#Apex lemons

[stayatsam]

time to plan out the border...

[coolbatfacts]

you're unnatural babe !

[art-lover-genderhater]

THOSE LEGS OH MY GOD.

[bestanimal]

Round 3 - Chondrichthyes - Carcharhiniformes

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

Carcharhiniformes, commonly known as “Ground Sharks”, are the largest order of sharks. They include the families Scyliorhinidae (“catsharks”), Atelomycteridae (“coloured catsharks”), Pentanchidae (“deepwater catsharks”), Dichichthyidae (“bristle sharks”), Pseudotriakidae (“false catsharks”), Proscylliidae (“finback catsharks”), Leptochariidae (“Barbeled Houndshark”), Triakidae (“houndsharks”), Hemigaleidae (“weasel sharks”), Carcharhinidae (“requiem sharks”), Galeocerdonidae (“Tiger Shark”), and Sphyrnidae (“hammerhead sharks”).

Due to being such a large order, Carcharhiniformes are very diverse. Scyliorhinid catsharks (image 4) are distinguished by their elongated, cat-like eyes and two small dorsal fins set far back. They are usually small, with a patterned appearance, ranging from stripes to patches to spots. Carcharhinids are migratory, live-bearing sharks of warm seas (sometimes of brackish or fresh water) and include some of the most familiar species, such as the Bull Shark, Lemon Shark, Blacktip Shark (image 2), and Whitetip Reef Shark. The large-bodied, striped Tiger Sharks (image 3) are the only living members of their family Galeocerdonidae. The most distinctive family in this order is possibly the Sphyrnids, the Hammerhead Sharks, which range from the omnivorous Bonnethead Shark to the bizarre Winghead Shark to the giant Great Hammerhead (gif below).

The Carcharhiniformes arose in the Middle Jurassic, and were morphologically similar to living catsharks. They did not attain their modern diversity of forms until the Late Cretaceous, and didn’t reach medium and large body sizes until the Cenozoic.

Propaganda under the cut:

The Bonnethead Shark (Sphyrna tiburo), a small species of hammerhead, is the only shark known to be omnivorous. While it feeds on crustaceans, molluscs, and small fish, it also ingests large amounts of seagrass, which has been found to make up around 62% of gut content mass.

The "Swell Sharks" of the genus Cephaloscyllium have the curious ability to fill their stomachs with water or air when threatened, increasing their girth by a factor of one to three.

Some catsharks, such as the Chain Catshark (Scyliorhinus retifer), are biofluorescent.

The Slender Smooth-hound (Gollum attenuatus), is the only ground shark species known to exhibit intrauterine oophagy, in which developing fetuses are nourished by eggs produced by their mother. They will form egg capsules which contain 30-80 ova, within which only one ovum develops; the remaining ova are ingested and their yolks stored in its external yolk sac. The embryo then proceeds to develop normally, without ingesting further eggs.

The oddly shaped head of hammerhead sharks is called a cephalofoil, and is used for hunting. Numerous electroreceptory organs are located on the underside of the cephalofoil. The hammerhead will swing their head in broad angles over the sea floor to pick up the electrical signatures of stingrays buried in the sand. The cephalofoil also serves as a hydrofoil that allows the shark to quickly turn around and strike at a ray once detected. It may also pin it down with its head while pivoting to take a large bite from each side of the ray's pectoral fin disc.

The Tiger Shark (Galeocerdo cuvier) is one of the biggest predatory sharks, with exceptionally large females reaching over 5 m (16 ft 5 in). Males are much smaller, with only the largest getting up to 4 m (13 ft 1 in). They are apex predators and scavengers, with a reputation for eating almost anything. They are eaten by orcas and humans, also apex predators with a reputation for eating almost anything.

Tiger Sharks possess unique significance as ‘aumākua, revered as family guardians in Hawaiian culture. The tiger shark, regarded as an intelligent and highly perceptive spiritual entity, assumes the role of a messenger bridging the gap between humans and the divine.

During a 2015 expedition, an international team found two species of Carcharhiniform shark, along with microbial communities, living within the underwater crater of the active volcano Rejo te Kvachi, now informally dubbed “Sharkcano”. Using a baited drop camera, an international team observed Scalloped Hammerhead Sharks (Sphyrna lewini) and Silky Sharks (Carcharhinus falciformis) living in the hot, acidic water.

Many of the sharks in this order are endangered due to overfishing, both as bycatch and purposefully for shark fin soup. Critically endangered species include the Pondicherry Shark, Daggernose Shark, Great Hammerhead, Scalloped Hammerhead, Scalloped Bonnethead, Ganges Shark, Striped Smooth-hound, Oceanic Whitetip Shark, Borneo Shark, Whitefin Swellshark, and Whitefin Topeshark. The Lost Shark may already be extinct.

[leclsrc]

decent incentives ✴︎ cl16, mv1

genre: this is. Smut, porn W plot, threesome, driver reader

word count: 6.9k

Max can’t even feel his feet on the hardwood floors because you’re on your bed, spread out, wearing one of Charles’ sweaters, two fingers at the apex of your thighs. Or: You’ve been a brat, and only two people know how to mellow you out. title from this

auds here… hi hi hi! scanned my reqs last week, found a max/charles threesome one, and wrote this out in half a day after a friend showed me the challengers trailer (i love tennis and it drove me to write abt a sport that was not, in fact, tennis) also i truly cannot explain the phenomenon behind me finding smut/these kinds of works easier to suss out these days (long form fic i talked abt in the last drabble is not this one fyi) but it’s just ???? like i don’t… i’ve no clue. i hope u enjoy this anyway!!!! love auds :)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, double penetration, sexual tension, masturbation (f), teasing, praise central, reader is a MASSIVE brat, size kink, dirty talk, i don’t want to say brat taming but kinda kinda

Your first time in Max Verstappen’s hotel room happened after a tiring night of media and press, where you spent hours together smoking to calm yourselves down. You’d almost been caught by a manager, stepping on your sticks as soon as the back door swung open and your names were called out to do another interview. This was with ESPN, if you remember right. There’d been a muddled chaos of journalism in the venue, all the jumbled mess of the same questions. As young as you both are, do you feel intimidated by success?

It didn’t—and still doesn’t—help, you suppose, that both you and Max had stared, tight-lipped and deflated brows, and stated, with finality: no.

