

As for what he did to Zane in Skybound, tbh fucked up and I'm glad it was technically undone. But Zane and Pixal were also kinda treated like objects that season in general too. The way Zane treated Pixal, the general existence and then complete dismissal of Echo, and whole thing with the Mechanic.... not great.

For me, personally I see Ronin as a tech lover who loves R.E.X so much he considers it a person, and by extension would respect Zane and Pixal in that regard, especially after befriending them but that's just me 🤷

But tbh there is something Ronin has done that is far more heinous than being robophobic and a creep, and that's what he did to the Islanders. I do not like season and what it did to him. Of all the people he goes and robs, it's the isolated people no one knows exists lmao. He doesn't just take their money, he takes their food, and takes so much they resort to human sacrifice. Like what the fuck. This felt more like something maybe SoR Ronin would do. And he was treated more like a common villain with no real history with the ninja at the end, too.

I don't wanna fully say it's out of character for Ronin to rob an entire island of people though, because I do feel like if desperate enough, he would go back to how he was before. I don't think he's above betraying the ninja, or hurting innocents because we've been shown he's afraid of dying (or at least going to super hell lmao) and is overall untrustworthy. But the thing is, he was fine! He had a deal with the Commissioner and was doing fine! Why make him do this, and then arrest him with the very people he used and put back in prison himself and then have him be just.... totally fine and friends with everyone again, prisoners and ninja alike lmao. It's bad writing to me. And after his development and and his relationship with the ninja, it seems very ill fitting to have him be the one lead the prisoners on the island when the Mechanic and/or Ultra Violet are right there.

So yeah I mean, if people don't like him I get it. At face value he is not a great guy lol. But for me there's a lot to like about him just because I really like his type of character when done well. He was a great influence for Nya and I love their relationship. He just suffers from poor writing just like.... every other character in this show 💀

And people better not be harassing or hating on others for liking a goddamn LEGO of all things. Please there are real problems to have. I'll continue loving Ronin regardless if others consider it a crime to lol I'm a grown bitch and can do whatever I want ❤️

[weirdcat1213]

ok i have an oreo on one hand and a shark plushie on the other, lets do this

trimax volume 8 (pls dont hurt me)

thoughts

BUT BEFORE THAT, ACTUAL QUESTION: how are the 1st timers holding up? yall doing good?

ok now long post is here

chap 1:

-oh that title page its SO FUCKING GOOD

-MY BOI HES HERE

-oh hes not....doing it by choice.....oh

-legato looking like a pizza pocket is the comedy relief we all need tbh

-GET HIS ASS VASH GET HIS ASSSSS

-oh my geesus i heard that, i felt that shit

-"they abuse us" and here you are knives...doing the same shit

-OH THANK GOD YOURE HERE

-could you look less happy while doing this shit knives? pls?

-something something divine punishment from the skies, something something yeah ofc not anyone can do that shit

-oh hey why is he with them i actually forgot

-aw :3 i wonder who taught him to not shoot to kill :3

-also pls leave him alone hes not just a killer pls youre hurting my feelings-

-:c

-STOP VASH DONT LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT HOLY SHIT

-rem mention :c

-knives can you stop being right for a second, thanks

-the arm...wow

-OH YES ITS THIS MOMENT YES

-i dont remember what the other translation said but "that was the day we both lost our minds"....yeah im gonna sit with this one for a bit and cry cuz its true, they did

-oh yeah i didnt get this the 1st time lets try again :D

-ohhhhh....oh shit

-i hate siding with knives on this chapter but i cant help it. i also love the idea of being even

-also he looks so fucking cool while being evil, cool points for you knives

-"invasion" and it ends with him looking at the stars/nightsky? brilliant

chap 2:

-STOP BEING RIGHT KNIVES

-ALSO STOP DISTRACTING ME FROM WOLFWOOD TIME

-ah yes, the classic, sweetest, full of angst potential "i will remind of you of your home and how you dont belong there anymore" card, good to see you here

