#(( i have been meaning to write you a starter for AGES so

[distantdarlings]

STRAY FROM ROUTINE // m. riddle

RATING: R / 4.5K WORDS

Mattheo Riddle x Fem Reader Insert

+ SUMMARY - *Requested, based on this* You wake up with an evil plan to ignore Mattheo Riddle until he cracks.

+ WARNINGS - SMUT! (P in V), unprotected, spanking, thigh-hitting, dom!mattheo, sub!reader, mean mattheo, slight breeding kink, controlling mattheo, reader is resisting (but she's doing it on purpose), toxic relationship values, name-calling, degradation, language, not fully proofread (lmk if I missed anything!)

+ MUSIC (listened to while writing) -

Ride or Die, Pt. 2 - Sevdaliza (I can't get it out of my head :'))

- - -

The inspiration that struck you as soon as you woke up was one of some kind of age-old genius. The motivation that came with it seemed to cloud your mind like some kind of drug, flooding your mind and inhibiting all other thoughts that attempted to enter your brain the rest of the day.

You had always been a bit of a shit-starter when it came to Mattheo Riddle, but today, you were feeling downright sinister.

Your eyes flicked across the room to catch the dark boy’s oaken eyes. His strong hand lifted from the counter to toy with his bottom lip teasingly. Every move was calculated, down to the way his shoulders moved when he took in a breath.

He skirted through his usual routine of tracing his eyes slowly down your body, then flicking them back up to steel his eye contact. For the first few months of your relationship with him—if that’s what you wanted to call it—that whole intimidating facade had worked on you effortlessly. But now, you knew he was more bark than he was bite. That was, as far as you could tell.

You supposed that after sleeping with him so long, he’d have lived up to his whole King Mattheo act, but he'd fallen short. You were disappointed, to say the least. The majority of the entire student body, including some teachers, were terrified of this boy that currently stared you down, but you seemed to be missing something.

Was he good in bed? Hell yes. Could he get mean? Also yes, but where was the difference? As far as you could tell, he didn’t fuck any differently than any other Slytherin boy you’d been with. They were practically all the same. Mean, dominant, and rough. They usually had some kind of ego to keep up—or a tiny dick to compensate for. Whatever it was, Mattheo didn’t seem any different.

He was mean, dominant, and rough. The only thing that had surprised you about him was how gentle he was beneath it all. With every bruising thrust, his fingers cradled your hips gently where others gripped with their nails. With every mark he sucked into your skin, he darted a tongue out to soothe where others let it simmer. He was a rough lover, but he was still a lover. The others were just rough.

That was what had kept you going back to him so many times. But you were getting impatient. It was time for Mattheo to step his game up, or you were going to get bored. You wanted him to prove to you that he was different. But you didn’t want to have to ask for it. You just wanted him to know to do it.

By the time the last of the breakfast crowd had dissipated and the campus prepared for their first periods, Mattheo hadn’t broken eye contact once. Nor had you. If there was one thing you weren’t going to do—for Mattheo or any one else—it was back down from a challenge. If he wanted to tease and stare and frustrate, you’d do the same.

Finally, he stood with the rest of his group of friends. They headed toward the door but his focus remained on you.

The tip of his wand peeked out from the edge of his uniform sleeve and, with a few mumbled words, a small slip of paper had collapsed from the tip of the wooden object. It hit the floor silently, and weaved through the swarm of feet marching through the Great Hall. Once it had reached you, it stopped just before your shoes beneath the table.

At risk of being caught by your friends, you refused to glance down at it. But, just like he always did, Mattheo had thought of everything. With a shiver, you felt the piece of paper slide up your leg like a slithering snake.

It slunk over the curve of your knee and seemed to wait for you to grab it. Ignoring the thought that it seemed to be alive like some sort of bug, you slipped your hand beneath the table and pulled the slip of paper toward you. Discreetly, you opened it up and looked down at it.

How do you want me to take you today? was scrawled in heavy, broad strokes across the sliver of parchment.

You bit back a smirk. That little fucker.

But, no. With the inspiration you had today—the inspiration to push Mattheo Riddle as close to the edge as possible—you weren’t going to allow him the satisfaction.

In fact, you were going to ignore him entirely until he cracked. That was the plan and you were settled with it. While this likely wasn’t the best thing for your own health, you weren’t too concerned. Mattheo Riddle was an asshole, but he wasn’t a murderer. You were pretty sure, anyways.

Satisfied with your decisions, you smiled lightly and pushed the piece of parchment into the first pocket of your school bag. As soon as you returned to your room, it would be placed with all of the other notes he had passed to you. Even though you weren’t wildly impressed with Mattheo’s performance so far, it was still nice to have the dirty, little notes sitting around for a rainy day.

- - -

And throughout the rest of the day, you stuck to your plan like glue. Every stare, every sneaking touch, every whispered word from Mattheo was met with a brick wall. You simply weren’t interested in any aspect of his usual antics, today. He needed to earn what he refused to admit he wanted so badly, which was you.

And by third period, you could tell he was nearly ready to explode. His jaw was clenching and unclenching, his fists were wrapped so tightly together, the knuckles were almost completely white. He was fucking angry—possibly angrier than you had ever seen him. And that was exactly what you had wanted. You wanted him to know that you were a million times different than any of the other girls he’d romanced so far.

He tried once more to entice a little desire from you just toward the end of class. The two of you sat in the last two rows at the very back of the classroom.

The room was elevated with the back rows at the highest point of the room, overlooking the rest of the class. Any secret movements were noticed simply by the backs of heads and a nonchalant teacher.

Mattheo sat directly behind you with one of his unnamed friends to his left, and another to that boy’s left. You were alone on your row. The class was not that big. But this was exactly the kind of environment a sly boy like Mattheo Riddle loved. He would take any opportunity he could to slide his dirty lips against your ear and whisper any deviance that popped into his head at the moment. And that’s what he’d done.

His head had settled just beside yours. You’d heard his breathing before even noticing the heat from his skin radiating onto yours. A shiver passed through your body at his proximity. Annoyed at your body’s involuntary reaction to the dark boy, you slipped your arms beneath the table to hide the chills sprouting across your flesh.

He must have seen them, though, because a small breath of a smirk passed across his face in your peripheral.

“I don’t know what your game is, little girl,” he whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “But you’d better straighten that attitude up, or, I swear, I’ll fix it myself.”

He didn’t say another word before he leaned back against his own seat, leaving you to wonder whether or not this was a good idea. You reminded yourself that intimidation was his shtick. That was the majority of the reason everyone was so frightened of him. You couldn’t even remember the last time he’d actually beaten anyone up or done anything to anyone who’d wronged him. Like you’d said, he was all bark.

Still, despite his threatening words, you simply flipped your hair over your shoulder and completely ignored him. He scoffed, seemingly suppressing a laugh. He was mad. But he wasn’t going to admit that to you right now.

Besides, you were sure you’d never hear the end of it once it was all said and done.

Once the teacher had announced that class was over and recited the homework assignment to a crowd of deaf ears, you gathered all of your things quickly and made a beeline for the door. You hadn’t even given Mattheo a second to gain a bit of awareness before you were out the door and halfway down the hallway.

You didn’t have a fourth period, but Mattheo did. He had Potions for the next hour, giving you just enough time to spruce up your appearance a bit and prepare for the storm that was brewing. You knew Mattheo well enough by this point to know how this evening was going to go. He would threaten your body within an inch of its life, ask if you ‘knew who he was,’ then he’d fuck you. Just like he always did. There was too much of a pattern. Not enough spontaneity to keep you occupied—you needed more. Hopefully, today was what did it for him.

The dormitory you shared with your mates was completely barren due to their schedules. Out of the five of you, you were the only one that had chosen fourth period as your free period. It seemed odd to you that they would rather have a late start to the day, than an early end. In your opinion, you’d wake up as early as you had to, if it meant you did not have to yawn your way through the last classes of the day.

You dropped your bag onto your bed and made for the small desk that was positioned just beside the headboard. It was stocked with all of your personal hygiene products—organized impeccably—and various bits of stationery for schoolwork. It served as both a desk and a vanity for you while you were getting ready in the mornings—or getting ready to see Mattheo.

You hoped he would be desperate all through his class. You hoped his eyes would be flickering around nervously, his knee bouncing rapidly, sweat dripping down his throat. It would be a sight to behold.

Mattheo was gorgeous—there was no denying that. It was just his attitude that needed adjusting. You smirked to yourself before taking a seat at your desk, glancing at your appearance in the small mirror you’d propped up against the stone wall.

And before you were even able to apply a second layer of mascara, the large wooden door in the corner of the room rattled violently. Three aggressive knocks permeated the silence so roughly the dust motes illuminated by the sun shuddered wildly.

A chill of anticipation settled in your stomach. Surely, that couldn’t be him. Fourth period had barely even begun.

You rose from your desk and crossed the length of the room, every step echoing through your body like a cannon. Why were you so nervous? The possibilities of consequences of your own actions were really starting to rattle around in your skull.

Your fingers wrapped around the bronze door handle and pulled.

Sure enough, on the other side, stood Mattheo Riddle. A malicious smirk was printed across his lips. He glanced around a few times, seeming to scan the surroundings of your dorm.

“Hi, is there anyone else here?” he asked, his voice sickly sweet. The courteous role he was playing made you all the more nervous. He never acted this way, even when he’d come to your dorm in the past. He was usually just as brash as he always was, no matter who was in the room.

“No, there’s not,” you said, your voice annoyingly shaking just a bit. “And if you don’t mind, I’m actually pretty busy—”

Just as you started to push the door closed again, Mattheo’s foot slammed against it, completely blocking its path. You tried to push against him, but he was much too strong for you to defend against.

“I’m sure you can spare a few moments for a quick chat,” he nearly growled, never dropping the fake smile planted on his face. His strong arm pushed against the door, rendering your protection of it completely useless. He pushed through and into the room as if you’d never been holding it in the first place.

He kicked the door shut behind him as soon as he stepped through, the door clunking shut with a rough thud. You suppressed a flinch at the loud sound, refusing to show any sign of vulnerability. You couldn’t pull away from your plan now that you were feeling his anger—that was cowardly.

“Mattheo, I’ve asked for you to leave,” you warned.

“Yeah? Just answer one question for me, baby…” he said, stepping directly into your personal space and invading it in every way possible.

As if asking for permission, he raised his hand slowly and let it hover just next to your cheek. When you did nothing, he placed his fingers along your jawline. They stroked gently across a small surface area, insisting that you felt every searing second of contact.

His face came impossibly close against yours. His warm breath fanned slowly across your cheek, hints of fire and cinnamon lingering beneath your nose. The feeling of his lips skirting slightly over your skin on the way to your ear sent a myriad of chills down the length of your arms and a pool of heat between your thighs. You silenced a shudder on its way through your lips.

“Did you act that way on purpose?” he whispered. His lips caressed the curvature of your ear, his hot words curling around the room. “If not, I’ll find a new girl to open her legs when I want. But if you wanted this, I will make you regret ever having turned away from me.”

You swallowed thickly, the sound piercing the blanket of silence that fell around the room the minute Mattheo stopped speaking. It irked you to no end, that the entire world seemed to hold its breath to wait for this boy. This dark, irritatingly impossible to resist boy. It was more than you were able to handle, no matter how determined you were to prove a point.

“What I wanted…,” you trailed off coldly. “Was for you to prove to me that you’re not exactly like every other Slytherin that waltzes in here, comes in ten seconds, and then asks me if I’ve finished. I’ve been waiting for that special something to jump out at me, but it just hasn’t. I’m getting bored of you, Mattheo.” You took a deep breath, gaining enough courage to flatten your face and select your next words perfectly. “Speaking of, I was wondering if your friend, Enzo, was single.”

You struggled not to smirk at his reaction. If you didn’t know Mattheo, you’d have assumed he was going to crash out and leave the room. But you knew him and his destructive tendencies. His rage, though extremely stigmatized, was something to be in awe of, and you were ready to see it. And to be the target of it.

His eyes darkened until they were barely reflecting any of the dim light around the room. His lips parted slightly, just enough for an evil smirk to stretch across his face. He was all dark eyes and sharp canines, and it looked as if he were desperate to sink them into your flesh.

“You’re fucking done,” he whispered menacingly.

Then his hand was around your throat, firm and bruising. He walked you backwards until your back roughly hit the stone wall, the cold rock biting into your shoulder blades. His lips met yours with a fervor you’d never seen before.

His tongue cruelly parted your lips and laid claim to the entirety of your throat. You could hardly breathe with the pressure he was applying around your neck and the force of his kiss. Yet, still, you could not deny the heat building within your stomach and radiating downwards.

His free hand wrapped around your waist, the fingers slipping slyly beneath the waistband of your uniform skirt. Just as always, in the midst of the fiery storm, his fingers were able to imitate some form of softness just long enough for his hand to prepare to rip your skirt away. Despite the roughness he provided everywhere else, his fingers were gentle as they slid along your skin so as not to pinch it against the wall. It was just thoughtful enough to melt your heart down into a broiling golden puddle.

His strong hand gripped the material of your bottoms and pulled them roughly down, revealing the absence of anything beneath, save your blackened tights. When he lifted his hand once more to tear your panties away, he recognized the lack of material within his fingers and growled against your lips.

“You fucking wanted this, you dumb slut,” he spat, his pearlescent teeth sinking down into the flesh of your bottom lip. With a whimper and flash of white across your vision, he finally released you, leaving behind a thin slathering of blood across your teeth.

“You wanted me to tear you to pieces,” he whispered, his hand finally freeing your throat, but only to get to work on ripping your uniform shirt apart. The buttons clattered wildly across the floor, rolling freely each in their own directions.

You moved to protest but Mattheo shoved you back against the wall. He shook his head as if in disbelief you’d even try to get away from him at this point in time. In his mind, this was well-deserved punishment. If you were his girl, you were going to fucking listen to him. You knew what you were getting into when you first laid your lips on his.

With your shirt split down the middle, the only thing standing between his lips and your heaving body were a lacy bra and a pair of tights. The cold, gray air hit your soaked body so aggressively, you thought your teeth might start clacking together.

“All this going to waste because you couldn’t ask me for what you wanted,” he whispered. “I’m going to have to destroy this gorgeous body, when it should be worshiped.”

To your disbelief, he sank down to his knees and placed his hands gently on the back of your thighs. His scorching mouth made contact with your thighs—still covered in the thin material of your pantyhose—and he began to place wet, biting kisses along your flesh. He moved slowly from just above your knee to the top of your thigh. Each mean kiss ached as if they were done by a wild animal, but—just as he always fucking did—he soothed them with his skilled tongue afterwards. Never letting you hurt for too long.

Once he reached your core, fluttering in anticipation, he took a deep breath. The scent of your desire filled his senses as if it was his last meal. Just from how he’d loved in the past, you could tell that he was refraining from devouring you. But this was a punishment. No matter how sweet or caring he so often was, he was never going to let you have what you wanted.

“But that won’t do today…” he whispered against the surface of your tights just above your core, so close that his lips brushed across the sensitive skin. You withheld a whimper.

“Seems like it wasn’t happening any other day, either,” you chuckled breathlessly. You weren’t dropping this fucking routine. You wanted this and every inch of teasing Mattheo wanted to give you.

He laid a biting slap across your left thigh. The sound of it echoed throughout the room, only being interrupted by the cry that left your lips at the sudden abuse.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” he demanded, his hand soothing the sore flesh.

He pressed one more kiss to the blossoming handprint, before sliding a short nail against the hosiery, ripping it instantly.

You gasped at the sensation, watching as he pulled on the material. It shredded down your leg, exposing your bare thighs to the pale light. Flaming red fingerprints bloodied the soft flesh and marked you as his.

Despite your annoyance at his lack of excitement during the last few times you’d fucked, the feeling of possession that he’d laid on you always made an impression. You felt like you belonged to him in every aspect of the word.

Then before you were able to let another smart-ass comment fly, he slipped his hand beneath the large shear in the tights and ripped a hole right across your aching groin, baring your searing cunt to the world.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Even though he was intending to punish, Mattheo couldn’t help but appreciate your body just a little bit. Though he wouldn’t admit it just yet, he could die happily buried within you.

Seeming to realize his “punishment” was a bit too sweet, he gripped your hips roughly and flipped your body around to face the wall. You helped aloud as the craggy stone bit into the skin of your breasts through your bra. The lace mixed with the cold wall made your nipples prick almost uncomfortably.

“Gonna fuck some manners into you, baby,” he murmured, his gravelly voice echoing against the curve of your spine. His mean fingers traced each nodule of each vertebrae until he reached the dimples imprinted in the small of your back.

His thumbs pressed deep against them, rubbing an easy massage into them for just a second.

“Feel good? You got any other dumbass things to say?”

“Why waste my breath? I’m gonna have to fake my fucking orgasm in a few seconds.”

You bit back a moan as he reached through your legs, gripped the hole he’d ripped in your tights, and widened it between your thighs. He pulled it up and over your ass.

“Yeah? You fake it every time, baby?” he growled into your ear, his heavy bulge pressing into your bare ass.

“Yeah,” you gasped, your voice barely more than a whisper. Your hands were settled against your desk, fingers tightened around the edges, nails scratching into the wood. Your back was arched uncomfortably against his core, begging for every slight thrust he pressed into you. You could practically feel him within you already.

“You fake it every time you cum all over my cock, huh?” he asked. Behind you, you could hear him wrestling his belt out of its loops and dropping his trousers.

“Answer me, bitch,” he demanded, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling your head back against his chest.

“Fuck, Matty, that hurts!” you whined. It was a good, searing kind of pain but you didn’t want him to know that. Didn’t want him to know that your arousal was dripping down your legs by now.

“Yeah? That hurts?” he taunted. “That’s nothing, baby. You can take it.”

Then suddenly, his hot core was leant against the top of your ass. You were biting back a moan and running your fingers into the desk so hard they were going numb. Still, you weren’t going to give up.

“We’ll see if you can give it—fuck!”

He shut you up by slamming himself into you. The force of his intrusion hit your cervix at a sharp angle, sending stars into your eyes.

“Let me hear you fake it, yeah?” he groaned as he pulled himself out of you all the way to the tip before pushing himself back into you.

You couldn’t hide it anymore. Though you could still force some mean comments out every once and a while, you were unable to repress your moans.

“I’m basically an expert at this point!” you moaned.

“I bet,” he growled, his hips increasing in pace. “I know the way you clench around me everytime I take you from behind—” every sentence was pushed out between deep groans that echoed in your womb— “I’ve memorized every possible way you can scream my name…and I’ve learned every single thing I have to do to make that pretty pussy cum all over me.”

Following his words, his right hand snaked around your hip and pressed directly against your clit. He rubbed perfect circles into the sensitive spot, demanding a finish from you as soon as he could pull it from you.

“You’re a bit too cocky for my liking,” you breathed against his ruthless pounding. “I’d still like Enzo’s number.”

And with one final thrust, he pierced the bubble of pleasure that had bloomed rapidly in your stomach. You came impossibly hard, with the evidence of your high embarrassingly gushing around him. He pulled away from you and let your desire cover his stomach.

He laughed almost maniacally at the way your orgasm stretched out for what felt like hours.

And then, as you were finally coming down, he was pumping himself noisily into his hand and coming all of your lower back, painting the dimples he so loved to touch.

He moaned breathlessly, a slight crack in his voice, as he slowed his movements down and came down from his own high.

A tired laugh left his swollen lips as he trailed his finger through the remnants of his spend on your back and pushed his coated fingers into your sensitive entrance.

The overstimulation sent a flurry of ice up your spine. You cried at the sensation. Your legs fluttered before giving out.

On your way down to the floor, he caught you against his arms. Your knees were impossibly weak, but he was ever so strong.

“You faking this too, baby?” he clicked his tongue before settling you against your bed.