The afternoon stretched into an entire night, and by the time the clock ticked nine and everything had formally wrapped up, Max mustered up the courage and a half it took to invite you to his hotel room for a cig and half a Cuervo divided into three shots each. The conversation had progressed as he drove, the continuation of an otherwise unorthodox friendship between a Red Bull and Mercedes driver—a fact you’d both acknowledged but opted to ignore.

Drivers are friends all the time, you figure—you’re close with few drivers—but none of them are Max. You had made the lousy small talk, commented on how different the pre- and post-race processes have become since your entrance in 2018, which, back then, had seemed like forever ago. “It would seem like forever to a world champion,” he’d said, and his voice is all teasing and raspy and scruffed up. You had laughed, a scoffy little noise, and told him to shut up.

He obeyed, for two seconds, then added, “Do you mind if we meet someone there?”

The hotel room was what you might expect a high-level athlete to be bestowed with, wide and huge but not as wide and not as huge as yours a few streets over. There’d been a thing of cologne left uncapped on the table by the door, Adidas shoes on the floor next to Nikes, and then a low table housing a still smoking joint that left the entire living room smelling like grass.

Somehow, Max had managed to turn a neutral, sterile hotel room into a boy’s room. The scent of weed mixed with Tom Ford cologne. The rap music blending into the open balcony’s traffic noise. The socks on the floor, two pairs, both white. It’s a strenuous effort, you’d thought—and you were beginning to think this wasn’t the work of Max alone. “We have a guest,” he’d hollered when he managed to fiddle with the key card properly enough to leave the door alone.

No one had answered, or surfaced from the hallway leading to the bedroom and bathroom, so you followed Max into the bar area. Bottles of booze in varying states of empty, lemon slices and salt now cold—“Do you not call housekeeping?” You’d asked, amusement concealing curiosity as you accepted a poured-out shot. He said they do—they—and sometimes hotel staff are just a bunch of pricks. He asked more questions. How it felt to win at twenty-one, how it felt to be driving, to be the youngest winner, the first female driver. 

Ask me something I don’t hear fucking journalists say all the time, you’d replied back, half-jokingly. The August air nipped at your cheeks, chilling your warm face. He’d laughed, and explained that he re-asked the questions in case you have a more honest answer to give him. The most honesty you could offer is that you’d grown to hate your reputation because it precedes your skill. It’d been silent for a bit then, just the scent of the unclaimed weed. Then Max went, We have a new friend.

You turned to see who he was talking to. Charles was at the doorway, eyes on you already, raising a hand to say a silent hello. “H…” He trailed off. “Hey.”

He was shirtless, Calvins tight on his legs, his free hand scratching absently at his abs. Behind you, you had faintly picked up on Max introducing you and Charles rolled his eyes before replying, clipped, I know who she is, wiseass. He’d taken the weed and almost left, but you spoke next.

“Want to come sit?”

He paused, turned, and blinked. “I’m alright,” he rejected. “We have a meeting tomorrow, don’t forget.”

Then he was back in the bedroom area, leaving behind him a trail of grassy smoke. He was clearly rugged and fresh from sleep, the delicious sleep athletes have all grown familiar with: post-race, overcome with a terrible exhaustion. You’d only ever exchanged a few words with either of these two, and the fact that you were alone with them sent a warm, drawling thrill up your spine.

You were two and a half shots in when Charles reappeared, sans weed. “Any left for me?”

—

If you grouped the grid into years, you would be with Max and Charles—on the younger end, still at the ripe years of your careers. You entered first, though, then Max, thenCharles, which meant you were connected to, and friends with, relatively different people on the paddock. But the 2020 season and your many close calls with Max began the media and manager tirade of constantly lumping you and Max into the same interviews, press conferences, and media days, to maybe somehow elicit a bit of drama out (a tireless and unrelenting effort).

That’s how the rumors started. The rumor that permeates you most is one that asks about you, Max, and Charles. Some say you dated one then the other (a homie hopper, they’d branded you in 2021), others say they dated each other and you butted in. All of them were woefully untrue, in the same way all had some ring of truth to them.

And you suppose that’s what hotwired the beginning of your nights spent at Max’s hotel room, where Charles would nearly always be camped out, then eventually vice versa (Charles’ room, Max camping out; your room, solo, housing them for one night), drinking and/or smoking and/or playing some form of cards. And you suppose again that it was all this that radiated into everything else, all your wins and successes and bad days and near crashes, that just caused the entire universe to topple over, into itself, and creep up onto the three of you in Bahrain that year.

But that year is three years ago, and if you try to detail every last divot of it, you’re going to wind up rubbing a migraine out of your head. And you’re not interested in developing a headache—not when you’re celebrating the fifth race of the 2023 season.

It’s your fourth win this season. It’s all anybody ever talks about, how you had gone and secured a third championship for yourself last year, and how you’re gunning for four, the greatest the sport has seen in years. It’s all anyone can repeat and echo—you’re a fucking legend!—and you know from experience that praise does more than the most dangerous cocktail of drugs to get you high.

The afterparty is full and obnoxiously loud, dark and smoky and low-visibility. You’re wearing a flimsy dress and running a hand through your hair while you nurse a drink, feeling drunk on compliments and confused with certain absences. You can feel the bass through the tiled floor, heels clicking on it as you search, search, and come up short. Neither Max nor Charles have sent you a text, a play they always perform to break a routine you’ve become familiar with. You frown. Hey, somebody says next to you, you’re better than anyone else on the grid right now! You thank them, thinking to yourself—where the fuck is anyone else on the grid anyway? The relevant people, at least?

Half an hour later, you’ve ditched the party and are pounding with your fists at Max’s hotel room door in an effort to get them to open it quicker, after your knuckles didn’t seem to do the work well enough. You half—no, mostly—expect Charles to be the one who pulls it open. He’s more prudent. He gives in easier. He’s nicer and he can spare a thought for the other people on this floor (but the price of this room means there barely are). 

“What.” His voice is gritty.

“You told me you would come tonight.” Your voice is steady—you’d chosen not to drink much, and what little you consumed wore off on the ride here. Even with your heels on and even in sleepiness, you notice his presence towers over yours. “You both said.”

“We were tired.”

You scoff and gently push past him into the room, where evidence of their existence rags the furniture. “Every hotel room you ever stay in is turned into a fucking frat house.” Beer bottles, cigs, gifts from fans stored with precarious care but peeking out from suitcases. 

“We were sleeping. I am sleepy,” he says behind you, unamused by your sudden appearance. He shuts the door and stands still, looking as disappointed as he can. It’s unlike him. You’re buying time to find out what the problem is.

