#AKA ¦ I'M MORE THAN I THOUGHT ¬ MUSING

[thesmartassdetective]

"Do I look like I'm hiding? No. You wanna know why? Because no one wants to know. They want to feel safe. They'd rather call you crazy than admit that I can lift this car, or that I can melt your insides with my laser eyes... which won't leave a trace." REPOST THREE FAVORITE PICTURES OF YOURS, PUT A RIGHT QUOTE UNDER THEM AND TAG PERSONS. tagged by: @cherryflavouredconversation tagging: @bvtchcr @clawkyle @purebloodboy @ertraeumte

[tongue-like-a-razor]

Hotter Than Texas | Part III

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x F!Reader

A/N: Thank you for all the lovely messages about this series! I'm so happy y'all are loving it and are excited to see it continued <3

Summary: Bradley Bradshaw is tasked with transporting a not-so-delicate package in the form of Jake Seresin's baby sister, who turns out to be Bradley's dream girl worst nightmare.

Aka it's a road trip, strap in.

CW: swearing, age gap (10 years)

WC: 2200+

Part I | Masterlist

“You got a girlfriend, Brad Bradshaw?”

Bradley looks over at you, sitting in his passenger seat in a green sundress, fiddling with a charm on your bracelet. “No,” he replies rather hoarsely, unsure how to interpret your question.

“Why not?” you continue, your tone light and carefree, as though you’re just asking about the weather.

“I dunno,” Bradley mutters uncomfortably, returning his attention to the road.

You look up at him abruptly and he throws you a brief glance; just long enough to see the concern on your face. “Think about it,” you suggest.

Bradley sighs, making a concentrated effort to check his blind spot before switching lanes – like driving could distract him from this conversation. Why doesn’t he have a girlfriend? He’s never really thought about it so, clearly, it hasn’t been at the top of his priority list. “The last girlfriend I had was in college. Didn’t last long, either,” he says, hoping this might appease your curiosity enough for you to change the subject.

“Hmm.”

He looks over at you again, wondering what you’re thinking. Wondering if you might consider this little detail a red flag. “I haven’t really met anyone I wanted to spend all my time with,” he says. Until now.

“Interesting,” you muse, leaning back into your seat as though you’re satisfied with this response.

“Is it?” Bradley asks, his gaze inadvertently coasting over your bare thighs every time he glances at you.

You shrug mildly, your fingers once again toying with your bracelet.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Bradley asks, feeling temporarily bold.

“Mmm,” you deliberate, dropping your hands into your lap and slanting your head back against the headrest. “We’ll see.”

Bradley furrows his eyebrows, now watching you more than he’s watching the road. “What does that mean?”

“It means, we’ll see, sugar,” you respond absently. Then, suddenly, you spring up in your seat. “Apple orchard ahead!” you exclaim, pointing at the sign on the side of the interstate.

Bradley, more confused than ever, blinks between your outstretched arm, the billboard, and the road. “You want to pick apples?”

You give Bradley a look and say, “They’ll have pie!”

“Oh!” Bradley chuckles. “Say no more.” He makes a few lane changes so as not to miss the fast-approaching exit.

“We can have the pie for lunch,” you say, glancing at the clock on his dash.

“We can stop for lunch and then get pie,” Bradley proposes, hoping to once again enjoy the pleasure of your company at a restaurant.

You consider his offer and then counter with, “We can have some pie, then have lunch, and then have some more pie.”

Bradley laughs. “Sold.”

…

About an hour later, Bradley is sitting with you on a small dock overlooking a creek, the open pie box positioned in between the two of you.

“That’s a fresh pie,” you comment, sticking your fork into the flaky crust.

Bradley grins at the top of your head as you lean over the box to take a bite. For some reason, your obsession with pie supremely amuses him. “You’re fucking adorable,” he says before he can stop himself.

You freeze with the fork in your mouth and then slowly blink up at him, your eyes searching his for a moment before you sensually draw the fork out of your mouth and then lick it for good measure. Bradley nearly has a heart attack. You smirk at him playfully and then get to your feet. “You think?” you ask, as though you want to hear him say it again. You bend over slightly and lift your leg to remove a sandal.

Bradley watches you gracefully step out of your shoes while beads of sweat collect under the collar of his t-shirt. How could he have let that kind of thing slip?

“Fancy a dip, Rooster?” You eye him mischievously.

Bradley gulps as you bunch up your sundress, exposing more of your legs than he should ever get to see, and dip a toe into the water. The current bubbles around your foot.

“It’s cold!” you squeal, lifting your foot out of the water with a laugh.

Bradley chuckles, getting up as you hop in your excitement on the edge of the dock. “Careful,” he cautions, holding his arm out in case you fall. “Don’t slip.”

You plunge your whole foot into the water before promptly removing it with a splash and a yelp.

“Come on,” he says. “How cold can it be?”

You giggle, taking a hold of his arm as you once again lower your foot into the creek.

Bradley lets his hand close gently around your elbow, steadying you while your toe makes circles in the water.

“How deep do you think it is?”

And before Bradley has a chance to respond, you make your way to the bank and take several steps into the creek, squealing as you go. Bradley shakes his head with a laugh as you wade further in.

“What’re you waitin’ for, handsome?” you call to him when you’re about knee deep in the water.

Bradley, who’s pretty sure he’s going to be replaying that line in his head for the next week, strolls up the dock toward the bank. He slips off his shoes and stands on the slope for a moment, letting the water lap at his bare feet.

“It’s freezing, right?” you exclaim giddily.

Bradley shrugs as he finally enters the – admittedly frigid – water. “It’s nice,” he says. “Refreshing.”

You snort as he strides toward you and, when he’s close enough, you dip your hand into the water and splash him.

“Hey now,” he cautions. “Don’t start something you wouldn't want me to finish.” He’s deep enough now that the bottoms of his shorts are skimming the surface of the water.

You giggle and splash him again – harder this time.

Bradley shakes his head, lowering his hand into the water. “Just remember,” he says, “you asked for this.” And then he glides his hand along the surface, sending a cluster of water droplets in your direction.

You screech, covering your face and, not a moment later, start a boisterous aquatic attack, showering him with icy water and completely impairing his visual field. The skirt of your dress floats in the water like a lily pad as you retreat deeper into the creek.

Bradley, who’s now soaked from head to toe, peels off his t-shirt and tosses it onto the dock. Then, he follows you deeper. “You’ve been warned, princess,” he says, gathering a wave of water and sending it in your direction.

You scream as the giant splash drenches you entirely. You stand still for a moment, accepting your fate, and then you wrap your arms around your shoulders, shivering as you glance up at Bradley whilst water drips from the tip of your nose. “I’m all wet!” you shriek.

Bradley laughs, finally approaching you. “What did you expect?”

“That you’d let me win!”

Bradley eyes you with a smirk. “Let you win? Honey, you don’t know me at all.” Bradley can’t remember the last time in his life he’d used so many pet names, but, looking at you, they just keep rolling off his tongue.

You pout at him, your lashes dripping water every time you blink. “I’ll get you back when you least expect it,” you say.

Bradley chuckles. “Your lips are turning blue,” he says, noticing that your teeth are starting to chatter.

You let Bradley lead you out of the water and, once you’re back on the bank, you start to wring out the bottom of your sundress. The wet material sticks to your curves invitingly and Bradley begrudgingly looks away.

…

“Want me to drive for a while?” you ask, approaching the car.

Bradley looks over at you with an amused smirk as he pulls open the passenger door. “Nope,” he responds.

“You don’t trust me with your precious Bronco?” you ask playfully.

Bradley chuckles, shaking his head. “I just don’t mind driving.”

“Neither do I.” You shrug.

Bradley ponders for a moment before replying, “Next time.”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Planning another road trip with me already?”

Bradley feels the unwelcome – but vexingly predictable – stutter of his heart as you continue to hold his gaze. He tightens his grip on the frame of the door he’s still holding open because he can’t very well sink his hands into you. Not only are you much younger than anyone Bradley’s ever dated, you’re also Hangman’s little sister, a reality so unfortunate that it almost feels contrived. Of all the girls in the world, why does he have to be so utterly infatuated with you? After a few seconds of – we’ll call it deliberate – silence, he grins. “If you’ll have me,” he says.

You smile. “Fun,” you say, drawing a little closer to the passenger door – a little closer to Bradley. “Where are we going?”

Bradley gulps uneasily. “Anywhere,” he says, his voice raspy and uneven.

You graze your teeth over your bottom lip and Bradley could swear that the heat of the afternoon sun is about to melt his very bones. “I’ve always wanted to take the scenic route to Alaska,” you muse, pursing your lips.

Bradley watches you unblinkingly. “Let’s go,” he says.

You let out a peal of laughter and slap him lightly on the chest. “Can you imagine?” you exclaim.

He can. “It’s a bit in the opposite direction,” he says somewhat ironically. “But anything’s better than the desert,” he concludes, slowly shifting his weight after standing very still for a very long time.

You smile at him sympathetically, as though you can tell he’s suffering greatly. “Rain check?” you ask softly.

Bradley, who is absolutely sure that there isn’t a single organ in his body left uncooked, comments facetiously, “Does it ever rain here?”

…

“Let’s stop for some coffee,” you say about half an hour after getting back on the road.

If Bradley didn’t know any better, he’d think you might be finding excuses to extend the trip. “With a pinch of salt?” Bradley teases you, but obediently merges onto the offramp.

“I’m thinking of switching majors,” you say quietly, as though you’re unsure whether you really want to share this information.

Bradley glances over at you as he pulls up to a red light. “Sounds like you might need something a little stronger than coffee.”

You snort loudly and then let out a dramatic sigh. “I’m thinking you might be right, darlin’.”

Bradley’s heart races as he pulls into the lot of the first bar he sees. Frequenting watering holes is absolutely on the list of things Bradley should not be doing with his colleague’s baby sister. But you seem like you need to get something off your chest. And Bradley can’t imagine a more ideal way to spend an evening.

The tavern is low-lit and crowded, and you shift slightly closer to his side upon entering. Bradley instinctively places a hand on your back, like it’s meant to be there or something. He guides you through the packed bar toward an empty table near the back and waves down a server before taking a seat across from you.

He slides you a cocktail menu and watches you peruse it without saying a word. When the server arrives, you order a paloma.

Bradley orders a whiskey neat and fixes you with a weighty look once the server departs. “You want to talk about it?” he asks.

You shrug. “We can.”

Bradley continues searching your face. “Do you want to?”

You sigh and look down into your lap. “Nobody knows yet,” you admit. “I’m halfway through my junior year so switching would really set me back.”

Bradley nods sympathetically. He knows all about being set back. “What are you thinking of switching to?”

“Psych,” you respond hesitantly.

Then the drinks arrive and you fall uncharacteristically silent. Bradley takes a sip of his whiskey while you down a quarter of your cocktail in one gulp. “You want my advice?” he asks. “Or are you just sharing?”

You meet his gaze distantly. “My parents are gonna flip shit,” you says monotonously, as if you haven’t even heard his question.

Bradley smirks at you. “It’s their job to overreact,” he says. “They just want to protect you.”

You absently run your finger around the rim of your glass. “My brother’s gonna question my judgement. Say I’m making a mistake.”

“Your brother has questionable judgement, himself,” Bradley points out.

You let out a small chuckle. “I wish I knew both outcomes before making a decision.”

Bradley could sure relate to that feeling. “Sometimes, you just have to go with your gut. It may not apply here, to be honest, but this guy I know – one of my superiors – he uh, he has this motto: ‘Don’t think, just do.’ I’m not saying yours has to be a split second decision. But, if it were, and you had to decide this minute, without weighing the consequences or talking it over with your family, what would you choose?”

You blink up at him soberly and state, “Naval Academy.”

Bradley’s eyes widen stupidly as he processes your words. “That” – he croaks, then clears his throat – “that’s not psychology.”

You suck in your cheeks and solemnly shake your head.

Tag List

I’ll be tagging the rest in the comments shortly!

@joaquinwhorres

@katiemcrae

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@Topguncultleader

@avengers-fixation

[drvscarlett]

Let him cook pt 2

Charles Leclerc x Masterchef!reader

Series Part: 1

taglist: @bookstore-of-dreams @barcelonaloverf1life

CharlesLeclercUpdates posted a photo.

CharlesLeclercUpdates Charles Leclerc appeared in MasterChef Australia episode "Cooking to Survive"

User1 Ariana what are you doing hereeeee??

User2 I thought only f2 drivers were allowed for that, why was Charles wandering around

User7 In his defense, Ollie was with him. Maybe Ollie got invited and Charles tagged along.

User3 Okay but did anyone notice how his eyes lit up when Y/N talked to him. The boy was whipped!

User8 Charles can't get Y/N, he can't even cook User9 Agree User8! Besides Y/N has a long-time boyfriend, they are super cute. Do you all not watch the different challenges she dedicated to him?

Y/NCooks posted a photo.

Liked by Charles_Leclerc, friend1, and 255,000 others.

YNCooks what a stunning day! We won today as the captain of the red team and coincidentally there was a red team 1-2 as well??? #AlwaysBetOnRed

User1 Mother you slayed!!! I was so surprised to see you at the GP!

YNCooks me too!! This is one of the best team challenges ever.

User2 Charles is on the likes. Charles is on the likes.

Charles_Leclerc Congrats on your win!!!

Y/NCooks Thank you! You too, you did great!!!

User3 The collab of this masterchef and f1 community is not on my bingo list.

User4 Y/N's boyfriend how are you feeling that Charles is stealing your girl away??

"Are you seeing this right now? They thought that I am stealing you away" Charles grumbles over the phone. You can't see him right now but you can actually visualize the frown lines forming and the soft scowl that he has on his face "Why would I steal my own girlfriend?"

"Oh mon ami"

"And did they even watch the episodes? Like couldn't they piece it together that I'm the one that you are referring to I mean the cake and then the adopted italian narrative" Charles continued to rant on

It was adorable to hear Charles like this. How you wish that you weren't just conversing over the phone, how you wish that you could be there for him right now.

"Y/N you still there?" Charles' voice brought you out of your musings.

"Yep, I'm still here. Just a little bit tired" you explained

"You had a really long day mon amour."He says "I'm really so proud of you. You are slowly achieving your dreams"

"As I am very proud of you Charles. You always shine the brightest when you are up on that podium. I wish I could be there on the front lines cheering for you"

"One day you will be"

There is a peaceful silence shared between the two of you. The thing about you and Charles was that you both understand that this is a better situation than being under scrutiny by everyone. Charles had his fair share of public relationship and he learned a lot from it. He just wanted to keep this as his for a little while longer.

"I love you, I'll see you soon" "Love you more honey"

Risotto challenge

You were not always having a good day in the kitchen and this is one of those episodes that you did not do well hence the elimination challenge. The judges commented that there was no problem with the dish that you made but it was simply not as risky as what the others did. So you are really driven to show them creativeness.

Charles was watching the episode with so much dread as he hears that the elimination dish is a reinvention of a risotto. He watched enough MasterChef season with you to know that this dish is the death dish aka the dish that usually sends people home.

He understands the dilemma that you are facing right now, play it safe and stick to the classic which means it won't stand out or play it risky and be booted for elimination.

"I'm making Quinoa risotto" that was your bold decision and Charles couldn't believe his ears.

"Mon amour, risotto is rice. Quinoa is not rice" Charles mumbled to himself

"I know its a big risk but I have to show them that I am a risk taker and that I am a MasterChef winner material"you confidently state in the interview.

It was a stressful few minutes to Charles as he watched how the judges has already decided that the idea of a quinoa risotto would be an utter disaster. Nevertheless, he saw the determination in your eyes and how you defended why you opted to go for a risotto.

"Do you often cook quinoa at home?" Matt asked as he and Jean Pierre White scrutinize your table.

"I don't really" you replied with a shy smile "Well truthfully I don't even know what quinoa is before my boyfriend introduced me to it. It was a part of his diet so I went ahead and learn how to cook quinoa so he could eat"

This was new information for Charles and he felt warm with this new fact. He remembers how every time he visits you, there will be a variation of his diet meals that will ensure that he won't get bored of food and still be on track with his diet. He takes note that he will be grateful for that when she comes back.

"We're looking forward to taste that risotto" Matt says

Time went by and Charles let out a small sigh of relief after knowing that you completed your dish. Charles have full confidence with the dish that you made and he hopes that the judges will take a new perspective with this quinoa risotto.