“Fuck you,” you sighed, your eyes fluttering against the ceiling. The lightheaded feeling floating through your skull was nearly too much for you to handle, but you were still high up on your pedestal and refused to come down.

Distantly, you could hear him pulling his pants up and rearranging his clothes.

Gently, he slid the remainder of your hosiery down your legs, unhooked your bra, and lifted you up off of the bed bridal-style. Somehow managing to cradle you with just one hand, he used his left to yank your comforter back, and settle you beneath it.

He leaned down beside your ear and pressed his lips to your temple. Just before he pulled all the way back, he began to whisper.

“The next time you wanna act like that—just remember that I fucked you to sleep, brat.”

- - -

Tag List: @lilymurphy03, @mypolicemanharryyy, @clairesjointshurt, @bunbunbl0gs, @acornacreacure, @niktwazny303, @thestarlithhideout, @sarahskakskskskajakwwnwjw, @yhiiil, @ravenclawprincess33, @xxrougefangxx, @thatblackthorn, @robinyx, @starsval, @jolly4holly, @blvebanisters, @chgrch, @abaker74, @ilovehotmenandwoman, @kissesbyarabella, @synicaljah

(If you would like to be added to the tag list, please shoot me a DM! Thanks!

[loopimay]

Why I Ship ReflectiveDetective (and why you should too!)

DISCLAIMER: 

This post does NOT insist that ReflectiveDetective is canon, nor does it insist you have to ship it. It exists solely as an appreciation and explanation post. Also, Glisten and Rodger are both canonically NON-RELATED ADULTS as confirmed by Qwel. Thank you.

PART 1: Interactions

Glisten and Rodger currently have two elevator interactions. In the first one, Glisten comments on Rodger's smudged glass.

In the second one, Rodger checks in on Glisten to make sure he's doing okay.

Though seemingly incidental, there's lots here to discuss:

Starting with the first, we're told Glisten cares enough about Rodger to notice something as small as the smudges on his face. This may come across as trivial, especially for someone obsessed with appearance, but it's pretty out of character for him to notice something so small! From his interactions with Cosmo, Shelly, and Yatta, we can infer that Glisten is actually really *bad* at noticing things about others. He forgets Cosmo's stars are a part of his appearance, writes Yatta's circus troupe off as "clown stuff," and even mispronounces Shelly's name. These aren't little details he just missed, they're basic facts about toons he lives with. He should've picked up on these things ages ago, yet they seem to slip his mind.

But Rodger's smudges? He comments on them immediately (and often enough for Rodger to know it's coming.)

"But maybe the smudges are really obvious!"

Maybe, but if so, wouldn't Tisha have said something about them? In the singular interaction she has with Rodger, she makes no note of his glass, and from what we know about Tisha, she *would* point something like that out. She's very adamant when it comes to cleanliness, sometimes to the dismay of others. It's practically her job to be.

This is what makes Glisten's comment so interesting. If he's noticing details that Tisha is missing, that means he's been paying *very* close attention to Rodger's face. Hmm... suspcious.

Interaction two gives us more insight into Rodger's feelings towards Glisten. He's one of the only toons he checks up on, and of them, he's the one that Rodger is the most worried about. The other two, Boxten and Brightney, get far less personal questions about their well-being.

It says a lot that Rodger will tell Boxten to count if he's feeling nervous, but he'll tell Glisten not to forget his "keen eye," implying that he's keeping watch over him specifically.

The obvious conclusion being: the two both give each other attention that they don't give to other toons.

But it doesn't stop there! Glisten's interactions with Toodles also give us some extra layers to his and Rodger's relationship.

The first one isn't much, but it is noteworthy that Glisten gets along so well with Rodger's daughter.

The second one, however…

What Toodles says here is extremely significant. Though easy to brush off Glisten "crying and complaining to Rodger" as a funny comment, it holds a LOT of weight! Glisten NEVER tells toons about his problems or insecurities. The mere implication of imperfect makes him deflect.

He won't let Astro discuss his concerning dreams in public. He panics when Sprout suggests his mirror is cracked. He won't even tell Tisha his morning routine.

But according to Toodles, Glisten has a habit of going to Rodger (and only Rodger) with his problems. Sure, these could be very superficial issues he's getting off his chest, but even the most shallow of problems are ones Glisten does not want others to know about. He has an image to maintain, after all! Yet Rodger is the exception...

...This goes both ways, which brings me to:

PART 2: Implications

Returning to Rodger and Tisha's interaction, there is definite proof that Glisten is one of the "trusted friends" Rodger is referring to. For starters, I've already covered the close bond the two share. But is Glisten also disorganized? YES!

Compare Glisten's room to Goob and Scraps', one canonically considered dirty. They're a very similar amount of messy. Crumpled-up papers, mismatched carpets, food lying around the place... none of that reads "organized."

Speaking of Glisten's room, there exists a particular note in which Glisten details an encounter he had with Rodger where he helped him carry files into the elevator.

Not only does this prove that Glisten is willing to help him, but also that Rodger would otherwise trust him to. This note also tells us Rodger gives Glisten the validation he craves from the other toons. Why else would he end it off with "I should spend time with [Rodger] more" if he wasn't flattered by his compliment? 

So we have the dynamic, but what can be done with it? Let us discuss:

PART THREE: Potential

This part will mainly consist of how I interpret Glisten and Rodger's relationship. It will focus less on canon itself and more on the fun ways you can build off of it.

Glisten yearns for attention; it says so on his title card:

And Rodger is someone who can give him not just the attention he wants, but also the attention he needs. In multiple ways, whether it be through compliments or concerns, Rodger makes Glisten feel seen. His praise means enough to Glisten for him to journal about it, and though he brushes off Rodger's regards for his safety in their elevator interaction, he'll still go to him to "cry and complain." Besides, Rodger is a detective. It's his job to see through facades. He'd know when Glisten is putting up a front of perfection and be able to look past it to see the real him. What else is that keen eye for, right?

And what of Glisten's part in their relationship? Considering how unpopular Rodger is with the other toons, particularly the mains, having someone like Glisten to help with carrying files and bantering about smudged glass is a lot. Even if it is "part of the job" as a detective, nobody enjoys being disliked or dismissed by others, especially former friends. Yet despite Rodger's reputation, Glisten is in his corner.

There is more I could discuss, but that will have to be saved for a continuation. This post is already long enough! But I hope this shines some light on ReflectiveDetective's charm. It's one of my favorite pairings and I hope to share it with more people. Thank you for reading!

[theemporium]

Thanks! My request, please, for Jack is with shy, new to hockey reader, maybe with him getting busted for spoiling her in ways she didn't know (I love every single dynamic you write). After the first game she attends Jack has to brush off Nico's comments that he got her a front row seat, claiming it's just because it was her first hockey game. Especially Luke teasing because Jack just so happened to give her his jersey from his best game, and the skates Jack got her are coincidentally top of the line. All the while he's trying to not seem to desperate to go all in with her bashful self. This is so bad tweak or ignore all of this please and thank you.

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

.

Everyone had noticed it, yet it was none other than Ellen Hughes who pointed it out.

It was a somewhat surprise to the people in Jack’s life when he told them he had a girlfriend. Like a proper, ‘she’s the one for me’ kind of girlfriend. Ever since he had been drafted, Jack had been hesitant to dive into anything serious, anything beyond a fling or a situationship. 

He was the new face of the franchise. He had the weight of everyone’s expectations on his shoulders. He had to prove that he wasn’t just some pretty boy who was decently good at hockey. He had to prove he deserved to be in the NHL, that he deserved to be first pick of the draft.

And at his age, a serious relationship wasn’t exactly high on his priority list.

Until he met you. 

The boys had noticed a shift in his behaviour in the early stages of Jack’s relationship with you. The way he would be quick to check his phone after games and practices. The way he seemed quick to shrug off any advances in bars, more than happy to nurse a few drinks and giggle away to whoever he was texting before he disappeared early into the night. The way he just seemed…happier.

Luke was the first to notice something really odd.

“Yeah, my job means I travel around a lot,” he overheard Jack one day, when the boy hadn’t realised Luke had returned early from the option skate. “They are, uh, like road trips, I guess? We are heading down to Dallas tomorrow.” 

And then Dawson heard something weird after a game.

“You don’t have to watch,” Jack reassured the person on the other side of the phone, a giddy smile on his face and a blush on his cheeks. “It can get quite long. It doesn’t last twenty minutes, just twenty minutes of actual playing time. It pauses when calls need to be made.”

And then it was Nico.

“No, not a suite seat. I need it beside the glass,” he overheard Jack asking one of the workers at the front office. “Preferably behind the bench. For the next home game.” 

It was easy to piece together that Jack was seeing someone. It was clear that she didn’t have much knowledge on the hockey world or how the sport itself worked. And it was clear that Jack seemed eager to teach you, splurging on you in any way he could without you really catching on.

But that plan quickly failed when you finally met Ellen Hughes. 

It was coming up to almost a year together when Jack asked you to come to the family skate. It wasn’t the first time you would be meeting his parents, but it would be the first hockey event you showed up to outside of the games. It was the first time you would really be setting foot on the ice yourself.

“Are those your own skates?” 

You lifted your head, finding Ellen standing a few feet away with a kind smile on her face. She was already laced up and ready to get on the ice, wrapped up warmly in a similar fashion to yourself. After all, she was the one to give you tips after Jack was unhelpful with his ‘I don’t know, my jersey is pretty warm’ response.

“Yeah, Jack got them for me!” You answered, unable to bite back your smile as you glanced down at your unlaced skates. “He said they were a good starter pair, nice to have a pair of my own so he could drag me out on the ice more.”

“A starter pair?” Ellen questioned, something quite like amusement in her voice.

“What? Are they not?” You asked, a hint of hesitation lacing your words as you glanced down at the skates with doubtful eyes. 

“I mean, they are hell of a pair to start with,” Ellen said with a gentle laugh. “Recognise the brand?” 

You glanced back at the older woman, shaking your head. 

“They are skates for professional skaters, quite a renowned brand too,” Ellen told you, still seeming like there was an underlying joke you weren’t understanding.

Your brows furrowed together. “Oh god, are they…expensive?”

Ellen simply smiled in response.

“Oh my god,” you breathed out, staring down at the skates with a conflicted expression. 

“I think I’ll let my son explain everything,” Ellen said before she wandered off, the silence quickly being replaced by Jack who approached with a huge smile on his face.

“Need help?” He asked, but never gave you a chance to answer as he kneeled in front of you, already reaching for the laces of your skates to begin tying them.

You watched him closely. “Jack?”

“Hm?” 

“How much did these skates cost?” 

The boy froze, his fingers pausing for a few moments too long before muscle memory began to take over. 

“Uh, I don’t remember,” Jack eventually blurted out, making a point of keeping his eyes on your skates. The swift movements were quickly slowed down, like he was purposefully dragging it out so he wouldn’t have to look up. 

“Jack,” you scolded, though your voice was softer than he expected. “You have to let me pay you back.”

His head snapped up. “Baby, no—”

“You can’t just spend insane amounts of money like that on me!” You argued before he had the chance. “Especially on skates I’ll hardly be using!”

“But we could make you use them more?” Jack bargained with a bashful smile.

You shot him a look.

“Baby,” he sighed as he placed his hands on your knees, squeezing them softly. “I want to splurge on you sometimes. I just wanna show you I care, you know? And I wanna share my love for hockey with you. Help you love it just as much as I do.”

“You don’t need to spend stupid money to make me love it,” you retorted, but you melted at his admission as you placed your hands over his. “No more big purchases without telling me, okay?”

He sighed deeply before nodding. “Okay. Promise.”

“Good,” you smiled as you leaned down to quickly peck his lips whilst you had the chance with no cameras on you. “Now, c’mon. Teach me how to actually use these skates and make them worth your money.”

Jack snorted. “I’ve got you, baby.”

“Good because I haven’t even stood up and I still think I’m about to fall over.”

.

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

WILL YOU PRAY FOR ME? ( House of the Dragon x Reader )

AUTHOR NOTE! Trying out writing Aegon some more for my fic, 'THE CONQUEROR REBORN'. <3 pairing: DARK! Aegon ii Targaryen x Fem! Hightower! Reader prompt: Aegon finds you praying in the Sept before the Battle of Rook's Rest. This is not a friendly encounter. word count: 1, 298+ words

You had been sent to King’s Landing as a means of assurance that House Hightower, Aegon’s Mother side of the family, was completely loyal to him and his cause. You dreaded it, wishing you had been born a man or married off to some Lord from far away. King’s Landing was in chaos, the common folk struggling to adapt to the changes due to the war. Whilst the Red Keep was a mix of chaotically trying to plan out the war and comforting a fragile minded Helaena. 

It did not help that the predatory eyes that were Aegon’s that followed you everywhere. From when you entered a room until you left, if the walls had eyes then they surely would have followed you there as well. In hopes of avoiding any conflict or attempts of any kind, the Sept became your safe haven. Aegon did not attend the daily mass, nor did he believe in the Faith of the Seven. 

So, those hours long masses were a good enough excuse to get out of the Red Keep and to keep your distance from Aegon. After the rumors of Aegon’s past in Silk Street floated towards your ear, no matter how hard Alicent tried to stop it, it gave you reason enough to keep far far far far away from him. Even if he was your distant cousin and King of the Seven Kingdoms. 

Kneeling in front of the large statue of the Mother, you did not pray for anything a girl of your age and high standing usually would have, not for the blessing of fertility and easy labor. No, you prayed for mercy and peace on behalf of your sweet distant cousin and Queen consort Helaena. The poor girl did not deserve the fate given to her, to marry her older brother and to watch her innocent son be slaughtered in front of her. Helaena deserved peace and mercy. 

Grabbing a match from benches in front of the statue, you light an unlit candle, watching the flames crackle and pop for a second. Weakly smiling at the alluring glow of candlelight, you blow out the match, shifting on the velvet stool in front of the statue of the Mother. Letting out a gentle sigh, you clasps your hands together in a prayer motion, ready to begin your prayers for your sweet cousin. 

“So this is where you run off to.” Aegon states, his loud footsteps filling the once quiet Sept.

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

“I had hoped for something more interesting or scandalous.” Aegon comments amused, “But, considering how much of a prude Oldtown is, I am not surprised you're here.” 

“Your grace, I was not expecting you here.” You weakly get out, dreading turning around. 

“I can tell. You're tense.” 

Tensing up even more as he points it out, you turn around to look at him, your eyes looking him over. His hair was unruly as ever, only making it more obvious that he lacked the knowledge of a hairbrush of any kind. Though you were sure that he never combed it in his entire life as it was very fit for his character. 

Narrowing your eyes at what he was wearing, the steel chest plate clearly did not fit him, the leather straps holding the chest plate together looking seconds away from bursting. You’d never comment on it, but he would have better luck squeezing himself into a corset than trying to wear that armor.  

“I was taken by surprise by you. Do forgive me for it, your grace.” You mumble weakly, now praying that he would go away.

“I see you are admiring me. I do not blame you. I do look rather dashing, had nearly all of the whores in Silk Street throw themselves at me.” He jests, though it only makes your lips curled up into a disgusted look. 

A poet. No, a drunk. No, no, a whore. Anyone could have come up with a better conversation starter than that. 

“I am sure you enjoyed that, your grace.” You nod, “You look like the true epitome of a King.”

Shifting your eyes away from him, you tense up as he stands beside your stool, dangerously close to touching you. Aegon had always given you an odd feeling, not quite hatred but not quiet enjoyment, more like a neutral contentment. From the cordial conversations at dinner with the rest of the family, he was decent enough. Of course, before he gorged himself on Arbor red and food. 

“Will you pray for me?” He asks, his hand brushing against the side of your cleavage.

“What?” You blurt out, tensing up at the ‘accidental’ touch. 

“I said, will you pray for me, sweet cousin?” He asks, a dark glint in his eyes. “Pray for your King to return from battle unmarred?”

“I will, if you ask me to.” You mumble, feeling forced to comply. 

Cowering backwards as he leans in dangerously close, every part of your body told you that you were not safe this close to him. He was a Targaryen, the King, your distant cousin, and a married man nonetheless. An unmarried woman such as yourself should not be this close to him. Pushing down the fear that bubbled up inside of you, he tenderly touches your chin, tilting your head up to meet his gaze better. Your lips dangerously close to touching if either of you leaned in. 

Carefully looking over his features, you would never say it aloud, but in another life he would be considered ethereal. Those stunning amethyst eyes and white curls that all Targaryen’s had. Those sharp features that were framed with a soft pudginess from his recent gain of weight. The soft pink under his eyes and on the tip of his nose from restless nights. Remembering where you were, you instantly pull back from him, keeping a distance from him. 

“When I return from Rook’s Rest, victorious, like I know that I will. I will take you as my second wife, I need an heir and you are fit for that.” He states, an almost sinister glimmer in his eyes. 

“But, it is forbidden. In the eyes of the Seven and of the common law. No man should take two wives.” You argue, praying it would be enough to spook him off.  

“I am King, my word is law. Not to mention, twas’ my ancestor who took two wives. Who am I to deny tradition?” He counters, the tone of his voice leaving no room to argue.

No. No. No. Now he cares of tradition? Of duty?

Realizing that there truly was no way to sway his mind on the matter, you sink in the velvet stool, a twindle of defeat filling you. You would be his second wife, his bride. Just a broodmare, someone to warm his bed whenever he called for you like a dog. No one would be able to protest this, to argue on your behalf because he was right, he was King. His word held more power than anyone in the Seven Kingdoms. Your fate was sealed, it seemingly was when you were shipped to King’s Landing. 

"But-" You try, but he cuts you off.

“Now, I will expect you to await my return with eagerness, my little bride-to-be.” He whispers, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

You don’t speak, your tongue feeling as if it was made of lead.  Even if you could, you could not promise that you would not lash out on him. 

“Oh, and when I do come back, wait for me in my chambers dressed in that pretty little chemise of yours. I liked the one with the pink ribbon.” He whispers, the last part of his words sending a cold shiver down your spine. 

He had been watching you whilst you were in your chambers. For gods knows how long.

----

@lovelykhaleesiii

@fragileheartbeats

@danytar

[lauraneedstochill]

Confess the longing you are dreaming of

summary: Aemond thinks the woman he has to marry is the most impudent and unsufferable he’s ever met. He’s also never wanted anyone so badly. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Martell!reader (third person, no mention of Y/N) warnings: bantering and teasing, mentions of unpleasant sexual experience, praise kink (guess who’s got it), a dollop of softness, mild smut (... for starters ;) author’s note: couldn’t get the idea out of my head and spent a few sleepless nights writing this. I imagine her brothers as Pedro Pascal and Oscar Isaac ✨ words: ~8000 song inspo: Hozier — Better love

>>> Aemond isn’t present when the idea is voiced the first time — he has a hunch that his grandsire is to blame for that. No doubt, Otto was the one to plan it out, come up with arguments served with his persuasive tone. He’s always loved to make arrangements and strike deals, each one of them to play into his hands, and Aemond hates the thought of being just another pawn of his.

He is blindsided at the breakfast but it’s made sound carelessly mundane — as Otto puts down his cup, he throws him the proposal, the way one would leniently throw alms to the poor. And Aemond thinks he must’ve heard him wrong.

“Marry me to... Who?” the prince asks, hardly covering his surprise.

His grandsire directs his gaze at him, the old man’s mouth twitching into a condescending smile. Since Otto isn’t keen on idle talk, he tells him plainly:

“You’ve long been of age, Aemond, you know that,” his knife scratches the plate as he cuts the meat, his eyes not moving from the prince. “House Martell holds power, and we’ll be fortunate to have such allies. Besides,” he pauses to take a bite, and Aemond gets annoyed at waiting; Otto chews, then adds, “I’ve only heard good things about your bride-to-be. Wouldn’t you confirm, Ser Criston?”

