#quality shite as always

[strigital]

back in NC after the latest patch and this time the game is a tad bit more stable so uuuh here, some pics of Jaxie's newest adventure!! again...

[gooseco]

inside jokes

[blotsjunkyard]

Help me manifest: I will shut down my laptop and go to sleep now. I will not complete this in one sitting. Starting fresh and immediately doing lighting would mean this would be awesome compared to my regular art—that I finish in one sitting.

Amen.

[vibrantlifeboringdeath]

Oh GOODY more band promo pics tonight :)

[cumikering]

Neighbour Ghost x reader 4

2.4k | fluff Simon liked the way you looked at him (part 1) (part 5)

“Why was the strawberry crying?” Simon asked, casually buttering his toast that Saturday morning.

“Why?”

“’cause it was in a jam.” He looked too proud of himself as he took a bite of his toast.

You laughed, looking up from the near empty jar you were trying to clean out with your butter knife.

He loved seeing your bright smile as you sat there across the small table. Even that this was his first breakfast with you, it was better than dinner. In the gentle sun, your eyes were even lovelier, wisps of hair around your face like a halo. The building was far quieter at the hour and you felt closer, like you were all his in this quiet corner of the world.

“Luv, I was wondering if you could teach me how to bake? If you don’t mind.”

“But I’m not a very good baker.”

“Bollocks. Your pie was mint.”

You chuckled. “Okay, that one I can.”

After breakfast, you laid ingredients on the counter next to the recipe - your handwriting distinct, pleasant. Were you ever going to write something for him? A little note would be more than enough, but if he could ask, he’d prefer a letter, maybe, for when he’s away thinking of you.

“Would you like an apron?” You held yours up, with a cat print peeking out of the pocket.

He chuckled, looking over as he washed his hands. Would you like him more in one? “If you reckon I need it.”

You tied it around his waist and let out a small giggle at the sight. “So you want to cut the butter into smaller pieces,” you said, working the butter into the flour with the back of a fork before handing it over to him.

Simon pressed the fork onto the butter, but the sheer force of it made flour fly out of the mixing bowl.

“Shite,” he said under his breath.

“Gently.” You placed your hand over his, pushing it down. “This way.”

He took a breath as he watched how you did so easily, but most of all, revelled in your touch. You’d already held hands, but this was something else. He wished you didn’t let go. And you didn’t, instead wrapping an arm around his waist, watching, as he proceeded with the job you assigned.

He peered at you and you nodded approvingly.

“Now tip that out and fold the dough over itself until it comes together - no dry flour left.”

He dumped the lumpy, powdery mess onto the board and brought it together with his large, awkward hands. But a few folds in, the dough started to transform into a cohesive ball. His brows rose in amusement.

“Look at that, you’re a natural!”

He chuckled to himself as you beamed at him proudly.

Next came the filling. You placed the peeler in his palm - the very same one from last week - his fucking nemesis. He picked up one of the apples, dwarfed by his hand, hoping he had better luck with rounded objects.

He didn’t. He was taking off chunks off the pitiful fruit. He should have come prepared and asked his mum how to peel apples without looking like he was about to stab someone. They certainly didn’t teach you how to use a peeler at the butcher.

“I like to do it this way.” You lightly took the tool from him and demonstrated with another apple. “Hold it here and pull away, like this. Even pressure for the thinnest peel.”

Thanks for not calling me daft.

Following your advice, the assignment didn’t turn out to be that hard. You put on some music as he cored and cut up the apples. At least he was far better with traditional knives.

“Quality control,” you said, popping a piece in your mouth.

Simon chuckled, placing the knife down as he turned to you. “Any good?”

“Mhm. Sweet, but tart enough.” You reached for the mixing bowl again, but he caught your wrist, making you look up at him.

“Would you please let me kiss you?”

You blinked and his heart stalled in those few silent seconds, but you stepped towards him, clutching the front of his black shirt. He sighed as he leaned in, arm around your waist, finally tasting your lips - perfect just like he’d always imagined them to be. The apples were indeed sweet.

You pulled away and bit down your smile, eyeing him from under your lashes before looking away. He too couldn’t stop the grin that crept up his face, nor the thumping of his chest. He picked up the knife and continued the task at hand while you stood next to him measuring out the rest of the ingredients.

On the occasions he looked over to make sure he was following your directions correctly, your gazes met and you turned away, hiding your face behind your cup of jasmine tea. He found it endearing.

The crust he rolled out looked mangled but you reassured no one would be able to decipher the patchwork when it was all done. As he brushed the top of the pie with egg wash, he nodded when you asked if you could take a photo of him.

You gave him a little peck when he finally closed the oven door, just like you had each time he finished a step. He felt like a dog, getting a treat for every good behaviour. The pie felt like a chore now. Could he not dive into all his treats already?

You sat on the couch as the pie baked.

“I’ve always wondered how far your sleeve goes. Does it extend to your chest?”

“Just a sleeve.” He pulled his shirtsleeve up revealing the entirety of his monochrome tattoo.

Your lips pursed. Did he look that good that it flustered you? You were adorable. He liked the way you were looking. Could you never look away again?

“Would you believe me if I told you I had a nipple ring?”

You laughed, tearing your gaze away from his arm. “No way.”

“It was a stupid bet I lost shortly after I enlisted.”

“What was it?”

“It’s too embarrassing. Maybe next time.”

Simon wrapped his arms around you, pulling you to him as he leaned back. With your hand on his chest, you closed the gap and he just wanted to melt into a puddle against your soft lips. Your breath hitched as his fingers ran down your spine.

You lay on top of him, and his wary fingers toyed with the ends of your hair. The both of you remained silent in each other’s embrace, kissing occasionally, until the timer on the oven went off.

“What do you want for dinner?”

Simon took another bite of his pie that he had to admit tasted far better than he expected it to, perhaps even as good as yours if he was generous (if he closed his eyes anyway). No soggy bottom, at least. Merry Berry would be proud.

“I’m going to the soup kitchen, so I’ll get something nearby after.”

How could he forget? It was the first Saturday of the month.

“You need to pick up loaves from the bakery, yeah? Need me to drive you?”

You smiled. “I’d really like that if you don’t mind, actually. Oh, I need to text Ben, in case he forgets.”

“Ben?”

“Your mums’ boss. We pickup leftover bread there at a discount.”

As you buckled up in his SUV, he realised he never got to hand you your gift last night. He reached for the bag in the backseat.

“For you.”

You pulled out the grey fabric and that beautiful smile bloomed across your lips again.

“Oh, Simon, that’s lovely.” Your fingers traced over the little patch on the left side of the chest. A slice of apple pie. You looked up at him. “Thank you so much.”

It was impossible for his heart to not skip at such a sight.

As you settled the payments with Ben, Simon helped you haul the crates of bread into his car. He was glad he was around this time to help you out otherwise you’d have to take a taxi all by yourself like you always did.

“Ben, mate?” As Simon carried the last of the crates, he stopped at the door which the older gentleman was holding open. “You reckon you’ve got anything to do with how the bastard found out my mum works here?”

He shook his head. “I don’t even know him.”

“Did you contact the coppas? Ran a background check on her perhaps?”

Ben’s eyes widened. “Oh, I had no idea-“

Mr. Riley must have played the worried husband and reported her missing back home to have been notified.

He sighed. “No worries, Ben. It’s not your fault.”

“R- really?”

He felt bad about how the old man gripped the door, still looking up at him with wide eyes.

“I’m just glad you were there with her. Oh-“ He fished out a wad of cash from his back pocket and handed it to Ben. “To cover the discount. See you around, mate.”

Still in disbelief, he flinched at the pat on his arm.

At the facility centre, the lieutenant effortlessly carried the load into the kitchen, but he lingered at the building’s entrance.

“You reckon there’s anything else I can help with inside?”

You smiled. “Always.”

Perhaps Simon should have asked what the menu was before offering a hand, but he was glad it was the humble garlic bread and that his slicing and buttering skills were decent. You introduced him as a friend to the other volunteers, who were polite (or scared) enough not to question how close he stood by you. But was it bad if he wanted more, if he wanted them to ask who he really was to you?

At 6, people started pouring into the hall. Some knew you by name, greeting you with a grin that faltered when they laid eyes on the stony lieutenant next to you. It must have been comical how the both of you looked behind the small table handing out garlic bread, his frown a stark contrast to your bright self.

But he was having a grand time simply being close to you, seeing you and your friends making people smile. His pinky trailed down your hand.

You looked up at him, shoulder bumping his arm. “You keep our country safe. That’s why we get to have nights like this.”

He smiled when you held his hand. He supposed he was a tiny, tiny bit responsible for this. Your reassurance gave him a new sense of pride, that he was doing something.

After a late dinner you insisted Simon pick, the both of you headed home. When he made it to your flat in the baggiest shirt he owned, you were on the couch, freshly showered just as he was.

You should be kicking him out for bothering you even at this hour, so why did you take him by the hand and lead him to your bed instead? He didn’t resist when you lay next to him, your hand propping your head up.

His heart raced with you this close, watching your soft eyes travel over his face that he didn’t feel deserved to be mere inches away from your beautiful one.

“Simon Riley,” you said quietly, your thumb tracing his lower lip.

“Hm?”

“You’ve got a pretty name.”

Even my last name?

Your gaze flicked up. “Your eyes are really pretty too.”

His eyes fluttered close as he let out an uneven breath.