"Quinoa is not a risotto" Marco Pierre White stated. It was all so menacing how he said it with flat emotions and a monotone voice. Charles could feel himself sweating as they tasted the dish.

"But this is another take that I will welcome" Another sigh of relief for Charles. He knows that you got this in the bag.

Cooking for a special someone

"We're now down to a challenge for the top two spots in the MasterChef kitchen, are you excited?"

Everything was so surreal. Starting from 20 and now they are down to the last 4 contestant. You were so grateful that you are another step closer to your dream of being a MasterChef winner.

"For this week, we will be bringing in some important guests who you will need to impress in order to secure a spot as a MasterChef finalist."

The contestants were asked to step one by one. You started to notice that they brought in their loved ones and you were fidgeting a bit because you don't know who they will bring out.

"Last but definitely not the least, Y/N step forward" Gary says "Are we gonna meet the boyfriend?"

"Oooh the boyfriend. We have been hearing about him for ages now" Matt teased

"The boyfriend is very busy" you replied as you remembered that he is probably in America right now.

"Oh cmon, cant he miss out a day or two"

"Its a job hazard to miss out a few days" you answered. It's all about the points so you really can't fault Charles not wanting to miss a single day at work.

"Okay in that case, our mystery guest for Y/N is............."

The MasterChef door opens and you were surprised to see not one but two Leclercs.

"What are you doing here down under?" you asked as you gave them a hug

"We're going to support you obviously!" Arthur grinned

It was weird because this was the first time that you will be with Arthur and Lorenzo with cameras rolling. You were nearly in tears when you hugged the two of them. Without even asking, you knew right away that Charles sent them since he will be busy with the races.

"And who are they to your life Y/N?" the judges asked

"This is Arthur and Lorenzo, they are very close friends. They treat me as if I'm one of their own" you smiled.

"I'm sure you are going to be inspired to cook now that you have them around"

The pressure was definitely on especially when you were told that there is a need to present 2 dishes, one sweet and another savory in 75 minutes. However, you were pumped to hear the cheers coming from the balcony as Arthur enthusiastically showers you with compliment while Lorenzo takes photos.

Charles, on the other hand, has been constantly checking his phone, now that he is done with free practice. He felt quite jealous that his brothers were able to see you and support you in person. Although, he was quite happy that they are having the time of life supporting you.

Lorenzo texted him about 30 minutes ago that they will be judging and eating the food that the contestants made. He was slowly getting impatient of the results, he wanted to know what's going on.

1 new text message.

Lorenzo: She got in! She's a finalist!!!

[melodic-haze]

Can I ask about sub Arlecchino being fucked with a strap-on in his office? I love your writing and sub Arlecchino is so... 😩

☆ — DEMO TRACK: sub!Arlecchino x dom!fem!Reader

☆ — TYPE: NSFW

☆ — CONTENT WARNINGS: Mommy kink 😜 aka reader is the 'Mother' figure to Arle's 'Father' ahahahahahah, reader with a strap referred to as a dick, overstimulation, semi-public? It's in her office so

☆ — NOTES: THANK YOUUU OMG I'M HAPPY YOU LIKE MY WRITING ANON❗️❗️SORRY THIS WAS ROTTING IN THE ASKBOX I had to do some stuff 😭😭😭 but it's okay bc I come back with a VENGEANCE

Ohhh dude the thing that just popped into my head you're NOT READY (delusional)

While she thought that battling her own children + the Traveller was the best move, it had kinda very much irked you. "I had trained them, it's fine," she says dismissively at the time when you confronted her and something inside you just kinda! Snapped!!!

If a Father has to have a hard hand on his children, then a Mother contrasts that by giving them a gentle touch

That DOES mean that you are to put anyone who threatens your children in any way, and Arlecchino is NO exception whatsoever

And what better way to punish her than to give her a taste of her own medicine in.. a different context?

One hand grabbing a fistful of her hair as you pushed her head down on the desk and the other clenching onto her hip as you moved her on your length, you're drilling into your lover relentlessly despite the slurred sobs that she had let out.

She had cum so many times by now, you didn't bother to keep count after the third time. Through that, however, you hadn't even entertained the mere thought of stopping, only reluctantly doing so when you ran out of stamina or needed to drink water—it's not as if you let her catch her breath as you did so, with the vibrator you had shoved into her at max setting whenever you needed to step away.

Your assault hasn't relented in the least, no matter how many times Arlecchino begged you to stop, no matter how many times she said to do better, no matter how many times she pleaded for you to go easier on her.

"Why would I give way to lenience when you hadn't done the same?" You mused coldly as you continued to plow into her over and over again, "You deem yourself exempt to my wrath, Peruere?"

You feel her try to shake her head in response before quickly following it up with a slurred defense, "N-No, 'm nn-- mmng! Not.. I--"

You clicked your tongue and gave her ass a loud smack, which earns you a garbled moan from the one underneath you, "You can't even form coherent sentences because of something you initially regarded as an 'unnecessary' action.. but that's okay."

The auditory mixture of her excess of slick between her thighs, your skin coming in contact every time you bottomed out inside of her, the pornographic noises that escaped her lips... It was all downright sinful, something completely unbecoming of her position.

But right now, she didn't care less. Or couldn't, more like, considering the complete lack of thought in her head. The only remaining thing within her mind was you and the way you put her in her place.

And the both of you knew that she relished the feeling of having things out of her control.

"You don't need to answer me," you continued, leaning down to press a kiss on the back of her neck.. before shoving her face down roughly as you straightened back up, "you just need to be put in your place, baby. Understand?"

You actually receive a desperate nod amongst the constant surge of white-hot overstimulation and constant orgasm.

"Good... Just don't resist and let mommy discipline you properly."

As if on cue, she cums again with a jolt, much to your delight.

Wanna fuck her so hard that her juices drip onto the floor and slide down on the side of the desk 😞😞 oughhghghh

There's that RISK of being caught in the midst of your lil session too—you could have it locked all along and while normal everyday Arlecchino would've noticed it perfectly fine, the Arlecchino you have underneath you is wayyyy too fucked out to actually realise in the moment so she's panicking but also? Her arousal is actually RAMPED UP are you kidding me

She won't admit to exhibitionism but there's smth There when she thinks of how the world would know that you have such a powerful Hold on her 🫶

But rn she doesn't care to move, not when her thighs are quivering and her pussy's aching to be filled all over again, practically getting used to the feeling of you inside her

Godddd break her enough and she might not be able to live without you ☺️☺️ or maybe you already have who knows ☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️ just saying the moment you donned the title of a Mother was the moment that she was indesputably yours for you to do as you saw fit ☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️

[hurts2think]

Could you maybe do Hook x gn!reader? Reader as Zellie’s sibling aka Rapunzel and Eugene’s son. Maybe reader is a painter like Rapunzel and Hook is the muse and I dunno sumthing silly like that. I’m obsessed with Tangled right now so :PPP

🏴‍☠️Young!James Hook x GN!Reader🏴‍☠️

Reader pronouns: They/them

Pairing: Young James Hook x GN!Reader

Plot: Reader is the child of Rapunzel and took on the same artistic hobby of being a painter. They have a final project due but can't find the perfect muse. That is, until an annoying boy shows up who might be perfect.

Word Count: 1.7K

Extra: I feel like maybe I write too much dialogue idk. Do you guys prefer more dialogue or more text? Anyway, I hope you Hook fans like this!

Being the child of Rapunzel, it’s no surprise you took on an artistic hobby. Even your sister, Zellie did fun hairstyling and colorful outfits, but you kept it more traditional. Traditional in the sense that you keep it simple and just paint. Painting, drawing, and sketching, anything like that.

You found yourself doodling every time you had a pencil in your hand, half of your jeans are painted with little stars and flowers just from absent minded doodling while coming up with a real project.

This obsession naturally landed you in advanced art classes. Which was of course your favorite class of the day. You had just finished a landscape painting for an assignment that took you longer than it should have, (you were never very good with landscapes) but now that the project is over, that just means it was time for the next.

But this project was your final exam for the year. A portrait. Not a self portrait, but a portrait of someone else at school. There was also a paper that had to be written with it about technique and color theory but that was the boring part. Now you were too busy thinking of the possibilities for your muse!

You were fairly popular at school, especially considering you were royalty. But you were also just nice and charming to many of the people around you, so it usually wasn’t hard to ask people for help with your projects. But… your issue this time being that it was the end of the year. Most people were busy with their own end of the year exams and projects.

You asked Bridget first, who apologized a dozen times about how she couldn’t help this time because she was so overwhelmed with a new recipe she was trying for her culinary final. Then you asked Ella who said she had too much to study for and that she couldn’t do anything after school because she had to go home for chores. And anyone else you asked had similar responses.

In the dining hall you sat by yourself and stared at your notebook, trying to come up with anyone else you could ask. It was a free period so the hall was pretty empty since most of the students spent their time out at the courtyard. The quiet always helped you focus so you weren't complaining about being alone there.

Just as you were about to cross out another name on your list, the notebook was suddenly shoved off the table and replaced by someone hopping up to sit there instead of in a chair.

"Whoops. Be more careful with your things." The boy smirked as he crossed one leg over the other.

"Hook." You sighed, picking up the notebook. He thought he was funny for the way he picked on you and others, but really it wasn't that amusing.

You never understood why he decided to pick on you so much, it's not like you ever did anything to him. But at least his bullying was hardly considered bullying. Just a snarky comment here and there with a mocking smirk.

"What's their royal highness doing by themselves? Your mates finally ditch you?" He asked with the same old stupid grin he always had on. How you wish you could take a frying pan to his face and wipe it off sometimes.

"No. I'm trying to work on a project and you're kind of distracting me." You mutter with an annoyed huff.

"Distracting you? That's what I'm best at, darling."

Honestly you weren't really in the mood for this. Usually you'd just laugh and shrug him off since you never saw much harm in him, he just liked attention. But after spending all day working on a project you can't even start has frustrated you beyond belief. You suddenly stood up as if to stand your ground, "You know what, Hook? I've had it with your—" You abruptly stopped speaking.

Hook just looked at you with a mocking grin, clearly not taking you seriously. But the way he sat with his legs crossed, leaned back, and his hook hand held near his face suddenly struck you with inspiration and your annoyment quickly flooded away.

James Hook. He would be the perfect muse for your project. He's elegant with every move he makes, he's undeniably beautiful, and not overwhelmingly proper. His darker demeanor contrasts the elegant position in just the perfect way.

"Oh my gosh." You held your hand to your chest as if you had the most beautiful life changing epiphany ever. You tended to be a little dramatic like that.

"Hmm?" He hummed, clearly a little confused by whatever was going on inside your head.

Your eyes were practically glowing from all of the ideas running in your head, "Hook, you're perfect." Was all that came out of your lips.

The pretty blunt compliment seemed to also confuse Hook, "Yes..." He agreed but still looked at you, waiting for you to supply more context. "And?"

His ego might just be big enough to agree to help you with your project, "Have you ever thought about... Modeling?" You asked, tilting your head to the side, taking in his entire appearance.

----

It was no surprise he enthusiastically agreed. On the way to the art room (that was thankfully empty) he only spoke about his looks and how you'd definitely get an A+ on your project thanks to him. Of course he also wanted to keep the portrait after it's been graded and given back to you. You never really took the self absorbed things he said seriously, they mostly just made you chuckle. It was kind of funny the way he spoke so confidently about himself, considering he wasn't exactly the first person people were lining up to be friends with or date.

You never really hated Hook. Sure, he pissed you off and his friends weren't the greatest either, but you never saw him as big and bad as he wished he was. For a pirate at least, he wasn't very scary. Mostly mildly annoying.

You couldn't say the same for his friend, Uliana. She was definitely the more brutal one of the VKs, which made sense considering she was their 'leader' or something. You mostly tried to steer clear from them, but somehow always had you and Hook running into each other.

"Could you please stop moving? Just hold still for ten minutes." You asked of him sternly. You sat in front of the easel while Hook sat gracefully on the desk in front of you. Well, not very graceful anymore. His pose became slouched and bored after only five minutes of him standing there.

"It's been an hour, can't I move now? Let me see it so far." He complained, frowning at the boredom of just sitting there.

"No. It's not done and if you move then it's going to be impossible for you to sit back correctly again." You explained, eyes not leaving the canvas.

You should have expected this behavior, but you were a little too excited about the process, you forgot who exactly you were dealing with. Every ten or so minutes he'd ask if he could move and you'd have to snap at him to stay still.

Though the next time you looked back up, your eyes narrowed at him shifting and moving, "James! You're moving too much. Tilt your head back to the right."

He rolled his eyes and tilted his head as you said.

"Not your right, my right— Okay, actually," You stood up and walked over to him, grabbing his face and angling it in the correct position.

"Ya know, you should ask me on a date first before getting handsy." He smirked, looking you in the eye.

You give him a skeptical look before taking your hands off of him, "Just stop moving. And keep quiet too." It was impossible to hide your own smirk. You really couldn't help it.

You walk back to your canvas and stare at Hook for a second, picking up your paint brush. Despite you telling him to keep quiet and stop moving, it didn't take long before he started talking again. Mostly gossip and stupid stuff that didn't really matter.

After another long while you finished the painting. Well, not really. You still had details and things to change but you got the base of what you want. It looked pretty much complete to anyone who wasn’t a painter, but it wasn’t quite. It was finished enough to where you didn’t really need Hook anymore though.

“Okay! You can see it now.” You grinned, clearly bursting with excitement. It really turned out better than you imagined.

Your muse sitting on a windowsill with only a little light trickling on his face and overgrown dark plants and roses surrounding. It was definitely darker than you usually painted but it turned out amazing. Using the Flowers to frame his face but the rest being overgrown vines, it really felt like the right artistic decision.

Hook wasted no time to get up and look, resting his arm on your shoulder. His eyebrows raised slightly in surprise, “Wow.” Was all he said at first. You looked at him, hoping he’d say something else or some kind of approval. “Are you in love with me or something?” He grinned, looking from the painting to you.

You chuckled and rolled your eyes, “You wish.”

Based on that statement though, it was clear he liked it. Of course he was always open to someone making something in his image, but he really never expected someone to draw him so elegant and pretty. If anything, he expected something scarier. But you managed to make the painting dark and dramatic but still beautiful. He really was the perfect muse.

“Really? So the royal painter doesn’t want a kiss for their hard work in capturing my beauty?” He teased, taking your hand with his hook and leaning in as if he was about to try and kiss you.

“Try anything and you’re face wont be so pretty anymore.” You threatened with a light hearted laugh, pushing him away.

“Ouch.” Hook dramatically held his hand to his heart as if you’d stabbed him before grinning. Maybe you should’ve admired his beauty a little sooner. He could’ve been very helpful to your other countless projects.

[sugareey-makes-stuff]

A Feb/March update is here! Winter into (almost Spring) hasn't been too bad, since it's been super warm. Anyway, here's what these two idiots have been up to:

>>> As a tea blender, it's been a hot minute since I've made new teas. If this wasn't already a big hint, yes, I'm making Teen Wolf teas. Yes, both Stiles and Derek each have their own blend. They might each get one more if my muse is ambitious enough. My guinea pig (aka my partner) has already tasted these blends with me, and all I'm going to say is they're very particular but super yummy! >>> Glad that Sterek approve of both teas! When I do figure out artwork and all that fun jazz, are TW teas something people want in their lives? Hmm...do I attempt to make a Sterek tea? That could be fun. Let me know if you'd like me to make that happen!

>>> A while back for the hols, a friend who knows me all too well got me a dumpster fire pencil organizer. It's a smol dumpster with flamey notecards to write on. And these boys really like it. This is probably how they feel about a lot of things anyway. >>> They sorta fit in, right? I think Stiles thought this was funnier than Derek did (If he fits, he sits).

>>> Loookk, spring outfits (@mrkgrl, I guess I'm dressing them up seasonally now)! Derek is in his mechanic and let's-fix-everything mode. Meanwhile, Stiles wanted overalls so he can be a b-boy and show off his dance moves. He also made Derek pop his collar. Want more Sterek mini adventures? Make sure to stay updated by following the #stereksmolshots tag!

[amplifyme]

This may never be completed, but I'm posting it here. Because the muse wants me to. Since she's been so quiet all these months, if she's decided to drop in now and make this edict, I'm gonna listen.