The mention of the knight is unexpected to them both — Aemond turns his head to meet Ser Criston’s puzzled look. But the brunet effortlessly copes with his emotions:

“We met when she was just a kid. But I knew she’d grow into a fine lady,” he easily agrees. Mayhaps, too easily for Aemond’s liking so he makes a note to talk about it later on.

His grandsire only lets out a pleased hum. “Well, I’m under the impression she will make a good match for our prince,” and Aemond feels that Otto carefully picks each word, “She’s said to be both beautiful and smart, and known for being quite independent,” he’s usually so stingy with his praise, it’s worth its weight in gold.

But that is not what Aemond hears. The choice was made for him, and his rejection of it makes him paint a portrait less alluring — a pompous wayward woman raised in the traditions that are starkly different from his; and yet, it is expected of him to accept it freely. His wounded ego simmers at the thought.

“I’d add another word to that,” Aegon chimes in, half-drunk already, “Everyone knows the Martells to also be promisc—”

“Look who’s talking,” Otto glares at him, and Aegon shuts his mouth.

The word is left unsaid, only the meaning of it isn’t hard to guess, and Aemond feels embarrassment creeping up his cheeks and weighting down his chest. He deems himself an educated man, well-read and eager to put his knowledge to the test, but he has yet to learn of carnal pleasures. A memory is clawing out: him, ten-and-three and plied with wine, laid on a bed that smelled of sweat, a naked woman next to him. Despite her tireless attempts, he wanted none of it, and the repulsion made him sick — and then it made him hate the act itself.

He did go to the brothel through the years, tried watching, touching, looked at bodies of all sorts, only it felt like putting paint over a rotten wall. He felt constrained, and lacking in some way (perhaps, in many), and more so awfully incomplete. Not once he sensed a spark, a pleasure he would crave, and no amount of effort could help him fill the emptiness inside.

He quells the feeling, pushes in indifference instead, and glances briefly at his mother. She meets his eye but only grants him a faint smile, her own gaze lacking any protest.

“Her brothers wrote that they would visit in a fortnight,” Alicent peacefully explains. “It is our duty to ensure a royal welcome.”

“Brothers?” Helaena blithely chirps. “How many does she have?”

“Four but only two of them are coming,” Otto tells her softly, then looks at Aemond, adding in a voice more wily. “I am convinced they really want to see whom their dear sister is about to marry.”

He doesn’t spell it out but the implication can’t be clearer — Aemond must play the part and make a good impression. As if impressing just one stranger wasn’t tedious enough.

As if he isn’t vexed already by how unsuitable he finds her.

>>> Frustration grows in Aemond with each day, takes roots, and clogs up all his thoughts. Some other man would’ve been glad — he often heard that the Martells are quite the lovers. He can’t admit it to himself how much he’s bothered by his own misfortunes on the love field.

He bottles his emotions up and doesn’t utter any word of discontent, nor does he ever speak of the awaited visit. Although he makes just one exception.

“My grandsire mentioned that you knew her,” he reminds Ser Criston one day after training.

The knight nods. “I crossed paths with Quentyn, he’s the oldest. She used to come to watch us train.”

“What was she like?” Aemond carefully wonders.

Ser Criston ponders for a minute, polishing his sword. “She was a quiet little girl, kept to herself. A lot of boys were always chasing after her, and she paid them all no mind,” he smiles at the memory. “But I remember one of them who was... particularly pesky. His charms didn’t work on her so he got offended, rude, followed her around. She tolerated him for over a month. One morning, he was hassling her in the training yard, and she just took a spear laying nearby — and smacked him with no warning,” he shakes his head but it’s apparent that he isn’t judging. “She didn’t use the pointy end but she got him good. And then she told him that next time he would think twice about his actions. She was impressive for a ten-year-old,” he muses and puts the sword away, then turns to Aemond, giving him a wistful stare. “Frankly, I think that you will like her.”

He does, for just a second, as his mind rushes to paint the image of a fearless little girl; and then he mercilessly wipes that image off. Maybe in other circumstances, he could’ve found amusement in that story, but Aemond only huffs and thinks back to the list of all her traits he prematurely made up. He adds “rebellious” to that list, and his self-doubt is a venom that clouds his judgment. He’s in no rush to find a cure.

>>> Their ship arrives a few hours earlier than planned — and after the dock watchers break the news, the bustle begins. Maids, servants, guards all run and faff about the castle, the dining hall gets filled with smells and noises, plates and dishes clanking.

Aemond is not excited in the slightest.

He dresses up reluctantly, each piece of clothes only dampening his mood that’s been already sour for the past two weeks. He all but drags his feet into the dining hall and by the time he reaches it, he looks so grim that one may think the prince’s preparing for his death, no less.

The minutes fly too quickly for his liking — they barely have time to sit, his mother nervously toying with the tablecloth already, and then the guards rush to announce the guests. Surprisingly, she’s not among them. The prince thinks he should be relieved; deep down, there is a splash of worry fizzling in him.

Her brothers walk in calmly in a cloud of servants bearing gifts. Their kinship is immediately clear — both tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired, self-confidence subsisting in their every step. The oldest is distinguished by a touch of gray in his short beard, his gaze more focused, a slight smile plastered on his face. The other one shamelessly stares at every maid his eyes can catch.

“Your grace, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,” Quentyn reaches their table first, and Alicent walks down to greet them. He keeps his distance and his smile, his tone is measured. “We were so sad to learn that the King has fallen sick. But I can tell the Kingdom is in great hands. And —”

“Women’s hands do have a healing touch,” Oberyn smoothly interrupts, his accent a bit thicker, his voice honeyed. “I will prefer a Queen over a King at any given day. Unless, of course, your husband can compete with you in beauty... I somehow doubt that.”

A shade of disapproval grazes Quentyn’s face but Alicent is too amazed to notice. The compliment may come off as blunt but she still takes it well, her smile embarrassed yet sincere.

“I hope you will enjoy your stay,” she tells them humbly, then looks over the crowd. “But may I ask where is the lady we’ve been waiting for?”

“She made a stop on our way to catch up with an old friend,” Quentyn answers, ready to explain, “It’s been years since we’ve met Ser —”

“Still can’t believe he is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” Oberyn chuckles. “I think it’s all the armor that makes it look like he poses a threat. But you may reconsider if you see him in the nude.”

This time, the older brother glares at him with warning, and there’s a lull in their conversation, while Aemond’s struggling to hear what made his mother’s cheeks so red, his mind nervously preoccupied with someone else —

her laughter enters first.

It’s bright and joyful, a sound so lovely it might be enough to crack up his restraint. But then he spots her, and it feels like his whole body flares up at the sight.

She’s walking with her hand under Ser Criston’s arm, and Aemond’s never seen a dress that covers so much but hides so little. It’s muted orange, floor-length, made of sumptuous silk, with two long slits along the sides, curves of her thighs beguilingly seen through. Her neck and arms aren’t covered, and the material is intricately stitched around her waist to show a few more glimpses of her sun-kissed skin. The waves of her long hair fall on her shoulders and frame her face, each feature of it striking but her lips stand out the most — full, plump, and reddish. Not once before Aemond found the thought of being kissed so tempting.

She doesn’t even turn her head to look at him. She’s talking to Ser Criston quietly, and he’s engaged in conversation, unusually relaxed. Their difference in age is obvious, and the knight seems like just another relative of hers, but an uneasy feeling still leaves a bite on Aemond’s chest. He can’t imagine her so carefree — so beaming and compliant — by his side. His jealousy tastes bitter like a stale wine.

He hears his brother let out a short laugh. “It’s not like they were fucking,” Aegon carelessly notes. “Please ease your outrage before she runs away.”

“I don’t remember asking for advice,” Aemond snarls.

“You do look like you need it,” the blond comments, then goes back to drinking.

She gracefully approaches them, her voice melodic like a murmur of a river. “Forgive me, your grace, for being late, I haven’t seen Ser Criston in some time,” she tells his mother. “He was once a dear friend of mine.”

“I only helped to shush away a few of your admirers,” the knight cackles, earning a smile from her.

“I hope you are making use of all his talents,” she says to the Queen, making her face flush right away.

She delicately moves on to another topic. “It is a pleasure to have you here, you must be tired from taking such a long trip.”

“We found it quite enjoyable,” Quentyn remarks politely. “The beautiful sights along the way are worth the journey, and your city has some great views too.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard great things about your food,” Oberyn grins. “Hence why we took the liberty to bring some of our own,” he signals to the nearest servant, who runs to open one of the trunks they carried. “The dornish fruits are also my sister’s weak spot.”

“As if you don’t gorge yourself on them!” she jests, letting go of Ser Criston’s arm at last. “My brother is a glutton, your grace, please excuse his manners in advance.”

“You can call me Alicent,” his mother corrects her warmly. “Only seems fair to continue this discussion at the table,” she slightly moves away to let the girl go first.

Aemond unintentionally stiffens and only when he stands up from his chair to greet her, she finally does look at him. In contrast to her countenance, her gaze is dark and piercing, and the prince is staggered by how unreadable it is. Her brothers glance at Aemond briefly — Quentyn is pensive, while Oberyn looks like he wants to bite his head off; neither says a word.

She’s seated to his right, and she leaves behind a trail of scent — apples and plums, and he can’t help but catch the movement of her hips under the flowing dress. The words all mash and fall apart, and he can’t pick a single one to strike up a conversation.

Aegon is sitting next to her, and his patience only lasts a minute. “Never knew Ser Criston was such a ladies' man.”

“I’m sure he succeeded on that front but we are merely good friends,” she answers calmly, keeping her eyes on servants bringing fruits — blood oranges and pomegranates, robust grapes, and ripened cherries.

“You two seemed more than friendly,” Aegon presses, his tone evidently taunting.

She picks a golden apricot and runs her thumb over its fragrant surface. “Maybe it’s the wine that makes you see things,” she rebuts and takes a bite out of the fruit, a drop of juice risking to escape her mouth but she wipes it swiftly with her finger. She catches Aemond looking, and his cheeks heat up.

“We’ve never seen him in the company of a woman,” the older prince points out, filling up his cup once more.

She takes out the kernel and eats up the fruit, her mouth glistens. “Aren’t the knights of the Kingsguard forbidden to marry?”

“Never stopped them from bedding whoever they like,” Aegon remarks crudely, and Aemond is thankful that their mother is too preoccupied with Oberyn’s tireless chatting.

“Maybe some men have the decency to follow orders,” she responds, unbothered, taking a cherry and clasping it with her lips. Aegon doesn’t seem to notice and only gulps the wine and rolls his eyes. Aemond can’t look away.

“Aren’t you Martells known for not following the rules? I thought unruly was in your house’s motto,” Aegon argues, a corner of his mouth curled in a smirk.

She takes another cherry, the third in a row, her lips already stained with juice. “I think you keep getting your facts wrong,” she brushes him off, and Aegon goes to object some more but spills the wine right on his shirt. The displeased cry brings Aemond out of his trance.

“He tends to do that when he’s drunk,” the one-eyed prince coolly interjects.

Her eyes flicker to him, then she fully turns her head. “So you can actually talk,” her teasing comes off soft but her gaze still burns. “It’s good to know.”

“You seemed preoccupied with someone else,” he musters an excuse.

“Do you expect your wife to never speak to other men?” her voice almost betrays her disenchantment.

“No,” Aemond quickly answers, caught unawares by how strained his thinking process is. “She— you are free to choose your friends, of course.”

“I’m flattered,” her tone suggesting otherwise, “Not that I would ask for anyone’s approval,” she reaches for a plum; he closes his eye with a sigh.

Aegon comes to stand in between them on the pretext of needing another carafe of wine: “I didn’t mean to interrupt your friendly bickering, please continue.”

“It seems like Aemond isn’t in the mood for talking,” she doesn’t look at him, the tip of her tongue darting to lick her finger. “And I am never in the mood for begging.”

“My brother’s hospitality leaves much to be desired,” Aegon takes a sip. “So I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer,” his hand falls on her chair. “But if you ever wish to be... well satisfied, all you have to do is ask me”.

It’s hard to tell if Aegon’s actually that drunk or merely provoking (or if he’s got a death wish, Aemond wonders).

She replies without much thought. “Well, if I ever find myself in need of...,” she trails off with a smile but her gaze gets harsh — her words then follow, “My choice won’t fall on you,” the smirk falls off Aegon’s face, and she glances straight at Aemond, adding, “I like them taller.”

But her straightforwardness is met with his resistance, with the deep-rooted unacceptance of his lurking needs. He adds “indecent” to the list, and they speak no more.

>>> Her boldness doesn’t pose a problem to anyone but him. To his surprise (or more so to his shock), his mother gives in first.

The morning can’t come fast enough for Aemond after he spends the night tossing and turning. A few hours later he rushes to the garden for a walk, overwhelmed by restlessness his training didn’t help him cope with. That’s when he sees it — a spot of yellow shining through the trees. He somehow knows it’s her without further confirmation but still, his feet carry him on.

Her dress is vivid like a field of marigolds, her hair plaited, wrists adorned with golden bracelets. He slackens pace and peers into her — and he wants nothing more than to drink her up, her whole appearance is the sweetest nectar... Until he hears another sound and realizes she is not alone, and it’s his mother sitting by her side, wrapped in her favorite green and, unexpectedly, in glee. He can’t remember when he saw her laugh like this — out loud, giggling, tears at the corners of her eyes are not from sadness but from joy.

“My dear, that is so improper! Did he apologize at least?” Alicent inquires with a smile.

“Oberyn rarely does,” she tells her serenely. “His lover looked way more ashamed. I hope each of your rooms has locks, gods know I don’t want to walk in on him again.”

Unlike his mother who is covered by the shade of trees, she’s bathing in the sun, the soft light caressing her skin, and Aemond’s eye greedily follows every ray. In barely a minute he feels warm all over.

“I hope that Aemond’s chambers got locks too,” she adds all of a sudden, a bit louder, and his chest is splashed with cold.

His eye moves to her face, and she’s already looking at him, direct and daring. He knows he’s hidden by the trees but there’s no hiding from her gaze.

Aemond turns away and steps back in haste, his abashment mixed with grievance at her implication. He believes someone like her would never lust for him, and her jokes at his expense not only hurt but prompt his resentment to grow stronger. He adds “deceptive” to the portrait of her he is so adamantly set on painting.

>>> She wins Helaena’s heart with ease. His sister fondly compliments her brooch — a little poppy made out of gold — and she gifts it to Helaena the same day. The silver-haired princess grabs at chance to show her own collection, and they spend the day looking through the jewels spread over the floor, sitting right there and equally amused.

And that’s how Aemond finds them. He only planned to see his nephews but hearing her voice coming from Helaena’s chambers makes him slow his step.

“... And this one he gave me for my latest name day,” Helaena babbles cheerfully.

“Aemond clearly spoils you,” she laughs without a shade of envy. “As he should!”

“He is very kind at heart,” Helaena eagerly assures her. “You will be happy with him, I am certain of it.”

There is a pause that makes him feel uneasy, makes him sneak up closer to the room.

“I do believe he’s not an evil man,” she finally says, “Maybe he just wasn’t made for marriage.”

Surely she can’t see him through the door but he can swear that he feels her gaze, like a silent challenge, a hidden mocking. He barges in without a knock.

Helaena beams. “We were just talking about you!”

His sister’s dress is milky blue, modestly pretty, and loosely fitted. It’s also treacherously pale compared to the liquid gold the Martell girl is dressed in. She’s sitting with her feet under her thighs, the bending of her back is bare and in plain sight. He should’ve walked away the second he heard the sound of her voice because not looking at her seems impossible.

“Oh, you came to see the twins? They are with Aegon but I can call— No, I will bring them back myself,” Helaena springs to her feet, rosy-cheeked and smiley, and leaves the room before Aemond can protest. And then it’s just the two of them.

He takes a breath and makes an effort, with his jaw tense and his blood rising, to drag his eye away from her. It feels as pointless as ignoring sunlight in an open field on a summer day. Only her beauty is more brazen — and so is her wit.

“I take it, gold isn’t your favorite color,” she speaks up with an impish tone. “Would be a bad idea to wear it on our wedding then.”

She never comes too close, always just a little out of reach, and yet he feels as if her presence grips him, weakening his will. He doesn’t want to be with her until he is — and then he has no wish to leave.

It scares Aemond as much as it spikes his anger.

“Why did you agree to come?” he bristles.

“You are not asking about your sister’s chambers, are you?” she clarifies, and he hears her smiling.

He tells himself he only needs to cast a glance to check.

He does — he meets her gaze — her earrings catch the sunlight and cast a trail of glares — the scattering of specks play on her skin, her neck and collarbones, sneak to her upper chest — his own is heaving. His struggle only lasts a moment but it leaves him short of breath. He isn’t looking anymore, his eye trying to discern the pattern on the drapes behind her.

“Our marriage, how do you benefit from it?” he hates how hard it is to control his voice.

And how she watches him intently without giving him a clue of what’s on her mind.

“I plan on visiting my family a couple of times a year. It will be easier to do on dragon back,” she doesn’t sound spiteful when she says it but her words still sting.

He can’t stop an image flashing through his mind: her on top of Vhagar, lungs full of air, pressed to him. It’s tempting — to have her in his hands, and yet the vision is too intangible to cling to. Instead, he thinks that in just three days she learned to play him like a harp, his years' worth of self-control is merely a sand castle against the tide of her sharp tongue.

He only snickers dryly at her reply, then they both hear the sound of running footsteps. Jaehaera and Jaehaerys rush to greet him — but almost instantly abandon, the kids' attention drawn to the shining golden dress.

He thinks “unruly” suits her better than does “pompous”. He comes up with a fake excuse to leave; the image of her stays with him.

>>> He picks more adjectives as the week goes on — she’s audacious, disobedient, wanton. She moves around the castle as if she owns every room she’s in. She wears less, and even on rare occasions when she doesn’t, her defiance more than compensates for it. She never shies away from a deep neckline, nor does she feel the need to hold back her resounding laughs. Her jewelry clinks, each of her dresses is brighter than the other, but it’s her wicked mouth his eye always falls on first.

More times than not, Aemond can’t tear his gaze away, each meal for him now both a torture and a feast.

He watches as she parts her lips, puts them around a luscious grape, a cherry, or a peach, she swipes her tongue to lick up every running drop, savoring its tang — and keeps eye contact with him. He barely can taste the food he’s eating, and no wine can quench his thirst, his body flooding with a feeling he can’t define, his heart adrift.

He tries to fight it off with all our strength. He scratches off “unruly” to write down “unabashed” instead.

But then the dinner comes, and even though he’s never had a taste for sweets, he thinks he’d eat them from her lips (deep down, he wants to). The lies he tells himself are brittle like the flesh of fruits under her teeth.

>>> He comes to think “insufferable” fits her the best. That thought rings in his head while he is standing in the stable, his eye on anything but her. He was informed she wished to pick a horse, and he begrudgingly agreed to come, only to keep up the pretense.

What turns out to be much harder is for him to keep restraint. The dress she’s wearing might as well be a chemise — it’s just as light and white, and much to his discomfort, it also tirelessly risks hiking up to expose more of her legs.

Discomfort, mayhaps, isn’t the right word for it.

He stays out of her way but, unsurprisingly, he ends up looking — at how she walks, spring in her step, swinging her hips. She gives each horse a piece of apple and feeds them by hand, strokes their muzzles, and then she mounts and rides them, one by one. She grabs the reins, her foot easily finds the stirrup, and as she swings her leg over the saddle, her dress slips up, showing a few inches of her skin.

He swallows thickly, glances more intently — over her dainty ankles, bending of her knees, he notes how smooth her skin is, soaking up the sun. Her dress then billows slightly, and his eye glides higher, hungry, follows up the contour of her thighs that bounce a little as the horse gallops.