“You’re beautiful.” Your fingers trailed down his scruffy jaw.

He was certain now his chest was about to explode. Were you high? What did you see in him?

He’d never been touched so carefully before, gazed at so softly. Not even by his first and last love, his childhood sweetheart, whom the thought was the one before duty got in the way. It had been so long ago that he’d forgotten what it felt like to have a bit of peace, to just be - if things were ever this pleasant.

Each ‘a little more’ of you carried him further and further, and he’d floated a little too far from shore - the shore which had thinned into a distant line in the horizon, foreign from where he was as he threaded.

Wasn’t this only going to end one way? He was playing with fire, going down a slippery slope, to be in involved with you as this mess of a man. He did terrible things for a living. He wasn’t good enough for you, couldn’t you see? Or were you too compassionate to understand? It was all the more why he shouldn’t be here with you, in your bed, under your touch, even when he didn’t ever want to leave this flat of yours.

But you let him stay anyway, even after the shameful admittance of his past. Could it be that it didn’t matter to you, that for the first time he was alright as he was, despite his shortcomings? Perfectly loveable, as you were in his eyes?

Hope glimmered in him. I want to be good enough for you.

“Why are you so… nice?”

You took a moment to reply. “It’s easy to be. Being nice is free.”

It was not. Nothing was, but who was he to break your heart?

“Have you not been hurt from that?”

Your lips quirked into a resigned smile. “Unfortunately so, but sometimes it’s worth it.”

He pulled you in, his fingers tangled in your hair as you let out a soft giggle against his lips. When he eventually let you out of his grasp, a little breathless, you flicked the bedside lamp off.

You yawned. “If you’re heading back, please slide the key under the door.”

He didn’t want to. He scooted behind you, a heavy arm around your waist.

“Okay, I’ll tell you what. The bet was that Arsenal was going to lose to Man U. Well, they didn’t, but my left nipple did.”

Your body shook with laughter. “Of course it was a football bet.”

He smiled into your hair. “Goodnight, luv.”

“Night, Simon,” you mumbled.

Pressed up against you in your soft bed, so cosy with your scent surrounding him, his eyelids soon grew heavy.

His worst demons could visit in his dreams again, but nothing was going to take him out of your bed that night. Maybe, this time, things really could be alright for once, and not only in his favourite flat in Hereford.

@tiredmetalenthusiast @shadofireshinobi @keegansshark @two-gh0sts @eve-lie @astraluminaaa @luvecarson @jaguarthecat @knight4xmas @unwrittenletter @nocturnalreader106 @sparrowgalaxy @lyenera

[bapple117]

Velvette Slang Masterlist: for the fandom

A gift from a humble Brit to anyone (not from the UK) wanting to write Velv convincingly ~

Hello you wayward sinner!

Are you looking to write Velvette into a fan fiction, comic, roleplay or something else? Would you like to make her sound legit but you have no idea about British (or indeed, South London) slang? FEAR NOT! I, Bapple, am here to hold your hand and guide you through the wonderful world of British slang so you can have fun making Velv sound legit. Let's proceed!

Not all of this will be limited to the UK, of course, and it's not an exhaustive list of ALL British slang either - it's just the kind of things Velv WOULD say as someone from South London.

Insults

For men: bastard, prick, wanker, knob, dickhead, wankstain, bellend, git, tosser, sod, cock, pillock, numpty, codger (means old man)

For women: bint, bitch, slag, wench, slut, tart, trollop, scrub

For anyone: arsehole, arse, twat, sket, muppet, minger (means ugly), bugger, gobshite, cretin

The absolute worst thing you can call someone else is cunt - this is very strong and isn't used in casual conversation, unless you are in VERY informal company, in which case it's thrown around like it's nothing at all. (Come here you cheeky cunt - playful)

Terms of Endearment

Babes, hun, luv, darlin', sweetheart, mate, sweetie, mucker, pal, blud, fam, dear, dearie, honey

Eg: "Alright babes? How's it going darlin?'"

British people often use insults affectionately, too, especially with close friends as a way to tease / banter. (You silly sod, you useless prick, you cheeky git, you daft muppet, etc)

Slang Words

Drunk: trollied, smashed, pissed, wasted, legless, hammered, sloshed, battered, bladdered, merry, shitfaced, arseholed, plastered, lashed

Good: banging, well good, mint, the dogs bollocks, ace, blinding, cracking, brill, fab, neat, beast, fresh, hench, jokes (that's jokes innit), lush, peng (good looking), sick, wicked, peak, wavy

Bad: grim, naff, shite, shit, crap, tat (useless old tat), minging, rank, dry, nasty, humming (means gross)

Pleased: chuffed, buzzing, tickled pink, sorted (I'm sorted mate)

Annoyed: gutted, miffed, pissed off, fucked off, fuming, raging, ticked off, well annoyed, bovvered (used more sarcastically eg: I aint bovvered), vexed

Curses

Bollocks, fucking hell, bloody hell, bugger, piss off, any of the insults used above

Other random words

Bare = a lot of (eg bare money)

Chirpsing, grafting = flirting

Garms = clothes

Lips = kiss (are you tryna lips me?)

Peng ting = good looking person / high quality thing

Standard = of course, yeah no duh (Yeah that's standard mate.)

Tight = cheapskate (Don't be so bloody tight!)

Yard = your house (Come over to my yard)

Banter = conversation that's funny, casual, playful (S'just banter innit)

Convo, chinwag, chat = conversation

Defo = short for definite (Oh he's defo up to something)

Other random phrases

Are you taking the mick? = are you mocking me?

Stop faffing around = be serious and stop messing about

That's mad = wow, I can't believe what you just said or that's amazing

Allow it = just leave it, it's no big deal (Whatever mate, allow it)

Other helpful pointers

When British people (who talk like Velv) swear angrily we do so many times in a whole sentence and add a lot of qualifiers, eg:

"Fuck off you fucking prick, you absolute fucking useless arsehole!"

"Don't piss me off babes or I'll fucking end your shitty little life!"

Making a crude observation about something nearly always a curse in-front of it, eg:

"That's fucking rank."

"It was fucking buzzing mate!"

The Magical Use of Innit:

Innit is a wonderful word that can be used everywhere, especially for someone from South London. It basically means "isn't it?" but it has MANY uses. It can be used to mean an agreement, like "I know right?"

"That was well good innit"

"He's a right twat" - response: "INNIT!"

"It's fuckin grim in here" - "Innit mate"

Adding "well" to words

That was well good - that was well bad - that was well grim

(You get the idea)

That's about it for now!

If I think of anything else I will edit this masterlist and if anyone has any questions please feel free to pop them in my inbox. Happy writing!

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 5: Resolve

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

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

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

Hello, all! I know, it’s so soon! But this one is a cobbled-together piece of stuff you’ve already seen, just padded out a bit more. I figured I might as well push it on out now, so here ya go! Featuring Jason Lannister for the very first time, to finally bring all this shit together a bit more cohesively. As always, thank you to my boobear @ewanmitchellcrumbs​ for reading though this and reassuring me it isn’t total shite!

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, age gap, general Daemon grottiness, allusions to non-consensual sexual situations.

According to most, Daemon Targaryen is a man in possession of little capacity for feeling beyond what is required to partake in lechery and barbarism. He knows himself; his disparagers are not entirely wrong. Except for one important, essential truth—he would die for his family. He loves his family.

Love, as he understands it, is what he has always felt when looking upon his brother, upon Rhaenyra. No matter the strife that has torn him from his kin time and time again, he can freely acknowledge that such sentiments will remain everlasting.

A kicked hound is one most loyal, he thinks with no small degree of bitterness. Or perhaps the meanest hound is more loyal. Either way, I am the hound—and my master, the king.

Love is what has wrenched harsh and twisting in his heart whenever he laid eyes on you, a toddling girl-child eternally eager for the cossetting attentions of your uncle, your kepa—and he had always been kepa, never Viserys, no, your father had never received an honour beyond being called ‘papa’ like any common pauper—now a stranger in so many ways.

The garden and the morning repast had served to ignite the wellspring of all his wildest desires, delivering to him seemingly all he had ever wanted in a prospective bride—young and beautiful, obedient and good-tempered, Valyrian of colouring and of status. But you had seemed smaller than your younger self, trapped in a prison of your own making, hidden beneath layers and layers of chaste courtesy and painstaking banality. And then, accompanying you to the Dragonpit had given him a curious glimpse into the power you kept hidden, the ancient strength of your lineage slipping through the cracks in your genteel veneer.

Regal. Arcane. These are the words that had come to mind watching you interact with your mount, none other than the famed Cannibal himself. Something of the majesty of the Conqueror lay within you, waiting for the necessary spark to kindle the flame. Your exchange with Athfiezar—your silent fearlessness, your devotion to your savage beast, your unassuming poise—reminds him that, for all your equally meek and mild-mannered nature, you are still Targaryen. You are still his sweetling.

It is this that elicits a consuming curiosity to know more.

You are an interesting puzzle, a strange contradiction, one whose buttermilk skin and pert teats and spit-shine lips should herald as a welcome to sample the delights hidden by the fabric of your darling little gowns. Yet, you act not as a silly young thing learning of her sway over men—teasing with fluttering lashes and bit lip and lilting tone as Rhaenyra had—but as a docile girl disinclined to press the limits of propriety as all maidens do. You ride the most savage dragon in the known world, and yet there is no such quality in you that echoes your mount’s disposition; instead, a loveliness that is near to cloying, pure and unadulterated and surely too good to be true. You are a fucking princess, and yet you are perfectly content to fade into the periphery, drawing little notice to yourself and seeking none from those around you, not even your own blood. A scholar, quick-witted and erudite, but somehow still so sweetly unknowing of the depravities that rule the minds of men who lay eyes on you.