The beginnings of a One Breath fic, aka my albatross...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pause. Rewind. Play. “We should stop.” A hand moving up a glossy white inner thigh. Breathy sighs. Fast-forward. Play. The hand now wedged at the apex between her legs, large male knuckles clearly pressing up beneath the obscenely short skirt she wears, manipulating the hidden treasure there.

The ringing of the phone pulls him from this latest repetition of his bedtime routine. He’s compiling a list of his favorite parts, so he knows what to skip to the next time this tape graces his VCR. He’ll know those jagged segments by heart soon. Then he’ll be able to pull them up and zone out enough to maybe sleep.

He pauses the tape and stretches to reach the phone. He greets his caller with dull indifference. “Yeah?”

There’s a hitch of breath on the other end, soft and feminine, and he drags himself up until he’s sitting. “Hello?”

“Fox, is that you?”

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds before his synapses start to fire with something resembling clarity and he recognizes the voice. “Mrs. Scully?”

“Fox, it’s Dana. She’s back. They’ve brought her back.”

His heart gives a great thud, stops for an instant, and then begins to thump crazily in his chest. He breaks out in a sweat, stammers, “Wha-wha where? Where is she? How-?”

“Northeast Georgetown. In the ICU. I’m with her now.”

“I’m on my way.”

It’s not until he reaches the car that it occurs to him: he has no coat, no badge, no cellphone, just his wallet and keys. He scrapes a dusting of snow from the window of the driver’s door with his arm and slides behind the wheel. He doesn’t remember the drive to the hospital when he tries to recall it later. He doesn’t remember anything from when he first arrives at her hospital bed, except that Scully’s eyes are taped shut and she’s covered in wires and tubes. Her mother’s face reflects anger and worry, bewilderment: the sum total of unanswered questions. He sucks it all into his lungs like rarified air and shouts them out in her stead. 

Why. How. When. What’s happened to her? Who did this to her?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“She doesn’t want to live in this condition.”

He hadn’t given it more than a glancing thought when she’d asked him to sign as witness to her living will shortly before the X-Files division had been shut down. It was just a formality, and more paperwork to sign off on and forget. Nothing that might possibly come back to bite him on the ass. Just a throw-away.

He forces himself to meet Maggie Scully’s eyes. He’s to blame for this. Because his easy acquiescence to what seemed a simple request has morphed into an ill-advised edict to allow her to die. How is he to carry on with this knowledge? Scully is not, and could never be, a throw-away anything.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“I’ve been told not to call you Fox.”

Melissa Scully is not at all what he had imagined, and he takes umbrage at her new age methods, since her sister clearly can’t.

“I need to do more than just wave my hands in the air.” His arm drops to his side, and he turns away. But try as he might, the first words Melissa said to him ring in his ears with proof of something beyond his comprehension.

He turns back and belatedly rebukes her. “She never talked about you,” He doesn’t understand why he feels the need to strike out at her. But someone has to pay the price.

“Probably not,” Melissa responds with an enigmatic smile. “But she talks a lot about you.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“You don't believe... but you want to. You want to believe more than ever.”

He ignores her and goes in search of their mother. Her pain, he understands.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Frohike, in a fucking penguin suit and bearing flowers. Branched DNA, a biological poison, and “Mulder, there’s nothing you can do.”  

A gun shoved in his face by a man who is supposed to be his ally. “You got him killed! You got her killed. That’s not going to happen to me.” A different man dead in a basement laundry room, killed execution style.

“I don’t think you have the heart.” It’s a dismissal, a taunt.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

No sleep. And he’s so fucking tired. He hasn’t had more than four consecutive hours of sleep since she was taken. No food. Not for as long as he can remember, though his belly is as hollow as his bones. Time has lost meaning. He only leaves her bedside when he has to. The Scully women take their turns while he’s there but don’t seem to have the stomach for his urgently whispered arguments to run just a few more tests, give it just one more day, don’t give up – it’s too soon.

But she’s running out of time and the Scully women are busy in the hospital chapel or covertly waving burning sticks of incense, biding their own time. All three of them are preparing for the change to come. But he feels like the only one who’s fighting for that change to be Scully opening her eyes and coming back where she belongs. He won’t give up, no matter what it costs him. She wouldn’t give up on him.

He has the insane notion to ask Maggie Scully for permission to marry her daughter. If he’s Scully’s husband, maybe he can call the shots. Maybe he can guarantee her more time.

He is falling, falling, falling, and there is no bottom, no end point. The black hole surrounding him has jagged walls that are slick with blood from earlier battles, and he can’t grasp onto anything with enough friction to slow him down.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Karen Ann Quinlan is not a name he wants invoked. The thought of Scully remaining in this condition is distasteful, horrific. How could anyone want that for her? So why can’t he just accept the facts and let her go?

“She was a good soldier, Mulder, but there’s nothing you can do to bring her back.”

Her doctor, portly, balding, and resistant to anything outside the norm, rankles him. Everything does. Even the air he breathes is inhaled with a sense of resentment at its necessity. The worse it gets, the more inwardly absent he becomes, until he feels he’s outside himself. Nothing more than a helpless observer of this unfolding tragedy.

“Dana has made our decision.”

He vacillates between anger and grief, both cutting too painfully deep. Between acceptance of the facts and the rejection of them, so clinical and cold. Who is he fighting for? It is for her, or his need for her? Scully has respected him, always, as he has her. But this, this is too much to ask. And underneath it all, his ceaseless, immeasurable rage, and the need for retribution.

“Fox,” Mrs. Scully stands and readies to push through the swinging doors and over a threshold that can’t be uncrossed, solidifying the decision her words made clear. “This is a moment for the family. But you can join us if you want.”

No, no I can’t, he thinks. I won’t.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He decides this must be the apex of his anger. At least now it has a focus. That black-lunged sonofabitch is responsible for all of this. He’s certain of it. He offers himself up to Skinner, a willing sacrifice of everything he has left in exchange for his shot at vengeance. Justice. Justice. That’s all he wants. Time is running out.

Why? Why? How did this happen? How could he let this happen?

He stops short on his way out the door, sudden clarity blinding him in its accusation. It’s my fault, too. Skinner is honest enough to concur when he voices his fears, and Mulder is stunned.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

No. This is the apex. This is the source of the fire scorching him from the inside out. This man at the end of a gun barrel in this drab and empty room, cloaked in plumes of smoke. Cigarette Man is the one who has to pay. Otherwise, there is no justice.

“Why her? Why her and not me? Answer me!” His finger is steady on the trigger. Four and a half pounds of pressure is all it will take to paint the walls with brain matter. He wants to light the world on fire. Burn it all down. Rebuild a new one from the ashes. A world where Scully is safe. A place where his sister isn’t gone.

[houseofhyde]

Hello there amazing writer 🙋🏻‍♀️! I hope you are feeling well and are finding the fandom pleasant 🤗.

I thought I'd share an idea that's been festering in my head if you'd like to give it a try (but first allow me to commend your sharply pellucid guidelines for requesting, you have seriously inspired me to refine my own 🥂)

I was thinking of something where Daemon has been chasing a noblewoman, interest kindled by her prideful rejection to become his latest muse; then one night she goes to his chamber, dejected and teary, indignantly asking for company. Then something like the beach scene from Drfitmark where he's far gentler than he thought he would be.

Thank you for hearing me out, have a lovely day 💐

but only for tonight.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader. synopsis. to most, the rogue prince is an untamable beast, with the fury of a thousand men and mind more stubborn than a mule. to you, he's a nuisance in expensive clothing, prone to run away with his tail tucked between his legs each time you reassure him you're still not interested in entertaining his company. till disaster strikes and the only corner of the keep your legs seem to carry you is his chamber doors. warnings. young!daemon (early 20s), enemies to lovers to strangers, kinda softer than usual daemon (he's young and not completely cynical yet), smut (porn with plot, p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, daemon lowkey has a praise kink, dubcon bc daemon is high on life aka the milk of the poppy). word count. 13.1k (this was only meant to be 5k max 🧍‍♂️) hyde's input. thank you so much to @nyctophilic0vitnir for your kind words, your request, and, most importantly, your patience <3 this took me far too long to write and i hope the wait was worth it for you. it pains me to age daemon down (as, personally, i'm a toxic bitch that loves to see daemon be notably older than the reader, since i feel it adds that extra layer of questionable morality to his character and his actions) but it was the only way i felt i could stay true to my personal characterisation of him whilst sticking to the original request. since i view daemon as someone hardened by things in life that only come with age (which, in turn, affects his approach to love/courting), it only felt believable to me that he'd chase after someone in his younger days. obviously not everyone has to agree since, again, this is my personal characterisation of him! i'm rambling so i'll shut up now, enjoy! read on ao3 !

between the blinding shine of the sun and the hateful looks from the ladies seated all around you, you’re shocked to the core that you’ve yet to melt away into nothingness.

the scene is as follows: an arena surrounded by crowds filled with cheering lords and fawning ladies, dressed in their finest of robes and garbs, and with their mouths opened to yell out each time sticks collide or a rider is thrown from his horse; within the arena stand two horses- one so white it offends the eyes and the other blacker than a night’s sky- and, upon their saddles, two men. the first is a man of honour, regal of house and true of heart. he sits like royalty and smiles like a dashing knight, urging his mount towards the stands, no doubt awaiting the gift of the flowered wreath you’d kept yourself awake into the small hours to make. the other man? a fool made of over-the-top armor, a glistening of dark metals and a feathered helmet that, combined with the smug look he sports, has the same effect as simply writing cunt across his forehead.

it is, to your own displeasure, that the second man is who holds his lance out to you first.

“well,” that cocky tone of voice grates you, like the screech of a crying babe, and you fight back the urge to cover your ears, if only by reminding yourself of how his crown-bearing brother is watching from his own seat amongst the crowd. “get on with it.”

“oh, my!” the women in your vicinity swoon, as if the man has just recited a poem of utmost beauty and grace in your direction.

seemingly foolish? most definitely.

but, truly foolish? not one bit, each of them strategic in their behaviour towards the unwed prince, hopeful that someday, should they work hard enough, they’ll be on the receiving end both of his affection and wealth.

you can not mock them- wholeheartedly, at least- for you would be behaving the very same were he any other prince.

“lady cantebury, if you’ll excuse me, i suddenly feel my lunch coming back up.” though you address the woman to the left of you- who, quite frankly, you’ve been ignoring for the better half of the tournament- your words and feigned smile are directed to the man of your ire.

“yes, excuse her, lady cantebitchy,” despite the prince- purposefully, you assume- misspeaking her name, she seems a little too excited that he’s taken notice of her to care. “it takes those northerners a while to adjust to eating something other than half-frozen crops. three moons south and my lady has yet to get used to it.”

“your lady?” you scoff, and quickly scowl, cursing yourself for giving him what he wants: your attention. too late now, you challenge him and lean forward against the railings. “is she with us now, this lady of yours? i should like to pay my respects to her no-doubt deceased sanity.”

“it pains me deeply when you speak so dully of yourself, my lady.” the gaul of this man! to speak such words, to mimic affectionate sentiments and pains in his heart through the clutching of his chest!

and, to make matters worse, to put on this act before the very man you’ve been courting!

the tyrell boy is smiling when your eyes finds his own, but the grip he has on the reigns of the white horse speaks true to the anger that hides beneath the petal-covered surface. you return his smile, and ignore whatever the prince mutters under his breath (something adjacent to greeting that priss of a man, with words more foul and tone heavy on the disgust).

aiming to beckon over the man who should truly receive the gift of your favour, a faint tug on the skirts of your summer’s gown derail your line of thoughts. first, you look to your left, accusing eyes looking upon lady canteburry as if to say she was the one to call for your attention. another tug has your head darting to the right, and there you see her.

the princess is small, in age and height and all else, but she makes up for what she lacks with her overgrown personality and swollen confidence. she’s merely a girl of six, yet she stands as tall as her stature allows, head tilted up to look you in the eye.

“my uncle,” little rhaenyra’s words echo for all to hear, silencing even the most brutishly rude lords as all stand to listen to her sweet voice. “he wants your favour. i think he’s just nervous and forgot to ask for it.”

the last of her words are whispered, loud enough for several women and the prince himself to hear. you shoot him a look as you both scoff over a laugh, him with indiganance and you with disbelief.

blessed be the hearts of children, too pure to know the wrongs of man.

“is that so, princess?” the girl’s nose wrinkles, a sign of her distaste towards hearing you address her by title (“i can not call you ‘nyra in public, sweet child.” you’d told her many a times, hands brushing over her pale hair or accompanying her through strolls in the gardens or helping her escape the boring hours of needle work. “you are a princess, and as one of your ladies it is my duty to address you as such.”)

the girl nods and you spy the way her hair is slowly slipping out of its braid. the actions serves as a reminder, to not just yourself but the gathered crowd of women, of the unfair yet captivating traits of the dragon-riders. fair hair, lilac eyes, unblemished skin.

he wears them differently to the rest of his house.

“listen to the child,” he speaks as if on queue, in tune with your thoughts. “she’s wiser than most her age.”

“unlike you.” you believe yourself to mutter beneath your breath.

the stifled laughter of the queen herself, aemma targaryen, tells you otherwise.

“ao jorrāelagon naejot sagon tolī sȳz, kepus!” you need to be more kind, uncle! another part of the targaryen culture you’ve grown to envy as much as you distaste: their ancestral tongue. which the princess has been improving upon with each passing day since your arrival at the capital, adding yet another person to your list of targaryens who insist on speaking it around you, with no regard to the fact you have no clue of what words they speak. if anything, the prince seems to enjoy it when you storm off, antagonised to the point of despair by his incomprehensible ramblings in his mother tongue. “iā hembar jēda kesan daor tepagon se dohaeragon ao jaelagon naejot gain se riña’s prūmia lēda.” or next time i will not give the help you wish to gain the lady’s heart with.

whatever she says, it’s enough to irritate the prince, if the roll of his eyes are anything go by.

“lykemagon, riña, iā kesan daor nārhēdegon naejot ȳdragon hen aōha bantis zaldrīzes kipagon naejot aōha kepa.” silence, child, or i will not forget to speak of your nightly dragon rides to your father. you may not speak the language, but you’re fluent in context, and so there’s no doubt in your mind that the two are exchanging threats, each wearing that signature look of stubborn challenging you’re more than certain the king grew to despise the moment he realised he’d no longer just face it from his own brother, but his precious daughter too.

when the moment passes, the princess is facing you again, sticky hands plucking upwards to grab onto whatever part of you she can reach and guide you- shove you, if she were stronger than her age allows- closer to the knight in offensive armour.

“uncle, tell the lady what you desire.” the gods were cruel when they chose to favour men over women, tearing away the chance of this poised young girl of ever ruling upon the iron throne, for not even the strongest of men- nor the most foolish, either- would dare to speak to the rogue prince in such a demanding tone.

“to be drowning in whores and wine.” you’re too slow to cover rhaenyra’s ears from the man’s offensive wording.

you suppose she’s heard far worse.

“uncle!”

“fine, fine,” a clearing of a throat, a straightening of a spine and a lunge of a jousting stick in your direction. the horse he sits upon canters a few steps closer and releases the heavy sigh you wish you could. “my lady,” there’s a point to be made with how your eyes drift anywhere but his own as he speaks such blasphemy, a silent scream that you are most definitely, not under any circumstances nor at any point in time, his lady. you’re barely a tolerant of the man! “would you do me the honour of gifting me with your favour, so that i may wear it on the handle of my lance as i shove the other end up this pretty boy’s arse?”

there’s a cacophony of laughter, prompted only after the king himself fails to contain a burst of belly-born rumbles, and then the sweet interjection of ‘nyra once more, voice whiny in a way that reminds you you’ve been cursed with your moonsblood for longer than she’s been alive- even despite your supposed late blossoming!

“kepus! konir sagon daor skorkydoso īlon kȳvanon syt ao epagon zirȳla!” uncle! that is not how we planned for you to ask her!

the prince ignores his niece, eyes spying only upon you and your unimpressed, unmoving, unchanging facial expressions. the frowning lips, the pinched brows, the disdain in your eyes are all marks of something that would- should- send any other man running for the hills, in pursuit of some other lady.

in daemon, it is the pilar of his desire.