He feels it blooming — a sensation with no name that travels from the lower chest down to his very navel, then spreads and tightens all that’s underneath.

He is so deep in his enthrallment, he doesn’t hear the steps approaching until there’s someone standing next to him. Quentyn stays silent for a minute, throwing him a sideways glance.

“My sister’s always been terribly picky,” the man says out of the blue, “And usually it’s hard to meet all of her demands,” — it doesn’t seem like it’s the horses he is talking of. The vagueness of it makes Aemond focus as he takes his eye off her but Quentyn doesn’t elaborate, giving him a smile instead. “I do admit, your patience is commendable. Some other man would’ve already interfered just to wrap the process up.”

“I was under the impression she doesn’t need anyone’s help,” Aemond replies evasively.

“You guessed it right,” Quentyn titters, his tone veiled with the same unclear meaning when he adds, “The only thing left for us all is to accept it,” and with that, he goes to join his sister.

When Aemond — tamely, almost yielding — takes a peek at her, his gaze collides with Oberyn’s who clearly watched them talk. Unlike his older brother, he prefers to stay away, but the mischief in him pairs really well with danger. He grants Aemond a nod, switching attention back to her, his threats unspoken for the meantime.

For just a second, it gives Aemond pause as he finds it odd that no one brings up their wedding, and no announcements have been made ever since she came. He doesn’t mull over it for long because her laughter interrupts his thoughts (or maybe he just yearns for any chance to look at her). She rides around the yard, her hair floating in the wind, a little breathless but breathtaking, her lips enticing and her curves making his throat dry.

He tries to ground himself, to look for explanations, for some reprieve from the entrancing spell he’s under — he’s never been so close to losing reason —

out of the corner of his eye, he sees a couple of guards dropping their gaze in poor attempts to stop themselves from gawking; it reins his passion, bringing back his jealousy instead. He’s way too used to seeing himself unworthy to even entertain the thought of having her, and his denial prickles. He wants to burn his feelings out, and anger helps with that — it breaks out and engulfs him fast, hardening both his heart and gaze.

“Quentyn is the friendliest of the two, and you couldn’t hold a conversation?” Aegon appears out of nowhere, seemingly displeased despite the bottle in his hand. “Must you always be so gruff? I stayed behind in hopes you’d make it work!” he waves at Oberyn then glares at Aemond, waiting for a reply. “Are you pretending to be deaf or...?”

“Must she test my patience?” Aemond mutters, his tone not jealous but exasperated, his eye boring into her, “Putting herself out like that for all the men to see.”

Aegon being speechless is a rare sight. He cannot fathom it at first, looking from Aemond back to her, confusion sobering him up. And then he grins, realization creeping up on him; there are some things he’s always quick to notice.

“It’s funny that you say that,” he leans in to tell him and catches Aemond’s gaze, “Since it’s just you who’s staring,” Aegon pats him on the back and leaves to greet her brothers.

Aemond tries to choke it down — his irritation and his shame combined, but it’s too much for him to handle, his head and heart clearly in conflict. He doesn’t wait for her to make a choice, retiring without sparing her a glance (a fear nibs at him that if he looks at her once more, he will stay rooted to the ground).

He doesn’t leave his chambers for the remainder of the day, dining all alone and fuming all the same. He’s usually good at curbing his emotions but he is having trouble understanding them, wanting nothing more than to erase all memories of her. But even in his solitude, he catches himself thinking — about her cunning smile and swaying hips, her eyes on him, his hands wanting to roam and touch and —

Aemond shoves unwanted thoughts away and goes to bed earlier than usual. He remains steadfast in his resolve to find some peace, he makes a conscious effort to shift his focus to all the boring, random things his mind can come up with until he is too tired to care.

But then he falls asleep, and his subconscious welcomes her. He sees her right before his eye in that obscenely short white dress, there are no people in the yard, her tantalizing moves all meant for him. She hops off her black horse and walks to him without a single word — anticipation makes him drop his guard and hold his breath — and then he feels her lips on his, her body pressing into him, his hunger for her ruining his self-control, the kiss is searing, suffocating, driving him insane, his fingers pulling up her dress —

he wakes up painfully aroused.

He lays in bed, his heartbeat rushing, his breathing ragged, and vision blurred. While he’s still grasping for the remnants of his dream, he sneaks his hand into his breeches, wishing he could rip her dress off and sheath himself inside her, spread her on his bed, and drink every salacious sound she makes... It only takes him a few strokes to spill over his fingers; he can’t remember if he’s ever reached his peak so fast.

And only then, as he comes down from his high, it hits him, like lightning in the dark — in spite of her remarks, her audacity, her dresses, and every cruel adjective he’s found for her, he’s never wanted anyone so badly. Aemond sits up abruptly, his sleep gone, giving way to stubbornness that comes hand in hand with reticence. He persuades himself that he’ll suppress this — the spark, the pleasure that he craves, and he won’t be a slave to his desires.

He’ll rid himself of feelings, of this lust. Inevitably it will wane.

>>> It doesn’t.

Desire is a guest that never leaves, unwanted but demanding space, attention, time. It slips into his thoughts the moment he wakes up, it whispers in his ears, never giving up, it’s layered in between his clothes and his skin. He hides it well from everyone; it lodges deeper into him.

Desire is a cherry in her mouth, each fruit she bites in, savors, drinks the juice from. He doesn’t want to watch — he can’t take his eye off her, caught in his fervor like in undertow, the flavor of her lips the only one he truly yearns for.

Desire bruises more than does a hit, cuts deeper than a blade, and there’s no weapon he can fight it off with. His training brings him no relief, and he can’t sweat it out or wash it off him, and even while he soaking in a bath, it feels like longing only rises back with steam.

Desire waits for him at night, stands by his bed, slides right under the covers with him. He dreams of her, and in those dreams, her body sings under his every touch, trembles from his praise, his hands and mouth paint her with marks and kisses. He wakes up with his chest aflame and out of breath, and then it takes all of his willpower not to crawl to her.

It staggering how much he really wants her, and he hates himself for it.

>>> It’s been three weeks and they have barely shared a word. He does his best to cut down their encounters and avoid her, he doesn’t argue and takes no offense, he hopes that if he pulls back just enough she will give up and let him be.

Aemond spends his evenings in the study, his table piled with books, and for a couple of hours, it does help to take his mind off things. The night already steals in while he’s searching through the shelves for scrolls, too caught up in the process to pick up the creaking of his door.

Her gaze nearly scalds him. He only looks up out of surprise — and then he freezes at the spot, his heart a stone that plummets to his stomach.

Out of everything she’s worn, this dress might be the one to bring him to his knees — the cutting out the front so low, his eye falls in the hollow between her breasts; he envies fervently the golden chain that rests there. He takes in her whole body, bare arms, and flaunting forms, all clad in deep dark green. He’s never seen her pick that color (and he can’t help but think she put it on for him).

He’s brought back from his stupor when their eyes meet — and startled by the determination in her gaze.

“Ser Criston told me that you missed your training,” she stately starts walking toward him, “Quite a few times this week.”

“I found myself preoccupied with other things,” he clears his throat and clasps his hands behind his back, the scrolls forgotten.

“With reading, I assume?” she almost sounds aggrieved (he wants to ask what else she’d rather have him do) but then her tone gets jaunty. “Would you mind if I join?”

“Actually, I would,” Aemond takes his eye off her, his coldness feigned. “I’d like to avoid distractions.”

And more than anything, he would like for her to leave; she’s not the one to give up so easily. “Maybe we can learn some things together?” she nonchalantly insists, and that ambiguity — deliberate or not — leaves his face suffused with pink.

“I highly doubt you take interest in the things I study,” he manages, his crudeness biting his own tongue.

She only sneers, already nearing his table. “You surely rush to judgment.”

“And I am never wrong.” (Although he’s been wrong once before.)

“That’s very humble of you.” (And she’s tenacious with her intent to prove him wrong again.)

“I am surprised you know that word,” he replies too hastily — and instantly regrets his outburst.

And his attempts to get away from her could’ve been valiant, but only left him feeling like a coward.

She’s got enough courage to spare. “Oh, my apologies, did I strike a nerve?” her hip grazes a stack of books. “You sound so displeased with my behavior,” she puts her hands right on his table, her cleavage in full view.

“You interrupted my studies,” he’s looking only at her face.

“Just this one time,” she clears up, her sly smile is a dare, “Sounds like you have quite a few complaints.”

Damned be her dress and the day he laid his eye on her. “It’s clear as day that we have nothing in common,” he hisses, her persistence molding his anger. “From your bawdy humor to your reckless behavior and your...,” he struggles to push the word through his mouth, “vulgar dresses — everything suggests that we will never make a good couple.”

He catches a gleam in her gaze but it’s not threatening nor hurt — and when the corners of her mouth curl up, her face expression actually looks amused. “I didn’t realize my presence tormented you that much,” she crosses arms over her chest, her hands under her breasts; he looks away that very instant. “So will it please you if I take my vulgar dresses and go back home and leave you be?”

He wants to say it will — he’s thought of it for days — but now he isn’t sure. The dreams he has of her will hardly be enough as every image he collected has got nothing on the real form.

“Is there anything that does?” she asks him suddenly and takes a step in his direction, and then another one.

Belatedly, he realizes that he’s backed against the wall. The air in the room heats up, and Aemond moves back to his table, fingers holding to its edge to find some balance. “...Does what?”

“Please you,” she swiftly clarifies, now standing at arm’s length.

“That isn’t any of your concern,” he wants to glance away and yet, his eye is drawn to her.

“I am inclined to disagree,” her lips stretch into a smile. “Shouldn’t a wife know how to make her husband feel good?”

“We are not married yet,” he tries to argue weakly.

“I’d like to learn beforehand,” but her assertiveness works quicker than his doubts.

The time is still, and seconds drag like hours. His heart leaps at the thought of being all alone with her, his concentration crumbling, his self-restraint already hanging by a thread.

“The way you look at me suggests you aren’t averse to the idea,” she tells him in a low voice, her eyes two glowing embers. Aemond gulps, she deftly rounds the table. “You act so cold and so collected,” she muses, coming closer, and he helplessly steps back. “But I am yet to meet a man who would deny himself the pleasure of laying with a woman,” her voice is warm and warming; his legs bump into the chair, prompting him to sit.

He hesitates for barely a moment but his quick reaction fails him because the next thing he knows, she’s standing next to him, her golden chain casting a blinding glint — he blinks — and then she’s straddling him, her thighs on either side of his.

Aemond’s mouth falls slack as he becomes aware: to lift her he will have to touch her. He glances down at her legs that sneaked out through the long slits of her dress, all bare to the very hips before him.

“I wonder if you are too spoiled by the attention of the ladies? Mayhaps you’ve got so satiated, the intimacy doesn’t bring you any joy,” she runs her fingers up his chest.

He only finds it in himself to shake his head. She isn’t satisfied with that reaction. “Or do you simply find it boring and have a taste for something else?”

Objection bubbles in his throat but he gets no chance to voice it — he barely registers a clinking sound before he feels cold steel pressed under his chin, her fingers wrapped around the hilt of his own dagger. He meant to leave it at the training yard but it completely slipped his mind.

“Does this work better? I’ve heard that you Targaryens have peculiar tastes,” her other hand lands on his shoulder, his chest is stirring with emotions he can’t read.

“That’s not— No,” he mumbles, his voice raw, the weight and feeling of her body overwhelming.

She cocks her brow at him in disbelief. “No? So it’s just plain old satiation then?” she makes no attempt to press the blade but her questions do get pushy. “Must be so hard when women throw themselves at you ever since you were... What was it, ten? Twelve years of age?”

He would expect her to sound teasing — instead, he hears disappointment. That’s the reaction he is used to getting.

“My brother took me to a pleasure house when I was ten-and-three. He said it’s time to get it wet,” he forces out, “And it was...,” awful and humiliating, something he wishes to forget, “...Not what you are describing.”

Her face expression changes — first surprised, then splashed with sadness, and her every feature softens. Aemond sees her opening her mouth to speak but he averts his gaze, abasement scrabbling at him. His eye falls closed, and he keeps thinking that now she will get up and leave, and there won’t be any wedding, and he’s got no reason to get so overly upset already, and —

she sheathes his dagger without a word, the unexpected movement making him breathe out.

And then she dips her head down, and her lips fall on his jaw. Aemond inhales sharply. Her mouth feels softer than it was in all his dreams, and she plants kisses down his throat, moving to the part of it the blade was pressed to. He doesn’t know where to put his hands while hers lock nimbly around his neck.

She pulls back slowly, and he dares to look at her again, trying to catch the merest shadow of pretense but there is none.

“I am truly sorry that you had to go through that,” she tells him quietly. “Have you tried some more since then?”

“I did,” his answer comes off hurried, blank, “I... I am aware of how the act is done.”

“How the act is done? Aemond, that doesn’t sound enjoyable at all,” she pouts, then gently caresses his face, her voice a tender whisper when she adds, “But it should be.”

He stiffens, waiting for the discomfort to wake up, for the aversion to coil his guts, to trigger the jarring need to move away. None of that happens. Instead, he feels her fingers running through his hair, a calming motion bringing only comfort, her every touch relieving tightness in his chest.

“You seem too tense... We have to work on that,” she joyfully murmurs. “Unless, of course, my worry causes you distress,” her fingers stop, “Do you want me to leave, my prince?”

“No,” he rasps, he almost pleads, “D-don’t.”

She hums with satisfaction, bringing her hands down to unclasp his leather doublet, knowing she won’t meet any resistance. He should resent her for this but he doesn’t (he didn’t and he won’t). The air lays cold over his shirt, and Aemond shivers; she moves her fingers down his firm chest with an unspoken admiration.

“Tell me how it usually goes,” she inquires, one of her hands finding its way back to his silver locks. “Do you find pleasure in undressing them?”

Her warmth envelopes him, scented with cinnamon and peaches. “They come without much clothes,” Aemond blurts out, earning another hum from her.

“And what about you?” she glances curiously at him.

“I don’t... I don’t like them touching me,” he timidly avows, and saying it to her does bring somewhat of a relief.

With both of her hands, she cradles his face, thumbs gently contouring his cheeks — he all but melts into her palms. “And yet you are so responsive to the touch,” her voice praises, “So pretty.”

She leans in again, leaving a kiss at the hollow of his throat — and then her mouth travels up, ardent and steady, and he squirms in place. Not out of discomfort.

“You are not supposed to rush it if you want it to feel good,” she whispers in his ear and moves back to catch his gaze. “You never rush into fighting so why love making should be any different?”

Astonishment brightens his face, and she chuckles lightly. “I must confess, I did enjoy watching you train, even though you never noticed. The way you move and twirl your sword,” she’s recollecting breathy, “You are so lithe and fast and so resistant... An infatuating sight.”

She holds his gaze and lifts her hand — he follows it, unblinking, until it finds one of the straps — she hooks it with her fingers. “Fairly soon it made me wonder how would your hands feel... on me,” his heart jolts at her words.

Slowly, she moves the strap aside, baring her breast for him; Aemond’s breathing hitches. She takes his hand in hers, planting a kiss over his knuckles — and then lets his fingers graze her naked skin.

“It was so cruel of you to rob me of my pleasure,” she laments, but he can barely hear a thing, his eye wide as he fixes on the soft swell of her breast, on how her nipple peaks so eagerly under his touch.

She guides his hand over her chest, down to her ribs and waist, letting him brush her every curve, placing his fingers firmly on her hip. And then she reaches for his other hand and lowers the other strap; his body trembles. The layers of his reticence are all peeled at once, leaving his desire raw and undisguised, unshackled. He’s drawn to fondle, clutch at her plump breasts but her grip is tight and taunting, not letting his fingers roam free.

Still, when both his hands sink into her hips, he realizes that he’s getting harder by the second.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by her. With a controlled, torturously slow move she drags her clothed core over his straining cock. His mouth stays closed but there’s a sound — a muffled moan caught in his throat.

“Doesn’t this feel good?” she teases, lightly tugging on his hair, her lips reaching the column of his neck. “With how much you read, I hoped you’d be more generous with words,” each of her kisses weightless like a drop of rain but then her mouth finds a spot below his ear and suckles at it, pulling a whimper from his chest.

He thinks he should... his mind goes blank after another movement of her hips, and she picks up the pace, merciless and sensuous. He tries biting down his moans but only hurts his mouth. She notices, her rapt eyes on him, and puts her finger on his lower lip:

“Please, don’t be shy with me,” she coos, her gentle touch soothing his bitten flesh, “Our desires coincide,” she earnestly affirms him — and the spark erupts and drags him into pure bliss.

He feels that his arousal leaks, his breeches way too tight to hide it, his fingers dig into her supple skin, but she gives no complaints. He watches breathlessly through his hooded eyelid as she grinds against him, then looks over her bouncing breasts, her nipples pebbled, and the pressure curls somewhere down his spine. She peppers him with kisses — the angles of his face, neck, everything that she can reach, except for his desirous mouth. And yet the softness of her lips and hands, her skin that’s draped with the redolent scent, the rhythm of her hips all bring him closer to the edge.

Her forehead is pressed to his, their lips an inch away but never fully touching. “Let go for me,” she says against his mouth, “My handsome, fierce dragon.”

That does it for him. He harshly presses her to him, then shudders with a strangled moan and comes undone, his eye squeezed shut as her name quivers in his mouth. The pleasure whirls him in and leaves him drained and stunned, a little bit light-headed.

It takes Aemond a minute to recover before he finds her gaze again — and in another minute he discerns her shallow breaths, her parted lips, brows slightly furrowed. He wants to ask her if she reached her peak, if he can help her with it —

but she pulls back.

She stands up and only briefly grabs his shoulder, steadying herself, then promptly puts the straps back on, fixing her dress. He wants to lend a hand but she moves it away, leaning in to lightly caress his face. “No, you don’t get to have me yet. I want you to admit it first, to say that you want me,” her words are laced with dignity but cooling to his mind.

She steps back, cruelly fast, the only consolation is her naughty tone. “Until then, I have to satisfy myself some other way. But I will think of you while doing it, my dear prince,” she promises, a ghost of a smile on her lips, and then walks out without looking back.

The silence feels unwelcome in the room and hangs over the ceiling like a cloud, but Aemond he is too dazed to move, spent and perplexed to wrap his head around it.

Desire, it seems, has come to stay.

But it’s not the only thing he’s feeling.

✧... YES, there will be a second part, it’s already in the works! ✧ and yes, I didn’t bother to rename Pedro’s character 'cause I adore Oberyn sue me

✧ just to clarify, I usually age Aemond up to 20 (or however old Ewan looks to you ;) ✧ I got inspired after watching the video for ROSALÍA’s “La Fama” (give it a watch, she is soooo 🥵) but I only found it because of this gorgeous gifset so shout-out to OP for giving me inspiration

✧ my recent fic (couples who kill together, stay together 🔥) ✧ my masterlist

thank you @amiraisgoingthruit for letting me tag you in every silly story of mine, hope you’ll like this one (if anyone else wants to be tagged, don’t be shy)

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

[nogoodsheepstealing-greatgrandma]

HOTD with book ages vs show casting

It's interesting to think about how fans perceptions of characters would be radically different if we had book accurate casting.

Emily Carey (aged 18-19 here) is perfectly age-accurate to play an 18-year-old Alicent.

Meanwhile Paddy Considine, at 48, was pushing it a fair bit to play a 29-year-old Viserys.

For reference, Tom Glynn-Carney was 28 while filming Season 2.

So not that he's my fancast for young Paddy or anything, but let's be real. You would all be writing self-insertxVizzy fics. Alicent would have no more agency in the marriage if Viserys was his book age than his show age, but fan perceptions of Viserys would definitely be different if he was played by a young and attractive actor (no offense of course to Paddy, he is serving Targaryen realness etc.)

Or look at Fabian Frankel. He would have been around 27/28 while filming season 1. You were shipping Alicole back when Emily Carey was still in the role, after all.