“Okay, I’ll go,” you say, relenting, running a few fingers over the mess of clothes strewn atop the armrest of the couch. “My driver’s downstairs, anyway. I wanted you there tonight, though.” You look up, meet his eyes. Tired and green and fed up. “Both of you. We could’ve celebrated.”

He pulls his lips tight and stands straighter. “I know, I know.” He softens a little. “I’m sorry, okay? Desolé. Just… tired.” You know he’s tired because his team is shit, and you know it has nothing to do with you, but you’re so wrapped up with everything that your irritance fails to quell.

“Where’s Max?” You ask roughly instead, thumbing at the strap of your minidress. He gestures to the bedroom. You’re quiet but stormy when you walk in, finding him, messy hair and tired eyes notwithstanding, fully awake, unlike what his roomie has been telling you since you arrived; you scoff out loud again. Des-fucking-picable. You sit yourself on the couch, crossing your legs petulantly.

They both stare. They’re mad, it occurs to you, which is weird because they had you in between them on that same bed less than forty-eight hours ago. You’d come thrice and begged for more, but they laughed and said you all needed sleep to get up for race prep. Race prep. Race prep.

“Okay, then.” You throw two hands up in a semi-shrug. “Let’s have it. What’s the matter? No use lying.”

They both look irritated. “Nothing,” Max says.

“Fuck nothing.” You trail a hand over the hem of your dress. “You’re pissed with me, but I didn’t do shit.” You try to rerack the race, but you hadn’t so much as collided with them in the slightest, apart from overtaking them a few times, but they weren’t man children to whine over that. You’d shared the podium with Charles, for Chrissake.

“You’re right. You just went and…” Charles blows a raspberry and makes an explosion gesture, opening his clenched fist. “Shat on us in your post-race interview.”

And there it is.

You huff out a laugh, momentarily losing control over speech, and it’s caught in between itself and a sigh, a breathy noise that makes waves in the quiet room. Okay, you think. I get it. Your eyes flit in-between the two men across you, your shoulders straight and eyebrows raised, posing a challenge. “What, are you jealous?”

They’re silent. And you know silence always means—

Your eyes relax, smug and a little teasing as you elaborate. “Because you know I’m better than both of you?”

—Yes.

Their silence is redeeming and rewarding and permissive and it speaks volumes louder than if they’d actually admitted to it. You stare back at them, eyes narrowed, amused, coy. You’d been joking around in your Sky Sports interview. Sure, you’re a bit of a tease, especially on the high of a win. But they should know that by now.

You know it annoys them more to leave the door wide open as you leave, than to slam it closed.

—

“Will you draw me a tattoo?!”

“I’d love to, but you are going to regret it,” Charles laughs, signing his name off with a heart on the frenzied fan’s outstretched cap. The busy, busy practice day had now worn into night, though nothing seems to be taking his mind off the fact that you’ve been giving him and Max the cold shoulder since last week. And he knows it’s stupid, he knows he and Max were being irrational and pissy—him especially—but now he just finds himself needing to apologize before anything becomes worse.

But his priority is getting to your hotel, which now seems like the journey of his lifetime. His bodyguard is a bulldozer and grips his elbow to traverse them through the sea of people who cheer him on, go Charles have faith in Ferrari and yeah, that’s been getting more and more difficult as the races pass without much good progress. There are flashes all around, noise and laughing and whoops and gifts he tries to receive, but he just—he needs to get to your hotel. Preoccupied, he remembers where he’d seen Max last, just seconds before leaving the paddock for the evening.

You spend a lot of time with a certain pair Ferrari and Mercedes drivers, says the interviewer in Dutch. Charles squints at the subtitles and waits for Max’s reaction.

He’s in the passenger seat, being driven around for a change, and maybe he’s a pessimist and he misses you and Max, or maybe the city he’s in is just. Dreary, so he opts to stare at his phone like every other person. The clip’s been posted by a fan on Twitter, and the caption is something jokey—something about a dream threesome. He can’t help but laugh as he watches. We are close, us three, Max says, nodding. In fact I will be meeting them later.

The media’s always speculated, rumors born out of a few close calls outside clubs where you’re tipsy and giggly and getting into one car. The fans, funny as ever, also make some fun of it—posting pictures of you three captioned with something like polyamory is real or her and the guys she told you not to worry about, but God if any of them knew the real picture, the whole three years of it, all the sex and hickeys and rumors.

He scrolls a bit more. There are a few photos of you leaving the paddock, hand poised atop your face to shield it from the paps. You get loads more of them wherever you are, loads morecompared to anybody else on the grid. You always attract the media, the press. He finds a picture with your face in it, smiling at your result during FP2. Fuck. You’re pretty, hair damp with sweat, lips stretched into a proud grin, suited hand raising a thumbs up.

“Where to?” The driver beside him asks suddenly.

—

“Fairmont,” Max says to his assistant as he pulls out of parking. “I’m hanging up, doei.” He presses the red button and sighs, shutting his eyes and driving the steady, increasingly familiar routes of the city. He’d called you this morning but you didn’t pick up. Last night he’d slept restlessly, which was no different from the nights before, anyway.

He gets to the valet parking of your hotel when purple is just settling into blackness in the sky, the beginnings of a civil discussion at the tip of his tongue as he exits the elevator and finds your room, opening it and finding it unlocked already. Charles must have done the brunt of it, or maybe you’d gotten an assistant of an assistant to pass an extra keycard to him. You always plan around them, thinking ahead. Both on and off track.

Like the hotel rooms he and Charles share or camp out at, your existence is terribly visible. Unlike them, though, it manifests differently.

It smells like your perfume, the pink bottle he’d found you spritzing on once, and everything is neat and tidy and gorgeous. A vase of white peonies on the low table, lipstick on the table by the mirror, even the pack of cigarettes you barely smoke is pretty and unassuming on the sofa. The only thing amiss—a pair of men’s shoes, those ones with stars on them that you bought Charles on a spur-of-the-moment shopping trip. He toes off his own beside them, eyes the alignment, and fixes it lest you scold them for it later.

Anyway. It smells like you. That’s the only thing he cares about right now. It hits him like a tidal wave, after being ignored the whole week and then some. Your perfume, your favorite linen spray—that black and white glass bottle you carry around like a rosary—your favorite lip balm, even. He swears he smells the vanilla, can recall the taste of it from kissing you ditzy.