“are you going to make me wait all evening?” the teasing smirk and the raise of an eyebrow have become the prince’s signature look around you, from the moment you’d stumbled upon him, hands tangled up the skirts of a serving girl and lips stained in the bloodied red of southern wine. “because i must admit, while i’m not against performing in front of a crowd, i’d rather hoped our first evening together would be a little more intimate than this.”

you bite the insides of your cheek with a force you hope is strong enough to rid you of that grating feeling roused by none other than your greatest enemy: the prince.

by all means, you want to deny him, send him off to pester some other lady for her favour- of which you’re sure he’ll stumble upon an abudance of them who receive him more willingly than you. the crown of pointed thorns and decaying petals and twisted vines is one you’d intended to gift to the rose boy, not the dragon prince.

yet rhaenyra’s little hands and excited smile convinces you to go against your better judgement.

the crowd bursts back to life with cheers and applause as you drop your wreath down the expanse of his lance.

“cherish it, prince daemon,” you call over the crowd, voice drowning out in the masses yet reaching its intended, daemon’s eyes delighting with the attention you give him. “for i just forfeited my chance to be named queen of love and beauty.”

hours later, when the moon sits atop the sky and the king’s guests have had their fair share of feast and drink, you brush off yet another congratulations.

“to our queen of love and beauty!” they cheer, cups to the sky and smiles made of mockery. “our prince sure did pick a fine lady.”

to roll your eyes is your only hope to halt yourselves from chastising the garish men and their claims, a whole rant to throw at them off the cuff of how the only thing their prince has done is place a scarlet letter upon you and slice a dagger through the already fragile relationship you’ve spent your recent days crafting with the stone-faced lady tyrell, who’s spent the past hours staring you down from across the hall and whispering every so often to her husband.

the hand in your own- smaller and distinctly sticky in a way only a child’s hand ever seems to be- tugs and squeezes you along, venturing deeper into the pit of dancing bods, the tuffs of blonde and the poofs of red the only part of the princess you manage to make out as she guides you.

she stops, eventually, when she finds a spot she deems spacious enough and- unbeknownst to you- in the perfect line of view for all that sit the royal table, be they a king, or a queen, or a prince, to witness you both joining in dance, a unique pair among the many couples.

“you know,” the girl ponders alloud, a cheeky grin on her face as her small frame easily twirls beneath your raised arm. “if you married my uncle, you and i would be family.”

“is that so, huh?” she must count her blessings that she remains a child, for were she any older to know better, she’d be tasting the wrath delivered upon any other who’d dare insinuate- much less so boldly propose the idea of- the unification of yourself and the rogue prince. “are you sure you’d be able to handle me as your evil aunt?”

the young girl nods enthusiastically, a silly grin decorating her features and forcing one on to your own down-trodden face, something so infectious in her smile.

when you’d first met the princess, you’d been certain that you’d never warm to her. it wasn’t that she was spoiled or particularly difficult but, rather, you’d never had a child around back home. moving to the capital- under the guise of becoming a lady in waiting to the little princess while truly being an excuse for your father to find you a husband- you’d been unsure what to expect once you arrived. your friendship with the dragon princess was a happy accident.

an accident that’s made adjusting to the capital far easier, sure, but an accident nonetheless.

“uncle!” her recent interest in your courting life and the need to intertwine it with your arch-nemesis’, however, has you rethinking this friendship.

the princess is the one to let go first, ducking out of your hold to crash straight into the prince’s leg, attaching herself onto it like a leech sticks to the skin of a dying man. daemon, seemingly engaged in conversation- with a girl you believe to be part of the lannister house- prior to the appearance of rhaenyra, dismisses the company in favour of his niece, hand clasping itself upon the top of her head and giving several scuffs, messing her hair till it stands in all directions.

and, be it the copious drinks or the immature she-devil who harbours within the depths of your soul, you condemn yourself to approaching the prince.

“stop that!” the words are a hiss as your hands shove away his own and work at smoothing back down the strands of pale blonde. “it took me near an hour to get her to sit still for me while i done her hair, and now you’ve gone and messed my work!”

“then do better next time, perhaps tie it more securely.” never has daemon targaryen had a face so worthy of a slap.

but, as slapping the king’s brother would likely land you straight in a cellar, you settle for something far more childish.

“oh, my bad,” the stretch to reach the top of his head is lessened by the heeled shoes you wear, allowing you to retaliate the treatment he’d given to the princess’ head. “perhaps you should try tying your hair more securely next time!”

it’s a marvellous kind of satisfaction that overcomes you as you gaze upon your masterpiece, the prince now wearing a hardened expression and standing with something akin to a bird’s nest in place of his once perfectly groomed locks.

“i think you’ve been spending too much time with rhaenyra,” he grumbles, attempting to sooth down the mop on his head while trying to maintain an air of collectedness about him as the surrounding guests hide their snickers behind their hands. meanwhile, the princess radiates joy, no fear holding her back from laughing at her uncle. “you’re behaving as if you were her age.”

it’s a struggle to not stick your tongue out, but you fear that would only serve to prove his- likely true- point.

“i’m tired,” rhaenyra, ever the conniving little actress, throws in a fake yawn and stretches her little limbs out as she untangles herself from the prince, staring up at him. the two have always shared a rather queer bond, as though they were cut from the very same cloth, little needing said for them both to understand one another. being aware of this, however, does not make it any easier to accept when they speak of you as though you’re not there. “would you promise to keep my friend company? there’s a lot of strangers at this feast and i don’t want one of them to harm her.”

“i’d say the strangers are the ones who need protecting, princess,” he’s doubled over, moving down to the height of his niece but his focus is all on you and the urge to squirm under his penatrive gaze is stronger than ever. “them northerners can be savages!”

with much protest from you and a shooing motion from the rogue prince, young rhaenyra scurries off towards her septa, eventually leaving the hall intwined with the daughter of her father’s hand, alicent hightower, the pair having been near inseparable since before you’d even arrived in the capital.

you last only four denied dances, three of them which are proposed by the heartbreak prince himself, the only other man bold enough to approach you with your frowning sworn-guard for the night being a lowly lord from the southern isles, kind enough in the eyes yet sporting a few too many wrinkles and grey hairs for you to consider a suitable suitor. and, at last, it becomes time you take your leave, making one last stop before the two royals, once more congratulating the pair on the early stages of the queen’s pregnancy- the first to make it through the initial trimester since the birth of rhaenyra and the sole reason you’ve all gathered, to celebrate the future heir king viserys targaryen claims grows within his wife’s womb- before making your way out into the much quieter, more solitary and notably cooler hallways of the red keep, the noise of the continued festivities drowning out into muffled cheers as the heavy doors slam shut, locking you out.

you breathe easily for what feels like the first time in hours.

ever the fool, daemon seems either incapable of taking a hint or wilfully going to any length to aggravate you, for he matches your steps and follows you out. he’s oblivious to the stare of despair and the roll of your eyes, wishing the man would drop his literal- and figurative- pursuit of you once and for all.

“you’ve been here, what, near four moons?” his voice rising above the stillness of the night captures your attention, widened eyes blossoming with surprise shooting up from facing the ground beneath your feet. “how are you finding your stay? i should hope my brother’s fitted you with comfortable quarters.”

“i, well,” you start, and you mean to finish, you really do. but there’s a loss of connection between your mind and your mouth, one running with a thousand thoughts that fight to reach the forefront and the other parting it’s lips in a broken exhale.

“what, surprised to see i am capable of niceties?” the prince flashes what you imagine most would describe as a charming smile.

“yes. no, actually,” you correct both your words and your posture, unknowingly relaxing that tense feeling that had danced upon the tip of your back and the expanse of your shoulder from the moment you’d found yourself alone with the man walking at your side. “more surprised to see you’re capable of not turning everything into a sexual pass, i suppose.”

“well, you never let me reach the part where i request to see just how comfortable your quarters are.”

that same she-devil who convinced you to mess with his hair perks up her voice once more, seductive whispers encouraging you to cross the space that separates you from the prince and place a hand upon his leather-bound chest, shoving him with less hostility either of you had expected.

“you’re insufferable!” at the very least, you retain the ability to criticise him verbally, though with far more interruptions of failed-to-conceal laughter and less sharpness in your tone.

“i believe it’s pronounced irrefutable.”

“i’m impressed,” you nod along to your own exclamation, vaguely aware of the fact you’ve twisted your feet around till you face the man completely. “that’s a big word for someone with the vocabulary of a foul-mouthed child!”

“if big things impress you, rest assured i’m well endowed.”

“like i said, insufferable!”

when your exacerbated sighs and his teasing chortles fade away into the air of the night, a calm quiet settles over you both, like fog over mountain tops. the rare abscense of the wandering eyes and judgemental snickers and the gossiping whispers exchanged through the courtiers has made way for an unexpected tolerance of the prince’s company, one that leads you astray from your usual disgust and further towards the walking disaster-child that is daemon targaryen.

“come,” it’s a demand, not a request, the talons of your hands digging into the arm of his coat admittedly harder than necessary, a sick depravation found in the firmness of his biceps. you find he gives no protest to the way your arm locks itself around his own. “walk me to my chambers, oh mighty knight!”

“is this your way of accepting my offer to see how comfortable your ch-”

“daemon, so help the seven, if you finish that sentence, it’ll be i who shoves a lance up your arse.”

silence returns like an old friend: with open arms and the promise of a story to be told.

the pair of you traverse through the winding halls of the castle together, arms linked and feet synced- the prince puts a great effort into shortening the length of his steps. to outsiders looking in, you’d almost appear to be nothing more than another couple in the early days of courtship, smiling off to the sides and capable of looking anywhere but each other. the reality that this very man has put your true intended betrothal at risk becomes buried deep beneath the surface of your thoughts, uneager to remind yourself of how you’d last seen the tyrell boy rising from the dirt of the arena, face frowning as the prince called out your name, thanking you for you favour.

“you never answered.” he speaks carefully, voice a gentle timbre as though he’s attempting to coax a wounded fawn out of its hiding place.

“hmm?”

“my question, about your stay. how are you finding it?”

you can not seem to answer him. it isn’t that you don’t want to answer- trust there is another world out there where you easily list off every reason he’s made your time in the capital feel something comparable to torturous and arduous work- but, rather, that you do not have an answer. because not a single person, from your own father all the way to little rhaenyra herself, has dared to ask you before.

no individual has cared to know, yet here the prince stands- walks by your side, more accurately said- and inquires on it.

it jars you so severely you feel the beginnings of an ache in your head.

“oh, well, it’s been... good, i suppose.” both of you share a common disbelief towards the words you speak, yours evident in the way your grip tightens around his arm and his making itself known in a dismissive grunt. “the keep is beautiful, and my chambers are beyond any level of comfort my own house could afford, and the weather is admiteddly nicer. it’s just...”

“lonely,” the man finishes what you started, the hand on his free arm at some point raising itself to rest upon your own. it’s only reflex for your fingers to relax, untense the vice grip you’ve dug into him. “this city is somehow the busiest yet loneliest place in the whole of westeros.”

“don’t get sentimental on me, prince daemon.” to dismiss the mellowness settling in between you with a jovial tone and a pointed look is all you can think to do, far too unprepared to be confronted with the possibility of the rogue prince possessing anything beyond the sheer audacity he displays on the daily. “we would not want someone to overhear and assume you’re soft-hearted.”

the man swallows back a comment of how, while his heart may falter, another of his organs would not fail to remain hardened, and simply gives a noise of agreement. you arrive at yet another flight of stairs, this one so narrow it requires you to walk ahead of the prince, the grasp you have on him never faltering as it slides down the expanse of his arm and reanchors itself on his wrist.

you make it not even a quarter of the way up before your dress proves itself to be a nusance, catching on your feet and sending you crashing forwards, saved from bruising your skin and breaking your bones on the solid stone below by daemon, who effortletsly catches you by the waist.

“i wasn’t aware the king placed you in the highest tower of the keep,” the prince, a known hypochondriac, quips on the amount of stairs  the travels to your chambers entails.

“must be to keep scoundrels like his brother from trying to reach me.” a joke it may be, given you both laugh, but there’s certainly an element of truth behind it.

pray, you will, that you’re never enquired on how often a scoundrel has taken it upon himself to lift the ends of a woman’s dress for no reasons other than aiding her to climb up steps without the fear of her feet catching on the ends of it.

he follows you up closely, closer than he’d been before, and drops the material only after you’ve reached the top. the pair of you move in sync to reform your previous positions, arms intertwining with ease.

“what,” it’s criminal, you think, that it’s taken you all this time to experience how soft the prince’s voice can be once he’s rid it of all that ego and peacoking energy he barks around the courts with. meanwhile, he’s doing everything he can think of to slow your inevitable approach towards your chambers door. “do you have planned tomorrow morning?”

“tomorrow morning?” the question prompts you to look at him. seeing his face closer than it’s ever been before, you see the little details, like the flecks of deep purple that accentuate the lilac eyes, or the small scab on his chin where a shaving knife must have sliced it, or the subtle indent of frown-lines on his forehead that you think a man of his age is far too young to possess. “usually my mornings are spent with the other maidens who reside in the keep, before rhaenyra comes searching for me after she’s broken her fast.”

you don’t mention the way the young girl never fails to bring something tucked beneath her skirts- an apple, a buttered roll, a slice of meat- and forces it upon you, demanding you eat the breakfast you so often forget to take.

“how likely is it that your absence would be noted, say, if you were to go one daybreak not with those wenches?” you wrinkle your nose at the choice of words and he chuckles, mentally notting the distaste you harbour for wenches and reminding himself to use it against you at some point in the future. “my brother says the she-beast they call vhagar laid a clutch.”

“how ominous. haven’t you dragonriders taken enough dragons beneath your wings?” it’s meant to be naught more than a silly comment, a clever play on words to rouse a tired eyeroll from prince daemon. it isn’t, however, supposed to pull a pointed look and a sigh of defeat from the dragonless targaryen. “i’m sorry... i didn’t mean to offend.”

“no, no, it’s fine. just never speak such a stupid pun again.” he juts his arm out, playfully stabbing the point of his elbow into your side and rousing a smile back onto your face, unease slipping out with your next exhale. “it’s for the queen’s babe. my brother demanded i collect the eggs and bring them to-”

“there you are, my love! i’ve been looking for you all evening.”

like a pair of children caught with their hands down a cookie jar, daemon and you jump apart with haste, eyes no longer focused on one another and, instead, on the figure stood at the very end of the hall.

he still wears the armour which he’d been defeated by the prince in.

“laurel!” while your tone may read as elated, it’s filled only with disappointed surprise. “what are- why- what brings you here, at this hour?”

the prince seems to instinctively step closer to you as the tyrell boy begins to approach, leaving his post outside your door. he’s stern, brows furrowed and nothing remains of the man who’d been making you laugh a mere ten paces back.

“i was looking, for you,”

“clearly not hard enough.” you wonder if the tyrell boy catches daemon’s muttered words and, the part of you that agrees with them wishes he did.

you’d been at the feast all evening, with just about every other person of status in the city. if he’d wanted to find you, he’d have been best to make an appearance at the event rather than camping outside your apartments.

“i thought we could take a stroll through the gardens,” the rose speaks as though his idea is not preprostous, inviting a maiden out into the darkened greenery at such a late hour.

passing by the prince, laurel tyrell spares him no attention, as though the man is not even there, and simply makes his way towards the stairway, turning back only when the notion that you stand frozen in your spot kicks in.

“come along, my lady!” my lady. those two words feel tainted from hearing them fall from between the prince’s lips, the tyrell’s voice prickling your skin with it. “i promise i shant keep you late.”

your eyes find the prince.

he nods, once and then a second time.