You fascinate him. And his newfound realisation does not lessen his temptation to fuck you—to ply you with praise and charm and no small hint of avuncular affection (the reminder of your shared blood thrills him to the bone as always) so that, over time, you might be swayed to give your maidenhead to him—but, rather, that it results in a metamorphosis, a muddling, his longing mingling the base needs of the flesh with a rekindling of his fondness for you.

Which is why he cannot stand the presence of Jason Lannister.

“Why are you entertaining this farce?” Daemon asks, fists clenched at his sides. “A pompous fuck like him has no business anywhere near her.”

“Whatever is the problem, brother?” Viserys says distractedly, hunching over his miniature of Old Valyria and studying the replica of the Targaryen manse on the outskirts with intent. “Jason Lannister is Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. By any standard, I would think he is the best contender for her hand.”

That fucking model of his. Daemon resists the urge to smash the king’s stone city into rubble, though doing so might grant him the attentiveness he is sorely lacking from the man. “Are you not hearing me? He’s an arrogant cunt. He’d bore her in a sennight, let alone whatever hellish span of time an entire marriage would last.”

Viserys hums noncommittally. “She will make do”—he waves Daemon off—“as all noblewomen must when their fathers command them to marry. That is her lot in life. Besides, Lord Jason is one of the wealthiest men in the realm, and I am told he is rather pleasing to a lady’s eye. She could do worse than he.”

His brother’s remark is a fair one—of the trio, Jason is the preferable choice. And what a fucking miserable choice it would be.

He rolls his eyes. This is going nowhere. “And Tyrell? Your idiot son? Are they the ‘worse’ you speak of?”

Between that foppish peacock, his spiteful little twit of a nephew and the prancing lion, the latter just barely scrapes by as the best of the bunch.

“Enough, Daemon.” The king sighs, finally deigning to look up from his pile of rock. “These are the suitors she herself has chosen. I care not for the particulars, only that the girl should be wed before her eighteenth name day. Each of them possesses some quality I am sure she finds worthwhile…” At that, he pauses, brow furrowing. He squints up at Daemon. “What is your interest in the matter, anyway? It has naught to do with you.”

Shit. Daemon makes an evasive comment—something about sullying the purity of their noble lineage—and departs as quickly as he can, eager to escape the risk of Viserys’s suspicion falling on him. It would not do for the man to suspect his intentions toward yet another of his daughters.

He does not intend to seek you and the lord out, truly, but it nonetheless does not surprise him to realise that, upon freeing himself from the wrathful spiral of his own musings, his feet have taken him to the very same garden where he had first laid eyes upon you again after so many years, where you are now enduring the attentions of the insufferable Lannister patriarch. On this occasion, Cole is nowhere to be seen, and the entry is instead guarded by one of the Cargyll twins.

Daemon spies you on the path just inside, a careful distance placed between you and Jason. Though he cannot make out your expression from his vantage point, he observes well enough the flourishing bow the lord proffers in your direction, the polite curtsey you extend in return, his smug prancing step as he leaves your company. He sees the manner in which your shoulders droop, your head bowing as you turn to wander past the great tree and out of sight. My poor girl.

And then his view is blocked by a garish wash of red and gold.

“Prince Daemon,” Jason says with a haughty simper. With a curt nod, Daemon wordlessly returns the salutation. His lack of warmth is noticed. The Lannister lord hesitates for a moment before returning to his condescending civilities, forcing a relaxed stance. “I was most glad to hear of your return.”

He doubts that. There is little love lost between him and the lord. Jerking his chin toward the garden, he asks, “Leaving so soon, are we? I had thought the entire afternoon was devoted to this little outing.”

Jason chuckles awkwardly. “Well.” He scratches his beard. “The princess has another engagement to attend to. Something about a tutor.”

Thank the gods for that Lysan fellow. They had never met, but Daemon is certain he’d like the man well enough.

“Doesn’t concern you?” he asks, scarcely bothering to conceal the scepticism from his tone. At the confusion on Lannister’s face, he clarifies. “That she’d rather spend time with her tutor than with you?”

“Why would it, my prince?” is the answer, self-assured as ever. “He is old, and frail. Best for her to spend as much time with him as she can before she leaves for Lannisport.”

That genuinely irritates him, and not simply the notion of you being shipped off to the lurid monstrosity that is Casterly Rock. Even he knows that your meetings with your tutor are less obligations and more gatherings of friendship—your spirit would surely crumble if you were denied your dearest companion after being coerced to marry.

Daemon suppresses a sneer. “Your confidence is… admirable.” If misplaced, he wants to add.

“There is little competition to be found,” Jason says with a toss of the head. His tawny hair rustles in the gentle breeze, giving him the appearance of the sigil his house has claimed. Fucking ridiculous. Then, the man has the audacity to clap a palm against his arm. “Never fear—I shall take utmost care of her. She’ll want for nothing as my lady wife.”

He shrugs off the over-familiarity, stepping out of reach. “For a time, perhaps. And in a decade? Two? A princess of the realm has no business playing nursemaid to her husband in his dotage.”

He is older than I, he thinks. And if she is truly considering him above the others, then…

“I might be the eldest of her suitors, yes,” the man says, a tense smile disguising his offense poorly. “But I have a rather substantial inheritance, unlike the Prince Aegon, and my constitution is more… pleasing than the Lord Tyrell, I’m sure.” His mouth curves into a knowing smirk at that, leaving Daemon with no uncertainty as to what he really means. That little— “I would not dismiss Jason Lannister from the competition just yet. She will choose me. I suggest you accustom yourself to reality, Prince Daemon.”

He grunts dismissively, incensed. There is no reply he can give in this moment that won’t incite the Lannisters to break faith with House Targaryen; and so, he chooses to remove himself from the odious man’s presence entirely, stalking past with nary a word of farewell.

You sit where your younger half-sister had a scarce moon’s turn ago, eyes fixed toward your lap, turning an ornament about with your small fingers. As he nears, the lion salient glimmers in the sun, gold against gold in dazzling vulgarity. Of course, he’d gifted her something with his own fucking sigil on it. What a worthless bequest.

When he calls your name, you hardly react. Your gaze flickers up to him for a mere moment before falling once more, resuming your surveyance of the item in your grasp. There is a pensive expression lingering in your frown, the crease in your brow. It tells him all he needs to know of your true feelings for the Lannister lord, regardless of the man’s own delusions.

“Why—you look positively miserable, sweetling,” he says, settling himself beside you. You glance up at him again, sullen pout puffing out your lower lip. Though your disposition is so downtrodden, it is tempting to press his thumb to that lip, to push inside and feel the wet warmth of your tongue pulse against his flesh in a coquettish tease. “Not enjoying being courted? The gifts, the attention, the romance…”

You take the bait beautifully. Starting at his reference to the pendant in your hold, your nostrils flare exasperatedly. “No. No. I—I just—” You stop, shaking your head. “Never mind.”

“Go on,” he cajoles gently, lowly. “Tell Uncle Daemon.”

It is all the encouragement you need. “There is little romance to be found in this—this charade.” You sigh, eyes fixed on some minute detail past his head. He’s struck by the melancholy in your voice. “These men—Lord Jason, Lord Denys, Aegon—they do not want me. They want an idea of me. A Targaryen bride with pale hair and Valyrian blood. One who will give them children they shall make little effort to raise, a silent doll to clasp onto and show off at feasts and balls… as though possessing me is somehow meaningful. They do not—they do not see me.”

It’s here your voice cuts off strangely. He wishes it hadn’t, for he finds himself enthralled by the mournful monologue that paints a picture of the loneliest girl in King’s Landing. There is something yearning and haunted in that saccharine stare of hers, he thinks. A babe with her arms held out, wailing at the world as it leaves her abandoned in the crib. It’s an eerie echo of a conversation that took place a decade prior, though the lead role lacks the infantile petulance of the previous star.

He finds himself retracing those steps almost without realising.

“Idīnnon dēmalio syt verdilla mērī issa. Dīnakson toliot, gaoso gaomagon kostas.” He is testing, prodding, waiting for what might result from his efforts. Marriage is only a political arrangement. Once you are wed, you can do as you like.

The words make your cheeks flush fetchingly and your brow wrinkle once more, glancing back at him apprehensively. Pretty pink girl with a pretty pink blush; how far down does it spread? You swallow—pause—look away, wrestling with a thought. You peep back up at him.

“Se skorverdon jessivo aōt kesrȳsi jiōrtas?” you ask with surprising cynicism. You exhale loudly, staring at some fixed point in the distance. “Ābrazȳri buttā, riñar daor, mērpāves… Tolī jaelan.”

And how much joy did this bring you? you say. A wife you hated, no children, loneliness… I want more. The quiet longing in your voice is palpable.

He grimaces at the mention of his bronze bitch—he’d rather not know how widespread the knowledge of the circumstances around her… accident… had been in the wake of his departure.

“What is it you want, then?” he asks, switching back to the Common Tongue, the corner of his mouth already contorting in anticipation of the naïve response. True love, a happily ever after… We don’t get to have happy endings, he thinks to himself.