-oh god i forgot about this part, geesus

-ah crap i love this tho, gives you time to actually take in everything that knives is causing. its so easy to gloss over it with some quick panels but to actually take the time...i love it

-ok ik they get absorbed by knives but the idea of them flying away and being free (for a bit) is so pretty, im happy for them

-...geesus christ

-YES MY GIRLSSSSSSSSS :D

-it makes you wonder what they did to stay alive actually, like you never think of that stuff ig

chap 3:

-wait they didnt know???? hold up....yeah ig that makes sense but...hmmm

-YEAH YOU TELL THEM LUIDA >:D

-:c

-ALSO interesting how the borders didnt go black to represent a flashback, so maybe it wants to show how present is that memory in luida's mind. wow

-"maybe hes been waiting for us to come and help him" aaaand thats enough to make me tear up, im the weakest bitch on the planet let me tell you

-YES SEE LUIDA GETS IT

-GET WRECKED BY THE EXISTENCE OF GOOD PEOPLE ASSHOLE

-OH MAN HES BREAKING

-COOL ASS PANEL ALSO

-oh shit so he hit some plants oh shit oh damn

-AH SHIT

-omg she looks so epic while killing people <3

-THERE HE IS HERE WE GO YES GO GET YOUR HUSBAND

-oh look its the man in the tin can lmao

chap 4:

-KILL HIM WOLFWOOD KILL HIM

-HALF A YEAR???? damn i always forget, this is still going at the speed of light tho

-aw no :c my baby :c

-then again i like that you can see that even if it was just half a year (literally nothing for vash) it still caused him pain and suffering, 10/10

-GEESUS BRO HE JUST GOT FREE

-oh shit oh shit no

-im not really sure how he escaped legato but im glad :D also vash is longgggg i lvoe it :3

-well thats just depressing livio

-pls leave livio

-KILL HIM KILL HIMMMM

-ok but vash being basically a ragdoll rn while wolfwood is fighting and bleeding breaks my heart let me tell you

-wolfwood shut the hell up ok? shut up, i dont wanna hear it

-oh im going insane :) i hate wolfwood so much rn (his crime was to say sad things)

-OH IT WAS HERE I ACTUALLY FORGOT THIS WAS THE MOMENT AWWW HOLY SHIT MY BOY

-YES SAVE YOUR HUSBAND

-"youre not lost wolfwood" wolfwood saying all that shit outloud and IK FOR A FACT vash's heart almost broke ik it i feel it

-baby dont apologize :c

-............................................................ :c

-ah fuck hes here

-WAIT HOLY SHIT THAT LIKE SHADOW OF LIGHT???? AMAZING???

-oh oh im sick to my little stomach i fear oh geesus my boy, my baby, im so happy that wolfwood is all you need but also im so sad you dont have anything else, do i make sense?

-threatening you brother and begging him to not sacrifice himself in the same breath...knives the plant that you are

-woooooooooooooooooooooooooow i love that shit, hes so little...

-PLS GOD LET THIS BE IN STAMPEDE PLS PLS I WANT A SCENE WITH BOTH OF THEM IN THE SKY SO BAD PLSSSS

-im not entirely sure what is happening but damn thats nasty

-NO DONT FUCKING SAY THAT

chap 5:

-LMAO HIS FACE XD

-welp...this is terrible

-nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo :c

-oh righttttt, i forgot about that plan, so thats why people called him chapel

-oh that panel with livio thats fucking brutal geesus nightow. like the old livio seems so pure and far away while the current livio is so violent and present

-my god he looks like shit

-MARLONNNNNNNNNNNNN :D

-oh meryl my girl :'3 omg shes the best

-im so depressed rn :D

-idc if hes rotting, sadly the man looks majestic af

-ooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh oh ok

-NO DONT LEAVE PLS DONT FUCKING LEAVE PLS NO STAY STAY STAY STAY STAY STAY STAY STAY STAY

OH SHIT THIS IS FREE BIRD OH SHIT OH NO HELP HELPPPPPPPPPPPP

free bird time ig:

-freeeee biiiiird yeaah tururururururu

-wdym congratulations cmon man

-oh honey......