It’s beginning to rain—it had been drizzling already, en route here—and the noise pelts the windows, an accompaniment to his footsteps down the hall. He’s familiar with the layout of a penthouse suite, but still he tries out the WC door, and then the closet with the ironing board, before finally he figures the bedroom should be at the end of the hall.

He’s reciting it. I’m sorry. Would you stop being a brat? No. No, just say you’re sorry and then he’s standing at the ajar door of your bedroom, pushing it open, and he can’t feel anything. The words have evaporated. So have his warm little sentimental feelings, and so the annoyance he’d come busting in with.

Max can’t even feel his feet on the hardwood floors because you’re on your bed, spread out, wearing one of Charles’ sweaters, two fingers at the apex of your thighs.

He opens his mouth but nothing leaves. His eyes find Charles, standing by the door, propped against the desk, arms crossed and fingers digging into his biceps. Max looks at you again. You have a pretty flush high on your cheeks, a slight sheen of sweat on your exposed collar. He blinks and realizes you’ve been talking.

“I said, you can sit the fuck down.” There’s a couch to his left.

He pulls himself together and stays beside Charles. “I’m good here, thanks.”

You eye the two of them. They look like stupid twins in the same way they look like Republican husbands. You roll your eyes and allow it; anyway, you’re not in the mood to order either of them around too much.

Charles has been watching you for a while now, watched you fake moans and exaggerate whines, feigning pleasure over two of your fingers. It’s almost laughable—he’d allowed a smile, in fact, because he knows better. Once, he’d pulled your hair so hard you teared up, nodding, hand at his wrist, whimpering more, harder, do it. Another time, he and Max had gotten you all riled up and edged for half an hour, so riled that all you could mutter out were please and their names when they finally stuffed you full. You’re evidently playing your games again. You love to play around with them. It’s almost—you could almost call it a hobby.

“I’m not going to stop just ‘cause you’re both here.” Your hand moves, two fingers fucking into yourself, pink lace pushed aside. Your cunt is so pretty, they’re both thinking. “Did you think I would?” When silence greets you, you decide to address them directly. “Max. Did you?”

His voice is thin and tight when he responds, “Yeah, actually—so we could suss this out, at least.”

Your laugh is patronizing. “I prefer it this way. And you know what?”

Max stares. Charles has already been told this, several minutes ago when he found you in the exact same position. It’s not any easier for him to hear it again, chaste and sweet out of your lips. You can’t touch me.

See, they would’ve been content without touching you, if they sit and think about it. Max didn’t walk in here thinking he’d even be kissing you, and he knows Charles thinks the same thing. Maybe touch you—innocently, that kind of way. Sure, they’d been pent up, heady with arousal, but that came second to talking things out. But now you’ve told them they can’t touch, and that’s worsened them to their limit. Charles imagines touching you, the same touch he gives when it’s post-race and he gets you alone, to himself, nobody else’s, quick fucks in a dim closet, whispering some dirty shit in your ear and getting you like putty in his hands.

Max thinks of nearly the same thing. Imagines running his hand over your hair, gentle but firm, the same way he does when he knocks at your hotel room after hours and gets you from high-strung and bratty to begging for more. You notice their eyes, darkened; you realize their minds have wandered. So, they watch hopelessly as the smirk spreads prettily across your flushed face, and they remember the events of a week prior, when childishly, they’d acted out, and think, for a second, that maybe they deserve this.

You all know what it’s like to keep them from touching you.

It was both easier and worse then, in 2020 when everything started—when everything was brand new and thrilling and exciting. Easier, because they were satisfied as soon as they got you to come, maybe kiss them both, and they were content with slow exploration. Worse, because you were all insatiable. It felt like none of you could go minutes without some form of touch, during, in-between, after practice, quali, fuck—it was worse, much worse.

As you all grew older and got accustomed to the drivel of racing, you all got better. It didn’t get much easier.

Charles recalls how insatiable he was—and thinks, with amusement almost, that if he was insatiable then, he’s worse now. Now he knows where, how, for how long to touch you to get you wide-eyed and warm in the face even in the most serious of moments. Max, too. He knows how you taste, bend, tease. They love touching you. Just skin to skin. And you’ve gone and put a great big X mark over that.

“So,” Max says, voice flat, the way it is when he’s unamused with a reporter, “we’re in a time out.”

“You can call it that,” you giggle, and it segues into a huffy whimper when you angle your hand just right. “You were acting childish, anyway.”

Charles sighs, long and deep. “We—fuck.” His eyes can’t unglue themselves from your fingers. He knows he could make you feel so much better, fuck real moans out of you until you’re crying. “We were being childish, oui, and it was—we were just tense. I was unhappy with strategy. I could’ve been P2 but they pitted me at the worst time, putain. I took it out on you, and I’m… I was… I was worn out, and you called us childish in your interview.” 

Ever the minx, you only smile. You’d been joking, you clarified that a day later; it was crass, spurred on by team radios of the two of them complaining in the latter half of the race. “It was a joke, Charles.”

“I know, baby, I know.” His lip curls and he breathes steadily, controlling himself. “It was unprompted though. You weren’t even asked about us. And yeah, a joke—but it felt shitty, love. I don’t mind it—we don’t mind it, but—” He needs to think about the phrasing, think about his intentions.

Your eyes are on fire, clearly still angry, but steadily softening.

“But in moderation,” comes Max’s raspy voice. “You’re running your mouth a lot in the media.”

“You’re one to—ah—talk,” you huff back, a futile argument.

“You need to understand that—that when you’re giddy, or angry, you can’t keep turning to interviews to express all that out. You need to sit with it. Just because we’re not…” your boyfriends, Max almost says, “…yours, doesn’t mean you can shit on us then expect us to be okay with it a few hours later. It’s a thing you do. A game you play. And it’s nice, it was nice then, but it’s annoying now, and it’s almost, like, do you even want this to keep going? To work—?”

You recoil. “You seriously think I don’t want th—”

Charles cuts in. “Well, when you play at us like this, yeah. Put in the work. If you’re high off a win, or mad for some other reason, just let it happen. Don’t fucking.” He exhales. “Call us names, then show up at our hotel acting like an angel.”

They’ve always looked out for you like this, known when to scold you or put you in your place for doing too much or not doing enough. They’ve never let personal things cross too much with business, which is a blessing of an ability when you’re three people having regular sex while balancing a ludicrous athletic career. It’s all sussed down to stupid ‘I care for you’ stuff that, frankly, they’re both too horny and angry to get into the grit of right now.