“go,” he urges verbally, when his actions don’t speak loud enough. “fleabottom’s been calling my name all evening, and i intend to answer it.”

with a twist in your gut and a wretch in your heart, you shuffle your way over to laurel tyrell’s open palm, letting him drag you back down into the night.

this is a decision you come to regret, no later than four sleeps.

because the man's words follow you, no matter how quickly you run through halls and creep up stairwells. they turn every corner you take and pause with every rush of breath you stop to heave into your screaming lungs. you pass doorways and sleeping guards, and they pass them with you too.

this nonsense best prove it's worth once i bed her.

there's anger in the clutches of your hands, clenched into fists of pointed knuckles and skin-digging nails, and sadness caught between the lashes of your eye, drops of liquid heartbreak threatening to stain your skin if you so much as blink.

the halfwit doesn't notice when i focus on her tits instead of her eyes.

the poetic words, the strolls through the gardens, the nights of dancing, the stolen smiles and fleeting looks across crowded rooms, all for nothing.

least she be a maiden. i've heard the feel of breaking one of them in is unmatched.

all for laurel tyrell to be another man who sees only the shape of what you hide beneath your clothing.

you want to hate him, curse him, tell all you meet of his crude words, but, instead, the thought of their reactions leaves you despising yourself, for ever thinking a man could think with more than what sat between his legs.

it is not even an option to contact your father, you lament while climbing yet another winding stairwell, for he’d merely remind you of a woman’s duty, which serves only her house until she takes a husband and, then, serves only him.

if the tyrell boy wishes to bed a maiden, your father’s voice plays in your thoughts as though he were stood before you this very instant, best it be you.

his words, the thoughts and your footsteps all come to a halt at the same time. like reentering your body, or awakening from a nap, you find yourself disorientated, gazing upon a chamber door you register not as your own. no, this door is more akin to the level of gradiose you face each day that you visit the young princess’ room, dragged away by her small hands as she works to avoid yet another one of the classes that she views as a bore.

yet, this is not her door.

sure, it carries similar markings and engraves in the wood, and sports that very same rich colour and shine to it. but something, subtle as it may be, is askew. the princess’ door has silver handles, this one has gold. the princess sleeps in the east wing of this part of the keep and you’re certain you’d marched west, away from the voice of your betrothed. a guard stands by the princess’ door, no one sits outside this one.

bile rises in tune with your hand, staining the back of your throat with anxious thoughts as you hesitantly knock.

you pause and wait.

minutes pass before you’re knocking again, this time with a little more anger behind the way your knuckles hit against the cold oak. it’ll be a wonder if you do not awake to swirls of purple and twists of blue painted across your skin come sunrise.

the tenant of these apartments still does not open their doors.

you hit a little harder, replacing knocks with a forceful, full-handed slap against the door. and then another, and another, and another, and-

your hand meets flesh that prickles with stubble and points with it’s cheekbones.

“what in the seven hells merits such behaviour at this hour?!”

the prince, for the life of him, has barely managed to open his eyes fully, rejecting the bright lights that burn in the hall. behind him is a sea of black, whatever treasures or prisoners he hides within his quarters lost into the darkness. he’s frowning, hair a mess, clothes foregone hours ago, and a distinctly red hand print slowly searing itself into the left side of his face.

the sight brings you more relief than you’d ever thought him capable of.

you’ve always been rational. it’s a badge you wear with honour, basking in the glory anytime one of your siblings met the angrier side of your father that never failed to reprimand them for being less like you, for being incapable of thinking before acting like you, for never weighing consequences until after a deed was done.

till the day you die, you will never find the words to describe what leads you astray from this level-headedness in the small hours of this evening.

you crash into the prince less gracefully than you’d prefer, lips barely meeting the bottom of his and pressing themselves half on his chin as you dive in for a kiss.

a kiss that daemon does not reciprocate.

in fact, he doesn’t even attempt to move, body frozen in place. pulling back to find the sheer unfazed, almost bored look that occupies the features of his face, floods your soul with a horrible, thick, heavy feeling, that stains every part of you it touches. 

you’re ashamed.

and mortified.

and disgusted.

and embarrassed.

and reaching for his lips again.

this time your mouths collide in perfect level, no unwanted chin in the way. wanting- needing something to anchor you down, your hands shoot out to grasp at where a tunic would usually be. instead, you’re met with nothing but the solid, heaving, sweating mass that makes up the prince’s naked chest.

daemon remains stoic.

“i,” you breathe a shaky exhale, a sting nagging away at your reopened eyes as the previous tears reappear. with a nod, and a sniffle, you step back from the man. the nervous tremble in your hands forces you to grab at the fabrics of your skirt, grasping at anything to distract your mind. “that- this was a mistake.”

this entails so much. kissing him, knocking on his door, walking to his chambers, moving to king’s landing, courting with the tyrell boy, letting the prince get in your head and, all over what? a single experience where the two of your were capable of coexisting without tearing one another’s hair out?

it is all one big mistake, the kind that one can’t hope to fix if all they do is turn and run from the danger it exudes.

knowing this won’t stop you from trying, however.

you twist so quick you worry you may snap your spine or strain a muscle, body kicking into action in an attempt to get as far away from the prince as you’d once desired to be from the tyrell boy. not even a full step, do you make it, until an unmovable force clamps down on your arm.

daemon imposes on you this time, leaning down and crashing his lips against yours. his mouth is warm, with lips of honey and hands of stone that grab and pull and tug at the parts of you they blindly reach for.

the prince is not the first man you’ve kissed- nor do you imagine a life where he’ll be the last- but there’s something behind the way his tongue burrows itself into your mouth, his presence so tangible and all consuming.

you pull back, if only to catch your breath, but he follows, taking ownership over your senses.

stumbling backwards and crossing the threshold into the prince’s chambers, darkness takes ahold of you both, bathing you in nothing but the light of a distant moon. you barely register how one of you reaches for the door behind you, only the slamming of it alerting you to the fact it’s been closed. a lightheaded feeling overcomes you, forcing you to pull apart when your lungs scream for air.

“i’m starting to understand,” daemon’s voice is full of rasp, dry and cracking and far too grating on the ears for you to genuinely be finding yourself attracted to it. “why my brother swears by the milk of the poppy.”

a horrible feeling floods your soul, bile burning its way up your throat.

“oh, oh my god,” your hands are at the level of your eyes, pulling at strands of your own hair. “i completely forgot... you- you’re on bedrest, i can, i’ll just leave-”

the prince’s injury had been the talk of the town since it had occurred: a near-deadly run in with a frightened stag amidst a hunting tourney. the horned animal had spooked his horse, throwing the man off its saddle as it reared and ran off, leaving him to face the male deer. the truth of what had entailed, few would ever know, all that was said was that the prince returned to camp dragging the slaughtered animal by it’s horns with a blood staining the clothing surrounding his left shoulder. 

“no, you won’t, heathen!” in rare occasions, daemon would be the only one to pull a smile from you all day. how fortunate that this is one of those occasions, the scowl on his brows contradicting the subtle upward quirk of his thin lips. “you can not dangle a piece of meat before a dragon and then refuse to feed it.”

were you in any state to think rationally, you’d dig more into the fact he’d just referred to you as a piece of meat.

but, then, if you were thinking rationally, you’d never have wound up at his door.

the second kiss is less forceful. no rush enlaced with every touch, no desperation tickling at both your senses, no desire to stray too far from one another.

you find yourself trusting the prince more than you’d like to when he starts to guide you backwards, a gentle pressure on your hips building while his mouth travels over your jaw and reaches the top of your neck. you walk, and stumble, and shuffle wherever the man directs you and, then, you fall.

any frightful scream you would have let out is quickly replaced with a squeal and a giggle of delight, back meeting what you’re confident in naming the softest bed you’ve ever laid upon.

at last, the shine of the moon allows you to see the man hell-bent on attacking you with his mouth.

“what is the meaning of this, hmm?” the condescension in his tone usually grates you. now, it excites you, arouses you, leaves you wondering of what pleasures he could speak with it. “why’re you suddenly at my door, behaving like some wanton whore?”

oh, you think, who knew such crass could prickle your skin with desire?

the shadow of the prince casts down on you, bathing you in an exagirated enlarged image of him, as if the fates wish to remind you of how big a shadow he looms over your own existence. it scares you.

his eyes scare you more.

they’re usually wider, observing every move, full of that mischievous nature the prince is known for. but, if what people say is true and the eyes are the mirror to one’s soul, then daemon’s soul must be a dark pit made up of lustful glares and hooded eyelids, resting so low his eyes almost appear shut.

you want to answer, you really do. but between the hand that circles a grip around your throat and the heat shooting straight for your core, burning up in a puddle of arousal, you can’t. all you can do is watch the man before you, silver hair a beautiful mess just begging for some fingers to be ran through it and stare promising to ruin you in the best way possible.

the silence pleases him.

“do you know how hard it is to get you alone? always got someone wanting to talk to you, stealing your attention. do you even know how many stupid feasts i had to attend to finally get some time with you?” daemon pauses, like he’s waiting for you to relay an answer, guess a number. he loosens up the grip on your neck, teasing your skin with a few soothing strokes of his slender fingers, lulling you into a state bordering insanity. “no answer, sweet girl? or are you lost in that pretty little head of yours?”

“i’m,” your voice is but a whisper, raspy with a new found thirst. “trying to figure out what you want me to say.”

if it’s the wrong or right answer, you’re soon to find out, the sharp faced man releasing a dangerously low chuckle as he takes a hold of your chin. like a pretty doll, you move any time and any way his fingers command you to, finding yourself staring right up into his eyes, a swirl of melting jasmine that reminds you of how alluring yet sultry every inch of him is. lips near touching, he refuses to break eye contact as he speaks up once more, sealing both your fates when his breath hits your face.

“then let me show you what i want.”

his mouth comes down on yours like it’s the answer to all your prayers and, yet, all your nightmares.

it excites you how easily he works his lips over your own, captivating every inch of you when he tilts his head to the right and deepens the kiss. the rhythm of your lips is a mismatch of beats, where one moment you are moving in a sensual waltz, grazing tongues and dipping heads to get rid of that inch of a space remaining between your bodies, and the next moment your tongues are tangled in a tango, the kind where his teeth send blood rushing to your lips with every bite he drags over them and his hand drags shivers down your spine as it makes its way down, down, down your body.

yet it terrifies you how willingly you’ve succumb to daemon’s touch, intoxicated by whatever witchcraft he has in his possession and currently holds over you. there’s a deadliness to the way his lips part from your own only to repeat his previous seamless descent down your jaw and the expanse of your neck, a poisonous element to the way his hand suddenly finds itself clutching the meat of your thigh.

the moment his fingertips ruck up the fabric that safeguards the last of your modesty and meet the ends of your sleep-gown, you’re wishing you’d never slipped it on in the first place, every fibre of your being growing angsty under the weight of his suddenly halted hand. it stays still for an immeasurable amount of time, grazing over your near shear dress occasionally while he continues to mouth at your neck.

like visenya and vhagar at the unstormable vale, daemon parts your legs with little to no effort, creating a pathway for his fingers to travel further up your thigh. blunt fingernails drag up your skin, a trail of goosebumps being left behind, a visible marking of where he’s touching you.

his movements halt too soon for your liking, too much distance between his lithe fingers and your body’s pulsating core.

“have you figured out what i want yet?” his voice is a stark difference to the usual smite-filed, almost spat-out-words tone you’ve grown used to hearing from the man. right now, there’s no trace of sardonic undertones in the thick rasp and there’s no time for an exchange of childish insults while he’s glaring down at you through hooded eyes.

something compels you to nod your head, even though you’re a little too lost in the thoughts concerning what you desire, rather than what the stranger incarnate looming over you wants.

“you have?” the words come out in a layer of amazement, and you have to wonder if it’s because of the lie you’ve just told or the way your legs have closed in around his hand, trapping it between them. “i want to know what you want, though.”

you want his thumb to stop stroking over the flesh of your inner thigh.

you want his eyes to stop gazing down at you like you’re the perfect prey.

you want him to stop teetering your impending pleasure on a string.

you want-

“you.” is all you manage to breath out.

it seems to do the trick, however, your point getting very much across to him. a softness flickers over his features, brows no longer furrowed and smirk curling up into a full smile for what feels like an eternity, but is actually no more than a couple of seconds before his devilish aura is back.

lips meet lips again, the desperation and force behind each stroke of his tongue against yours the same as before. the prince, much to your delight, seems to grow just as impatient as you’ve been since the moment he’d stopped you from fleeing at his door.

one hand still resting between your thighs, his other seizes the opportunity to drag your body closer, till a mere inhale is enough to have your chest pressing into him.

the prince’s descent to the floor is graceful, his figure made of solid muscle and unclothed skin lowering till his knees hit the ground and it becomes you who stare down at him, your hands clutching at the silk sheets his bed has been dressed with in an effort to replace the desire to touch him instead.

choosing to not dwell on the heavy feeling of his eyes on you, or the sheer visual strength depicted in the straining muscles of his thighs, you instead focus on the way his lips have trailed away from yours and are beginning to make their way towards the top of your chest.

his hand abandons post between your thighs and rises to the surface, where long fingers begin to pull at the straps of your flimsy night-dress, successfully manoeuvring the cotton material till it pools around your midriff and your breasts are exposed to the damp air of the night.

with no want left to play around, he dives right in to dragging his lips down the upper swell of your left breast. you imagine he can feel the beating of your racing heart beneath the goosebump littered skin. it doesn’t take long for his tongue to enter the scene, skilfully flicking over your hardened nipple a couple times before enveloping his mouth around the bud.

one, two, three sucks and he’s moving on to your right breast. there’s no lead up, this time, simply his mouth finding delight in toying with your body while he busies his hand with your left side, thumb and pointer finger rolling and tugging and spreading the remnants of his saliva over your heated skin.

the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and has you arching your own, is the faintest pressure of his teeth biting down on you. it dances on a thin line between pleasurable and painful, exhilarating enough to make you throw your head back as a moan slips past your lips. it echoes in the empty room, replaying your own sound for both of you to hear again and again before the chain is broken by a laugh.

his laughter.

“why are,” he picks the right time to trail his fingers down your body, dragging your dress with them till it sits uncomfortably tight around the top of your hipbones, fabric digging into the rapidly heating skin. “you laughing?”

“has anyone ever told you how beautiful your tits are?” it’s crude and heartwarming all at once, not unlike the man who says it and the little smile he shoots up in your direction as he rolls his tongue over your nipple once again.

“no, i can’t say they have.” one hand finds it’s way onto his shoulder- the shoulder that does not possess gauze wrapped around it, that is- and grasps it in a vice grip, the fear of melting off the bed and directly onto the concrete floor all too prevalent as you gain enough confidence to let the other hand slide around to the back of his neck and thread your fingertips in the silver locks, hair as soft as you’ve always imagined it to be. “you’re the first.”

“i’ll wear that title with honour,” he seems to delight in the way you’re carding through his hair, eyes closing while he tilts his head back further into your touch. a delighted sigh follows. “has anyone ever asked to drink from your cunt?”

you nearly choke on your own shock.

“i suppose that’s another honourable title for me to wear.” daemon is beginning to give you whiplash, with all this switching between being unusually receptive to your presence and the man that minutes before was making poetic profanities out of the beauty of your bared chest. he peaks his eyes open again, slowly, adjusting once more to make out your figure in the darkness. when he has the nerves to smile at you, all dreamy eyed and relaxed sitting before you, knees pressing into the ground in a mockery of a bow, some crevice deep within your soul sparks up a fire that burns on the belief that perhaps you’ve been wrong about the prince all along, judging only on what people say and not on how he behaves. then, he reopens his mouth and dampens the flame. “now, do i have to tear you out of your skirts or will you stand up and let me slide it off?”

this time, its your laugh that echoes in the air.

“you think i jest!” he seems to whine his way through his exclaim, bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly in a way you’re certain is both influenced by the milk of the poppy that flows through his bloodstream, and is going to drive you insane. “i can not go on another moment like this, you sitting there like something akin to the most mouthwatering summer’s peach, without spending my seed. and, while i’d much prefer to do so inches deep inside you, i’ll settle for a mouth full of cunt.”

“you’re so-” you give up on trying to find a single word to describe him, knowing there’s no word that can quite capture the prince’s essence. “okay, okay, i’ll umm... just stand up and-” the shriek of fabric tearing rips through the space between you. “hey!”

“i’d apologise but, well,” daemon’s dazed smile should not be this gentle, not when it is proceeded with his hands returning to your now bare thighs. “you were trying my patience.”

his hold on you is strong- both the grip he has on your legs and the control he harbours over your mind-, and he plays it to his advantage, laying one palm flat over your torso and forcing you backwards, till your back meets the mattress and your eyes find themselves staring up at the images carved into the roof of the wooden bedpost, details indistinguishable in the darkened room.

from the floor, the prince is grabbing and pulling and maneuvering you down the length of the mattress, finding the backs of your knees and bending them, spreading your legs to a width wide enough for his broad shoulders to sit between. 