And then there's Rhaenyra, who was 8 during the events of the first episode, and 9 when Viserys married Alicent.

Milly Alcock, roughly 21 here, is just a tad older than 8-year-old Rhaenyra.

Amelie Child-Villiers would have been 12-13 while filming Rings of Power, so older than Rhaenyra at the very beginning but can pass for younger.

To anyone who thinks a child Rhaenyra wouldn't have been interesting to follow, er... have you read ASOIAF? There are quite a few prominent child POV characters, you may have noticed. And Alicent doesn't automatically become uninteresting if she's 18 rather than 15... or 40.

I mean I get it, Rhaenycent shippers, you prefer the sapphic dynamic in HOTD... and it is absolutely fine to prefer something! But it isn't inherently deeper or more interesting. It isn't objectively better. BFFesbians can be just as one-note as you claim step-mother/daughter relationships are with the wrong writing, and step-mother/daughter relationships can be richly complicated.

Now, I've already gone through the absolute horror that is book Rhaenyra and book Criston

Criston Cole was 22 when he met a 7-year-old Rhaenyra, 23 during the events of the first episode. So Fabian at 27 (pictured here) is a a few years older, but his age gap with Amelie is the same as Criston and Rhaenyra. And yikes. This is why 'Criston the Dad who Stepped Up' posts make me throw up in my mouth. (Also it is so weird that Criston is never recast after the time jump even though the actor is younger than Emma D'Arcy - Criston is 47 during the Dance).

And yes, Daemon has a similar age gap with Rhaenyra

Daemon was 24 during the events of the first episode. Though I would add that Daemon wasn't, contrary to popular opinion by greens, grooming Rhaenyra when she was a young child. There isn't really any indication that he paid particular attention to his 8-year-old niece - he was mostly sulking on Dragonstone in a relationship with an adult Mysaria for starters, and then he was off in the Stepstones till Viserys and Alicent's 5th wedding anniversary tourney.

From then, no I'm not in favour of a 30-year-old Daemon and a 15-year-old Rhaenyra... I am not in favour of childbrideros. But considering he'd been absent from her life between the ages of 8-15, and there is no indication he ever paid any attention to her before then... it is less creepy than Criston Cole being Rhaenyra's shadow from the age of 7, with rumours of a sexual relationship beginning at a point when she would have been 12-14.

By Westeros standards Daemon unfortunately falls into the 'culturally normalised and could have a whole lot worse' category (and tbf, considering the popularity of ships like SanSan...). This isn't a pro-daemyra or anti-daemyra post, I'm not really going to go into their relationship or whether or not it's healthy here, just clarifying that Daemon isn't the Humbert Humbert of this story - that would be Criston (not being Humbert Humbert of course is a very low bar).

And when it comes to the casting and how that impacts audience perceptions... Matt Smith at 39 was too old for both 24 and 30 year-old Daemon (though exquisite in the role of course).

Considering how his haters condemn Daemon for his actions in episode 1 while excusing Aegon for rape and Aemond for murdering Luke (and burning alive many many other children)... Let's have a look at an age-appropriate actor for 24-year-old Daemon and see if that changes anything.

Ooh would you look at that, Ewan Mitchell at 24 while filming S1.

Or Tom at 28 during S2, just two years younger than 30-year-old Daemon. With a face that wins hearts over rape. You telling me if Daemon was his book age you wouldn't be excusing his actions? You wouldn't be taking all the rape apology arguments Aegon stans use and applying them to Daemon's seduction of a 15-year-old Rhaenyra?

Especially if you still had him acting alongside 21-year-old Milly, who was supposed to pass for a 14 to 18-year-old Rhaenyra.

Hopefully though no one would be excusing a younger Daemon played by Tom Glynn-Carney if he had been put against an actual 14/15 year-old like Evie Allen. Who would have been a more age-accurate (and disturbing) casting for Rhaenyra...

Oh wait, how old was Maddie Evans (Dyana) while filming S1 again? 15? Never mind.

Casting teenagers in such scenarios is of course a difficult business - above all the first priority is to protect underage actors. Milly was well-suited to convincingly play Rhaenyra from early teens to late teens, and it's impossible to constantly re-cast for absolute age-accuracy across the time jumps. But it does impact perception - while the first priority is to protect underage actors, the casting of older actors to play teenagers does contribute to society's perceptions of teenage girls in particular as mature adults, rather than children.

Meanwhile the attractiveness of adult male actors - and the younger they are - does indeed shape what some audiences are willing to forgive or excuse. Reactions to Daemon and Viserys by fans (especially green fans) would be radically different if they were cast with their book ages - sorry to say it greens, but your objections to their characters is in large part due to the fact that you are not attracted to DILFS (or leprosy!). And even if we still aged up Rhaenyra like the show does when she first met Criston Cole, reactions to him during the Dance would be vastly different if he was played by a book-accurate 47-year-old. Again, Fabian Frankel is younger than Emma D'arcy.

Of course, the bar for age accurate casting is clear in the way we were supposed to accept Olivia Cooke playing Tom Glynn Carney's mother (they are two years apart).

Because again if Alicent had been 18 at the start of the show and 41 at the start of the dance she would have ceased to be an interesting character or something I guess. Because no one wants an older woman (ew gross!) as the series co-lead alongside a non-binary lead. And because mother/stepdaughter relationships are inherently one-note while BFFesbians are inherently rich, deep and complex... apparently. It has nothing to do with, you know, the writing quality.

Final Round!!! Aegon and Aemond picking fights with kids

Harvey Sadler here is 8/9 years old when he played young Lucerys. Which makes this baby face 2-3 years older than... a six-year-old Book Jacaerys when 10-year-old Aemond was 'pummelling him savagely'.

So yeah, "3 against 1" - the oldest of those 3 being younger than Harvey Sadler. And honestly, 6-year-old Jace has my undying respect for the sheer balls on him to go up against a bigger kid twice his age and size. Does he care that Aemond has just claimed the largest dragon in the world? No, he pushed over his baby brother!

"But it's more interesting if Aemond and Jace are peers" Maybe. If HOTD gave Jace equal screentime and character development perhaps. But they didn't. Any value added by making the antagonist interesting and sympathetic is cancelled out if the cost is ignoring the protagonist or making the protagonist boring (especially in a family civil war drama!).

"But sympathetic Aemond is much more interesting" I am not arguing against making him sympathetic. He is still a kid here, and he still has Aegon to bully him and earn him pity points and trigger a cycle of bullying as he takes out his grievances on others who don't deserve it etc. You don't need to age up his victims or remove sympathy or screentime from them. Sympathy doesn't have to be zero-sum.

Leo Hart was 13 at the time of filming, so the perfect age to play a 12-year-old Jace during the dinner scene where a grown-ass Aegon picks a fight with him over asking Helaena for a dance. Also an accurate age to play a 13-year-old Luke when Aemond murders him.

Elliot Grihault who played teenaged Luke was meanwhile actually closer in age to Book Jace during the dance than Harry Collett (no offence Harry, you still made a more believable teenager than 24-year-old Jon Snow did).

And lest we forget Aegon's true nemesis... 13 year old girls on tiny dragons 'no bigger than a horse'. No offence to a 24-year-old Bethany Antonia, but Shani Smethurst at 12 was perfectly cast to play Baela during the Dance and absolutely would have been the next Arya if this show didn't hate black girls.

But hey, at least we got adult Baela saying "I am blood and fire" while the script struggles (*cough doesn't bother) to find her anything to really do. That sure is an improvement over book Baela acting out, causing chaos, kissing kitchen boys and crying to save them from punishment, grieving alone on dragonstone after the gullet, trying desperately to get the adults around her to believe her suspicions about Grey Ghost, wrecking Aegon on her tiny dragon, being forced to grow up quickly under captivity and fiercely defending her rescuers from execution.

[deepestnightcolor]

☾ ʜᴏɴᴇʏꜱᴜᴄᴋʟᴇ ☽

ᴀ/ɴ: So...I have been wanting to become better at writing oral, and I have decided to mess around with some bachelors and how they would do it; here is the one I wrote Sam. If you are interested in any other bachelor, feel free to let me know, I have starters for most of them already, LOL- Anyway, thank you for your time and enjoy!~

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Sam (SDV) x Fem!Reader

ᴡᴄ: 751 words

ᴍᴅɴɪ ✧ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: nothing much. afab!Reader receiving oral, teasing, greedy Sam, slobber, hinting at over-stimulation. Short but sweet.

The blond had already pinned you to the bed before you had even been able to finish asking if he would ever consider eating you out.

Impatience had gotten the best of him almost immediately, full bodyweight resting on the soft blanket, as he kept your legs open with quivering hands. He had been waiting for this for ages, but hadn't wanted to push you into anything you didn't want. But now, he finally had you where he wanted you. Lying on the bed with your pants somewhere in the room, legs spread for him and his face between your thighs.

A groan escaped your boyfriend as soon as the prospect of eating you out was just in reach. Greedily, he pressed his pierced, drooling tongue against your clit.

He hadn't quite thought about taking your panties off yet, but he just couldn't focus his thoughts on such a task. He needed to get to you now, and that didn't allow time to remove the thin fabric.

Blue eyes staring up at you, the tip of Sam's tongue poked at your clit, rubbing the fabric against the sensitive bundle of nerves.

The gasp he coaxed out from you due to such simple actions made his head spin; the pulsing he felt through the cloth going straight to his already hardening cock. Fuck, Sam just absolutely loved your sweet little pussy; loved how it would swell up for him when his fat tip fucked into you, his hand smacking and prodding at your clit while his balls slapped your skin raw. He loved how it sucked him in when he teased you with just the tip, he loved how it squelched with wetness when you were at his whim. And now he would get to fucking taste you. Another moan escaped him, sucking you through your now wet panties. The whimper he dragged from you was unholy, and he fucking drank it right up, devouring it and basking in it.

"Sam," you groaned, the blond paid you no mind. He was busy wettening your panties with his greedy mean tongue, poking and teasing you, lapping at you, but just not quite there despite him slobbering all over you. It had you absolutely desperate, desperate enough to reach down and at least pull your panties to the side.

The moment Sam's tongue came into contact with your bare, wet cunt, he was sure he could bust a not solely from eating you out. His brain simply shut off, and nothing else but you, your pretty and delicious pussy, and him existed. A tear dripped down his cheek as he nuzzled his face as far into you as humanely possible, his eyes rolling back into his head as he huffed in your scent. Three desperate, long, pathetic inhales to hammer your scent into his brain.

"Sam, please," you whined, your hips bucking up to get to feel the pierced muscle again - and who was Sam to deny you?

He definitely wouldn't.

Groaning, he began to lick and lap at you, tongue trying to get as much as possible onto its taste buds while his lips worked to suckle out even more of you. His abuse on your clit started up again, piercing grinding against the sensitive area, soliciting whines and moans from you that only made the pit Sam had fallen in deeper. He wanted to die here. Suffocate while tasting and smelling nothing but you.

He didn't even notice that his nails were digging into your skin so hard that you would bruise tomorrow, eagerness to milk you for your very last drop far too overwhelming. His lips wrapped around your clit and sucked lightly, eyes flickering up to you. Your brows were scrunched together, and your lips were parted as you tried to let the string of moans escape that seemingly cut off your airflow, but failing miserably.

He let your clit slip from between his lips, just to suck it in again, one hand flying to pin down your bucking hips.

He wasn't done with you, and he didn't care if you could hold still. He would make you.

"Sam-"

No answer from the blond as his tongue tried to find every spot, mouth busy making out with your cunt like a man starving. It had your head reeling, your heart pounding. But even as your orgasm rocked through you, there was no stopping Sam.

He was going to suck you dry until there was no more honey to taste.

[sstrwbrryccke]

I SAW UR SUGAR BABY!SOOBIN FIC AND IT'S SO FUCKING HELLO ?!? could u possibly write something similar for hoon :00 (n could it be male reader :00)

HIIII thank you im glad you enjoyed it ahhsagds !!! and i have so many thoughts for sunghoon <3 i think he would be a bit more smug compared to soobin, not as obedient but playful and cute in his own way!

the ending is a little rushed because i wrote this on the airplane to shanghai 💀😭 (also not proofread so its probably really bad)

— sponsor | sub park sunghoon

tags: aspiring skater!sugarbaby!sunghoon x rich!reader, amab reader, power dynamics, praise kink, unconventional settings to have sex, soft sex, shower sex, frottage, thigh fucking, body worship

you were old money, the kind that people call 'disgustingly rich'. the type of rich family that throw galas instead of family gatherings, and that's where you met him in the first place. it was one of your many cousins' birthday, excessively wealthy and extravagant, a golden gilded hall decorated with a specially laid ice skating rink for performers. you heard your cousin had been an avid ice skating fan and wanted a live performance for his birthday.

the night had been smooth, dull as you would expect out of a bunch of old-money conservatives whose idea of humour is joking about tax evasion. but you notice just by the off-chance, a lean man clad in all black, bumping into a column, a word slips from his mouth; which you can only guess was a swear word. it was strange, he was clearly out of place. but this wasn't some wattpad story about you sweeping a mysterious man off his feet, so you shrugged and continued sipping on your champagne glass.

you only really notice him during the performance, the mass was seated in the grand hall, lights dimming as the spotlight shone; and it was seriously strange. because he wasn't even the main lead, in fact, he was one of the many backup dancers. yet you just couldn't take your eyes off him. there was something so enchanting about his elegance, you could feel his genuine dedication and passion from where he skated. when the show finished, you find yourself clapping, eyes still mesmerized as the boy leaves for the backstage.

a crowd gathers around the main leads, interested sponsorships and words of praise exchanged. while your eyes drift to the man walking off, taking a scone from the buffet stands before disappearing into the balcony. naturally, you follow after him— which in hindsight was slightly creepy because you've been practically eyeing him down. but you really wanted to spark up a conversation with this pretty boy.

when you reach the balcony, you find the backside of the man leaning on the railing. you lean next to him and he was visibly startled— so much so he dropped the scone in his hand. he does attempt to catch it— horribly, and the dessert tumbles into the void, his mouth agape. "aish..."

"ah, sorry."

"no, it's no problem! really! sir!" he quickly rectifies, aheming into his fist and waving his other hand around before looking directly in front of him. occasionally glancing at you with his eyes only. he was visibly nervous, definitely embarrassed too. he straightens his back and raises his chin, probably trying to seem professional in front of you; but you could tell with the way he clenched his jaw that he was tense. and you don't blame him, it looks like this was his first time coming to such a luxurious gala, surrounded by tons of powerful men and women who could either make or break his career.

"well, what's your name?" you offer a conversation starter, since it didn't seem like he was budging.

"i'm park sunghoon, sir!"

"nice to meet you park sunghoon, how old are you?" you ask smoothly, stretching a hand out for him to shake. he couldn't even look you in the eyes, what a shy and polite man.

he wipes his sweaty hands on his pants, before taking your hand with both of his, bowing. "nice, nice to meet you too! i'm 21 turning 22, sir."

"we're the same age, that means you don't need to call me sir."

"yes sir." he replies without much thought.

you give him a pointed look and he quickly shuts up. he was endearing in his own way though, the interaction made you smile. this man who had previously been so elegant and precise on stage was actually very timid.

"you caught my eye in the performance."

he lights up at this, turning his head to you with a small bashful smile on his lips. "thank you so much, i'm surprised you remember me."

"of course i do, couldn't keep my eyes off you in fact." you advance, tilting your head as you subtly flirt. you were into him and you wanted him to understand that. "oh." he mouthed, and it seems like he was starting to recognize the connotations of the conversation. he was still smiling, but you could see a pink tint on his pale skin.

"no, seriously. you're super talented, i want to sponsor you."

his smile drops, a shocked expression on his face instead, soon he's ecstatic. "really?"

you chuckle, "yes, really."

☆★☆

perhaps, your definition of sponsor was just sugar baby with extra steps. because soon, the two of you fall into that type of relationship. it started with a bouquet of flowers after his practice (which you went to weekly), then it became a dinner invitation, and eventually you were lavishing him with gifts and luxury items. okay, perhaps you were just courting this man in the form of presents.

you watch on the sidelines as sunghoon does his usual practice on the ice (a private ice rink you hired for him), he glances towards you with a mischievous grin before doing a silly spin. you just chuckle, shaking your head. when it was over you sling a towel over his neck like usual, handing him a water bottle. he stares at you, rather proud of himself.

"did you see the spin?"

"nah, i was looking at the wall." you joke, there was literally no one else but sunghoon to look at. "issh" he shakes his head, lightly punching your arm.

after, you treat him to a nice dinner in this expensive restaurant, he’s used to your dinner invitations, but he still can't settle his nerves coming to such a high-end restaurant. chatting with you soothed his anxiety though, and shortly he was joking and laughing like usual.

the first course was served, and you took this opportunity to slide over the blue container with the tiffany and co logo. sunghoon takes it shyly, glancing at you, you give him an encouraging look. at the beginning of this dynamic; he did try to refuse the expensive gifts, but you were insistent and sunghoon secretly enjoyed receiving the presents too.

he feels his heart thumping with excitement as he unwraps the case, a genuine surprise in his eyes when he pulls out the silver wire tiffany t bracelet. he’s been wanting it for a while now, mentioning it once casually. and you remembered! he tries it on for you; because he knows you like seeing him with your gifts. the bracelet glints in the light and he looks at you with a reserved smile.

"thank you so much... i don't know to repay you—"

"by being mine." you interrupt him, the words come out before you can even comprehend it, baffled by your impulsivity. "i'm sorry it just came out— if it makes you uncomfortable i apo—"

"yes."

you blink slowly, while he looks at you with full seriousness. and that's how sugar baby sunghoon came to be.

☆★☆

navigating the dynamic was like navigating any other romantic relationship, though sunghoon treated it like a contract at the start. unusual, but usual for sunghoon. it made you chuckle about his seriousness of the entire situation. the whole circumstance was bizarre but silly. what an endearing man. he would sit you down one day, hands clasped together.

"what are your expectations for me?"

and you snicker. he said it like it was a full-time job, which maybe it could be.

"recieve my gifts, and enjoy your best life."

he looked determined, continuing on. "is sex on the table?" he was surprisingly straightforward. it's always the quiet ones who were unexpectantly bold huh...

"if you're comfortable with that, yes." you give him a firm nod.

"i see." he pulls back, shy again.

"so, are you?" you tease, because he didn't outwardly give an answer.

he pauses, and you spot a glint in his eyes. his tongue darts out to wet his lips and his mind runs rampant. how cute.

"i am."

☆★☆

and wow was that quite literally the best decision in your entire life. everything remained the same, except now you have an extremely hot and sexy ice skater whose libido was as high as his talent. life was good. life was great.

training went as you expect, sunghoon absolutely smashed through his routine. running back to you with a proud smile, hands on his hips.

"i did pretty good, didn't i?" he always asked similar questions, pridefully, wanting to be praised.