They don’t realize how quiet the room has grown until you eke out a noise, a thoughtful sound of agreement. You’ve pulled your fingers out, both hands playing with a loose thread on the hem of the sweater, rolling it into a ball. Your hair falls in waves. There’s a crease in it from the ponytail you wear when driving.

Your expression is still murderous, but much softer now; you cough, “I—I get what you’re saying. And I know I play… I have these games, or—but, honestly, I could say the same to you both.” You stutter through your totally shit explanation.

“How do you… mean,” deadpans Max. 

“I mean, when I’m acting out, you two just take it.” Having them at your mercy like that is satisfying in its own right, but pragmatically, it’s unhealthy. “You don’t ever tell me off. Even now. I need you to tell me… to fucking,” you’re warm and spluttery now. “Fuck's sake, okay? I know I can be annoying. I know I say stupid shit when I don’t finish and I’m way less diplomatic than Mr. Il Predestinato,” you breathe. “But you two just let me be annoying!”

“Then don’t be annoying,” Charles says, diplomatic as ever—his voice rises, though, nearly matching yours.

“Not like that!” You huff, folding your legs and sitting straighter, and they catch a glimpse of your pink panties again. “When I’m out of line, you”—you point to them—“need to correct me.” They’re nearly blindsided by your request to… be told what to do, which is so different from how sex usually works. From how this whole dynamic usually works.

But Max remembers your manager, and Toto, and your teammate Lewis even, and your engineers, who have all, at one point or another, had to talk you down and tell you to calm down and correct your behavior. So he says, “People do that all the time, but it only works for a second.”

“Because th—” You suck in a lungful of air. “They’re not you two, you daft fuckers!” You’re at the centre of the bed now, sweater drooped over your folded thighs, eyes matching the rain outside. “Every time, I need to be talked down, and you never. Do it. So do it. Fucking—do it. I have to tell you everything.”

“You don’t—-”

“Oh, I do.” You say, folding your arms over your chest. 

“This is despicable,” Max says. “We need to sort this out properly.”

“So what? This isn’t”—you raise violent air quotes—“putting in the work?”

They glance at each other for a minute. They feel you thinking you’re winning, thinking they’ll grovel and say okay we’ll do that next time, can we fuck you? Like all the other semi-resolved fights before. You’re sitting straight, eyebrows raised, defiant. But for them to do that—you just said it wasn’t what you needed. 

And they’d have to be caught dead before not giving you what you need. If you want to be bossed around a bit, then they’ll do it.

“Sit down,” Charles goes. Unmoving. 

“What.” You’re deadpanning, eyes narrowed.

“Sit the fuck down,” he repeats. You open your mouth, but he’s quicker. “Don’t make me say it again.”

You pout, leaning against the headboard and unfolding your legs. He rounds the room, sits at the foot of the bed. It’s a big bed, so even if he’s on it, he still needs to reach over a bit to be able to touch you. The distance is good, though, keeps them in control. Max sits opposite him, both of them on either side of you, and they’re so close, so scrutinizing, so handsome. 

“Put your fingers in your mouth,” he says. You take a second, spreading your knees and obeying. You find a way, though, to make their little challenge all your own—you make a show of it, peeking your tongue out and licking your bottom lip all shiny before hollowing your cheeks. You stare at them the whole time and you don’t blink. It’s hotter than it has any right to be. “Suck on them.” You continue doing it, lips slightly curled.

“You’re a brat.” You try to conceal the whimper that leaves you but it fails pathetically. Charles presses on. “A spoiled brat.”

He’s the nicer of the two. Your whole threesome situation had began three years ago, and in almost every tryst since then, he’s been nice. In fact, if any of them were to ever ‘tell you off’ like you so desperately wanted, apparently, it would have definitely been Max. He’s firm, yeah, but he’s sweet. And he’d hate to boss you around too much, even if it’s something he wants. So he thinks, and he pretends he’s back to quali day of last week. It was a slow morning because of weather problems, so everyone was in a mood, and you were absolutely no exception. You come off as quiet to the public and to some of the grid, but to your friends, you’re anything but.

In an effort to lift the mood, you’d been mouthing off the entire day to your close circle of driver friends, in particular retelling the story of how you had teased Charles post-DNF in Saudi, and even gotten Lando to laugh about it at the time. What a season starter, you said when you were recounting it. You left out a detail: that night in Saudi, he’d fucked you and refused to let you cum, soaking your pillow with tears and goading a sobbed apology out of you.

Watching you joke about it again, even if it was a fucking joke and even if it was because you were mad at him and Max—got him all red hot, pissed off. Seething.

“Do you remember last race weekend when you joked about my DNF in Saudi?”

Cheeks hollowed, you nod.

“Fucking brat. That whole day. Ignoring me, ignoring Max. Didn’t listen to our apologies. Just noise all day.”

Your brows knit defiantly.

“I’m serious. You weren’t being funny. Just a brat. And if you were bored or pissed, you could’ve said so instead of making me look stupid.” You nod.

He glimpses at Max; the latter speaks next. “Open yourself up.”

You spread your legs out farther and sneak your spit-slick fingers down, pushing the flimsy material aside to rub at your cunt, two fingers sliding right back in. You breathe out shakily and wait for them to talk again. You’re still fussy, high-strung, not totally calm and mellowed down yet.

“When Charles and I aren’t here to fuck you into behaving, who’s going to make sure you’re acting proper?”

“Carlos,” you grit out in between thrusts.

They seethe. “Again,” Charles says, unamused.

“Nat,” you name your manager. “Lewis, or something. Fuck. Lando? I don’t—”

You asked to be told what to do, but you never said, they suppose, that it would be an easy job. “Guess again.”

“Toto.” You look delighted at that last one, knowing the implication. They’ve always been a bit jealous there. You thrive off disobedience, getting your two favorite boys all angry and flushed red with it. You open your mouth to try smartassing your way out of their orders, but Max beats you to it. “If you guess wrong, you’re not cumming. We’ll fuck you tonight, but no cumming.”

You whimper out loud, sinking your fingers farther in, adding a third.

“Don’t add another. Answer Max,” Charles says.

“Fuck,” you seethe, slipping the third out on your next thrust. “Me. I’m supposed to keep myself in check. When I’m mad. When I’m giddy and fuck—yeah. Me. It’s me.”

“Good girl,” he rasps out. “Good girl. You have to practice. How does it feel?”