“need you closer, my tongue’s not that long.” the prince mutters, half to himself, as your arse meets the edge of the bed, all the way to where his wanton mouth awaits you. as if to give you a preview of what awaits you, the kisses from before reduced to nothing, his tongue pops out to run over the smooth of his bottom lip. your hands return to fisting at the sheets beneath you, digging and searching and reaching for a way to keep yourself grounded through the maddening thoughts of the prince and the current position you find yourself in, and ignoring the anxious ridden vipers inside your mind that spit their venom and hiss their tongues in commands that entail you gathering the remaining fabrics of your tattered clothing and running out these chambers, out the keep, out the damned capital, out the clutches of the man on his knees. though, with the way his fingers squeeze into your thigh, you doubt you’d make it as far as even a single step. “comfortable?”

“as i’ll ever be.”

“all the ladies in the seven kingdoms that would die to be in your position, and you choose to say that?” he tisks, tongue hitting off the roof of his mouth before a blow of air hits against your folds and, though it’s faint from the distance still between his mouth and where he wants it to be, it sends a jolt of excitement up your spine. “i’ll just have to make sure i over-perform, make you more eager for next time.”

neither of you choose to dwell on those words, next time.

him, too occupied with getting his first taste, tongue licking a strip up your core and coming to a stop as the tip of it bumps against your aching bud.

you, too busy having the air knocked out of your lungs, hand unconsciously finding safety in gripping his hair as you lurch upward momentarily, back arching off the bed and mouth falling open in a quiet gasp that echoes around and around.

“hmm, make sure you hold on tight.” you know he’s teasing you, with his words, and with his eyes, and with his mouth that seems to find enjoyment in trailing itself over your buzzing centre and up your pubic bone. “you smell sweet as sin, you know? enough to make any man go feral.”

the chance to reply never comes, not when the prince makes his way back down to your pearl and greets it with the stroke of his flattened tongue. every tiny nerve sparks to life under his touch and you feel yourself grow more sodden, a wave of warm arousal leaking out of your hole. his tongue dives down to welcome it, not allowing more than a single drop- which slips and slides its way down to the crack of your arse, dribbling over your puckered hole- to go to waste.

you don’t even notice the lack of his grip around your left leg until you feel it: the first few seconds of his fingertips probing around your soaked cunt, coating themselves in your liquid pleasure until it’s dripping down the back of his hand.

the first finger to enter your hole is gentle, tentative to the way your body receives him, his pointer and ring finger keeping your folds spread and allowing him the full view of the middle one slowly disappearing from sight, burying itself in the warmth of your womanhood. distracted, his mouth pulls back and his head forces itself into the grip you have in his hair while his eyes soak in the sight above him, flickering up to catch your reaction when another finger enters you, this time with a lot less care as it forces you open around it.

“so pretty,” he slurs over the words, more to himself than to you, delighting as he witnesses you struggling to bite back a pathetic moan when his digits curl within you. he repeats the action a couple times, flicking his wrist back and forth, fingers brushing over your tight walls each time and culminating in a curl that has him pressing against the spongy-like flesh inside. “so, so pretty.”

your hips begin to rut against his hand, meeting every one of his thrusts with perfect timing that has him reaching deeper, further, better places inside of you. all the while the prince is simply watching and admiring the furrow in your brow and the way the swells of your breast bounce in sync with you.

your cunt clenches tighter and his fingers fight to reach deeper before spreading themselves wider in an attempt to scissor you open. he’s giving it his all, a third finger slipping in despite the dull ache setting in his wrist while he coaxes you closer and closer to the tipping point.

the rogue prince takes just as easy as he gives, and it’s that fact alone that drives him to pull his hand back, fingers withdrawing from you and the pleasure you’re pursuing.

“why did you-” you heave through heavy breaths, brain fuzzy from the unvoiced peak you were so close to having, every nerve ready to tingle, every muscle ready to tremble, every toe ready to curl. “stop?”

“because,” the wet smack of his fingers hitting against your pearl is louder than the whimper that drops from your mouth. daemon hears both, however, and grins, quickly landing another smack against your engorged bud. “the goal is to make you cum on my tongue, not my fingers. consider them the appetiser, something to awaken your senses.”

his tongue licks in an upward motion, starting from the tip of your taint and ending at your pearl, and you get deja-vu to just minutes before, when you’d first felt his tongue on your melting skin, the saliva it leaves in a trail behind it serving to cool you down. a shiver runs up your spine as he blows air onto your cunt, the pressure of it doing wonders to stimulate your bundle of nerves.

“would you ever stop?” your whining tone is reminiscent of a spoiled babe, crying and fussing over the need to be fed milk from it’s mother’s teat.

“‘tis you who’s becoming insufferable now, my lady.” the prince, despite what he says, does as you ask and puts an end what feels like unending teasing- really, it’s hardly been a minute but the pulsing of your heat and the loss of a climax leave you no room to think about something as abstract as time.

his lips make a victorious return, wrapping themselves around your centre and sucking against the pulsing nub. every so often, he delivers a couple kitten licks- ups and downs, sides to sides, figure eights- before swiftly returning to kissing your most intimate parts.

in an attempt to make your toes curl, he dips lower and teases the tips of his tongue over your entrance, wet muscle moving over wet skin and tastebuds covering themselves in your essence, till the moans echoing off the walls are indistinguishable between daemon’s and your own.

“you can move.” he grunts into you after a few minutes of repeated alternating between kissing your pearl and tonguing at your hole. it’s muffled with the way he’s holding you down against his face and you feel his lips brush against your lower ones as he speaks. “need you to move. wanna see you use me, sweetling.”

and, really, who are you to deny a prince?

you’re hesitant at first, just like you were all those weeks ago as you watched the flowered wreath slip down his lance. you test the waters and give a single roll of your hips. it feels good, great, especially when paired with his own efforts at dragging his tongue over you.

it takes a few more attempts, and daemon’s patience wearing thin to the point he resorts to grabbing a firm hold of your arse cheeks and dropping your legs over his shoulders, mouth pressing right up against you with his tongue flat and eyes staring up at you in a demand to move, else all the old gods and the new be damned.

move you most certainly do, grinding down on his tongue like you’ve done many a time on the spare pillows that line your own bed, in the hours where the moon sits high within the sky and not a creature stirs nearby to witness your self-pleasing sins. it’s messy, sloppy in the way that his spit mingles with your wetness, a cocktail of fluids sliding down his throat, and painting his lips, and dribbling down his chin as he eats you like a man starved that’s getting a taste of the sweetest fruit.

the rhythm of your hips is thrown off when the man below you switches from having you grinding down onto his flattened tongue to slipping the muscle inside of your hole, thrusting it as far as up as the length of it allows him to. with every time your body comes crashing down on his mouth, the tip of his nose bumps against your clit, forcing you to angle yourself upwards to gain more of the friction.

hands find hair, lips part in unabashed moans, thighs shake with the oncoming of an orgasmic state of mind.

the moment builds too quickly, too unexpectedly, like the ghost of your stolen climax is back with a vengeance and set on ensuring there will be no denying it this time.

“s-shit,” your eyes squeeze shut, too scared to look down at his ecstasy filled eyes in fear of it being what finally tips you over the edge. “oh, there, right there, daemon! yes, i’m going to-.”

the prince pays no mind to your warning. if anything, he takes it as a challenge, an invisible timer beginning in his head and forcing him to see how quickly he can get you to unravel all over his mouth. he’s getting everything he’s imagined since he’d watched you first step foot into the keep, your naked body a mess before him as you fuck yourself on his tongue and your hands, with minds of their own, sliding up to grab and squeeze at your breast.

he watches how the white tips of your nails clash with the darkened colour of your abused nipples, fingers working to pinch, and twist, and pull at them as you lose yourself in the moment.

when you peak, it’s with rolled-back eyes and shaky thighs, his hands gripping at you tighter to steady you as you fidget and kick away from him, his tongue working at coaxing you through your high.

he licks up every drop of your essence he can manage, until you’re cringing in overstimulation and reaching down to push him away. he lets you move him, mouth switching to trail a couple kisses over your inner thigh, something similar to lipstick stains- yet so much dirtier in nature- being left behind on your soft flesh.

“you sound as though you enjoyed yourself.” he’s the first to speak, partly because he correctly thinks you’re incapable of forming anything coherent in the afterglow of your orgasm, mouth agape as you drag and drop the air through your lungs, but mostly because he wants- no, needs to hear you praise him.

“do you ever...” despite your efforts to sit yourself up, against his sheets you remain with limbs melted into puddles jelly and eyes staring wide at the heavens above, a tremble still present in your thighs as you subconsciously feel the patterns his hands dance over them. “shut up?”

“only when my mouth is otherwise occupied.”

silence prevails alongside the ticking of time. some part of you registers the return of your feet to the cold floor and the departure of the man from between your legs. he doesn’t stray far, hands clamping down on your hips, a gentle squeeze or two his own way of searching for your presence, urging your eyes to meet his.

they remain looking upwards.

undeterred, the prince is, bending himself at the waist and resting both hands on either side of your head, holding his own weight up as his face obstructs your view above. life enters you once more, eyes focusing at last on him and his upturned mouth and the remnants of your sexual indiscretions drying into his skin.

“for someone who hates it so much, you sure do know how to stroke my ego.” he must be on a mission, you think, to remind you of why you’ve spent your days avoiding interactions with him instead of tangling yourself within his arms. “i’ve got something much bigger for you to stroke though, once you regain your senses.”

this something bumps against your skin, solid as a rock and spluttering a spit of fluids onto you, warm and sticky. sneaking a quick glance is not enough to fully encapsulate the details that make up this fierce looking appendage, with it’s red-angered tip and its decorative bush of hair and the peak of his stones that sit just past its base, yet it’s all you allow yourself under the scrutiny of his eyes.

“perhaps it’s time you to choose your words more wisely, prince daemon,” your voice is breathy, chest heavy still. you try distract him away from noticing such a feat, hand dancing down the expanse of his bare back till it meets the globe of his arse, nail digging in so deep they’re bound to leave marks, if not draw blood too. ���it would be far too easy to punch you in the cock from this position.”

he swallows back a demand for you to speak more about his cock.

clarity bestows itself upon your mind, as your memory serves you a cruel reminder of the words you’d overheard and the voice you’d been running from, dread burning its way up your throat in a sickening twist of guts. the prince must notice the shift in the air, perhaps the way your face has grown a little paler or your pupils dilate as you venture off into the hellscape of your mind, for he’s quick to return you to his hold, heavy body pressing down on you as the prince’s mouth meets yours.

there’s a tangy, sticky sweetness to his kiss, a taste of your self that he gifts you with bitten lips and languid tongue, delving deep into your mouth as if in search of some hidden treasure.

it’s clear now, to the both of you, that your reasons for being here- in his chambers, upon his bed, beneath his body- are nothing if not driven by something deeper, darker, more dangerous than simple ardent lust. months you’d been within reach. months he’d been vocal of his desires towards you. days you’d been betrothed to another man.

but the prince never asks, and so you never answer, letting yourselves indulge in the arts of pleasure and pain.

he pulls on your lip, you pull on his hair. he drags his nails down your body, you dig yours into his rear. he drives you deeper up the bed, you drive him deeper between your legs. he rolls his hips into you, you roll your eyes back into your skull.

“this is a dream. you’re a dream,” perhaps your rational thinking has devolved to naught but hedonistic intentions, for you’re almost certain the mighty rogue has something familiar to wonder intertwined with his breathless voice. the dilation of his pupils, eyes more black than targaryen-lilac, is a mystery you ponder over, wondering if it’s driven more by lust or sedative. “and tomorrow i’ll awake to an empty bed and the reality where you tolerate a rat more than me.”

it’s unclear if he speaks literal of the long-tailed rodent, or if it’s simply a new name for the ever-growing list of things he calls your betrothed.

“do you say that to all the whores you fuck?” your words carry a bite, one your own destructive nature hopes will drive him away from you.

“we don’t speak,” he does the opposite, sinking further into you. you become all too aware of the heat returning to your core when he ruts the length of his cock up your folds, coating himself in a thin layer of your lubricant. “sounding like you, they can never achieve it. they can look like you, from the back, at least.”

believing his words to be a lie feels easier than accepting them as truth. the rogue prince has been nothing if not a menace to the streets of silk since the dawn of his sexual maturity, and there is not an inch of you that can fathom him using these vices as a means to quench the desire for you, seeking out your form in faceless, nameless and, apparently, voiceless cunts.

there’s no great lead up to the breaching of your walls, simply another two rolls of his length along your soaked core and a ghost of a kiss against your forehead before the prince is lining himself up and impaling you with his cock.

you’d been warned all about the ache that would come with the breaking of your maidenhead, traumatised at the young ages of four, five, six and onwards of how, someday, your husband would tear you open and leave you a bloodied mess. and, yet, here you lay, a dull ache burning within you, the feel of a pop and the heavy slap of his stones meeting your skin.

“it hurts, i know,” he hushes you when, at last, a pained whimper breaks the surface of your silence, hips stilled and keeping him buried deep in your walls that fight and squeeze and tighten around the intruder. his face, from the little you see of it past the wall of tears building within your eyes, is scrunched up in discomfort, fighting back the instincts that tell him to pull back and fuck himself into you over and over. “but you’re good, and you’re strong, and you can take it. you know you can, just relax.”

you do as your told, far easier than either of you had expected, and find rhythm in his own heavy breathing, matching each inhale and exhale till the soothing of hands over your thighs relaxes the muscles and you manage to retract the nails that dig deep into his back.

the prince moves only once your legs tangle themselves around his waist, spreading you wider and holding him closer.

from there, a symphony ensues, except where normally one would find the melody of a guitar or the blowing of a flute or the beating of a drum, this one is made of skin slapping, mouth kissing, moan singing. the ache builds and builds till it collapses into a pit of delirious pleasure, the kind that opens your eyes as to why it’s so easy for men and women to succumb to the sins of flesh.

“look at you,” his words are rough while his touch is soft, hand gliding over your breasts once more, pinching and pulling at your aching nipples as he puts strength into gazing down at you, intoxicating himself with the way your bodies join at the hip, his cock disappearing into your walls and reemerging coated in your arousal, glimmering beneath the moonlight. “taking me so fucking well. letting me carve out a home for myself in your cunt, huh? gonna let me stay inside you forever?”

he’s manic, and crazed, and spewing out things that you know should make you cringe and roll over in disgust. but you’re just as far gone, mind no longer vacant in your body as you chase that special feeling only the repeated hammering of his tip against your womb can bring.

“let me cum inside, sweetling,” is it more plea or demand? it’s hard to tell, and hard to care, arms circling round the back of his neck and back arching to press chest to chest. the prince ceases his senseless rambling only to lay kisses down your sweat-covered face, neck, chest, each carrying the weight of his desperation to feel you real and breathing beneath him. “stake my claim over this tight little cunt, leave you dripping from how full i make you.”

waves of pleasure crash over you in tandem, unintelligible groans and gasps all that play through the air as hands clamp down and teeth bite skin. your walls spasm around his cock while it twitches within you, both of your peaks painting your bodies in liquid arousal. warmth fills your cunt and trickles out of you, catching on the dark mass of hair that sits above his appendage, the stark white of his cum sickeningly reminding you to the first time you’d seen snow as a child and arousing the same response from you: a desire to taste it.

he collapses down onto you before you get the chance, however, and the exchange of body heat and shallow breaths lulls you both through your states of ecstasy, slipping into a quiet comfort.

the prince moves slowly, as if not to disturb either of you, and shushes you with kisses when you whine at the loss of him from your cunt, softening cock slapping down against your leg. a few moments pass before he’s moving again, this time with you in tow, dragging at the sheets beneath and working them over you both just as you begin to register how cold the chill in the room is. never mind, the dragon keeps you warm against him, limbs tangling as you make a pillow out of his chest.

“my betrothed.” you take the lead this time in breaking the comfortable cloud of silence which had settled itself above your tired bods. the prince merely grunts, disliking the sound of those two words as much as you dislike the taste of them. “i overheard him conversing with an adviser of his.”

“whatever he said, i’ll cut his tongue out and feed him it.” his vulgar threat drags an airy laugh out of you as he mumbles it into the top of your head.