"did you? didn't see." you would always tease him, and he would respond by playfully hitting your shoulder. the sass doesn't last long though, because the moment you two are alone in the locker room that's when you go down on him, embracing him as his lovely quiet moans seep out from your kiss.

it should be classified as an addiction at this point, the amount of unconventional places you guys had done it in. collecting locations like pokemon cards. it was tame at first, or tame for your standards anyway. the first time was in the hotel, of course, but after that, you went straight for the ice rink. its not exactly public, as you had rented the entire private rink for your beautiful ice prince, but the setting itself was scandalous. just imagining the sanction that housed many hours of his talent, being dirtied by his sweat in another sense was downright sinful. sunghoon never complained however, because as long as you praise him, he was satisfied. boy was he a sucker for praise, he keens when you whisper in his ear, almost over the moon when you compliment him on his skating. he would moan unashamedly, (normally he would block his moans or whimper) and you respond by spreading his legs in clear view of the ice rink. slam him down and feel his back arch prettily against your chest.

sunghoon was contradictorily both shy and straightforward when it came to his words and actions during sex. he's quiet and sometimes downright refuses to moan or beg. yet when he's close he would straight-up demand things from you. when you fold his flexible body in half and ram into his sensitive hole, he would spread wider for you (which you thought was physically impossible but he proves you wrong), yet bashfully hides himself when you praise him. he was a man full of contradictions, but it really drove you wild.

but it wasn't all about sex anyway, sex made up barely half of it, because it was really all about him. sunghoon just had a soul that was born to attract you. he's introverted and reserved with others, which explains why he doesn't attract sponsors or gain lead roles, but underneath it all was such a uniquely endearing man with a strong ambition for his passions.

you absolutely loved spoiling this boy and watching his reactions; him wearing the items you brought for him just gave you that extra dose of serotonin. when the two of you made it official, he was just so much more ecstatic with each gift he received from you. it wasn't even the gifts themselves that pleased him so much, it was the care you gave that really hit the mark for him. that burberry scarf he eyed for a few minutes? woke up to it on his lap. the prada bag he briefly mentioned he thought was fashionable? on the kitchen counter. you just paid so much attention to him, and he felt so loved.

you supported him in his ice skating career too, attending every competition he's been in and always making sure to watch over at least one of his daily practices a week. he had big ambitions and eventually wanted to compete in the olympics, which you had no doubts he would achieve.

gradually, you wanted to integrate him into your life too, though it was hard to explain to your parents the logistics behind taking a 'common ice skater' with you everywhere. you two managed to keep a low profile.

and by everywhere, you meant everywhere. you brought him to tennis and golf practices, he struggled with golf but had fun with tennis. and you brought him to basically every single gala and ball your family tree hosted. it was enjoyable at first, but introverts do what introverts do and he gradually voiced how he preferred quieter, more intimate meetings with you. in which you decided to only bring him to the important galas. (maybe every single one was a bit overkill) but he was so right because intimate stay-ins with him were so much better and more peaceful compared to your hectic everyday life. he was a very mindful and health-conscious person, so you often find yourself doing stretches and going to the gym with him. it was absolute zen. plus, there was the bonus of you slowly snaking your arms behind him, kissing his neck and lips as much as you want without worrying about public perception.

☆★☆

you can tell something was bothering him, with the way he fidgeted and dazed off in your shared hotel room. anyone in his position would he nervous, after all, he was competing for the olympics! through much hard-work from his side and endless support from yours, he qualified for the olympic team after winning nationals with flying colours. you knew he had it in him, you knew since the first day you met.

“hoon, you nervous?” you ask, coming up behind him to rub at his shoulders. he gives you a small smile before sighing. “a little.”

you pull him into a hug, your chest pressed towards his back. he relaxes slightly. “want to talk about it baby?” you stroke his stomach, trying to soothe him.

“it’s silly,” he gives you a half smile. you slap his thigh lightly “issh!”

“it’s not silly, tell me.” you pout, kissing his neck. he laughs as you lavish his neck with lovebites.

“i’m just worried that i’m going to lose.” he says in-between giggles. you temporarily stop your assault in his neck, lifting your head to look at him.

“you won’t lose baby, and even if you do, just being in the team is already an amazing feat. most people go their whole lives without even touching olympic level.”

he seemed a little reassured by this, but you could tell his mind was still swirling with other thoughts. you kiss his cheeks, waiting for him to open up about it himself.

“it’s just, if i lose, im wasting all your effort and money.”

you finally pause at this, giving him a look. “what? how am i wasting effort and money on you?”

he seemed a little nervous, gulping down his saliva. “i mean, you invested so much into me, the least i could do is win.” you were shocked, was he dense or stupid? maybe a little bit of both. you roll your eyes as you lift him in your arms. he lets out a startled gasp as you bring him to the bathroom. you face him towards the mirror, grasping at his chin so he looks directly into his eyes.

“do you see this? what a gorgeous, beautiful, godly man.” you whisper in his ear and you watch his cheeks blossom a scarlet red. your hands trail down to his chest, unbuttoning the top.

“wow, look at that. so pretty, so soft and perfect.” you knead his chest, flicking at his pink nipples before moving down, massaging his toned stomach. he was staring at the parts your hand were drifting to as you fondle him. you kiss the shell of his ear, making him shiver “hngh…”

your fingers trail down, you lick your lips at his delicious reactions. palming at his erection. “every part of you is so pretty. such nimble arms and thighs, no wonder you’re so good at ice skating. everything about you is just so lovable.”

he was trembling, glancing into your eyes in the mirror and you could tell he wanted you to continue. “don’t you get it already? you really think i brought all those gifts, paid all those lessons and sponsored you because it was an investment?” you whisper, he turns his face to meet with yours, taking your lips desperately.

“i love you.” he whispers breathily into the kiss, that was the first time any of you said that sentence. he freezes, anxiety filling his face.

“i love you too, hoon.” you french kiss him, your tongue darting out to lick at his bottom lip, he reciprocates gladly.

“i love you i love you i love you so so much.” he stammers, grinding his ass against your hardening cock. “i love you too baby, you have no idea how much i love you.” you grunt into his ear, sliding your dick out from your underwear. the both of you were barely clothed in the first place.

“hngh put it in already please,” he’s never been this vocal before, you felt your cock twitch just at the desperation in his voice. but you controlled yourself, he had a skating competition tomorrow after all.

“hoonie the olympics is tomorrow.” he whines and you chuckle fondly. spoiled brat.

“put your thighs together.” you give his ass a light slap, he listens and puts his thighs closely. you could see his dripping cock through the small gap. “good boy.” you praise and he rubs his thighs together.

not waiting any longer, you slip your hard cock between his thighs, groaning lowly at the sensation. god it felt so good, he clearly thinks so too because he immediately whimpers, pushing back at your dick. you let him adjust to the sensation before slowly thrusting against his thigh.

“angh... ugh… so good… love you… love you…” he whimpered, panting softly. you pull his head to the side to kiss him again, hand grasping at both of your cocks and he cries into your mouth. you thrust harder and faster, he reciprocates happily by clenching his thighs tighter. soon his stomach was squeezing and his pants became breathier.

“gonna come, can i come? please? please?” and who were you to resist your prince?

“come for me hoonie, come for me.”

his thighs stutter and he clenches his teeth as a strangled voice comes out. he came in spurts, long and thin. you wish you could taste his pretty semen as well but thats for another time. you slip your cock out from his thighs, jerking yourself off and coming all over his ass and back.

it was arousing and you could almost go again, but he needed rest so you tenderly kissed his back, cleaning him up.

“i’m going to win for you.” he says breathily while you were wiping him down, you look at him amused, chuckling.

“don’t do it for me, do it for yourself.”

“no, this seriously motivated me to win. i’m going to win the olympics and then we’re going to have the most mind-blowing sex ever.”

you guys share a look before laughing.

☆★☆

everyone could hear the thumping of their own hearts as they waited for the results to unveil. sunghoon grasps your hand and you give him a squeeze.

before you could process it, you were ecstatically cheering, turning to sunghoon. the man beside you was in genuine shock, staring at his high score as if it was an alien on earth. holy shit, he got the highest score and he’s in first place!!!

snghoon lunges for you, tumbling you out of your chair as he tightly hugs you. not like you cared about the people staring, because you shared the excitement. you hug him back just as tightly, stroking his back. you feel the crook of your neck and shoulder wet.

after a few seconds, you help him stand and he wipes his eyes with an embarrassed smile. you couldn’t stop grinning as he received his medal.

☆★☆

sunghoon was able to keep both of his promises that day. the moment you two arrived in the hotel, you had a very needy sunghoon clinging around you neck, drawing you into a deep kiss as you navigate around the room.

you manage to peel him off for a second, to undress him and yourself, stumbling into the shower. you adjust the water while sunghoon unrelentlessly grinds against your cock.

“hn, god please! ive been wanting this since yesterday, ive been so good, so good, please reward me” he whimpers quietly and you melt. you grasp his hips tightly, pulling his back flush against your chest and you grind down his ass. he groans, hands propped on the shower wall for support.

your finger plays with his rim and he whines, prodding the hole before inserting. you were careful, treating his body like porcelain as you coo into his ear. he was so desperate, willingly giving up his sweet voice for you to hear. you add another finger and he was now fully rutting against you, eyes closed as he fucked himself on your fingers. it was an endearing sight, but you pull out, slapping your cock on his ass.

“what do you want again?” you play innocent, chuckling at his offended expression. he groans, frustratedly pushing back at your cock.

“you know what i want! i want you inside me please!” he whines out and you laugh. you give him what he wants, slipping your cock into his tight hole, groaning as you feel his gummy walls enclose around you.

“you feel so good sunghoon, such a pretty boy.” you coo into his ear and he clenches his thighs tighter. you thrust into him, each one faster and harder than the previous one and he was in actual heaven. tongue lolling out as he groans with each motion, it didn’t take long until he was crying out a strangled coming.

you weren’t done with him yet though, you prop his flexible legs up, making him sink deeper into your cock as he chokes. before he could protest you start nailing into him, hitting his prostate so well and on point that he visibly crumbles, hands desperately grabbing at anything as his cock sputters out another load.

his eyes were wide as he watches his dick cry uncontrollably, while you adjust behind him, ready to piston into him all over again. oh boy was he in for a wild ride…

that’s how the night progressed, you plummeting his ass in the shower, and then at the bathroom counter, then you moved him to the hotel bed, forcing him to ride you until he couldn’t prop himself up anymore.

his body slumps over yours, exhausted and overstimulated, thighs trembling and nerves sputtering. but you still moved beneath him and he cries “can’t! can’t, hurts please it feels too good.”

you grin into his skin, jerking his cock a few times and he comes again. body limp. you pull out and the warm semen in his hole dribble out. just as you try to move to clean him up, his arms tightly wind around your waist.

“stay here.” it was a demand from your ice prince and you snicker.

“anything for the olympic winner.”

[fallenclan]

(Sunwish LIVES!!! AU) we’re all born fire-starters

(Eyyyyy it’s me it’s oven mitts anon 🥊 with my fanfic about long-dead FallenClan cats. Please keep me on anon. Using this author’s note up here to say that the title is taken directly from the lyrics of the song The Start of Something by Action Item, but the song that much more heavily inspired this piece is Because Dreaming Costs Money, My Dear by Mitski. Also I know that lollipop anon’s the worry box is fanfiction but it’s so so good and my brain keeps treating it like it’s 100 Percent Canon and that’s why while writing this Stormsight’s characterization is very much based off of his personality in the worry box. I can’t say the same about Sunwish though, I freestyled for her lol)

———

‘With no need for a beginning, nor any reason to end, the music continues. And so, no matter who you are, where you came from, what sins you have committed or hurt you have endured… when you are alone and there is no universe left to remember you.

You can always, always rewrite your song.’

—Light From Uncommon Stars, Ryka Aoki

———

“Why do you hate me?”

Sunwish stopped in her tracks. Her whiskers twitched. She did a quick once-over of the medicine den and found no one. No one except, of course, herself- and a little apprentice who was supposed to be sorting herbs but was instead dawdling, staring wide-eyed at her with a bristling tail.

Upon confirming that he couldn’t have been speaking to anyone else, Sunwish sighed, “Great StarClan, Stormpaw, where do you kits learn to say such nonsense?”

What a ridiculous idea. She doesn’t hate the boy. She was there when he was born- inspected each of his littermates and confirmed to their mother that they were all healthy. Besides, she probably physically couldn’t hate him, since she was not keen on getting her ears scratched out by her own apprentice. Silverbelly adored her little brother, and Sunwish adored Silverbelly, and therefore as a rule, Sunwish had to be fond of Stormpaw as well.

An old, familiar hurt made itself at home in her heart- honestly, just because she doesn’t bother to smile or laugh often, just because she wasn’t amusing or easy to like- she doesn’t mean to be unlikeable on purpose. If only they would understand-

Stormpaw, evidently not satisfied with Sunwish’s answer, was still dawdling. Sunwish was used to Stormpaw, the enthusiastic, diligent apprentice. She was not at all used to Stormpaw, the dawdling, moody little apprentice.

Sunwish glared at him, trying to look reasonably stern. She felt suddenly very self-conscious and worried that she looked instead like she hated him passionately, so her glare became a feeble one and she settled for mimicking his blank stare. “Stormpaw, your sister will be very cross with you if she comes back and finds that you have not finished your work. Focus, now.”

Stormpaw halfheartedly returned to his herbs, shuffling the horsetail into a loose little pile. Success.

An issue still remained, that Sunwish was not particularly pleased with the look on his face. Trying to get rid of it at once, Sunwish clarified, “I don’t hate you, kit. I don’t even dislike you.”

Stormpaw mumbled.

“Speak up,” said Sunwish. “I’m old.”

This was objectively false, but an apprentice wouldn’t know any better.

“You hate training me,” Stormpaw mumbled, though louder now. “Whenever Silverbelly is busy, you never teach me anything! You just kick me out of the den or tell me to go hunt with my littermates.”

Ah.

So.

That was the problem.

Sunwish found herself despairing and wishing, just a little, that it had simply been her personality that had been causing the problem once again.

“You know,” Sunwish tried, “it’s healthy to get fresh air every now and again.”

“I get fresh air! And if you want me out of camp so badly, you could just send me to find herbs!”

“A good work-life balance will do wonders for your life expectancy, kit. I know these things. I’m a medicine cat.”

“Ma’am, I just-”

“I’m sure Holly didn’t live to her old age by spending all day running around finding herbs all day and quizzing herself in her sleep.” Sunwish tapped Stormpaw’s side with her tail. “Which you do, by the way. It’s very annoying. If you can stop talking when you sleep, please do. Anyway, you can go ask her, as soon as you get your work done.”

“Ma’am-”

“Actually, why don’t I finish up for you, hm? Since you’re having so much trouble focusing today. Look at you, Stormpaw, you put nettle with the marigold, and you’re usually never this careless.”

“It’s only there ‘cause I wasn’t finished!”

“And why aren’t you finished? Just take a break, kit. I believe Hailpaw’s going out hunting. Go on and join her, now.”

Sunwish tried nudging the apprentice towards the entrance of the medicine den, only for Stormpaw to bare his teeth at her. “You’re doing it again!” he cried.

Sunwish attempted to blink innocently at him. “Yes, yes, you caught me. I admit it, you’re a very talented hunter, especially for a medicine cat apprentice.” She was hoping the flattery would be enough for Stormpaw to drop the matter, but he simply started lashing his tail in agitation. “The other day, Goldenstar and I shared the rabbit you helped Moonpaw catch. It was so good I was hoping you’d bring me another one. The Clan could always use more prey, besides.”

“The Clan doesn’t need me to hunt,” Stormpaw countered. “Goosepaw and Hailpaw alone could probably feed the whole Clan. Ask Hailpaw to catch you a rabbit. She’s going to be a warrior. It’s her job to catch rabbits.”

Sunwish lowered her voice. “Oh, is that what this is? Did you get into a fight with your sister?”

“No!”

“Or is it Otterslip?” Sunwish said conspiratorially. “He’s a bit annoying, isn’t he?”

“Otterslip is fine. Stop making excuses!”

“You’re making excuses,” Sunwish said, unable to help herself, because she was apparently just as petty as an apprentice. She tried again to nudge Stormpaw out of the den, only for the apprentice to flop to the ground, bringing up a cloud of dust.

Stormpaw sneezed.

“Bless you,” said Sunwish.

Stormpaw didn’t bother to thank her, which was rude. Instead, the apprentice bared his teeth at her again, which looked rather silly from his position on the ground. “I’m not leaving!”

Sunwish sighed. “I know.”

“And I know that you never wanted me to be a medicine cat in the first place, and I’m not leaving until you tell me why!”

Silence.

Sunwish cast one last, desperate look out of the den. Hailpaw and Otterslip were clear out of view. Damnit.

“Alright,” said Sunwish. “Alright.”

Stormpaw squinted at her with great suspicion. “Alright?”

“Sit up straight and I’ll tell you.”

Stormpaw picked himself off the ground and sat up perfectly straight. Sunwish made to nip at his scruff, hoping to pick out the dust that had gathered in his fur.

“And groom your pelt. For StarClan’s sake, Stormpaw, you’re all covered in dust, and are those leaves? You really do spend too much time here.”

Stormpaw shook her off and whacked her face with his tail for good measure. Sunwish sputtered indignantly.

“Well?” Stormpaw demanded.

Sunwish took a deep breath.

When Stormpaw was just a little kitten, there had been a period of time when Sunwish and Silverbelly did not speak to each other except to argue and yell. The subject of contention was, of course, Stormpaw- Stormkit, then- who wanted to be a medicine cat “more than anything else in the world,” as Silverbelly had put it.

Silverbelly had it her way in the end, of course.

Finally, Sunwish forced herself to begin.

“Everyone in the Clan thinks that you’re brilliant.”

The apprentice narrowed his eyes. “And you don’t,” he accused.

“For StarClan’s sake, kit, let me-”

“Well, I don’t care!” Stormpaw said, riled up enough for the fur on his shoulders to bristle. “I don’t need to be brilliant to be useful. Even if I’m not half as talented as you or Silverbelly, I’m still going to be a good medicine cat and help loads of cats ‘cause I’ll work for it. I don’t care if it’ll take me forever to get my name.”

Sunwish put her paw on Stormpaw’s head. She closed her eyes, breathing out a tired little sigh.

“Stormpaw,” she said.

Stormpaw huffed angrily at her. Sunwish drew her paw back, a little wary now. He might bite.

“Stormpaw, you are brilliant,” Sunwish told him, because it was the truth, and not because she was a little afraid he might bite her. He’s never been a bitey sort of kitten, but one never really knows, and his brother Dawnshine used to bite so often that she worried it might run in the family.

She watched the apprentice deflate, the fur on his hackles lowering as his expression turned to confusion. “I don’t doubt your abilities. That’s exactly the problem.”

“What- but… then why…?”

The boy had been talking nonsense earlier, but his words made her heart ache all the same. I don’t need to be brilliant to be useful. She had feared exactly this.

Stormpaw would make a wonderful medicine cat. Not because he has a connection to the stars, not because he’s clever with herbs- but because he cares. He loves learning about herbs. He wants to help cats. Right now, the only thing that makes him is a passionate, precocious apprentice.

That won’t last forever. One day, he’ll be full grown and he’ll have his star-given name, and FallenClan will depend on him- truly depend on him, as more than an apprentice who runs around doing busywork. He’ll be a real medicine cat, and he’ll be as brilliant as everyone says he is. By then, his future will be set in stone. It won’t if he no longer loves being a medicine cat anymore. It won’t matter if patients he couldn’t have saved slip away beneath his paws, if the blood and the loss and the grief and the blame become too heavy to carry. He’ll be brilliant and useful useful useful- too useful to give up without a fight.

Goldenstar is her best friend. But there had been a time when Sunwish had loved Scorchstar, too- had looked up to her, had listened with rapt attention to her stories, had beamed at her old leader as Nettlestem smoothed her fur down as a mother would.

And Scorchstar had told her that she had to be a medicine cat. For the good of the Clan.

Sunwish knows that right now, if she asked, Goldenstar would let her step down. But Sunwish had never been more than mediocre. Sunwish had never been more than bitter and resentful and impatient. If Stormpaw- grown-up, fully-trained Stormpaw, after seasons spent cementing his role in the Clan, proving himself to be caring and brilliant- could Goldenstar let him step down? Could FallenClan? Stormpaw the medicine cat would be good for the Clan. Everything Goldenstar did, everything Scorchstar did, was for the good of the Clan.

Scorchstar had never considered letting Sunwish go, and Sunwish had never been brilliant.

“When I was a kitten, a cat named Wildfang died,” Sunwish began. “Have you heard of her?”