I know, you mouth, eyes fluttering. You scissor the two fingers you’re thrusting in and out, wet with slick. “Feels good.”

“Not your fingers, love,” Max says. “How’s it feel hearing what we just told you?”

“Good, better,” you say in-between breaths. “I’ll practice. I like it. You’re not… letting me push you around. You’re—you can punish—fuck. Me.”

“Yeah? How, then?” 

“Fuck me,” you repeat breathlessly. “Both of you.”

“Add another,” Charles orders, and you nod, quick and pliant, fucking yourself open. They’re both so hard, cocks heavy and uncomfortable in their jeans. You can see the thick shapes of them through the denim, and you thrust harder, a futile attempt to replicate how it feels when they’re fucking you.

“You remember how it feels, having both of us in you?” Max sounds amused.

“Yes,” you moan. Your pathetic imitation of moans and gasps earlier pales in comparison to this, voice dry and thick with pleasure and raw desperation. “Yes, pl—fuck, yes.”

“Why aren’t you feeling it now?” They need to hear you verbalize the reason why, admit it one last time before they give you what you want. You whine, rutting your hips up against your hand, catching your clit on the heel of your palm. 

“Because I was being a brat, and I—you were being childish, but I didn’t want to talk things through either—and I’m always taking out my emotions on you guys, and I’m sorry, okay, would you just fuck me already?”

They’re on you immediately, all words and whispers, fingers at your chin turning you both ways to slot kisses on your mouth. Your free hand palms over Max’s bulge; he’s the one to your right. It’s hard and thick and heavy and you need it, need them. Charles’ hand takes over yours, thrusting deep and you’re whimpering into his sweet mouth.

“Feel my cock?” Max asks, “Could make you feel real nice, baby.”

“I know,” you sigh, breathless. “I want it.”

“When's the last time you took us both?” Charles asks, smile wicked. “Little thing like you.”

You grit out a moan, fuzzy and floating, letting them lift you up to straddle—one of them—you open your eyes and see Charles staring up at you, wonder and green eyes. “Got this, love?” You nod, yeah, I’ve got it, you say, little sighs. Both of you. Now.

This space you’re in, where it’s pleasure and fuzz and nothing else, is comparable to the high of winning. And you know you prefer that to sex, at least now, because racing is your life. It’s the slow satisfaction of being the best on the entire grid, despite everything. It’s the cheers, the raised fists when you climb atop your car and bring the crowd to a crescendo. The even louder screams when you pull your helmet and balaclava off and smile, trophy and all, champagne shiny and glowy on your face. All that shit—it’s addictive, and it feels just like this. So similar, in fact, because when you win, you finish on top of Charles and Max, and—

—Max is behind you, jeans tugged just enough for his cock to be pulled free, slick with lube and prodding at your ass—

—it feels just fucking like this.

“Like Max’s cock filling you up?” His cockhead is breaching your tight entrance and you moan out loud.

“I missed it,” you say, muffled by Charles’ free thumb at your lips, swirling it on your tongue. You flip him off for cutting you off and he laughs. “Give it t’me,” you goad, turning slightly. You want it so bad, missed being fed with their cocks. A week is too long. “I need more of it, all of it. In me, fill me up,” you beg, whimpering, desperate.

Max stares at your ass, grabs at the flesh there, at the string of your thong. You suck him in so hungrily, like you’re challenging him to not thrust in fully; you’re canting your hips backward too, and Max has to hike the too-big sweater up to watch the muscles of your back flex to meet his dick.

“So pretty, princess,” Charles says, because with them you really are a princess. Max begins to thrust into you from behind and you’re getting little moans fucked out of you, watching Charles unbuckle his jeans to tug his cock out, thick and pretty and you want—if you could, you would suck on it, let him fuck your throat, but you’re in the business of being filled to the point of blank thoughts right now.

You feel Charles at your cunt then, your slick making the slide easier, and Charles bucks his hips up and you—this is what you needed, to mellow you down, get you all loose and ready for more. “Take it, baby,” Max says, “all of it, all of us.”

“Ah,” you gasp out. “Ah.”

“Come on,” he grits, voice hardening. “You’re ruined. Pretty little girl. Come on.”

“Maxie,” you call out weakly, your fond little nickname for him. You remember Charles whining about how he doesn’t have one, so you save baby for him, had sussed that out on a night where they took turns fucking you. Your hips torn between the two dicks stuffing you, face sweaty and the sweater doesn’t help, gets you hotter; Charles gets the hint, and with effort, pulls it off you. Your skin is shiny underneath, matching bra sticking to your sweaty, sheened out skin.

“Love it,” you say, voice strained. “Split—fuck—me open.” Your holes clench around them and Jesus, they could have you all flushed and pretty and spread out like them, like this, forever. Charles grabs at the flesh of your ass, slaps you once and you’re tightening around them, breath impossibly still, thighs shaking. Max’s hands hold your hips tight, hungrily traveling up, groping at the wire of your bra to press at your tits. You’re pressed against both of them at a delicious angle that gets you dizzy.

“I’m gonna cum, I,” you breathe out, moaning, “I haven’t touched myself since…”

They both moan at that, delirious. Fuck. The thought of you holding it—for them—fuck. 

“You’re so perfect, so—fuck—slutty,” Charles says, and you can’t hide the moan fast enough. “Feels good, having us in you, yeah? Getting you all noisy and… fucking—shit. I know how much you needed this, love. I know how much you love it. Us.”

From behind, Max snakes a hand up your abdomen, the column of your throat, and wraps there. You see white from the sensation of it alone.

“Tell me—I can’t—please, I—Charles—Maxie—” You’re increasingly incoherent, slick running down your thighs, twitching vigorously. You try to comprehend everything but you’re losing coherence and they get it, they get it, wiping your tears and sweat and coercing you to cum, yeah, pretty little pussy so fucking wet for us, cum hard, come on, you’ve been so good, baby, the best girl for us.

There’s no way either of them are lasting after that, after watching you fall apart and finish on top of them, stuffed full, stuffed pliant, stuffed fucking docile.

It’s your turn, then, to praise, your favorite boys, always so good for me, thank you for letting me cum, come on, let me taste it—and you’re stained with their release after a few minutes, Max biting on your shoulder, Charles’ thumb indenting your hip.

—

What. A. Podium, ladies and gentlemen! Max Verstappen of Red Bull, from P6 in the last race to a stunning P3 drive—Charles Leclerc, braving the team’s dismal strategy to get P2! What a knockout. Of course the Mercedes legend, gunning for four championships now, had crossed the flag first to claim her fifth P1 of the season.