“I want someone who loves me,” you say, pressing on crossly at the huff of laughter that escapes him. “I never said I would love him!”

The pessimistic elucidation takes him aback. Again, it is not exactly what he had been expecting. Full of surprises today. He tips his head consideringly at you, inviting you to continue.

You hesitate for a moment.

“I… They say my father loved my mother. I believe it, but—” You swallow, the corners of your mouth turning down as you mull over your words. “They say he had a choice when baby Baelon was born. That he could cut her open to get the babe out, but that it would mean her certain death.”

Gods above. Where in the seven hells had you learned that piece of information? Viserys had kept the circumstances of Aemma’s death under tight wraps, never even deigning to mention it to his own brother. It was pure happenstance that one of the maids he enjoyed fucking at the time had been present on the unfortunate day.

Your eyes glisten as you speak, limpid pools of lilac glowing like fire in the light. “I do not think I could ever choose my own life over my child’s—but they say he did not even ask her, that he just… held her down while they—How could I ever trust a man to raise the babe I bore him if he would be willing to butcher his own wife in her childbed?”

He watches as you clench your eyes tight, set your jaw and exhale a few shuddery breaths. When they blink open, they are no longer so tear-bright. Daemon suddenly admires you for it, for the way you so ruthlessly suppress weakness. He wonders how often you’ve been made to force back your pain for the good of your family.

“What happened to your mother was a terrible tragedy, sweetling.” He reaches forward to finally grip your small, pale hand in his. It is cold and dwarfed entirely by his own. “But you cannot live in fear forever.”

You make to pull your hand away. He closes his grip tighter upon it, coercing you to look up at him properly.

“When hope is gone, what choice left is there but fear?” It is a whisper, carried on the breeze, and the thinly veiled misery pains him in the chest, right in his heart.

I thought that beating thing was black and dead by now, he thinks to himself.

You shake your head, smile. The picture of the melancholy maiden fades from view as you affect an appearance of energy once more, gentle and muted as it is. “I know my father loved my mother, and so love is no guarantee of loyalty. But it would be helpful, I think.”

“You see love and loyalty as intertwined, then?” he cannot help but ask. He is intrigued by this rare showing of spirit, of vitality, a resurrection of his baby niece from long ago. It is you, finally—his little girl, only now you possess the curves of a gold-gilded whore and the thousand-year gaze of an ancient, arcane being.

“Do you not?” Your head is tilted like an inquisitive bird’s, artlessly assessing. “You cannot have one without the other. Loyalty without love makes for an easy traitor, and love without loyalty makes for an unhappy marriage.”

He laughs again at the latter part of your pronouncement. A sweet, trusting little filly waiting to be broken in.

“There are many ways to love someone, princess.” He ogles you shamelessly, savouring the affectation of outraged bewilderment painting your countenance. “I imagine you’ll find few of them in the marriage bed.”

He waits for you to question him—to ask him what he means, to ask him to explain, to teach you, show you—but instead, you pull back, taking all the warmth from his palm with you.

“I dislike your implication, Uncle,” you say stiffly, returning your hand to your lap and nestling it between your thighs to retain the heat.

Fuck.

He backtracks raising his hands in a jesting show of defeat. “I meant nothing by it, gevivys.”

Beauty. It is an apt title. An underwhelming one, even. Surely there is little else more beautiful than the sight you make here, now, a rich blush spreading along the unblemished expanse of your chest—regrettably enclosed by pale damask just above the protrusion of your tits—the planes of your throat, not quite travelling up to decorate your cheeks.

You sigh. “You never do.”

Daemon lets the conversation lull, deciding to instead look upon the little revelation before him. You are an interesting puzzle, one whose decorum in the face of his gentle compulsion—that same persuasion he had so often utilised to get fetching girls to strip bare for him and show off their equally-as-fetching cunts—had instead left him lacking. The body of a slut and the mind of a scholar, all wrapped up in wide eyes and honey-sweet words and wild hair the shade of Old Valyria. Of home.

A wild thought seizes him. If he leans forward, he could do it. He could grip you by the back of the neck and pull you to him, press his lips to yours and coax you past your panic and fear and into a hot, sweeping rhythm, a push and pull of tongue and teeth that would set you both alight. And from there, how simple would it be to murmur pretty praise as he lowers you down, raises your skirts up, cleaves you open until your blood wets his cock with the proof of his claim, incontestable, not even by the king himself? The deed would be messy, perhaps distressing and no doubt painful, but it would solve several issues at once. He would be free to do as he likes with his lascivious desires after you are made to wed him, and you would be free from your pitiful suitors and given a husband worthy of you. In time, the hurt and shock and fright would fade, he knows it.

He could. He could. He—

The spell is broken. Your attention is diverted by the yells of a dark-haired boy as he bowls his way to you, throwing himself across your lap with a cry of your name. Daemon tries not to glare at young Lucerys as he tries to roughhouse with you. Having somewhat learned the schedules of his family, it baffles him somewhat that the child is not at his daily lessons. Should Laenor not have him now?

The thought must conjure the man himself, the Velaryon scion appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Laenor’s expression is forbidding as he strides over to you and his son, silver locs swinging with the velocity of each step. With his glare affixed to his face, he reaches a hand down to you in silent command, staring daggers at Daemon all the while.

What the hells is his problem?

You take hold of your goodbrother, bewildered, and allow him to tug you gently from the bench beside Daemon. Lucerys slides from beside you with a rustle, easily revolving around to dart toward the grass. You are already grabbing at the boy’s wrist to stop him running off.

Daemon watches Laenor attempt to rearrange his countenance into something less violent. “Would you take Luke off to the training yards, sister?”

A look of vague incomprehension crosses your face at the question. At least she senses the oddity, too, he acknowledges.

Laenor’s head turns down to where he sits, and it is then that it dawns on him that his nephew-by-marriage has very possibly been watching him stare at his baby niece’s tits for longer than he can claim plausible deniability of.

Ah, shit. The darting, mistrustful gaze suddenly makes sense.

“Of course, Laenor,” you say sweetly, biddably.

Daemon cannot help but wonder what else you might comply with if gently persuaded. He glances up at you from where he sits, smirking as you turn to him.

“It seems we must part for now, sweetling,” he tells you. He ignores Laenor’s grimace from behind you.

“It does.” You shift lightly. It is clear to see that there is something about your shared conversation that has unnerved you. The notion sends a trail of perverse excitement through him. He wonders what other reactions he might prompt out of you with gentle teasing. “I—thank you, Uncle. For listening.”

The words are honest, free of artifice. It is surprisingly warming to hear. When you make to depart, he calls you back.

“What—no goodbye kiss for your beloved uncle this time?” he asks, hoping he’ll bait you into action. He determinedly disregards Laenor’s huff, eyes trained on you as you swallow with trepidation before quickly making the short few steps back to him.

Your knee settles on the seat beside him, clearly meant to be no more than a brief resting place so that you may carry out his implicit request and leave—if not for the way in which your skirts gather around your leg in a manner assured to result in your toppling over should you attempt to rise without fixing them. Daemon turns his head to yours as you free yourself from the tangle. Up close, closer than he would ever dare get usually, he can see each lash that frames your eyes, the hairs that sprout from your brows, the slick cherry bloom of your mouth—a whisper-sweet gather of plump, plush fruit he wants, needs, to take a bite from.

Would you let me, little girl? he wonders.

You gasp, a short little breath of surprise, and lurch away lightly at the closeness. A brave little thing, you return to him, pressing those precious petal-soft lips to the skin of his cheek. Your covered breasts press involuntarily against his arm.

Fucking hells.

“Sȳz bantis, kepus.” Good evening, Uncle, you say in that light little accent of yours, an unintended provocation of his basest yearnings.

With that, you bundle the boy up in your capable little hands and make for your destination, the Cargyll knight falling into formation behind you.

“Care to explain—well, all of that?” Laenor asks.

Oh—yes. Daemon pushes himself from his seat, deliberately stalling while he thinks of a response that isn’t what the fuck how the fuck when the fuck and why.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he says idly, slyly, glancing over at him.

“No!” His goodnephew leans forward into his space. He is taken aback by the vehemence in his tone, uncharacteristic of the bumbling, affable man. “You don’t get to do this to her. Not this one. Not this time.”

“Whatever do you think I plan to do to her?” Daemon laughs, wondering at the answer himself.

Whatever would she let me do to her?

Laenor sighs, steps back.

“Look.” He nudges him to walk alongside as they make for the garden’s entry. “She’s not one of your whores, Daemon. She’s just a girl. She’s not the type to play your twisted little games, so leave her be—please.”

He is warmed by the defence of your goodbrother, an admission of familiarity and care that is sure to have flourished since the man’s entrance into the family some years ago.

“What makes you think I have any intention of—how did you put it—playing games with her?” If he were a little less honest with himself, he would be affronted by the manner in which Laenor has jumped straight to an accusation. But Lord Flea Bottom’s reputation is inescapable, even after so many years. “Perhaps my objective is pure and wholesome.”

“Right.” Laenor snorts, shaking his head as he folds his hands behind his back. “You’re far more likely to fall in with her horde of suitors than to believably claim familial interest.”