-awww :c

-oh wow now im DEPRESSED :D

-ugh that fucking face

-hes so cool sometimes >:D

-aw you made her cry :c

-"tired of filling a space in other peoples lives"....hmmmm

-aw :c

I hate whats coming i fucking swear.

[the-grand-av3]

Okay, now that you've played DDLC., you need to play cooking companions

(basic run down. There are four Ukrainian refugees in your home, who barely have enough food. After a bit, the cabin floods in. Someone has to go out to find food. The first one to leave is Mariah, the sweetest and youngest of the group, in which you wake up the next morning with a slab of meat. Then theres Anatoly, an absolute airhead who acts like a nerd. Then again, you wake up with meat. Eventually, Karin, a crazy red haired woman, cuts off the limbs of Gregor, basically a giant teddy bear. She reveals that she knew she was eating the others, and was absolutely addicted to it. In the end, you lock her in the basement, eventually going down and killing her. Oh yea. Theres talking vegetables too)

Woah

Cooking companions? Count me--

NO YOU'LL BE TOO GOOD

this isnt cooking mama--

NO HES GONNA WIN NO SWEAT

Awh.

GTFO

its okay al you wouldn’t’ve liked it much anyway

wait no you would have loved it wanna know what it's about

Mhm?

*whisper whisper*

Oh! Sounds fun!

yeah but watch them they think its cooking mama

So~ who are we mating with?~

GETTING CLOSE WITH

Same thing :(

I say

Anatoly

Cus when shit goes down and they hate each other I have someone who knows their shit

Okay~ Pick the little twinky guy~

i woulda picked karin but okay

What why

Cus she wants her to peg her~

sure man

NOOO MARIAH DONT GO

MY POOKIE NOOOOOOO

</3

rip lmao

YOU HEARTLESS CREATURE KEYS

I am emotionally injured and will never recover from this

MARIAHHHHHHHH

I like these vegetables

I don't:( They’re scary :((

No theyre not

Yeah huh

Nuh uh

Gtfo

I OWN THE PC YOU GTFO

:(

ladies ladies settle down

NO. ANATOLY. NO. DONT YOU FUCKING DARE

ANATOLY MY TWINK NOOOO

ANATOLY YOU DUMB WHORE

JFOCEIOFDKDKCIEJGJQJFIAMDKQKDEKSKFKEMFKE

wtf

So whose left

The souls of mariah and anatoly

vegetables

karin and gregor

Okay we're gonna go kiss karins ass

That I can do~

OH SHIT SHES MAKING US EAT GREGOR

CAN WE KILL HIM?? JFC PUT HIM OUT OF HIS SUFFERING

FUCK MAN EWW

ALASTOR DOES THIS SHIT ALL DAY??

everyday

KARIN WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU

ON SIGHT BITCH

FUCKCOAJFIS WHY IS THE BASEMEMT SK SCARY

IM ABOUT TO PISS MY OWN ASS

FKCOSJCJSKFJE FUCK THESE CHEAPASS HUMPSCARES GET KARIN

HUMPSCARES?

YOU KNEW WHAT I MEANT

*AGGRESSIVE PANTING*

Oh my god

Never again why would you recommend a game like that

Im scared now

I think i pissed or came I can't tell

Let me smell

Piss

Oh

Hello! I return with some sandwiches for the group!

NO GET THAT SHIT AWAY FROM ME

YOU SICKO

...?

[babsvibes]

for the rivals / enemies prompts…and ONLY if you want to….louigan, #3?? 👀 again NO pressure…..🫡

#3: taking care of the other while one is unconscious

How about established relationship domestic fluff for a Neighbors AU piece? Technically, this only works for the prompt because Louise falls asleep at the end, but let’s pretend yeah? I also tried to cover @sailoreuterpe’s suggestion of insults as a love language (because even if it’s not her favorite trope, Nikki knows her audience lmao)

At first, she thought the knocking emanated from a terribly annoying dream, but with every second of blooming consciousness Louise realized it was no figment of her imagination.