What a legendary race, absolutely proper podium. They showed us what driving is, real driving.

The season is heating up. 

Makes you wonder what happened over the weekend for them to get such good results.

This is F1. I’m sure they keep each other motivated.

[blacktobackmesa]

I dont have a real strong point to make about this, but while I love the Cave Johnson lemons rant, its really lame how much it gets taken out of context. Is it the apex of Cave's wacky bullshit? Yeah, but specifically it's his last message while dying of a terminal illness. A terminal illness that he acquired because of all the dumb shit he's been doing. He planted the lemon tree himself and got mad when it grew.

[mycoblogg]

HORROR WEEK- FOTD #144 : apple bolete! (exsudoporus frostii)

the apple bolete (also frost's bolete) is a mycorrhizal fungus in the family boletaceae >:-) it typically grows near the hardwood trees of the eastern US, southern mexico & costa rica. it was chosen for horror week due to its appearance being reminiscent of muscle tissue !!

the big question : will it kill me?? nope !! however, although they are edible, they are not recommended for consumption as it is quite easy to confuse them with other red boletes. ^^

e. frostii description :

"the shape of the cap of the young fruit body ranges from a half sphere to convex, later becoming broadly convex to flat or shallowly depressed, with a diameter of 5–15 cm (2.0–5.9 in). the edge of the cap is curved inward, although as it ages it can uncurl and turn upward. in moist conditions, the cap surface is sticky as a result of its cuticle, which is made of gelatinized hyphae. if the fruit body has dried out after a rain, the cap is especially shiny, sometimes appearing finely areolate (having a pattern of block-like areas similar to cracked, dried mud). young mushrooms have a whitish bloom on the cap surface.

the colour is bright red initially, but fades with age. the flesh is up to 2.5 cm (1.0 in) thick, & ranges in colour from pallid to pale yellow to lemon yellow. the flesh has a variable staining reaction in response to bruising, so some specimens may turn deep blue almost immediately, while others turn blue weakly & slowly.

the tubes comprising the pore surface (the hymenium) are 9–15 mm deep, yellow to olivaceous yellow (mustard yellow), turning dingy blue when bruised. the pores are small (2 to 3 per mm), circular, & until old age a deep red colour that eventually becomes paler. the pore surface is often beaded with yellowish droplets when young (a distinguishing characteristic), & readily stains blue when bruised. the stipe is 4 to 12 cm (1.6 to 4.7 in) long, & 1 to 2.5 cm (0.4 to 1.0 in) thick at its apex. it is roughly equal in thickness throughout its length, though it may taper somewhat toward the top ; some specimens may appear ventricose (swollen in the middle). the stipe surface is mostly red, or yellowish near the base ; it is reticulate — characterized by ridges arranged in the form of a net-like pattern."

[images : source & source] [fungus description : source]

[yunathecat]

INTRODUCTION ˳ᐟ

໒꒰ྀི •́ ˕• ྀི꒱७

꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱

hi my name is yuna !

i’m a fanfiction writer! i’ve read and written fanfiction for yearssss but i’ve never posted any of my work ! that’s why im making this post ! i’m going to start writing mostly requested fanfiction! or anything that comes to my mind on my own that i feel like writing ! if you’re wanting to request to have anything written please read my guidelines/rules below ! this is completely free as i’m just trying to get better at writing and because i find this fun to do ! please request thru comments, the ask me or thru dms if its something you’d like to elaborate on !

i also do free introduction posts, check out one i did for my friend!

@writersblockworks

꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱

what i am comfortable writing about! :

fluff, smut, lemon, lime, au, love triangle, polyamorous fluff/smut, heavy angst, specific personality characteristics (will elaborate below !)

you can request certain characteristics! such as “!yandere [character] x reader” “!jealous [character] x reader” and so on !

i can write character x reader, character x oc, character x character, oc x reader and oc x oc ! if you’d like anything involving your oc then it’d have to be discussed thru dms as i’ll need to know/ask about your character !

i’m also comfortable doing requested plots, scenarios, but in my own writing style ofc ! and aslong as they abide by what i’m comfortable with !

what im NOT comfortable writing about!:

sa/🍇, incest, zoophilia, pedophilia, proships, minor x adult, certain kinks (i will NOT write cnc, ageplay or about any bodily fluids that aren’t commonly sexualized), HEAVY mentions of selfharm/suicide (i can make exceptions for this aslong as its in a fluff way, no angsty stuff cause that can be EXTREMELY triggering), i will NOT write about any smut that involves underaged characters ( i will not make ANY exceptions, this includes if you ask me to age them up, i can age up characters but i still refuse to write smut about them

꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱

fandoms im in :

these are fandoms im in/find easy to write about ! :

(you can request any show/game outside of these, i will do my research and write about it if you request it !)

valorant

marvel

overwatch

star wars

stardew valley

jujutsu kaisen

re:zero

chainsaw man

apex legends

dead by daylight

arcane

sk8 the infinity

black butler

black clover

solo leveling

windbreaker

genshin impact

my hero academia

honkai star rail

nikke: goddess of victory

skull girls

꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱

being a busy writer is hard! so currently there will be limited spots on my requested as i dont want them to pile up. my request spots will be below! you can still request a fic even if they’re full, if i really wanna write it or if it’s something im interested in then i may make exceptions! the character x reader has a higher spot number as i prefer to write those type of fanfics!

oc x character

2/10

reader x character

2/15

character x character

1/10

THATS ALLLLL

ples request im desperate

have a nice day goodbye !

[writersblockworks]

INTRODUCTION ˳ᐟ˳ᐟ˳ᐟ

₊‧.°.⋆🫧•˚₊‧⋆. 🫧⋆｡˚ ˙✧˖° 🫧 ⋆｡˚꩜

[ written by @yunathecat for @writersblockworks ]

Hello !

My name is Fayci ! /ᐠ ˵> ⩊ <˵マ

(fay, cici, ayci)

I’m 21, from the eastern united states! I’m writing a book currently which I absolutely LOVE writing!!

but.. sometimes..

I get..

WRITERS BLOCK !!! DUN DUN DUNNN !!! ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

so..

I’m going to be using this account to post fanfictions upon requests or from whatever I feel like writing! I’d appreciate if you’d write in the comments/dms/in my asks ideas for fanfictions after reading through my request rules/guidelines !!