True. And yet… why not? He’s conceived all manner of plots to satiate his wants, from drunken fumbles in the dark to his half-baked impulse from but a moment ago. Unlike his previous conquests, though, he doubts the need will dissipate after a single fuck. You are too important to him—his precious girl turned darkest desire, the only woman he could ever deign to carry on his line with.

Viserys has been pressuring him to seek out a bride. He mightn’t be happy with the prospect of his brother asking for his daughter’s hand, exactly, but there is surely no debate that he is the best contender. Not Jason. Not Denys. Not fucking Aegon. Daemon. And, well, if the asking should go poorly—how simple would it be to whisk you away to Dragonstone, to speak the vows and seal the deed before it can be undone? There is no risk this time, no Iron Throne to lose, no treaty or agreement that cannot be broken…

He can see it now. Your sweet little face peering up at him, marked with his blood, lip dripping red with the pledge of entangling your souls together in savage Valyrian custom. Your pretty little eyes wide with maidenly shock as he breaches your untried cunt, tight and pulsing and hotwetwarm, binding you to him irrevocably. The slow waddling of your gait as you round with child, his child, his sweetest babe bringing forth life of her own, belly ripe with seed and leaking his spend—

“Laenor,” he says slowly, eyes glinting as his lips upturn in a wide grin, “I do believe you have the best ideas.”

Read the story on AO3 here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42100623/chapters/120880855

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[my-rose-tinted-glasses]

Rose Recaps 2023 - Japan

So, because I have a hard time making big lists and choosing favourites, this my version of a superlative post, by country.

The one that had me at the first frame

If It’s With You | Kimi to Nara Koi wo Shite Mite mo

As soon as Amane appeared on screen I was gone. This damaged but confident boy had my heart from the beginning. But it was Ryuji that ended up with a bigger piece by the end. The way he saw Amane’s mask from the beginning and just went – “you don’t need to do that with me”. And the way he considered Amane’s feelings even when he wasn’t sure what to do or how to respond, or how he was feeling about all of it, was just beautiful to witness and at certain points kinda reminded of Ida.

Favourite Moment: Amane confessing and running away. Because visually it's so striking. The way he's running from the light that is Ryuji.

The one that was perfect and I never saw coming.

I Cannot Reach You | Kimi ni wa Todokanai

I think that by now at least some people know how I feel about Japanese BL. I love it so much. And for me it’s always about the characters. Whether they are the embodiment of chaos, like Aoki or they are just incredible complex and empathic humans like Ida. - Yes, I’m using Kieta Hatsukoi every chance I get- I just love the way all these characters are written and portrait.

I loved these 2 boys in equal measure all throughout the show. I might have a soft spot for Yamato, but that’s only because pining boys are my weakness.

Yamato’s back and forth in his own head about what to do would be annoying to me in any other show, but it was so well done, and we were privy to his thought process throughout that it just made me feel for him deeply. And Kakeru learning about Yamato’s feelings right away in the first episode was a great choice, because he gave the show time to make the reciprocity more believable.

Favourite Moment - The exchange of gifts at the door. I love the nervousness that the two of them are feeling in this moment.

The one where I gave in.

My Beautiful Man S2 & Eternal

Confession time. This was not love at first season for me. I don’t argue quality overall and much less the acting of the show, but it just didn’t click for me.

There were some truly great moments in the first season but there was a disconnect between my heart and my brain. This happens to me sometimes. Like I watch something that is objectively good but it doesn’t reach me.

That all changed with the second season and the film. I finally connect with Hira. Don't ask me why, I don't fully understand myself, but it happened right at the beginning of the season. I think perhaps it was because I started seeing more from Kiyoi pov, because before I was absolutely clueless about what he saw in Hira in the first place. Sorry if that sounds harsh.

I don't blame the show for this, as I said, I think all the elements are there, it just didn't connect for me.

Also, the film was gorgeous to watch. Several moments (specially the sequence where the gif is from) were so well shot and edited that I'm happy I went in already with a positive mindset.

Favourite Moment: The one from the gif. I'm a sucker for a drastic visual change when the moment calls for it.

The one that had me question if watching it was good for my mental health.

Tokyo in April is | Shigatsu no Tokyo wa

Ok. I love this show. I love Ren. But this was a hard watch for me. Every week I had a struggle between two sides of me.

- Don’t watch it. It will be sad and you will be sad because of it. - But the last one was sad so I need to watch it to see if there’s happy. - Why not just wait? - Because I started already, so now I can’t wait. - But in this case binging is best. Cause for sure the ending is happy so you won’t be sad for long. - Yeah, but I need to see more now. And there’s a new episode waiting for me. - Fine. Just press play. After the episode. - I really shouldn’t watch this one live. (all this repeats the following week)

It was beautifully acted, there were some outstanding moments, the past was as tastefully done as it could be given the subject matter, and in the end my heart of full, but slightly damaged with the process.

Favourite Moment: Ren finding out Kazuma had been looking for him.

The one with all the magic.

What Did You Eat Yesterday? | Kinou Nani Tabeta? S2

I already wrote how this show made me feel in another post. So I’ll just say this.

EVERYONE NEEDS TO WATCH THIS SHOW. NOW. If you haven’t, stop reading this and go. GO. NOW. Start.

There is magic here and you don’t even know.

Favourite Moment: ALL OF THEM. But really this one.

Shiro. Just Shiro.

Well, I'll try to write the next one in these next couple of days. Wish me luck.

Thanks for reading💜

[johannestevans]

apologies if you've addressed it already, but where *do* you buy your shirts from? the local charity/thrift stores seem to have a lot of fast fashion these days, but i might not be looking in the right places.

So, my ruffled front pirate blouse with the ruffled sleeves is from Violent Delights, and so are the black brocade trousers I wore out tonight and a few other things - Violent Delights is absolutely on the pricier side, but for me it's well worth it for the construction and design of their clothes, many of which emphasise the waist, have good layering and warmth to them (which many of this sort of "costume" clothes don't consider), and also have a huge range of sizes, going from XS and sometimes XXS right up to XXXL.

When not wearing that blouse, the most common pirate-adjacent shirts I wear are actually plain old Ghillie shirts, which are intended for formal highland dress - you want it to be of good, breathable 100% cotton, and then you can either lace it with string or ribbon or leather strings.

And other than that, I actually have quite a few Western shirts (collared shirts with pop-buttons and cuffs, with and without detailing on the shoulders and waists) that work really well in combination with my gothier and more vintage wardrobe.

In general, I recommend that if you want good quality piratical gear and similar and you're not in a good area for finding that sort of stuff by thrifting, your next best option is genuinely specialty costume shops - not the ones that sell you a packet with a basic sexy French maid's outfit, but the ones that cater to LARPers, specialty performers, sex workers, etc; and similarly, non-high street stores that cater to alternative lifestyles and fashions, especially ones that are likelier to favour a high level of architectural and constructive appreciation for their clothing and/or are subcultures more likely to involve themselves in the construction of their clothes, i.e. Steampunk, certain Goth strands, Lolita.

And as well as the above, this is much more of a niche, but we used to have a fella when I worked at a rare book shop who dressed exclusively in cast-off costume pieces from theatres in London - whenever the opera or ballet or I think some of the Shakespearean companies sold off or auctioned off excess from their wardrobes, he'd buy that stuff and have it tailored to fit him. So like, he would just be wandering on a casual Thursday in a velvet Phantom cape, and that fucked.

So if you do live near to a city and you're likely to see this sort of costume auction or sell-off of excess, especially toward the end of a show's run and/or the end of a season at the ballet or opera, that's certainly an idea as well.

It's so hard to avoid a lot of cheap fast fashion things, and especially like, what my dad always ends up sending me is extremely poorly made of poor materials pirate costume shirts that are literally for someone's like, last minute Jack Sparrow costume, and they're literally bought and sold with the assumption that they'll be bought and worn for one night only, at the very most once every one or two years. It sucks, especially when it even invades charity and secondhand shopping as well, or when vintage stores end up stocking loads of 90s and 00s stuff that's not actually much better constructed then shite today.

So yeah, when in doubt, look for the specialty people - bop your head into a local tailor or seamstress' shop and be like, hey, do you know anyone who does x or y?

Even looking in your area for certain subcultures, especially different LARPers, ren faire or medieval performers, metal band enthusiasts, leather dykes and daddies, steampunk and formal goth enthusiasts, costumers and especially historical costumers, lolita enthusiasts, et cetera - these are all communities that even if they don't have specifically what you're looking for when it's a specialty or specific garment, will almost always know the right person to ask or refer you to, or at least have a vague direction to point you to.

[justmeinatree]

08 - Made Of Something New : Ireland

Summary : you meet niall in your hotel bar. and there’s an intense connection.

previous part /// jump to pt. 1

Word Count : 3.7k

Series Masterlist

A/N : time for a deep dive into niall’s thoughts and wtf has been bothering our favourite boy

GIF : @horansqueen

March 13 - Dublin, Ireland

it’s been 11 days since niall’s video call to you. he was currently sitting in a pub, somewhere not too far from mully’s new place in dublin. 

he needed to get away. he couldn’t stand it anymore. mexico was out of the question for now, as niall still technically needed to be in london. he really only took off for a couple days, needing to clear his head. 

mully always welcomed him, whenever he needed to go somewhere, needed someone to go to. but niall had been there for almost an entire day now, and he’s still barely spoken. 

and mully’s not stupid, knows niall better than most, knows there’s something really big that’s bothering him. knows that’s why niall hightailed it to dublin, in the first place. to be able to talk to someone. so why the fuck hasn’t he done it yet ?

at this point, mully only suggested this shite pub in hopes that putting enough beers in niall will make him talk. at least a bit. a hint. anything. fuck, the solemn silence was driving mully up the fucking wall. okay, maybe the beers were a bit to his benefit too.