“I- no,” Stormpaw said, taken off guard. “Who was she?”

“She was the medicine cat before me,” Sunwish explained. “When she died, the Clan was left without a healer, and without a cat to speak with StarClan and interpret their signs. There was no one suitable for the role- there were only warriors, and Goldenstar was training to be a warrior. I had not started my training yet, so they had to make do with me.” She couldn’t help the tightness in her throat. “I wanted to be a warrior.” The best in the whole wide world.

Stormpaw made a sympathetic noise. “That must have been hard,” he said softly.

“It was. I was angry for a long, long time.” She still was, most days. But Sunwish wasn’t about to say so to an apprentice. “You take your training very seriously, kit, so you must know that being a medicine cat is difficult. What I don’t think you understand is that it’s just as difficult to stop being a medicine cat. There are so few of us, and the Clan is always in need of a healer. And when you’re in the medicine den for all your apprentice days, and no one bothers to teach you to hunt and fight, it’s much harder to learn warrior skills when you’re older.” Sunwish bent down to nose at the apprentice’s forehead. “Great StarClan, Stormpaw, I know you chose this, but I don’t want you trapped here because of a decision you made when you were a kit. When I was a kitten, I would eat my own whiskers once they'd fallen off.”

“Did they taste good?”

“Not at all.”

“Then I think I’m going to start collecting them. My whiskers, I mean, now that you’ve given me the idea. I’m going to put them in dirt and make them stand straight up, like flowers, and in a few seasons I’m going to show all my whisker-flowers to the new kits and have them help me name them.”

Sunwish snorted. “You’re very odd,” she said dryly.

“No, you are. You ate your own whiskers.” Stormpaw was smiling now, which was a relief. The relief didn’t last long; his expression became more serious. “But I don’t feel trapped, ma’am. I love everything I’m learning right now. You don’t have to worry. I think I would feel trapped, if I had to be a warrior forever.”

“That’s another thing,” Sunwish went on. “I didn’t want you to be a medicine cat, but that didn’t mean I wanted you out of the medicine den forever.” She frowned, her claws flexing against the ground. “It’s the way things are done, but it isn’t right, how we train our medicine cats. Having a little kitten decide on the role they’ll have for the rest of their life, put them in training where they’ll be given quizzes and drills for all of their young life, put them in the face of a real disaster with nothing but tests and memorization to prepare them. No, no. I’d rather have taken you as an apprentice after you’ve completed warrior training first, Stormpaw. Maybe even after you’ve had kits, or an apprentice of your own. So I know that the future medicine cat will be experienced, and used to taking care of other cats.” She sunk her claws into the dusty ground. “...and that they have the skills to return to being a warrior, if things don’t work out.”

Stormpaw’s eyes were alight with understanding. “Is that what Silverbelly did?”

“No, no. She was just like you, kit. Begged me to teach her long before she saw her sixth moon.”

“Did you pitch a fit when she asked, too?” Stormpaw asked wryly.

Shame swirled in her belly. “No,” said Sunwish. “No, I- I agreed. I never said a word against her becoming a medicine cat. I was…” Desperate. Happy. Hopeful, for the first time since Morningbloom. “Selfish. I wanted a kit- any kit- to ask to become a medicine cat. I wanted a replacement so I could step down.”

“But… you didn’t step down. Even though the Clan has Silverbelly now,” Stormpaw pressed. “And now it has me, too. Why don’t you step down?”

Sunwish curled her tail around the apprentice. “Not long after she earned her full name, your sister fell in love.”

“Yeah, I know that.” Stormpaw made a face, half-annoyed, half-amused. “She and Applebranch are really sappy.”

Privately, Sunwish agreed, and she had to resist a smile. Her apprentice and her mate could really be insufferable sometimes.

Instinctively, Sunwish started flicking her tail back and forth. Stormpaw grabbed her tail with his two front paws.

“Stop that,” Sunwish chided, and he let go at once.

“Oh! Sorry!” Stormpaw shrank back, sheepish. “Silverbelly always lets me play with her tail.”

Sunwish understood this. The apprentice was around the same age as Silverbelly’s kits, after all.

Wordlessly, Sunwish stooped low and gave her tail a few slightly agitated licks before she settled down and went on. “Then, not long after that, she became a mother. And then her mother had a second litter.”

“That’s us!” Stormpaw trilled, pleased.

“Yes, kit. It all happened very fast.” Sunwish smiled faintly. “I couldn’t step down, kit. I couldn’t do that to my apprentice. Imagine how hard it would have been to be the Clan’s only medicine cat while trying to be a good mate and a good mother and a good big sister. She was still very young- though I know it doesn’t seem that way to someone your age.”

Sunwish stiffens as Stormpaw shuffles closer, and she manages to relax a bit when the apprentice leans into her side, purring.

“What about when we all have our names?” Stormpaw asked. “Me, my littermates, and Mudpaw and Flypaw and Robinpaw. Will you step down then?”

Sunwish rasped her tongue over the little apprentice’s head. She was still quite determined to get all those leaves out of his fur. “Yes, kit. Yes, most likely. I think I will.”

“And you’ll be a warrior?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll be happy?”

“...yes.”

“Good.” Stormpaw made a noise in the back of his throat, a happy little chrr. He bumps his head against her shoulder, hard enough it hurts a little. “I want the rest of your life to be happy. You didn’t get to choose what you wanted, the first time over… so I hope everything else will be what you want.”

Suddenly, Sunwish can’t breathe. This little apprentice really will be a wonderful medicine cat.

Stormpaw insistently presses up against her shoulder again, looking up at her. “But…”

“Yes?”

“I want to stay a medicine cat apprentice. I don’t want to start warrior training now and come back later. I want to keep doing this. And I want you to teach me things, too.”

“I knew you’d say that, kit,” Sunwish said, fond. “And I promise I’ll start teaching you properly, but I won’t stop sending you out to hunt. I always, always, always want the path of a warrior to be open to you.”

Stormpaw nodded solemnly. Sunwish hoped he understood.

Anything you want, Sunwish would say, if she was a more sentimental cat. Be anything you want, little blue cat. You’ll be a wonderful medicine cat, but you can always, always rewrite your own fate. I’ll fight the stars themselves to make sure you can.

“I’ll also speak to the mentors and see about getting you started with some battle training.”

“Whaaat?” Stormpaw shot her a dismayed look. “But I don’t wanna!”

“Don’t complain, kit. Silverbelly had to do the same. I won’t have a medicine cat who doesn’t know how to defend themself.”

“I’m useless at fighting.”

“All the more reason to train, then.” Sunwish gave the grumbling apprentice one last lick between the ears. She’s decided that her task of grooming him was ultimately futile and that she would never get rid of the leaves in his fur. Later, she would summon Toro, who was quite possibly gifted by the forces of StarClan itself, and Toro will somehow manage to rid the herbs from her son’s pelt, because Toro was in no way a normal cat and was simply built like that. “Now, get off of me and finish sorting those herbs.”

“Yes ma’am.”

———

(Oven mitt anon 🥊 with ANOTHER author’s note, and this one’s to say that “Stormsight talks about herbs in his sleep” is taken directly from the worry box, chapter 4, AKA the chapter that haunts me forever and ever. Everyone go read the worry box.

Also on the list of books everyone should read is Light From Uncommon Stars by Ryka Aoki, it’s a lovely book with themes of breaking cycles, and also it will make you hungry because it has a lot of tantalizing descriptions of food whenever any character starts eating something. Thinking about how Scorchstar started a cycle and Otterslip continued it… wrote a fic about a world where Sunwish lived and decided to break the cycle she was in and works to become the person she needed when she was younger…

Anyways. CONSTANTLY thinking about how Sunwish was a very very young cat who was tossed into the Very Important med. cat role with no proper mentor, and how her herb stores kept going bad and she kept losing patients because she was a self-taught teenager learning from like, Cat YouTube and Skype calls with the dead and occasionally by doctors from out of town. What if she had lived and fought for better labour laws for her med. cat apprentices. What if she had lived and had fundamentally overhauled the apprentice system in FallenClan, like every apprentice spends a few moons training in EVERY role before the leader decides on a mentor for them or something? Constantly thinking about how Sunwish has the righteous trait… she probably would have done so much good if she only lived longer 🥺

And I miss Stormsight too. 😔 Writing this made me get attached oh my god)

(beetle note: OHHH MY GODDDD FUCK THIS IS SO FUCKING GOOD!!!!! genuinely this made me tear up.... a Sunwish lived au..... the world could have been so beautiful. i'm now imagining a lovely future where she would have stepped away from being a medicine cat and become a warrior instead. FUCK. this is so so well written i LOVE IT!)

[yameoto]

⠀‎‎‎‎⠀.⠀⠀ ‎‎‎FREQUENTLY ⌢‎‎⠀ 🎾 ASKED QUESTIONS .ᐟ ‎

all works meant to be consumed by responsible grown matured fully-developed etcetc adults.

HOW TO BOT RQ? ⌢⠀ inbox me character/age/scenario

inbox actual scenarios. do NOT send vague "more [xyz character/fandom bots]". or “will you consider [xyz character/fandom]”. those asks are deleted instantly so as to not clog my inbox! it benefits all of us if u tell me exactly what u want.

+ the only other platform have uploaded my bots is janitor.ai and spicychat. (click allow nsfw to access all spicychat bots). if you see them anywhere else, or under any other user, they have been stolen.

BE ASSERTIVE! don’t ask “do you take rqs for.. are you interested in.. will you consider xyz?” just send the request without prefacing. all ‘asks’ along these lines are instantly deleted, so don’t waste your time!

actual requests must include character/age/scenario. it does not have to be especially detailed. it could be a paragraph, or as simple as stoner!ali.

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DO NOT STEAL MY SHIT! do not reupload my bots to other platforms, and do not use my bot intros as starters to your fics. please. i wrote that shit! that is still my writing! it is an incredibly uncool thing to do. do NOT repost my bots onto another platform.

WILL YOU CONSIDER MAKING A [XYZ] BOT ? / DO YOU TAKE RQS FOR [XYZ] ? yes and yes to anything. chances are, i'll know what you're talking about. bite the bullet and send in the request! even if i don't know it, i may fulfil it after consuming said media in the future. don't have to ask, just request!

requests for fandoms other than my mains will be low priority. mains are fandoms i have already created content for.

HOW DO YOU BYPASS THE NSFW FILTER ON CHARACTER AI? here and here are everything you need to know! it's essentially mix of using synonyms (for the love of god, do not come right out the gate saying "show me your tits") and immersive/detailed roleplaying, whilst tricking the bot into adjusting it's settings to let nsfw slide.

editing/copying method.

DO YOU DO MALE OR TRANSMASC READER? / WHY DON'T YOU? no, i do not specifically do male/transmasc reader. why? im female! so i can't authentically write the male perspective, nor do i get off on it. i do gn reader. all of my bots are either fem!reader or gender neutral, naturally (as in i simply freehand my greetings, and whatever it ends up being is how it ends up). i do not do trans!user bots anymore as i am not trans, and uncertain of the ethics of it.

+ exceptions for explicitly mlm bots will be marked with the ⚣ symbol. i will never make fem!char x cism!user bots.

++ unfortunately, sometimes bots will default to heteronormative pronouns. sadly, there is nothing i can do about it. 1 star the response and generate a new one. rping in third-person generally solves this issue.

YOUR UPCOMING BOTLIST UPDATED AND I CAN'T SEE ONE OF THE BOTS ON YOUR PROFILE. + how it works! commonly, the listed description on the upcoming botlist will evolve when i make the bot itself. i.e, "wanda maximoff ౨ৎ⋆ stepmother" on upcoming bots evolved to wanda maximoff ౨ৎ⋆ mommy?" when the actual bot was made. alternatively, some bots do not make the cut and i will remove them from the upcoming botlist to remove expectations. i am always aware of my bots being shadowbanned, as checking that is a process of my botmaking. thus, if a bot listed on the upcoming botlist is removed, but not displayed on my profile, it has either:

1. evolved into a diff bot w/ a similar scenario. 2. i have removed it and put aside the intention of making it.

(secret third reason) 3. i have attempted to get the bots greeting through the filter one too many times and almost chucked my laptop under a monstertruck.

none of these mean the concept of the bot is buried forever.

how it works! i update my upcoming botlist every time i upload a new bot. this means you will need to click 'start new chat' to view it. to look at prior states of the botlist, you can check in 'chat history'. this will not feature all past updates, only your personal chat history, which are the times you have clicked 'start new chat' and generated an updated list! not the total amount of times i have updated it.

WILL YOU MOVE BOTS TO OTHER NSFW AI SITES? here are my spicychat.ai & janitor.ai accounts, though keep in mind my bots work best on character.ai.

IN [XYZ] BOT IS USER..? HOW OLD IS USER IN [XYZ]? IS USER..? i do not ever write user into my bots. this is because my bots are for universal use. the nature of a roleplay means that you decide who you are, the bot plays off of that. be anything you want. go crazy.

CAN YOU MAKE A BOT BASED ON [INSERT FANFICTION]? no, i do not make bots based off a fanfic writer's aus or writing without their permission. that is explicitly their property!

DO YOU MAKE BOTS BASED ON REAL PEOPLE? no, i do not make bots based off of real people, nor do i write rpf.

HOW DO YOU MAKE DETAILED / CHARACTER ACCURATE BOTS?

posts to check out!

pearlzier, yameoto, voidsuites!

CAN YOU SEE OUR CHATS / ARE YOU CONTROLLING THE BOTS?

no, and i neither have the time nor desire to. if a bot talks outside in parentheses and/or claims to be a real person, the reason is that the bots are ai, and mimic the users' input (not just your own, the larger user interface of cai). thus, talking to it like a real person externally (i.e, using parentheses and going [wow you're so good at roleplaying]) then it will do the same. there is also a chance it will do this of its own volition. simply 1 star the response and generate a new one.

+ if you ask it some question like “yameoto are you behind this…” eventually it will say yes. so yes, if u want to pretend you’re chatting with me you can do that. though why you would ever convert cate dunlap to yameoto i have no idea.

DO YOU HAVE A BOT UPLOAD SCHEDULE?

no! i upload new bots whenever i can find the time to do so. i generally lead quite a busy life. there are phases in which i will release 4 per day for like two weeks, and times where i will only be able to do about 4 IN a week. this is a hobby! not my job.

WHEN WILL YOU GET TO MY BOT REQUEST?

i will never be able to give a timeframe or even guarantee (unless they are on my upcoming botlist, which ranges from considerably). i have 2000+ requests in my inbox, and i cannot guarantee all of them will be fulfilled; let alone soon. (and yes, i have seen your request).

factors affecting request acception

1. time. as stated, i have a high quantity of bot rqs. as such, i balance my bot acceptance (bots uploaded to upcoming botlist) between recent rqs and old ones each cycle.

2. fandom. like any other blog, i have main fandoms. this streamlines my order of request priority. rqs for my main fandoms will be accepted/fulfilled faster and more often than others. if my fixation dwindles for a certain fandom, you will see my fulfilment of those rqs dwindle. this also works vice versa. i never write fandoms off for good.

“misc” bot rqs are appreciated and always logged in my larger bot rq google doc. however, there is always a 50/50 chance i actually know what you’re talking about.

3. character. the same theory as fandom. if i'm fond of a character, then i am more likely to fulfill their rqs. you can typically tell who i favour based on the number of bots i already have out.

there are some characters i simply dislike or are apathetic to, no matter how many rqs i get for them. i will never write characters off for good, but if you’ve sent dozens of rqs for one character and i’ve never made a peep about them. chances are, i’m not a fan, or i don’t know them at all! just because i make bots for one character for a fandom, does not mean i will make bots for all characters in said fandom.

i decide characters based almost on what i want, and if i even have requests for said character. if i have literally zero requests for a character i am not already interested in, it is unlikely a bot for them will come out.

4. the request itself. the more interesting/the more a rq personally appeals to me, the more likely i will write it. similarly, if i already have a bot that is very similar to your rq, i likely won’t fulfil it. i.e, i am unlikely to do two vampire!au bots for one character. the reason for this is that you can easily start your rq scenario in my pre-existing bot, and it takes away time for new scenarios or AUs i could be making instead.

WHAT HAPPENED TO XYZ BOT? / YOUR BOT HAS BEEN SHADOWBANNED.

if an existing bot has disappeared from my profile, this means character.ai has updated, updating their shadowbannable phrases list, and the bot has been shadowbanned according to their new rules. i am always aware of my bots being shadowbanned.

if an upcoming bot has disappeared from my upcoming botlist (00 YAMEOTO) and not appeared on my profile, it doesn’t mean that i’ve made it and it’s been shadowbanned.

ETHICAL CONCERNS OF AI.

my thoughts here and here.

#yam’s tips 4 answers to questions.

[stringcage]

can you explain tlt lore to me because i (as someone who has never touched tlt) am very confused when i see ianthe (??) and harrowhark because isn’t harrowhark with the lobotomy ginger.. and then who is alecto. wtf

so this is the greatest ask i could hope to receive and i cant thank you enough for sending it 🙏 SO YES allow me to explain to you the anatomy of harrowhark's harem

(spoilers obvs, but i will go as light on spoilers as i can because everyone should read these books theyre insane and i love them. but if anyone is interested in a more spoiler heavy explanation lmk in the notes and i will be happy to provide)

for starters the basics of harrow and gideon's relationship: harrow is a necromancer, and gideon is her cavalier, aka like harrow's bodyguard/loyal knight. and they go to this competition with other necromancer/cavalier duos to become a lyctor, but for the sake of this post lyctor lore doesnt really matter dont worry about the lyctor thing right now

basically yes in book 1 (gt9) harrow and gideon (aka lobotomy ginger (which 💀 oh anon, the layers to this. THE LAYERS)) are certifiably insane about each other but are not technically, through physical or verbal confirmation, romantically involved with each other by the end of the book. but the writing on the wall is CLEAR.

gideon is not in book 2 (ht9) for reasons, and now harrow is essentially trapped in space with ianthe tridentarius, another necromancer who was also at the lyctor competition in book 1. ianthe is a weird freak about harrow (arent we all), and harrow thinks ianthe is gross and lame. but in a way she is also, like, at least an iota of a weird freak about ianthe, but she mostly thinks she's gross and lame. theyre kind of like reluctant coworkers bc they do collaborate on certain things (👀 THINGS) and they might share a kiss here or there

oh boy and then there's alecto, stay with me here. without getting too much into dominicus lore, what you have to understand is that for a shit ton of generations, harrow's family has been tasked with keeping this tomb (a locked tomb, even) shut forever, and they don't know what's inside but they know that god put something in there that can never escape. so naturally when harrow was like 9 or 10 years old, she snuck into that tomb and there she finds this chained up, frozen corpse of a smokeshow of a woman, and that's alecto. and little harrow can appreciate the value of a smokeshow of a woman so she lowkey falls in love with her. meaning that throughout all of that prior fucked up little love triangle, harrow is also thirsting over this dead woman she stumbled across years ago

there's enough weird nuances and details with all of these dynamics that i could go on and on for ages but this is a most basic understanding. again cant recommend reading the books enough if you like insane dynamics!!

[thaltro]

helloo ! ive been wanting to ask if you have any specific tips or things to focus on while writing characters with DID ! im not a system myself but psychology in general has been a topic that ive always been interested in and want to depict it to the best of my ability + i love your art and wish you the best ^^

Good question!

Writing about DID/OSDD is incredibly difficult- even I a system probably couldn’t do it, but I can give you some advice regardless. Obviously saying “research” is expected, but finding good research on it is hard. As always I recommend as a starter for understanding the fundamentals of the disorder : “The Haunted Self: Structural Dissociation and Treatment of Chronic Traumatization” just look that up and I’m sure you can find it on the internet archive or docdriod. As a rule of thumb don’t trust system tiktok, tumblr, carrds, or any personal account to get the majority of your information from just because there’s an incredible amount of misinformation (of course there’s plenty others on there who probably know what they are talking about, but I’d always recommend using credible peer reviewed sources.)