“my maidenhood, that’s what lead him to offering me his hand.” you laugh again, though there is no trace of humour as it devolves into something of a broken, heart-wrenching sob. “gods, i must be so stupid for thinking a man like him could fall in love with me.”

the silence is unnerving, weighs down on your chest with every breath that ebbs and flows between you both. you’re waiting on it, anxiously anticipating the moment laughter breaks out his ribs and shakes his whole body in amusement at your sheer ridiculous expectations, mocking you for giving away your maidenhood in an act so childish as simply not giving your betrothed the satisfaction of taking it.

marriage is politics, you can picture him saying, love is merely a made up tale to entertain children.

daemon never quite has been one for following expectations.

“i could fall in love with you.”

so it is you who winds up laughing, a repeat of that fractured chuckle that dissipates into something more painful and stings at the cracks in your heart.

“you’re not in love with me, daemon,” it feels obvious to say, yet you’re graced with a disagreeing look upon his face. “you’re obsessed with me, there’s a difference.”

“i beg to differ.”

“you see me as nothing but a lady who doesn’t fall at her feet for you, and it excites you. it’s okay, i understand, but i won’t let you delude yourself nor i into believing its love.”

he has no reply to give, not one that could change your mind.

and so there you lay, naked bod pressed to naked bod, sweat and spit and other bodily fluids becoming the glue that hold you together, with limbs entangled and eyes locked. you see peace in his smile and he watches as sleep slowly whisks you away into its warmth.

little does the prince know your eyes will not meet his own again for many years to come.

not days later, as he stands amongst the crowd of folk bearing witness to the exchanging of vows between the tyrell boy and you, nor several years after, as you return to the great hall of the red keep to see the announcement of prince aegon's birth, your own child stood at your side and grasping your hand, the silver-moon upon her head no match to the straw blonde of your husband.

[ninasbookshelf]

webtoons i’m reading

time for one of my favorite recurring posts, aka webtoon discussion time!! i love checking in with these stories every week, and reading the comments on each chapter is so much fun (nothing better than the webtoons comment sections fr). i've been keeping up with a few of these webtoons for months, and others i started reading over the holidays.

there will be (mild) spoilers for some of these!

Cursed Princess Club - possibly my favorite webtoon of all time! it's always on this list. i've been living for the weekly updates; there's so much excitement in each new chapter. i cannot recommend it more. for the current fans: things are finally coming to a head with the plaid king. 👀 i'm very curious to see where certain characters end up (blaine? lance? aurelia? the pastel king??).

Muse on Fame - this is another webtoon that i've been following for quite some time. it's pretty dark, and things seem to be spiraling even more for the main character. i do wonder how it'll play out for Myeong and what kind of ending the author is heading towards. if anyone has theories i'd love to hear them.

High Spirits Neoma - ok i've been loving this!! it's refreshing, lighthearted and funny a lot of the time while also including the occasional emotional moment and some mysterious darkness in the background that i’m sure will resurface. the main characters are so cute and i love the humor in it.

Re: Trailer Trash - i'm not usually a fan of the whole "character goes back in time and lives their life differently" trope but for some reason i love this one. it's heartwarming and feels healing. i really hope things work out for Tabitha. (*mild spoilers*) i want her to befriend the artist so badly! also i LIVED for the scene where tabitha's cousins stick up for her at the park. i love that tabitha is building a community now (whether she realizes it or not) and i think that community will be there to support her when she needs it.

The Age of Arrogance - ok this one is brand new to me, as of a few days ago! there are only 12 (i think) free episodes so far, so it's easy to catch up if you want to try it out. i'm actually loving it!! this webtoon is so refreshing and funny compared to similarly-marketed comics on the app. it's silly, i love asha and her directness and i find carlisle hilarious in his attempts to get asha's attention.

those are all the webtoons i've been reading lately! i feel like i have a really good, regular roster now. if you've read any of the webtoons above, please share your thoughts! i'd love to chat about them. (and i'm always taking recs!)

[t-nd-rfoot]

CWJBHN aka All That Jake Wants

Can we just be happy now? - Jake Scott, Josie Dunne

Summary Jake tries to help you see that you guys can be more than childhood best friends, even if it scares you

Pairing Jake Seresin x childhood best friend!reader

Theme fluff, slight angst in between

Warnings relationship/commitment anxieties, military relationship

Word Count 1.5k

Note Really wanted to try writing something from his POV, so this took awhile to figure out!!! I've been in love with this song since it came out. MAJOR coincidence that the artist's name just so happened to be Jake, but I thought this song fit him really well. And since the song this fic is based on is a duet, I'm thinking of releasing a version from reader's POV, so let me know in the comments if you'd want to read it!

Playlist

If you enjoyed this, please reblog! Reblogs are the best way to support creators (writers, artists, gif makers, everyone!) on this platform. Share the content, share the love!

“Quit it.”

“Quit what?”

“That.”

Jake couldn’t help it. He wasn’t even doing anything except looking at you from the passenger seat. But with the way you stole glances back at him—that playful look in your eyes as you tried and failed to hide your smile, he knew you didn’t mind at all.

“What do you mean? I’m just a mere passenger observing his surroundings, and I just so happen to be surrounded by…”

Ahead of him was a nearly clear sky, with few clouds above still from the afternoon rain. He looked to his right and and saw nothing but sea and sky. And as he turned to his left, he saw…

“…you.”

As cheesy as it sounded, he wasn’t entirely wrong; there really wasn’t much around you guys. But he knew what he meant. And by the way he saw you blush again, he knew you knew it, too. He cleared his throat to clear the lingering tension. “Where are you taking me, anyway?”

“Seriously? You don’t recognize this place?” you mused.

Finally taking his eyes off of you, he looked around and realized your destination. The light drizzle stopped just as you pulled over at the edge of a cliff, the exact cliff you had taken him so many times the last time he visited and stayed with you all those years ago after his first deployment.

It was about a month or so after he returned to the States. He blocked out two whole weeks to visit you in your new city—LA, of all places, so different from your mid-sized town in Texas, but he always knew since you were kids that you were meant for bigger things. This cliff was apparently your favorite place in the area, since you rushed him here instead of to your apartment where he could settle down, and the two of you spent hours on hours catching up. His two-week visit turned into one month, and hardly a day and an adventure passed by that you guys didn’t end up here.

And here you both were again nearly a decade later. Things picked up exactly where they left off, except this trip meant something more. He’s gone too long without you, and he was set on changing that. And with how the last couple of months went, things were almost falling into place.

Almost.

“You really didn’t think you’d leave again without one last hurrah, ‘Res?” you teased. His high school nickname never sounded sweeter, he thought.

The two of you had gotten out to stretch your legs. He took off his jacket to wipe down the remaining droplets on the hood of the car, making a place for the two of you to lean on as you admired the ocean view—a view he could honestly care less about when you were right there beside him. But still, he looked around trying to remember every detail he could.

“Man, I sure am gonna miss this,” he sighed.

“You’re going to get views like this everyday, even better ones. I’m kinda jealous.”

He scooted closer to you till your arms touched. “Yeah, but it’s not gonna be the same.”

“How so?” you asked, leaning into him.

He laced his fingers through yours, playing with it for awhile as you waited for an answer. He looked in your eyes before turning back to the ocean. “For one, I won’t have my burger fix while enjoying the view—”

Laughter immediately flew from your lips as you let go of his hand to elbow him in the side. He flashed his pearly whites at his own corny joke, always taking pride in being the only person to get that kind of laughter out of you. “If only there was a McDonald’s in the sky.”

“A fly-thru,” you played along, “Give it a few fifty years or so. You’ll be their very first customer.”

“Hell yeah, bring back taste to plane food.”

That one moment of normalcy ended as your laughs did. He doesn’t know how, but his hands found yours once again. “But seriously, Y/N, I don’t think I could look at that again without thinking about you,” he said, gesturing to the view in front of you.

“Jake…” you sighed and shied away from him. He lifted himself from the car and stood in front of you, one hand caressing your cheek, the other tucking your hair behind your ear.

This whole trip, he’s dropped little compliments and gestures implying something more. It started out light and playful; he didn’t want to overwhelm you right away. At times, you even reciprocated it. But time was running out; all he needed to know was that you felt something too.

“I know I should have said something sooner. But that’s what I’m doing now, and I’m not going to let another ten or twenty years go by without finally letting you know how I feel,” he confessed softly. He tucked his hand under your chin. “I’ll understand if this isn’t something you want, but give me one good reason why this wouldn’t work.”

The silence spoke for itself the longer you took trying to come up with an answer. He closed the distance between you even more, and when he wasn’t met with any resistance, he rested his forehead on yours. But he could still sense the tension in you.

“If we do this, you leave in two days. Then you’ll be gone for what, six, seven months? Maybe even longer? I don’t know if I can handle that,” you whispered.

“We’ve gone without each other for much longer,” he said.

“But that was different—this is different.” Tears welled up in your eyes. “I don’t wanna lose you, Jake.”

His heart ached to see you like this. Worry washed over him as he wiped away the tears that had fallen from your eyes. “You’re not gonna lose me, darlin’, I promise.”

“You don’t know that,” you argued back, “what if long distance doesn’t work? What if we do this and realize that we’re better off not being together? Things aren’t going to go back to normal. And you know my track record with relationships, Jake. I don’t wanna give you a reason to resent me if this goes badly. Or worse, something could happen to you out there and I’d never see you again.”

It was that last thing that drew a sharp breath in him. No matter how good he knew he was at his job, the realities of it was something he couldn’t escape. To subject you to that…

No.

He couldn’t afford to think about that right now.

His mission right now was to be with you, no matter how little time he got, and he’d be damned if he didn’t get to make the most of it.

If there was anything he learned about being a navy pilot, it’s to take your shot when you see it. He’s prepared if he misses, but it was better to take a missed shot than none at all, right? Now that both of you laid out your feelings on the table, there was no point in turning back.

He wrapped his arms around and pulled you against him, closing whatever little distance there was left between you. He placed his a kiss on your forehead, his lips soft enough to comfort you, but the kiss itself firm enough to assure you. You buried your head further into his chest as he stroked your hair.

He could have stayed with you like that forever, but the sun had almost started to set; the clock seemed to tick faster and faster.

He had to set things right.

Pulling away, he looked down at you, your eyes still glassy with uncertainty. “Look. I’m not gonna pretend that anything you said is impossible. But isn’t that all the more reason to try? To see if we can beat the odds? It’s not even an ‘if’ for me, Y/N. I know we can. With everything we’ve gone through together, how could we not?”

He watched as you struggled to form a reply, so he continued.

“If it’s the future that’s scaring you, then let’s not think about that now, if that’s what you want,” he assured you, still holding you gently. “We have 48 hours left together, and I don’t want to waste it. That’s 48 hours to just be…”

He wracked his brain, struggling to find the right words.

“That’s 48 hours to be happy. Can we—can we do that? Just be happy, right here, right now?”

His eyes pleaded for an answer. “Well, ‘Res,” you nodded softly as you wrapped your arms around his neck, “when you put it that way, how can I say no?”

Finally.

Relief didn’t even have time to wash over Jake’s face as he kissed you the moment those words left your mouth. He’s dreamt of this moment for years, but none of those dreams measured up to the real thing. It’s like he knew you both fit like puzzle pieces, your bodies molded together the deeper you kissed.

And that’s how both of you stayed, never letting go of each other as you watched the sun set over the horizon.

It was 48 hours well spent. Tears were inevitably shed as time ran out, but Jake was all smiles even as he departed. Sure, he was more than sad to go, but at least he knew this time—and for the rest of time—that his happiness didn’t have to end.

Disclaimer I do not own Top Gun: Maverick or any of its characters. I do not own CWJBHN by Jake Scott and Josie Dunne. Please do not copy my work or translate without my permission.

Edited tagline and layout

[thesmartassdetective]

» Main Street, Birch Street, Higgins Drive, Colbalt Line. «

„New York may be the city that never sleeps, but it sure does sleep around. Not that I’m complaining. Cheaters are good for business. The big part of the job is looking for the worst in people. Turns out I excel at that. Clients hire me to find dirt. And I find it, which shouldn’t surprise them, but it does.“ 

ALIAS INVESTIGATIONS, 485 W 46th Street, New York, NY 10036

― bisexual private investigator, owned a detective agency, suffering from PTSD and depression, alcoholic and gave all hopes up to being a hero, anyways she is a member of the defenders. Maybe she’s a hero? 

contact me @ tumblr (thesmartassdetective) and wire (smartassdetective)

[lightofraye]

Food For Thought

Fear not, I am still working on the next review of Wales Comic Con. I'm wishing there were close-ups of the convention so I could have a better look of faces, but it may have to be what it is.

But that's not what this post is about.

AustinCon--SPNAustin/SPNAus/Whatever the acronym--is already starting and we've heard and seen some rather inappropriate commentary from Kim and Briana (dear gods, please, develop some class!), Matt Cohen... being peculiar... a group karaoke that largely consisted of the "extras" (as they're often called), and the BBQ with Jensen and Steve (aka Radio Company).

It's been a trip watching the photos and commentary by fans. Or stans. Or is it both?

Of course, I didn't forget Jared and his book event with Genevieve (well, her book event). They were cute together! I keep forgetting just how freaking tall he is until I saw that full length photo and just stared. I'm above average for a woman myself--5'9"--and something tells me he'd give me a crick in my neck just to talk to him.

Out of all of that, the one that disappointed me a bit was hearing the BBQ with Radio Company lasted only an hour. For more than $300, I'd expect it to last at least a couple of hours.

Not for the first time, I wonder about the financial problems that may or may not be plaguing the Ackles. There's a lot of things not adding up and the BBQ event was a "last minute" addition (like just a month ago). Unfortunately, it's all speculation and I have so many theories spinning through my mind. Pieces of a whole, missing key points that may never be answered.

However, as I've been musing, I recalled a conversation with a follower. A quick message, a comment. They mentioned a recent Meet and Greet with Jensen. Of course, with the Non-Disclosure Agreement, they couldn't go into details. But could, at least, give me a general gist:

"In a recent meet and greet, Jensen shared information that convinced me that he is home often. Little things, but also one main piece unrelated to kids or wife that proved he spends significant amount of time at home."

This may be true. The mansion has three floors plus a basement. It's certainly huge enough that he could quite literally have a whole wing to himself, an aspect of separation without the legalese involved. The blueprints of the mansion showed it was entirely possible.

But... it still niggled at me.

In discussing it with a few others, one person chimed in. "That basement is large enough to fit a bedroom, office, gym, and so much more!"

And it hit me.

They had the equipment of a gym back in Austin, when Jensen was trying to bulk up for Soldier Boy back then for Season 3 of The Boys. We saw the videos, the photos. I imagine they moved the equipment with them. So why did we see several photos of Jensen at an outside gym?

It's not for a trainer, though the exclusive gym he went to could've provided one. Or, with his money, he could hire a private one to attend to him at the mansion!

So why outside the mansion?

The answer is altogether too heartbreaking: he can't abide to be at home.

It's safer, and healthier, to be away.

Then I remembered a discussion I had with one of my... I'll call them 'industry experts'. Meet and Greets are where actors 'test' stories, see how they land and then use the 'successful' stories in later conventions. With the NDAs, fans wouldn't be able to say anything without risking a lawsuit, expensive ones at that.

It'd certainly explain the weird shifting of stories that don't always ring true or change too fast. Like when he was in Rome, Jensen said Danneel liked cooking Italian food. Later, in France, it was French food and French music. How many fans would listen to every single one of those conventions and match stories? Or even care that it changed too much, too fast, and with gaping holes that felt awkward?

Pieces of a whole. Generic stories, nothing specific. Not of Danneel asking him to try something new that tasted incredible. Or a burnt food accident that smoked out their kitchen. Or the kids enjoying one of the songs.

Get what I mean?

The pieces don't fit. He says one thing here, another thing there, and it doesn't match.

If he's still persistently trying to build the Family Man Image... if Gersh has someone monitoring keywords (GERSH! GERSH! GERSH! Does it work like Beetlejuice?), I'd advise them to tell Jensen to stop. It's not working. Maybe for a small section of a dying fandom (oh god, please don't kill me), but for the rest? We're not buying it.

And for his mental and emotional--and hell, physical!--health, I'd say he should try to go for the divorced dad image.

Lots of things stirring in my mind. Far too much.

This week was hard. Seeing the ongoing put down from people who don't understand the mindset of someone in the middle of abuse, the insults, the demeaning comments ("weak", "pussy", "not a man", and so forth) really got to me. Broke my heart.