“so how’s the ol’lady at home doing ?” mully hums out anything he could think of, anything to at least get a full sentence out of niall. what he didn’t expect was for niall to somehow deflate more.

niall sighs, shaking his head, his elbows rested on the bar top, thumbs digging into his eye sockets, “i was such a fuckin prick.”

finally, fuck, mully thinks to himself, taking a deep breath, trying to keep the air light. it’s always been his best quality in tough times, and part of the reason niall always ends up here. “what did you do this time ?”

“compared her to m’perfect girl,” niall murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut.

“a perfect girl ?” mully asks, not totally understanding. “thought things were perfect between you two. she’s your perfect girl no ?”

niall winces at that, visibly winces, definitely not going unnoticed to his friend. “not a perfect girl,” niall corrects him, “my perfect girl.”

“as in, there’s another one ?” mully asks incredulous, because what the fuck ? since when ? how even ? when even ? there’s so many questions, and yet, none of them seem right.

“niall ?” they both hear, turning their attention to niall’s side, opposite mully. the colour draining from niall’s face, eyes going wide, as he looks over you.

“petal ?” he whispers, completely stunned, and partly not believing it. you couldn’t be standing right there. his body has turned, facing your direction, hands falling limply on his lap. how many beers did he have ? you could not be here.

“i didn’t know you were in dublin,” you hum, looking over his face, taking him in. christ, how did he look worse than he did over the phone two weeks ago ?

“no one knew i was in dublin,” niall answers, the sunken look in his face not lifted at all, eyes still roaming you in question. not sure what to make of this moment. “what are you doing here ?” he asks, a little harsher than intended, but truthfully, genuinely confused. you were just in south korea, no ? as happy as he usually is to see you, he’s trying to figure things out. the fog you seem to create on his brain clouds his judgment too much to ever come close to navigating this situation in your presence.

you pay no attention to the snip in his tone, opting to believe that he’d never treat you this way if he didn’t look as fuckin bad as he did right now. “you wouldn’t believe how many times we were switched flights,” you groan, shaking your head. “somehow ended up in dublin. we decided to stay the night, start a fresh trek home tomorrow. i’m here with my coworkers,” you explain, nodding towards a table in the distance, a few people sitting around it. “what are the odds, hmm ?” you ask, making friendly conversation. “that we’d both be here.”

“m’starting to think the universe’s working real hard to have us in the same room,” niall bites his lip, making eye contact with you. he feels his heart explode, it’s too big for his chest. his fingers are trembling, skin prickling as he watches you watch him.

“are you okay ?” you ask softly, eyes raking over him. his eyes are red rimmed, tired looking, more like exhausted looking really. his skin tone was pale, he looked cold. closed off, distant. his breathing seemed laboured. as if it hurt his chest. 

“think- think it’s like you said, petal,” he murmurs, looking down at your hands, fingers reaching out to intertwine with yours, thumbs rubbing against your knuckles. “like a real addiction,” he added quietly, his hands squeezing yours tightly, eyes closed shut just as hard. then in an instant, his hands have left yours, his eyes flicking up to your face.

you can feel your heart rate pick up. your throat was closing in on itself, constricting even the tiniest bit of airflow. you thought you were going to suffocate. something about the look on his face, the way his hands just left yours. and then you hear it, “think i need to step away from this.”

you bite your lip, finding niall’s eyes full of unshed tears, yours mirroring his. the lump in your throat was so big, you weren’t sure how you managed to speak. you assume your body is just on autopilot at this point, your brain not really registering anything.

your heart was absolutely shattered. but what were you to do ? you knew this day would come. hoped it wouldn’t. slipped in the occasional prayer even. but rationally, you knew it would come. somehow, you never imagined it hurting quite as much as it did right now though.

but still, you found yourself nodding, murmuring out a small, “okay,” as you take a deep breath to calm yourself, looking over him one last time. your hand lands on niall’s shoulder, whispering quietly, “i’m gonna miss you.”

with one more quick glance at the table filled with your coworkers, before your eyes landed on the door, beelining for it, exiting the pub and jumping into a taxi, absolutely needing to be alone to process and mend your shattered heart.

niall turns back on his stool, facing the bar again, head hanging low against his hands, elbows landed heavily on the bar, squeezing his eyes shut, as he feels himself completely break. seeing the look on your face, niall quite literally felt the moment he smashed your heart. he knew this came unexpectedly to you, fuck, it was unexpected to him. and as much as he wanted to run after you and explain, he didn’t really have an explanation at the moment. he needed to process as well.

“gonna tell me what the fuck that was about ?” he vaguely hears mully asking, the ringing in his ears much too loud to properly make out what exactly he said.

niall lets a few tears slip, droplets falling onto the smooth wooden surface below, his friend catching a glimpse of the stray tear or two as they plummet their way down. 

“niall ?” he asks softer, his hand landing gently on niall’s shoulder blade, giving a reassuring squeeze. “c’mon mate, s’time you talked yeah ?”

niall clears his throat, blinking a few times before looking over at his friend, eyes filled with the remaining unshed tears, “might have just made the biggest mistake of my life.”

“m’gonna need more than these cryptic lines, mate,” mully groans, watching niall sniffle quietly. “c’mon, pay for these would ya ?” he hums, nodding to the beers, “lets get back to mine. gonna fuckin force it out of you if i have to.”

the walk back to mully’s is quiet, niall with his head bowed low, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, doing everything in his power to keep his composure until they get to the house.

and as soon as they step through the threshold, the composure snaps. niall shrugs off his coat, eyes blinking up to his friend’s, red rimmed and full of tears.

“christ mate, really fucked yourself up didn’t you ?” mully sighs, leading the way over to the living room, flopping down on one of the couches, niall following suit, curling in on himself at the other end.

“remember last year when you were travelling with me ?” niall takes a deep breath, finally, finally, letting it out. 10 months of holding everything in has finally, completely caught up with him. “we spent a night in vancouver, and i kind of disappeared that night.”

“yeah, yeah, okay. i vaguely remember that,” mully nods, eyebrows crunching. “fuck, this is starting all the way back then ?”

“yeah,” niall murmurs quietly. “this girl had paid for one of our rounds, that’s who we just saw at the pub. anyway, that night i went to thank her,” niall recounts.

“m’kay,” mully hums, eyebrows furrowing a bit more, trying to follow along. “gonna pretend i remember that for the sake of the story.”

“right, so i thought it would just be a quick thank you, maybe a photo or autograph or something. but fuck, mully, she had me questioning my whole relationship from the moment i fuckin looked at her,” niall sighs, shaking his head.

“what did she do ? suck your cock under the table ?” mully laughs, “seriously mate, i dont understand.”

“maybe if you shut your fuckin mouth and let me tell the story,” niall groans, no malicious intent. “i dont know what it was. i can’t fuckin explain it. v’never been so smitten before. we just talked. do you know how long it’s been since i met someone organically like that ? she knew who i was, but she didn’t fuckin care. just wanted to chat, have a laugh. and when she saw i was uncomfortable, she helped me. just like that, no questions asked.”

“so did the fact that someone was waiting for you back home just totally escape your mind ?” mully asks, not completely judging, just genuinely curious. “and why were you uncomfortable ? wouldn’t you have just come back to us ?”

niall shakes his head, “that’s the thing. it felt so fuckin surreal. this pull i had towards her,” he bites his lip, recounting the moment. “but no, i did tell her, told her i had a girlfriend. she didn’t care, she wasn’t after that. it all got real overwhelming. i was gonna go back to you lot, but i also really didn’t want to leave her. swear, it’s a fuckin magnetic pull or something. anyways, she found a spot for us to go. just get away. and i just went along. couldn’t explain it even if i tried. i just trust her. feel so fucking safe with her, mate.”

“do you not feel safe at home ?” mully asks, genuine concern etched on his features. he always assumed they’d be together forever. never did he think niall was unhappy.

“i thought i did,” niall sighs. “honestly, it’s so hard to explain, fuck. it’s like the minute i met her, i felt found,” he tries to explain. “like if everything i thought was perfect, wasn’t. she was more. her skin is softer. she smells better. she feels safer. she makes me more comfortable. she understands me better.”

“what happened that night ?” mully asks. “when you two went off somewhere private.”

niall looks up at his friend, shame plastered on his face. he hasn’t had to say this, admit this, not ever. not yet anyway. “swear we just went to talk,” he mumbles softly. “but we were in canada, and she had a joint, and i got even more comfortable with her, fuck. i couldn’t help myself,” he whispers.

“what happened niall ?” mully asks again, more conviction in his voice.

“i kissed her,” niall sighs, squeezing his eyes shut, the memory of that night coming back full force. how warm and tingly and fucking perfect he felt with his lips pressed to yours. the explosion of his heart the moment your mouths touched. his hands landing on your hips. your taste, the way you felt, the little whimpers you’d make. “i trusted her so much. seriously can’t explain how crazy it felt. so i asked her to take me to her room.”

“did you- ?” mully asks, the question self explanatory, weighing heavily between them.