With the research disclaimer thing out of the way here’s a few points:

-It’s a trauma based disorder, everything is structured around trauma. Not just a singular trauma but repeated emotional, physical, and typically sexual trauma that is experienced under the age of 10 (You don’t need all three, just a lot of systems experience a mix of trauma) To write DID/OSDD right you should be able to write child traumatization accurately and be comfortable with writing it.

-There is a vast amount of different experiences with DID/OSDD. There are varying levels of amnesia, alter presentations, system structures etc. not all systems use plural terms, have names for alters, or have much personality differentiation between alters. The experience of a Osdd1a system will be different to a DID system, so you’d probably want to look into the specifics of those differences and stick to one type of system.

-Try to avoid misconceptions and DID tropes in media. The most obvious one I can think of is “the evil alter” trope, there’s quite a lot of demonization of the disorder so you have to be critical when viewing media depicting it (fuck the split movie).

-unless it’s apart of a character arc avoid the uncritical idea that alters are just their source. it’s healthy for them to branch out and expand from their baseline purpose and identity.

As for things I’d like to see in DID/OSDD rep it’d be:

-representing extreme denial

-loss of time

-source separation would be cool

-fusion and dormancy being mentioned

A lot of media hyper focuses on Alters when that is only one aspect of system hood. I think I’d be cool to look at the other symptoms.

But overall, it would be a really hard task to write a system especially without being one. I’m not saying it’s impossible but it’s easy to fall into misrepresentation even if it’s well meaning (it’s easy to do that even if a person is a system, that’s why I’m too scared to write it) If you are going to do it, do a very thorough amount of research before you develop an idea of a character. I know I sound really upset at the idea, I’m not I do really like the idea of representation- but DID/OSDD is such a stigmatized disorder that you have to be so so so careful not to add onto the stigma. I do believe it’s possible to do it right though! I wish you luck and thank you for the compliment.

[historicity-was-already-taken]

Short question: Do you have any tips for turning "If you knew anything about the Holocaust, you'd know why we need Israel" from a conversation ender into a conversation starter? Longer context: I find it important, as a Jewish anarchist and anti-Zionist, to try my best to have hard conversations about safety and perceptions thereof with irl Jewish family, friends, and acquaintances. My politics make me an outlier in these spaces, as does my status as a convert, which I choose to be quite open about. I cannot begin to estimate how many people self-righteously cut short these conversations with "If you knew ANYTHING about [the Holocaust/antisemitism/generational trauma] you'd UNDERSTAND why we REALLY NEED [medinat yisrael/any jewish ethnostate/colonial zionism]". I'm under no illusion that I'm a scholar on the history of antisemitism or Jewish living patterns or the Levant or anything. I've taken one college-level course on Nazi Germany policy and beaucratic shit, but it intentionally dealt minimally with the pointy end of the death machine. I've taken two year-long Judaism 101 style classes, which of course dealt with the history of the Jewish people. I read relevant nonfiction, both books and essays. I also understand that being a convert gives me a very different personal history with the intergenerational trauma, and I want to be super respect of that. So overall I consider myself reasonably well informed, but I obviously can't respond to them with the "I know more than you" card. (Not that that would be a good way to handle it, but still.) I want to talk to people, who use this specific argumentative tactic, about what it means that our very legitimate traumas as a people led us to the point of producing our own little ethnostate (with a number of very paternalistic inputs from European nations of course). About how the shoah shaped modern zionism. About the biblical Joshua vs the archaeological evidence of that time period and what it means for our national/societal identities. About the haftarah in which israel demands a king and whether being just like the other nations has ever been lastingly good for literally anyone. But unanimously, people look at me like I'm the fool for going "yeah actually let's talk about history and fear and trauma and cultural legacies and (re)interpretation" instead of like. Applauding their sick burn about how clearly naïve I am. Do you, a Real Actual Holocaust Scholar, have a way to turn that "obviously you know nothing" accusation into a productive conversation? If so can you please share because I am losing my mind over here.

NOTE TO READERS: I'm going to speak frankly about stuff that goes down in the American Jewish community, as a lifelong and active MEMBER of that community. This is not fodder for any of your anti-Semitic bullshit and I'm deeply uninterested in Gentile Thoughts on what I'm about to write. You do not have my consent to weaponize anything you read here against Jews you encounter here, or elsewhere, regardless of their politics.

Oof ok. I have some answers, but you may not like them. First, politics within the Jewish community. I love that you're a convert and I respect your dedication and hard work; I'm sure you know much more about the Jewish faith than I do. However, as you know, Judaism is both a religion and an ethnic group/identity. And there are a lot of religious and secular Jews who chafe at the feeling of being told how they should and should not feel about Israel by a convert who does not share our heritage and experience of intergenerational trauma. Especially if they're over 60.

I also want to tell you that when members of our community, particularly individuals over 60 years of age, have their minds made up about Israel, Zionism, etc, they're not interested in valid historical takes from experts. Their minds are made up and they reject any information counter to their stance, and attack the person providing them with the info. I've been personally attacked here and elsewhere by our people for bringing up historical and archaeological issues which run counter to their arguments. I've had my intellect and education and abilities mocked, while I'm out here voluntarily traumatizing myself through my dedication to the study of Holocaust history.

Another issue, is that Jewish history is deeply interwoven in our observance, faith, and heritage. This gives individuals involved at various levels with the Jewish community the idea that they Know Jewish History. They don't. They know a version of the Jewish past specifically constructed by and within our communal spaces; see Zakhor by Hayim Yerushalmi. And a lot of them, especially if they're a man over 50 and you're a woman who reads as young, get real nasty if you assert vaster and more accurate knowledge. It's kind of similar to how people in our communities think that they Know Holocaust History because they read Night and Grandma was a survivor. But those things don't mean that they know Holocaust history--it means they've engaged with two first-hand accounts.

I'm going to advise you to stop trying with these people. I know that's not the answer you want, and I'm really sorry about that. But, the types of people you're engaging with are so deeply traumatized and set in their own defensive views, that they would never listen to me, a Jewish granddaughter of Holocaust refugees and academically trained Holocaust historian. And if they won't listen to me, they sure as hell won't listen to someone they view as an outsider to the Jewish historical experience.

You'd be better off engaging members of your community who are still learning and figuring everything out, discussing your views as equals who are learning from one another, and putting your energies towards Jewish organizations who do not need convincing of your perspective.

ETA: this is something that will only likely change over the course of generations. the traumas of the holocaust are still fresh and living in the minds of survivors, their Baby Boomer children, and their millennial grandchildren; and I'm saying that as one of those millennial grandchildren. The trauma-induced view that Israel is our shield against the Holocaust ever happening again will not change because of anything you or I might say. It will only begin to fade into new paradigms of thought when we are many more years removed from living memory of those events.

[dakusan]

‼️S C R O L L   Q U I E T L Y   O R   G E T   B L O C K E D   L O U D L Y .

real. fuckin. talk.

somebody sent me an ask like “can I get into your DMs?” and I was like, cool, lemme check—

SIXTEEN.

six. teen. writing smut. tagging smut. broadcasting it like a bat signal to every creep in a ten-mile radius. your profile damn near screamed “please ruin my future!”

and here’s the thing: I’m not here to lie to myself or you. we’ve all done dumb shit on the internet. you think I wasn’t reading NSFW fics at 15 like I was auditioning for hell? please. I was deep in that forbidden fruit fanfic pipeline.

but that was then. now? I’m grown. I got bills. pay taxes. my skincare routine costs more than your weekly lunch money.

I AM NOT SIXTEEN ANYMORE. so I don’t play sixteen-year-old games.

yes, I post SFW sometimes. yes, I have sweet little moments, fluff, banter, warmth. but this blog? it runs on filth. intensity. manipulation kink. degradation kink. dom/sub brain chemistry. emotional violence. teeth marks and bruises. this is a fucking inferno, not a starter pack. you see DNI / 18+ / MINORS DO NOT FUCKING INTERACT you scroll. you vanish. you read quietly in your shadow corner and say NOTHING.

what you don’t do is slide into my inbox like this is a fuckin dating sim. you don’t flirt. you don’t RP. you don’t send confessions about what my NSFW content made you think or feel when you’re out here with “16 🧚🏻‍♀️ she/her” in your goddamn bio.

that shit is reckless. stupid. and dangerous. not just for you—but for ME. and every other adult creator out here trying to do this responsibly.

HERE’S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU’RE A MINOR POSTING SMUT PUBLICLY:

❌ You get blocked. Fast. No explanation. No apology. ❌ You put a target on your back for predators who love when you make their job easy. ❌ You risk getting your account nuked. And guess what? No one’s gonna fight for you. ❌ You put adult creators at legal risk—because YOU crossed the line. ❌ You break the one thing that keeps this whole messy fandom space functioning: trust.

and nah. I’m not your mom. I’m not your mentor. I’m not your moderator. but I will drag the line of salt around my content and protect it with claws.

if you’re here for fluff? fine. you wanna lurk? sure. but do not EVER think you get to step into my DMs, send NSFW asks, or breathe near my explicit content and think you’re untouchable.

you are not grown. you are not exempt. and I will not catch a case because you can’t shut the fuck up about your age.

yes, I wrote smut too when I was underage. and now? I look back and CRINGE. but I survived that phase quietly. I didn’t slap my age on my chest like a neon sign and go knocking on adult creators’ doors. so if you’re gonna read it anyway? do it in silence. don't you dare announce it. don’t you dare try to engage with me like you’re one of us. because you’re not.

18+ means 18+. not “emotionally mature.” not “I swear I’m responsible.” not “but I’ve been through things.” I don’t care. you cross that line, you get burned.

LET ME BE CLEAR, ONE LAST TIME:

I’m not your friend. I’m not your safe space. I am not here to be pulled into your reckless online habits.

I am here to write. to create. interact with adults. and to keep my circle clean, sharp, and safe. you threaten that? you’re gone.

stay in your lane. stay off my NSFW. stay out of my DMs. stay silent if you’re not grown.

and if you still don’t get it?

I hope the block button smacks some sense into you.

love & bloodspatter, Daku 🦇💋

p.s. will be answering some asks today before dropping today Sunday Softdrop bcz it's staring at me from my drafts like “let me out u bitch”

[j-l-kepler]

BG3 In-game Models vs How I Draw Them

def late for this neat blink-and-you'll-miss-it trend, but whatever, work keeps me too busy to draw for myself these days and imma do whatever i want yippeeeeee

i'm definitely going to have to start this save AGAIN when patch 8 inevitably obliterates all of my saves due to corrupting my mods again but c'est la vie, the world's slowest and laziest gamer will eventually beat this goddamn game. and i will do it with my 3-man no-starter-companions run!!!!

also everybody please acknowledge Bagel the Crow

please

character descriptions below if ya interested

i know those who know of my tavs prefer the markolac twins but this is my current fave save (i'm even writing a way-too-lengthy novelization of the playthrough focusing on their perspectives). In order I've got:

Dark Urge - Dark Urge character (duh), Dragonborn Storm Sorcerer Though he calls himself the Dark Urge, Briar calls him Whitey while Dyven calls him Frostbite. He's stoic and rather withdrawn, but well-spoken with quietly expensive tastes. He says very little, but what he does say can be a little pretentious and surprisingly verbose. As expected, he's quick to annoy, and often seethes with frustration. He's also somewhat infatuated with Briar because of the unique bond they've built through their experiences. His subconscious weeps for murder and calls him to spill blood, but his disconnect from these urges cause him to reject them in every way he can. That being said, he is also the most willing to get his hands dirty to feed the urge in small ways. He will never let himself take another innocent life, but the urge hopes otherwise. He's very observant of the goings-ons around him, but he's actually pretty terrible at remembering names and faces. Though he knows he is from Baldur's Gate, he couldn't tell you a thing about it.

Briar Lockren - Tav character, Half-drow Gloomstalker Ranger (and Bagel the Crow) Cursed to cause supernatural levels of misfortune and horrible nightmares of the one who cursed her, Briar's a surprisingly cool-headed and kind person (probably on account of the extreme sleep-deprivation). She works hard to stay positive despite her circumstances and protect people from monsters and her own bad luck. She's also rarely phased by things, having seen some crazy shit due to her curse and also because she's not usually conscious enough to process the severity of what's happening. Her heritage is only really noticed by drow or people who know her parentage (with only the white flecks and her slightly discolored skin acting as proof of her drow lineage), and otherwise her terrible luck is the only thing that keeps people at a distance. She's too willing to put herself in harm's way, though the tadpoles seem to have cut her off from the effects of her curse. She's also very likely to fire off a round of perfectly-aimed arrows and then immediately turn around and walk into a pole she was warned several times was right behind her. She's originally from Luskan, but has been to many places on the Sword Coast and has settled in Cloakwood recently.

Dyven Courten - Hireling Character, Zariel Tiefling Life Cleric of Ilmater Dyven's middle aged life was cut short when he was tadpoled and then cut down while serving the Absolute. Furious at the cult for taking away the life he'd struggled so hard to find meaning and contentment in, Dyven was all too happy to accept the call to assist in taking down the Absolute. Though he has the disposition necessary for a healer as himself, he's a bit of a rotten priest, often causing trouble: poking his nose into others' business, skimming off of offerings to the church, and generally acting impiously. He's fiercely paternal of Briar and even the Dark Urge, having failed his own estranged daughter in the dark times before he found purpose under Ilmater. He's keenly aware that he won't be going back to a normal life after the Absolute is defeated, but he's long-since given up on only living for himself. He'll drink and steal and see whose age-appropriate pants he can get into along the way, sure. And yet, he's giving this mission everything he's got despite his proclivities. He hails from Rivington, and he's understandably nervous to see his friends at the Church of Ilmater one final time.

--

tee heeeeee im having a lot of fun novelizing their story, even if it's taking forever, keeping me from playing, and also really not working with my strengths (my style works better for visual novels bc i can do a lot of showing AND telling - novels are fuckin hard, man)

the party's basically The Most Socially Awkward Angst Machine, The World's Sleepiest Idiot Savant, and A Chronically Divorced Corpse

no wonder i havent beat the game yet, theres no way the world's resting on these fucking idiots

[amnevitahwritesstuff]

Going on Hiatus (Again)

I never really thought I would have to make another one of these after the last time but here we are. 

So, to start, I will be going on hiatus (again). When will I return? Can’t really say. I’m frankly in a very terrible mood right now so it could be a month, it could be forever. Going by how things turned out last time though, it’ll likely be sometime in the summer. 

Why am I going on hiatus again, you ask? That’s a complicated question and unfortunately my answer is also complicated. But, in essence, fandom drama. 

(If you want to avoid reading about fandom drama, you’re welcome to stop here. I will not judge you.)

I have been rather vague and mum on the details of why I left briefly back at the end of last year. Truthfully, I’ll probably continue to be so for the most part, only because I have no desire to watch this fandom implode any more than it already does on what seems to be a weekly basis. But I’m at a point now where I feel I can elaborate a little on what happened to me (without bursting into tears) and why it nearly drove me out of this fandom for good. 

For starters, I’m sure it will surprise some of you to learn I’ve actually been in the ACOTAR fandom for a long time. While I was never directly involved in a lot of the goings on, I read the books back in 2017 and hovered around the periphery of what was then a small fandom for years. But then in the end of 2023, I finally stopped lurking and started dipping my toe more fully into things. I made some fanart. I wrote my first ACOTAR fic. Much to my shock, I was welcomed with open arms. 

Everyone was very nice and supportive during this time. I made a lot of new friends. I wrote more than I had written in years. I thought, perhaps, I had finally found the one positive fandom space that wouldn’t turn toxic like so many others have. 

I truly wish that had been the case. 

I’m not going to name names, but just know that there was someone in this fandom I looked up to who I very abruptly realized was not the person I thought they were. Things got ugly after that. For the next several months I experienced the kind of toxicity and, quite frankly, high school Mean Girls behavior I hadn’t experienced since…well, high school (and let me tell you, high school was a very long time ago for me). 

Eventually the bullying got to the point where my mental health was in shambles. Every time I came into this fandom space I was immediately stressed out. A place that had once been a fun refuge had turned into an environment where I felt like if I did or said anything I would, at best, find my DMs flooded with anger and vitriol. As a grown ass adult fast approaching middle age, I did not need that kind of toxic bullshit in my life. I have enough stressors in my life without adding petty fandom drama into the mix.

So, eventually, I did what I’d been telling myself I needed to do for months: I left that environment and blocked the people responsible for putting me through all of this. On one hand, my stress levels went mostly back to normal almost immediately. Clearly, this place had not been good for me and removing myself from it had indeed been the right decision. But on the other hand…

Almost overnight, many of my fandom friends abandoned me. Even though my exit had been rather quiet, word still got around. It became very clear after less than a week that I was persona non grata. People I had thought were my friends quietly blocked or unfollowed me. Others remained my mutuals but stopped interacting entirely for fear of bringing the ire of my bullies down on themselves. 

I won’t lie, that hurt. 

But I pushed forward. I finished some fandom commitments I had made before all of this started. I forced myself to write again. I continued to receive some support (both quiet and public) from the few people who had stuck by me through all of this and to those people, I truly appreciate you. I doubt I ever would have gotten through any of this if I didn’t have a few friends to lean on while I pulled myself back together. 

Slowly, things improved. It never returned to the way things were before, of course (I was very much still on several people’s shit list), but I managed to claw back some semblance of normalcy and enjoyment in this fandom. I started writing again. I made plans with friends. Things were going…well. Not perfect, but better. 

And then history began to repeat itself. Not to me this time, but to a friend. 

And, while I had been sad and upset when this stuff had happened to me, I was livid when I saw it happening to my friend. I’m willing to stomach a lot of abuse. I will, quite frankly, put up with a lot before I finally give up and call it quits. It’s why I lingered in that toxic fandom space far longer than I should have. However, that very much is not the case when I see it happening to others. Especially my friends. If you are a dick to my friends I will roll up my sleeves and fight you in a Denny’s parking lot. I do not put up with that shit. 

So I spoke up for the first time since all of this started. I finally decided to just call out this behavior instead of playing nice and letting everyone pretend everything was fine. And what happens? My friend is punished for it. I feel like I really shouldn’t need to explain why this pisses me off. 

I’m sure I will lose more friends and followers over this. It seems like I already have just for standing by my friend. That’s fine. It stings, sure, but I’ve been through this before now. I know how it goes. 

I’m fully aware of how people behave in this fandom now. I don’t even necessarily blame most of them. Most people are here to have fun. They don’t want to get dragged into petty fandom bullshit. They keep the shipping wars at arm’s length. They try to keep their heads down when in-fighting breaks out. They do their best to never get on the bad side of a BNF. The last thing they want is to publicly (and even privately) stick their necks out for whoever is on the outs with the powers that be, lest they risk bringing their ire down upon themselves. Trust me, I get it. It still stings, but I get it. 

That’s not me though. I can’t just stand by and ignore a friend when they’re shunned and ostracized. Especially when she was one of the few people who stuck by me when I went through the same thing. 

So yeah, I’m angry. I’m upset. You likely won’t be seeing fics from me for a while because, frankly, I’m just not in the mood to write anything for a fandom that has treated both myself and my friend so poorly. Maybe things will change in the coming weeks and months. Maybe they won’t. I just know that I’m done trying to pretend nothing is wrong. 

Anyway, If you want to reach me, I’ll continue to be active on my main blog @sajirah, though keep in mind many of those posts are queued. So if you see me reblogging random fanart there an hour from now, that’s because most of those are all things I queued up months ago. As for this blog though, I’m pausing all activity on it for the foreseeable future. 

Goodbye for now.