Then there's the controversy surrounding the movie, "It Ends With Us", and the inaccuracy of the ending that had me headdesking repeatedly.

It seemed the theme of the week is Domestic Violence.

For survivors, who got away. For the victims, who are still trapped. For those who think it's normal, because they don't know any better (yes, this is a thing; if a person's baseline is well below what should be considered okay, what makes you think they'd know differently?).

It's emotionally draining. It's exhausting.

But every so often I get a message of support, of people who are grateful for me speaking out.

And then there's my son, who I am desperate to keep safe.

Breaking of cycles have to begin somewhere.

Let it start with me.

[forbidding-souda]

Hii!! May I please have some headcannons with Gundham, Kazuichi, and whoever with a gyrau s/o!!! Please and thank u!!

Gundham Tanaka and Kazuichi Souda with a SHSL Gyaru S/O

here's another gyaru s/o fic i did with mondo, shinguuji, and kaito! it was rather recent too since when was i posting in 2022 what the fuck. i didn't add any characters because i realized i had three that i have already done so there's more mwahahahahaha

i love gyaru's rawr rawr i'm so excited to write this ty anon

-Mod Souda

Gundham Tanaka

❤ It's clear you two are a couple. You both have a very eccentric way of speaking which makes you guys such a good couple wow, nobody is surprised when you tell them you're together. They can probably guess that. With you two having voluminous hair and heavy eyeliner, it's as if your aesthetics were compatible. Though being in two different subcultures, the overlapping stylistic details adds a charm to the times you've walked together hand in hand. Your both overdramatic way of talking makes people group you together.

He departs from the barn, quickly making his way back to the main building, where you wait on your phone. He doesn't have to look for you. Your appearance is eye-catching. Your loose shirt, a more casual one, is heavily wrinkled from how quickly you put it on this morning. You're not even wearing any of your iconic belts. You wanted to join him despite how early it was. Your eyes flick up to his once you hear him approaching. "Are you done?" You ask. You turn your head towards him, makeup still perfectly done (you focused more on that then your outfit, which you did last). Before he can respond, you squint at his name tag. "That's cute." He grumbles and unpins it. His mind was too busy for a proper conversation. He was logging all of the animal's names in his head and the medications and treatment they needed it. While you two walk, he places his hand on the small of your back, a simple form of affection to tell you he was still paying attention. But when you yawn, it breaks his thought process. "You're tired?" You nod. "Sorry, I didn't mean to yawn like that." "Nonsense. Perhaps we can arrange an hour of slumber." You nod. "Can it be more than an hour?" He hums, thinking for a second. "As many as you need, my dear enchantress."

❤ Oh my god if you wear more dark colors or purples (else a goshikku gyaru) you could absolutely be the same color palette as him. Purple and black pleaded skirt with eyeliner in your waterline omggg. Or a zip-up with skeletons on it.

❤ He absolutely loves your style, he adores anything vaguely alternative and subnormal. Ur definitely getting some more romantic nicknames like "my muse" or "my agony".

❤ Ya ya ya it's unhygienic but you can share makeup if you can't find something (aka you probably left your eyeliner in your purse but completely forgot).

❤ You will scream and cry when you tease your hair and then you go to visit animals with him and a giraffe just starts licking it.

❤ But the hamsters love your hair / wigs.

❤ You can probably convince him to wear more eccentric earrings.

❤ And necklaces. Omg matching necklaces. From the one dogtag he wears, you can convince him to wear a chain or a bunch of layers of silver.

❤ I doubt he has social media so he doesn't see your persistent presence, but he will take pictures of you with the animals for some posts.

❤ When you start using a bit of his lingo online no one questions it.

❤ Also in the scenario thing above I fought the urge to say you were playing dress to impress.

.

Kazuichi Souda

❤ He was so nervous around you. He wasn't as bold as he was with Sonia. He'd give you compliments and then promptly walk away after you say thank you. It takes you and your boldness to finally get him to have a lingering conversation ("No, no, you get back here"). He's such a charmer, you loved the conversations, and whenever you gave him compliments back he was fighting the urge to completely melt.

❤ You post a lot of photos of you two together. You just love his pink hair and it tends to fit your layout perfectly. Some of them aren't just cutesy selfies, it's things like him with his jumpsuit tied around his waist as he's too focused on his work to realize you have your phone pointed at him. He's started to do the same to you. Taking pictures as you're posing yourself for your own camera. You love the candid photos he takes of you so much you end up posting them instead. He loves your online presence. He's gonna pick up the slang you use and it's gonna be funny LMFAO.

Upon entering the house, he spots you sitting on the couch with a sugary snack in your hand. You immediately smile. "Sorry," you say, "I couldn't help myself." He was planning on a real meal for tonight, but of course, you've indulged in the popular snacks you love so much. At least your well, that smile on your face says as much. He kicks off his shoes, leaving them scattered by the door. You study him for a moment, wondering if his sour mood is because of you or whatever job he had outside. "Are you good?" You ask mid chew. He eyebrows furrow a bit and he nervously scratches at his jaw. "I lost the necklace you gave me." "What?" "I took it off and I don't know where it went, I'm an idiot." You place your snack aside and stand, approaching him. "Dude," you place your hands on his cheek. "It's not that serious. I have a thousand of them. I'll get you another one." "But you gave me that one." "And I'll give you another 'that one'. You worry too much." He sighs, placing his forehead against yours, the small thunk drawing you back, but you don't pull away. He's constantly fearing offending you or disappointing you. But you always assure him that things are alright. The simple things he stresses over are never things that will push you away, and he needs to understand that.

❤ He loves it when you scratch his back with the long, decorative nails. Or when you massage his scalp when he's trying to sleep. His small, half-awake hums are soooo cute.

❤ He'll want you to do his hair. He trusts your stylistic abilities with his life. You're not going to be able to do the dramatic makeup on him, nice try. But hair yesss. He'll want to add small braids to your style as well.

❤ His work is a little too messy for you and if he gets motor oil on you you're gonna fight the urge to throw a fit. On your yellow shirt? Kaz. You piece of shit.

❤ ^ Frantic cleaning-related google searches.

❤ ^ On the rack beside the front door, you keep your shoes far away from his.

❤ He gets you a lot of those glitter, bajeweled (or whoever it's spelled) reusable cups. He uses them a lot for himself though. He wanted an excuse to have them, and you definitely figured this out LOL.

[zakuryoishi]

I'm sorry this thought was just running in my mind and wanted your opinion.

(Yes they are aged up like headcannon wise just for it.) who would confess/propose first. Tenma or Shindou?

sjskkssks

i find this kind of difficult to settle down actually! i'll first talk about this in canon setting.

i am 100% sure shindou fell first for various reasons (that do include the life changing "maybe i just wanted to see that smile of his" line) while for tenma was more of a gradual process. i usually visualize it like this: shindou realizes, but the process he goes through is more of acceptance of his own feelings while tenma gradually realizes them but is faster to acknowledge and accept. (in canon setting i usually aim for post-galaxy for a simple reason, aka galaxy being the epilogue of the go series and therefore the moment where their development reached its (canon) peak). here i think tenma would be more straightforward than shindou for sure, maybe even being the one to make the first move. no actually, tenma's generally more prone to confess his feelings first for me. it's about how instinctive he can be at times and not only, because he may be oblivious but once the realization hits him it's easier for him to go straight to the point. i do NOT mean it's not complicated for tenma too, just a little less than shindou. this is totally headcanon territory but i think that shindou got struck with realization around the end of holy road, either a little before (hospital scene) or a little after (time in between celebrations). the three months between go1 and chrono stone are totally a time where he can reflect, and he does! but his musings are interrupted by the total insanity that are the events of cs (i love cs i need to rewatch it so bad). in galaxy shindou is constantly stressed but i do think there are instances where the thought is recurring (the aforementioned gradual process of acceptance) which probably doesn't help him at all but set him up to finally recognize those feelings. i just think shindou is more the type to keep his feelings [for another person, in this case tenma] for himself rather than expressing them directly, or at least for the first part.

now we finally get to the actual question, where i forget everything i just said about canon go timeline for good 👍 aged up i think the dynamic would change but not too much? like if we consider the two of them aware of their mutual feelings i'd still see tenma being the first to confess and try to start a relationship. though in this context i think shindou would have a little more of initiative than his younger self and a slightly higher percentage of being the one who makes the first move. also i don't think you meant that but when you mentioned "propose" i directly thought of marriage proposal lol so here are my two cents on it too. shindou would totallyyyy be the one to propose and i kinda see tenma being unsure or hesitant about it, mainly because it'd be a bigger change in the relationship and for symbolic value too. i can picture him being anxious (still ultimately happy about it, but anxious in the meantime) about the proposal as if he wasn't the one that started everything lol

i think that's all?? hope i answered the question + thank you sceptile for the occasional takuten asks, you always give me a reason to ramble about them ily /p

[earlgodwin]

Just wanted to say that all your posts about Juan and insight has made me appreciate his character more. I haven’t watched The Borgias in a while and while I never hated Juan I didn’t think of him as more than like a plot device or foil to Cesare. But now I see him in a new light and I’m planning on a rewatch soon with the nuance to his character and the deeper sibling dynamic. Thank you for your analysis, it definitely makes the show more intriguing than it already is!

thank you ahsjsjswh i felt like it was time for someone to bring something new to the table because, despite him being one of the main characters in the show, he was never discussed in depth in the fandom (and to be fair, most of the characters excluding our main couple have never been discussed properly, but juan is my priority besides my renaissance it girl so...)

i'm honestly a little bit ??? at people never noticing how absolutely weird and invasive towards both lucrezia and cesare and making sexual comments like for quick example him being psychosexually obsessed with lucrezia and her purity, or when he went full-on drunk and getting way too close to cesare and making him uncomfortable, trying to elicit some sort of admission/expression of brotherly love from him...the fixation on his siblings was too serious for him!!

i don't think he was ever a plot device, as he had his own storylines and scenes where we see him alone, and we see what he's been thinking/up to as an individual. it's just giving main boyism tbh, but he's only been overlooked by some of the audience lol. despite him having such insane ego and cockiness, it all goes back to masking his own self-hatred and insecurity over his own birth status, not only being a bastard but even a rumored peasant (with vanozza's first husband)

also you're not entirely wrong!! he has been indeed used as a foil to cesare by their own father (or as a grinding stone so to speak), and if you read the script, he's been introduced as cesare's brother specifically. it's almost like a foreshadowing that cesare would be the one who decides his fate. and after cesare murdered him, he still haunted the narrative till the show's finale, with the important aspect that his murder was indeed what made cesare 'the perfect prince' to quote machiavelli (and a reference to his book the prince and cesare being the muse), so like yeah, people like it or not, juan borgia is indeed a main and key character in cesare's journey, and his death changed the family forever.

but to some point in s2, neil jordan feared the audience would stop sympathizing with cesare since he was deliberately backstabbing juan over the siege of forli and maneuvering his way to seize juan's position in the most envious way possible, and juan was already started to get the audience's attention and sympathy, specifically after the knife scene where he felt helpless and threatened to kill himself in front of rodrigo. therefore, neil flipped his character in the final episode and propped cesare up at juan's expense in a sense that everything cesare does would seem 'justifiable', or to quote david oakes' rightfully bitter statement about cesare's writing, "he has always had the writing on his side while they had to make my character a dweeb." and don't get me wrong, cesare borgia is an absolutely fascinating antagonist, i just wish the show was a little bit brave about making him "unlikeable" (as if the girlies were gonna dislike cesare anyway like asfsrfs)

personally, i've always thought it was super disingenuous and completely to cater to the cesarewives who deeply hated juan's character and were even attacking the actor on twitter

i love the show so much obviously (duuh) but that doesn't make it immune to criticizing it. like catering to fans has always been a bizarre move, considering how ursula's character received the poorest treatment and she became nothing but a plot device for a man's pain (after cesare himself attacked her for cutting her hair aka not looking like his sister anymore), and ended up being mutilated and raped and the fans were happy with that which was as disturbing as its incredibly misogynistic

honestly i admire david's fearlessness and how he stood by his character through and through despite how unfair the writing was to him so he'll always have a fan in me (both actor and character)

[gaemms-chamois]

random unorganized darknights trio + paprika musings bc sometimes i'm hit with like a pang of Brief Worry that i'm completely misinterpreted blabla that usually doesn't last too long bc i then go back to my state of I'm Just Vibing but ig at some point i just gotta let it out publicly once and be done with it lol

this is messily written Please Understand this isn't meant to be a grand thought piece

fuuuck ok well this is like very specifically abt the w, ines & paprika part now

like don't get me wrong on this. i joke abt wines moms and stuff but i dont genuinely mean it in the way of wahh wow littol family for reals kinda deal?

less on wines 'adopting' paprika, moreso paprika imprinting on them like a duckling after she was saved by them. paprika adopted them lmao. i cannot possibly interpret either w or ines as Maternal in such a way.

it's moreso that i think it's nice that this little sarkaz merc became part of the story, a girl who all her life since she was infected at a young age, was presented with becoming a mercenary being basically the only option for her.

and then, as annoying as w can be, being shown that she does have different options.

i just think it's sweet that paprika, judging by her voicelines, clearly looks up to w and ines. which is just amplified by the fact that w and ines are notoriously not the most popular people on rhodes lol. and she calls w annoying but still keeps knitting stuff and wanting to gift food to her. like if she often seeks out w and ines to tell them how well she did on something, when they are on the ship, etc. that'd at least indicate that those two humor her.

ALSO IT'S UNOFFICIAL BUT SHOUTOUT TO THAT LITTLE CHUZENJI ART WITH PAPRIKA AND W, INES & TOTTER WEARING KNITTED HATS SO CUTE

OKAY WOO DARKNIGHTS MERCENARY TRIO AND STUFF

cool yeah obviously i fucking love them. i'm not very good at words though and i tend to keep my more elaborate thoughts to just discussions between friends who know how i tick djsfhdfs

just the other day i was smiling to myself during a walk bc holy shit all three are actually playable now and that's not just wishful thinking anymore. anyway chapter 13 also happened and more stuff with the trio happened and Cool Lots of things Happening and my brain is full

they're so found family to me, like in an utterly unconventional way. i mean c'mon with how they act sometimes like- ykno. but like have y'all seen the new furniture set and descriptions that came with hoederer's release it made me go insanse.

but i think especially in ines' case it just kinda highlights that best. considering ines' arts can figure people out (putting that in rather vague terms), it truly means something when someone with her capabilities and temperament has people she chooses to stick by and actually trust. even if she pretends she doesn't by verbally denying it.

like waugh Okay they have a lot to unpack and shit but with them being reunited (take that, W file that said W needs companionship but her friends aren't around anymore) and having a COMPARATIVELY more ""relaxed"" life than before (that one Hoederer file where he just has rather regular days on rhodes), it's just nice to imagine they can finally have something better and figure stuff out. as complicated as the three of them are.

with that said i think it's a given that i despise a nuclear family treatment of the three (aka mom ines, dad hoederer, daughter w).

for one with me being highly doubtful w was a kid/teen at the start of darknights (young? sure, but not that young), which just seems like such a...widespread belief that i really do not get? arknights always put a LOT of emphasis on when a character's story was about them being a kid, 0 of that with w. like something about her expression and big cloak just gave people some different impression, even though she literally keeps looking the same aside from a change of clothes. only instance of w being called a kid during that time i can think of is that one boiler worker in her files but that seems way more like any typical old guy calling anyone on the younger side a kid. hell, even hoederer was called young in darknights, like in a sarkaz's lifespan i can believe that.

and also...hoederer had somewhat of a mentor-like role for w, but if anyone tries to tell me ines ever acted maternal towards w i will chew through your walls. read through darknights memoir and actually pay attention to ines, both w AND ines were pettyass women and they made that so very clear. cannot fathom how anyone can see ines as having been motherly towards w

seriously just feels like a case of Well there is man and there is woman....and this other character so clearly these are mom, dad and kid.

that's not even me being biased towards w/ines, just how i objectively see it. hell, i even ENJOY ines/hoederer, but my enjoyment of it is limited bc for some reason ppl like to make it weird by shoving w in as some daughter. i promise it's completely possible to like ines/hoederer without trying to fit in w as a kid figure

anyways yeah like cool i like these characters I Guess. Look at them