She groaned, eyes peeling open slowly then blinking at the new morning. The sheets rustled to the left of her. Glancing at Logan, whose furrowed eyebrows nearly took over his face, she snickered.

“People pretending to sleep don’t usually look that angry.”

“‘S not my fault,” he grumbled. “It’s been going for like… a million minutes.”

“So what time does that make it?” Louise asked, figuring he had been on his phone already.

“Seven.”

Her eyes snapped out of their half-lidded state. “In the morning?! Who the hell is knocking on our door at seven in the morning?”

“It’s the first Saturday in December. Who do you think?” Logan, still refusing to open his eyes, shuffled closer and pulled at her waist. She sunk into him, enjoying being spooned as he kissed her neck in that perfectly lazy way reserved only for weekend mornings.

And another fucking knock rang out.

Louise balled up her fist and punched her pillow.

“Go make it stop,” she demanded.

She felt his “Nmn” rumble from his chest and down her back.

“Mmhmm,” she replied.

“NMnh.”

“MMhmm.”

“Nn” “Mm” “nnNNn” “mMmMm”

When they both hummed the same note over each other to see who would last longer, Louise cracked first, unable to resist snorting at the absurdity. Logan followed suit.

“I think that means you lost, shortstack. Go tell off Annie.” She didn’t move, so he continued. “You’re just so much scarier than I am.”

“Keep talking.”

“And so brave and cutthroat and beautiful-”

“Alright alright, enough of that,” Louise sighed. “I’ll go. Just move back. I can’t get out of bed if you’re wrapped around me like this.”

Logan didn’t budge. Shuffling, scooting, and otherwise wiggling to freedom proved fruitless.

“Seems like… maybe you don’t want me to get out of bed?”

Before he could respond, the knocking resumed. He sighed against her neck, giving in and loosening his grip.

“Every day I am in awe of your strength and sacrifice,” she said, sarcasm dripping from every word.

Logan replied by poking her one ticklish spot. With an involuntary laugh, she moved away and pointed at him menacingly. The warning was wasted as he still hadn’t opened his eyes.

Gathering up all of her courage and the edge of the covers, Louise heaved herself up only to meet Jack Frost’s frozen testicles slapping her in the face. She yelled and buried herself back under the blankets. “Nope, no, absolutely not. Too cold.”

Annie, or at least who they assumed was their apartment manager here to drag them into holiday shenanigans, continued to relentlessly knock.

Logan sniffed. “Is that… is she knocking Carol of the Bells?”

“Carol of the Nine Hells more like,” Louise grumbled, hiding under her pillow.

“She’s just going to keep at it. Remember that time she needed Victor to sign a release form?”

“She camped outside for four days.” With a sigh, she emerged partially from her cocoon. “Okay, tell you what. How about we go together? That way we can suffer as one.”

It was Logan’s turn to sigh, but he finally cracked his eyes open. Morning had a way of making an honest man out of liars, and she watched him melt at the sight of her, genuine and soft. They stared at each other in silence for a moment, then he leaned in. She met him halfway for a quick kiss. When they broke apart, he sighed again.

“Fiiiine. On the count of three?”

“Works for me.”

“One.” “Two.” “Three.”

Logan all but fell out of bed, joints popping as though arthritis would be killing him in the next couple of hours. He stretched to the sound of more popping, blinked the sleep from his eyes, and looked back at her.

Louise had failed to move and, if possible, snuggled even deeper into the mattress.

“You witch,” he accused, grabbing a pillow and hitting at the general area of her butt. “You tricked me.”

“This isn’t the first or last time; you knew what you were getting into, idiot. Now go get rid of Annie.”

“Ugh, fine. But when I get back I want to be the little spoon.”

Louise hummed in acquiesce, shuffling the blankets so there was a spot for him to slip back into. When she finished and settled in, the only visible parts of her were a mess of black hair and the tiniest hint of a pout.

As he left their bedroom, Logan wondered how he was supposed to scare away anyone with the dopey smile he couldn’t drop.