“yeah,” niall admits, nodding, eyes casting downward. he couldn’t look at the expression on mully’s face. couldn’t take the judgment he was surely about to face.

mully sighs, his hand rubbing over his face. “how the fuck do you manage to get yourself in these messes?” he mumbles more to himself. “and how exactly did this random fuck turn into your supposed perfect girl that’s finding you in dublin ?”

“christ, she was never a random fuck,” niall shakes his head. “i was in so deep that first time, not even sure i realized it fully quite yet. we’ve done things i’d never even dreamed about before. v’never fuckin came as hard as i do with her. fuck, i even ended up spending the night.”

“right, that may have been too much information,” mully laughs. “happy for you, but not sure i needed that much,” he shakes his head. “spent the night huh ? fuck, you never do that. like never ever.”

“i know,” niall groans. “i just couldn’t leave. couldn’t leave her. not yet anyway. it’s just gotten harder to leave. she’s got such a fuckin hold on me. but it doesn’t even feel like it. just feels normal. the most natural thing ever.”

“gotten harder to leave ?” mully questions. “how many times have you seen her ?”

“yeah, uh, see, that’s the thing. we had agreed to just have one night, in vancouver. what happens in canada, stays in canada,” niall explains. “but then, when i played my show at the O2 last june, she was travelling for work in london, and her coworker got some tickets. when i saw her there, on the floor, everything went blank. my first fuckin time playing the O2 by myself, and all i remember is her. how bad i wanted to throw my guitar, jump off the stage and take off with her.”

“oh god,” mully groans. “you fuckin disappeared that night too. remember looking for ya at that party. were you getting laid ?”

niall’s shoulders slump, nodding lightly as he bites his lip raw, “m’the worst fuckin person on the planet. christ mully, not a single day has gone by that i haven’t felt horrid about what’s going on.”

“then why continue ?” he asks, really wanting to understand, because not a once has he considered cheating for that long without breaking something off.

“because she’s so fucking intoxicating. my own personal drug,” niall sighs, knowing that’s not good enough, but it’s all he has. “it only gets worse from here.”

“it gets fuckin worse ?” mully chuckles, “fuck niall, what has gotten into you ?”

“she has !” niall snaps, “are you fuckin listening ? she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he whispers. “had her out at my place in mexico, fuck i eve-“

“place in mexico ?” mully asks incredulously. “how many secrets do you have ?”

niall rolls his eyes, groaning, “yes, i have a place in mexico, no one knows about it but her. s’an escape kinda thing. place i can go where things are quiet. but, while we were there, i kind of let the towns people believe she was my girlfriend. fuck, it felt so good. felt so domestic. the most natural thing i’ve done in a long time. i dont think anything’s ever felt better to me than those days in mexico. but,” he adds, sighing, “was also the start of my fuckin downfall.”

“christ, i dont even know what to say to all that,” mully shakes his head. “just, go on.”

“that time was literal perfection. and, well, this is bad,” niall hums, closing his eyes. “this is around the time i started actively seeking her out. s’also around the time i started feeling more badly for her than-“ he cuts himself off, a large lump forming in his throat as his chest grows heavy. 

it’s one thing to push all these truths and these feelings aside, but now that he’s sitting here, really thinking it over, and actually fucking speaking it, he really is a prick.

“niall,” mully groans, niall quickly interrupting him, “please, just let me finish this part.”

“so, we met in italy during her birthday weekend, rented that beautiful house in naples. as fucking awful as i felt leading up to that weekend, everything i was involved with was really weighing heavy, she just made it all disappear. i was happy again, loving life again, because i was with her. her presence just makes everything good,” niall explains, his eyes filling with tears again. 

“but then i was stuck at home for months. holidays and break and such. and fuck, things were awful there. couldn’t stop thinking about my perfect petal,” niall whispers. “so when i saw she was in sweden, on fuckin valentines day no less, i flew out to her.”

“you spent valentines with her ?” mully asks, eyes bulging wide. “how’d you even pull that one off ?”

“fuckin lied my way to sweden,” niall mumbles ashamedly, taking a deep breath. “she made me feel so much better, mully. everything, fucking everything, instantly gone when i’m with her. nothing else matters, it’s just us, in this perfect little fucking bubble. i crave it, mate. i literally crave her.”

mully takes a deep breath, processing everything niall’s telling him, trying to wrap his brain around his best friend’s escapades for the last year.

“but when i got back from sweden,” niall shakes his head, a few of the tears in his eyes working their way down his cheeks. “that’s when everything really started getting bad. i was itching for her. literally fucking needed her so bad.”

“what did you do ?” mully asks, bracing himself for the worst at this point. not that he’s sure it can really get any worse.

“it had barely been a few weeks since sweden, i called her up, was ready to fly her out to london, get her a house, somewhere i could sneak off,” he explains solemnly, more silent tears leaving traces down his cheeks. “i couldn’t stand even looking at my ol’lady. couldn’t stand being in that house. couldn’t fucking stand my life anymore.”

“niall, mate, you’re kind of scaring me,” mully murmurs softly. “never seen you like this.”

“m’scaring myself,” niall whispers between slight hiccups leaving his parted lips. “i’ve never been so fucked in my life. dont think i’ve ever fucked up this bad. this morning, at home, we were having a fight. we always fight. and i fuckin compared her to my perfect girl. i broke her mully. fuck, i broke both of them on the same day.”

“so what are you thinking now ?” mully asks, genuine concern for his friend.

“i dont know,” niall sobs quietly, shaking his head, palms of his hands digging into his eyes. “i dont want to go back home, but i have to. i dont want to say goodbye to y/n, but fuck, i think i have to.”

and well that properly confuses mully, head snapping in niall’s direction, “what ? you meet this fuckin perfect person and you think you need to kick her out of your life ?”

“you dont understand,” niall sighs, “no one would understand. she’s an escape. she’s the thing i can runaway to. i can’t make her a real part of my life, defeats the purpose, doesn’t it ? i need to stop. need this addictive crap to stop. all this shite started when i met her. should have just let it go after that O2 show. shouldn’t have reached out. i would have forgotten ya know ? would have gone back to my good life.”

that got a good chuckle out of mully, shaking his head, “you’re fuckin daft aren’t you ? have you listened to yourself drone on for the last hour ?”

“great,” niall groans, “time to lay into me isnt it ?”

“s’why you come to me isn’t it ?” mully laughs. “christ, niall, seriously though. if i had anything close to the connection you’re talking about, i’d be running for the fucking hills. i’d roam the fucking planet looking for her if i had to.”

“probably dont even have to. we always end up bumping into each other at some point,” niall sighs, everything weighing so heavily on him. 

all the things he told himself he’d never say, he’s just said. he doesn’t feel better. he’s more confused, more mind fucked, more shaken, more angry, more devastated, more broken, more numb. 

“look, mate,” mully reaches over to pat his knee. “i dont condone what you did, yeah ? that was fucked up and you know it. but, if she’s your perfect girl, and if she makes you as safe and comfortable and happy as you describe, i dont understand why you think those qualities would go away if you dated her for real ?”

“because that’s just my life,” niall mumbles, closing his eyes. “something always happens. something always changes. something always goes wrong.”

“but that’s the point innit ?” mully hums. “they all go wrong, until you find the one person that makes it right.” 

Part 9

……

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

tags : @acesofspadess @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @kathb59

[strigital]

For a split second, he’s overcome with overwhelming nostalgia. An echo of a dream or a memory of a memory... A rooftop view, a cityscape bathed in neon and starlight. Midnight breeze fresh with petrichor and dying hope. A feeling of weightlessness, of things done, of long-awaited closure. A long chat about life, heartfelt laughter, and a few cold ones. "Funny how we're sitting here, facing the end." "Mhm. The irony is top tier. Never thought we'd have a rooftop date, did you?" "A date, huh? Shit, if I knew this was a date, I woulda worn something nicer..." "Ain't about the threads, V. It's about the company. And tonight, as it were, the company's superb." Cold metal palm against the bony shoulder and the thumping of a heart becomes more deafening than the echo of a rocket launch somewhere in the distance. The thought of an ending comes to mind and it hurts, it hurts worse than a white-hot knife against the skin...

[fandomwritingbit]

yo but I imagine William would just start dating his s/o and he’s so shocked to find out that their super intelligent and witty😭 like mf will ask a rlly hard question out of the blue and his s/o would answer is .2 seconds and he would be so shocked ong😭

I feel like it's one of the qualities that would boost your standing with him. Honestly that's why I always write 'sassy's/os for him cos the man gets off easy a lot and having the competition would be hot for him imo.

Nowt bad in this one, just swearing and bad easy maths lol.

But anyway, the bit you came for...

"How're we looking tonight, Afton?" You say, taking a seat on the edge of his overcrowded desk, surrounded by piles of problems to be dealt with at a later date. 

A long day of entertaining kids was behind you, and you want to know what the score is income wise. After such a shitty and busy one, it'd better be decent or you swear to God you may just cry.

It wasn't just you in the room with a man you barely got on with during the day but got on with very nicely at night; his co-owner Henry was there and the day manager too. You’d worked up from waitress, now playing the part of the hostess with the most-ess, welcoming, serving and being downright charming to every tight-fisted fuck that graced the doorstep.

"Yeah, what's the score? Know we sold a lot of pizzas today." The manager chipped in, her exasperated tone summing up the lot of you.

Afton grunted his annoyance at being harassed while he tried to run the numbers in his head.

"Fucking £1,350. Give me a second to do the tax-"

"...£1,093.50, folks." You say, almost immediately, cutting everyone's wait times significantly. The groan of irritation followed suit near-immediately.

Murmurs of 'well that's shite' and ‘I wouldn’t have got out of bed for that’ were heard as the two others left the room, leaving you and your boss, who was looking at you peculiarly, staring at the accounts.

"How did you do that then?" He asks, standing and making his way over to you on the desk.

Your brows narrow under the scrutiny of his gaze, "The maths? It’s not hard..." You start, a smile forming.

"Isn't it?" He smirked looking you up and down, how quick your brain worked, how business minded. “You fancy yourself some kind of accountant?” 

“Someone has to be, since you won’t hire one.” You leave the room with a glance over your shoulder, honestly, you must know better not to push your luck with this one by now.

[acapelladitty]

Fic quality or fic quantity

Oh fuck, fic quality ALL the way! Quality will always mean more to me than anything else and I always hold myself to that standard. Cards on the tables lads, I could easily pump out a LOT more fic than I currently do but I don't because I like to dedicate time to my wee bits to make sure that they have quality that I will stand behind and that I'm proud of.

I also don't want to burn out as fic is only a hobby for me and it doesn't pay my bills. If I took regular commissions then maybe I'd have a larger output because y'know...then it actually would pay the bills...but everything I do is done for free and that leaves me the flexibility to actually enjoy my pace of work.

Plus, and I can't stress this enough, my blog is only an aspect of my life and outside of being here to chat shite, I do keep a v busy life with a full time & high-stress job, house maintenance, family commitments, other hobbies, and also keeping up a social life with irl pals who I've fooled into enjoying my company! So I like to take my time xx

[jokeringcutio]

Fic authors self-rec! ✨ When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers.

<3 Wow, since I've been writing fanfics for years, I have so many to choose from. But let me stick to my reader-insert-focused darker fics that I post on this account.

1:

The Man Who Claimed To Be Yours – Fandom: Joker 2019, Pairing: Arthur Fleck/Joker x (Female) Reader. Explicit with lots of warnings. By far my proudest (and smuttiest?) work.

By far a number one position. Not only do you people seem to love it, I have received so many messages of readers going back to the story for the umpteenth time to reread it all. (And you have no diea how those little messages strengthened me when my health abandoned me). You devour it. And even I have been rereading my own tale several times and enjoyed it. So yes, I definitely want to write an ending to it. I also have plans to have the full story out before Joker 2 comes out.

Fun fact: The entire fic was inspired by the gif I added above)

2:

Pine Cone Child – Fandom: Enola Holmes, Pairing: Enola Holmes/Linthorn (one-sided & Noncon), Enola Holmes & Sherlock Holmes. Explicit with lots of warnings.

I got a big thrill sending these chapters out into the world and found myself on a roll with this fic. The idea came with one scene, of a boy meeting his biological father, and realizing that he had a far more gritty past than he always had assumed. But to get to that chapter, I had to write many more. In the end, that chapter was never posted online. And the chapters I had finished about Enola and her mother visiting Linthorn’s grave and the chapter that was to follow after got lost when my laptop crashed. I was also too ill and too tired to write, so it never reached its end. I am not sure if I will ever finish this one. I think, it is pretty okay as it is. Even if I never got to the ending the whole idea sprouted from in the first placed. For now, it is on hold.

3. Removed Fics/Or old account fics:

The first multi-chapter fic became a success, many years ago. I will not name the title, the quality is shite compared to what I write now (still shite, but different shite). One of the first fandoms I wrote fanfiction in was Inu Yasha. The much-explored ‘Inu Yasha scampers off with Kikyo and Kagome finds comfort in Sesshoumaru’s arms’ was still new, there were about 20 fics or so about this pairing in English. The encouragement I received made me want to keep posting my work. I still receive reviews for these fics.  

4. A deleted Sweeney Todd Smut fic, featuring Sweeney Todd x Lovett’s daughter. I might reupload this one day, perhaps as a reader insert.

But because I want to tag a tale: Have you tried reading my dark romance (aka, Reader let yourself be kidnapped by a slasher guy)  The Chance to Make A Change. Fandom: The Black Phone. Pairing: Albert Shaw ( The Grabber ) x (f) Reader. Explicit. Loads of warnings.

Shared 5:

His – Fandom: Moon Knight, Pairing: Dr. Arthur Harrow x (f) Reader. Mature with warnings.

I am surprised by how much feedback and likes I received on this, even if the numbers of hits and kudos on AO3 are low. But for the short tale it is, I like it. Because it shows a budding relationship over time, cut into short chapters, and has a little evil twist at the end of it. Also, I could totally live with this happening to me, if I were the reader.

Shared 5:

No Family Man – Fandom: Joker 2019, Pairing: Arthur Fleck/Joker x (afab) Reader. Mature with warnings.

Another one of my fics I love to return to, and that was generally received well. It started as two imagines which I then combined. It has lots of personal experience elements in it that to me, make it all the more special. What they are, I will leave for you to guess.

I would love to finish the Princess and the Clown - Joker 2019 fanfic of Arthur Fleck/Joker x Reader I once started. Perhaps rewrite it a little. Same for my Benvolio x Mercutio Hanahaki Story (you Shakespearean lovers might know me of my many Tybalt x Mercutio and Mercutio x basically anyone fics).

I have a few Star Wars Reader Inserts that were never finished but tickle my fancy. Mostly Reader x Kylo Ren or Reader x Hux (or both lol).

By far most of my proudest fanfics have been personal gifts to friends. It is how I started writing when in High School, and I still gift fics for people's birthdays. I especially like the Sherlock Holmes range I did for several friends, in which my friends always ended up being the evil masterminds who outsmarted Sherlock and Watson. But also, because I had illustrations to go along with these fics. <3

But first, I need to finish a whole list of unfinished works: starting with a Crimson Peak inspired modern reader au that has been pending for over 2 years, as well as the Joker fic mentioned on number one. Then there's a summery romantic Arthur Harrow x Reader tale I want to gift to someone on here, and a Harrow Patient x Reader fic that wants to be written in between.

ARGH!

Not to mention the many Arthur Fleck x Reader prompts I have pending. I LOVE YOU, KEEP SENDING ME STUFF <3

[batemanofficial]

yadda yadda bat at a hornets nest but am i alone in the opinion that we need FEWER animated streaming shows. like i feel like every other week people pitch a fit on here because blorbus mcgrinkus and the pansexual phantasmagoria got cancelled after only one season and like yeah it sucks that a project got cancelled prematurely, but on the other hand a) perhaps blorbus mcgrinkus wasn't very good and b) WHY are we making eighty five different ya-esque animated shows of shite quality when we could be making six animated shows of slightly less dubious quality. animation is expensive. it costs far more in money, time, and labor to make an animated show than it does a live-action one, and there's always at least one "this animation studio made workers PAY TO WORK?" story in every news cycle so just...make fewer shows? that's a lot less likely to happen if we make fewer shows! but no the market beast ever hungers because you people have no taste and will take anything tossed at you as long as it has at least one scripted scene wherein a character comes out as asexual

[girl4music]

If I did a TOP 20 favourite 'BtVS' episodes,... a good majority of them would be from Season 5.

It has a lot of bangers. 'The Body', 'The Replacement' 'Blood Ties', 'Real Me', 'No Place Like Home', 'Buffy vs. Dracula', 'Family', 'Fool For Love' 'Checkpoint', 'Crush', 'Tough Love', ‘Spiral', 'The Weight Of The World', 'The Gift’. These are all fantastic episodes!

I also love the overall arc/plot. I love the character representation and development of both new characters and the ones we know already. The Scooby Gang is at their absolute strongest. I love the directing and writing and acting. I love that everything that happens in it is completely consistent and cohesive. Well put together in a neat little bow with its main themes and storylines. I don't think I have a single negative thing to say about Season 5. And that's saying a lot because I critique the fuck out of my favourite TV shows. You don't even know. I go HARD when it comes to art/ entertainment in general.

And then there's Glory... like I love Dark Willow. You all know that. But Clare Kramer as Glory is excellent!

Season 5 is peak Buffy. The very best of 'BtVS'.

What's more to say? I could watch it over and over and over again and never get tired of it. It's timeless.

I FUCKING LOVE SEASON 5! It's the best singular season of any TV show ever made. Yes. I said that with complete conviction.

When you look at the load of tripe we get today in TV or streaming service art/entertainment, you never get anything this well written, acted, produced or directed. I'll admit - yes, it's because shows are more serialized and compacted down to 10-12 episodes a season now... But for a show that wasn't intentionally made to be singular season serialized and 10-something episodes longer, you still will not see better written cohesiveness and consistency or versatility in serialized TV or streaming service art/entertainment today. It is that well done of a singular season and finale. It makes TV shows today a real joke and it's why I will always stick to the classics. I've stuck my head in every now and again to see what's what on streaming services but I've always been left disappointed - either because it's a load of shite or it's undercut before it really got good. Not enough.

So yeah, I put the likes of Buffy, Xena and Charmed on a pedestal because they honestly deserve to be at the very pinnacle of true art/entertainment production and storytelling and I will be adamant.

Not everything works or is of top quality and there's certainly episodes that have not stood the test of time and aged like fine wine. There is issues too. But compared to what we get today - yeah, no contest.