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁🫧⋆｡˚˚˖ °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖦹° . ݁ଳ ‧₊˚

RULES/GUIDELINES:

I can write : character x oc, character x character, character x reader (I may make exceptions for oc x oc but not oc x reader)

fandoms I like/I’m in (I can write about characters from shows I don’t necessarily watch/fandoms I’m in just ask !!):

arcane

stardew valley

starwars

valorant

overwatch

jujutsu kaisen

Red Dead Redemption (1 and 2)

Resident Evil (all games)

Demon slayer

Mouthwash (no smut for this one just happy ones)

Spy x family

Tomb Raider

Apex legends

Detroit Become human

Devil May Cry

Blue Lock

Bendy and the Ink Machine

Politics (Joe Biden x Donald trump LMAO)

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

what I’m comfortable writing! :

fluff, smut, angst, lemon/lime, au, love triangles, harem, rarepairs ฅ^>⩊<^ ฅ

<< This doesn’t that mean this is all I’m comfortable writing about! This is just all the genres I can think of at the moment ! Feel free to request anything thats not specified below !

What I’m not comfortable writing !:

sa/🍇, zoophilia, pedophilia, proships, minor x adult, heavy mentions of self harm/suicide, smut of underaged characters/ocs, incest, certain kinks (cnc, ageplay, scat/piss/farts or any uncommon bodily fluids, and i have heavy restrictions on petplay) /ᐠ •̀ ˕ •́ マ

CHARACTERISTCS/SCENE IDEAS:

⋆｡˚🫧˚｡⋆ଳ ⊹₊ 🎐₊ ⊹🫧. ݁₊ ⊹ . ⋆｡𖦹°˚｡⋆O

CHARACTERISTICS:

I’m completely open to requests such as “!yandere reader x [character] | !depressed reader x [character] | !tall reader x !short [character]” and so on !!

I can and have the right to refuse to write any characteristics asked if its against what im comfortable with : which isnt much except what ive stated above ! If you request something and I ignore it please don’t as for it again, but i will clarify anything you need me to!

SCENES/PLOT:

You can request specific scenes or a plot if you’d like to!, I may not stick to the entirety of it but it will be presented in my own style/version of writing! I wont write unethical scenes though meaning if it doesnt abide by my stated comfort zone, I WILL REFUSE to write it !

｡˚○ ݁.˚🫧˚.• ݁‧｡𖦹˚.🫧 ₊ ๋࣭ 🪼⋆°🫧.ೃ࿔*:･

∧,,,∧

( ̳• · • ̳)

/ づ♡

THATS ALL ˳ᐟ˳ᐟ˳ᐟ

Leave requests/ideas in the comments or asks please !! ᡣ𐭩₊˚.⋆⁺₊

I need an excuse to write

[techs-ass]

Shark Dump: Lemon Sharks!

Some of you seemed to enjoy my shark facts and honestly, if I can get the chance to rave about sharks, I will. So here are some shark facts starting with my favorite, Lemon Sharks!!

If you guys enjoy this, feel free to leave me a request with the name of a shark you'd like to learn about and I'll be happy to info dump on them. I'm thinking about posting one every Sunday (Shark Sundays!!! :D )

Technically I was supposed to post this earlier but I didn't lol oops-

Conservation Status: NEAR THREATENED

This cute guy here is a Lemon shark or Negaprion brevirostris! They get this name from their yellowish skin and yellow bellies but they can be anywhere from brown to olive colored. Lemon sharks are mostly native to the Atlantic Ocean and parts of the Pacific where they occupy coral keys, mangrove forests, bays and even docks. Most populations can be found in Gulf of Mexico, the West Indies, and the Caribbean.

They can grow up to 11 ft long which makes them one of the larger species of sharks but don't let their size scare you! These guys are mostly scavengers that hunt for food near sandy in-shore areas. Most of the lemon sharks diet consists of bony fish, crustaceans and stingrays although they occasionally snack on seabirds or smaller sharks. They hunt using electroreceptors on their nose, called ampullae de Lorenzini, which help them detect fish and other creatures, even buried in the sand.

(Remember, sharks don't have hands so they rely on their nose and mouth to explore the enviroment around them!)

Lemon sharks usually live in oceanic waters that are no deeper than 188 ft although some have been found in waters at depths of up to 300 ft. They are one of 43 sharks that can swim in freshwater but usually don't travel very far into these waters as they can't survive for long periods in them. If you see a lemon shark in freshwater, they're probably just there for a quick bite to eat before heading back to the ocean.

Fun Fact: Bull sharks are the only shark that can survive in both salt and fresh water! They're also one of the dumber sharks and will try to eat anything that fits in their mouths.

Despite how scary they look, lemon sharks are actually a favorite among divers and marine biologist because of their docile behavior! They rarely attack humans (As of 2011, researchers had found only 10 cases of lemon sharks attacking humans, and none of these cases were deadly), in fact, they are very shy and usually try to avoid us. Though if they do approach, they're usually just being curious and will bump you with their nose.

But my favorite thing about lemon Sharks? Once they get over their shyness, they LOVE getting belly rubs! They find the sensation very pleasant and will actively seek out the divers who pet them, even chasing other sharks away if they feel the diver’s giving them too much attention. Sometimes, if you rub their belly too much or if you stimulate the tiny sensory pores located on their snout, you can put them into something called tonic immobility.

Tonic immobility is a reflex that causes a temporary state of inactivity in an animal. Similar to hypnosis! Researchers aren't sure why sharks do this as it's usually thought to be a prey instinct so apex predators like sharks shouldn't have this. But most researchers have found that the sharks aren't stressed when they perform this behavior so it might just mean they're really relaxed! This is backed up by the fact that when in this state the shark’s muscles relax and their breathing becomes deep and rhythmic. Sharks usually enter tonic immobility in less than a minute and they can remain in this state for up to 15 minutes. It doesn't hurt them at all and researches use this to help subdue them.

Lemon sharks (like many other sharks) are imperative to keeping our reefs alive and healthy. Without them, we've already begun to see a major decline in coral reefs and seagrass beds. By taking these sharks out of the coral reef ecosystem, there's nothing to keep the larger predatory fish in check and they overfeed on the herbivores. With less herbivores, macroalgae expands and coral can no longer compete, shifting the ecosystem to one of algae dominance causing the reefs to eventually die out.

Now, back to lemon sharks and the most important fact I have about them: their conservation status.

Lemon sharks are considered to be near threatened. This means that they are likely to become endagered in the near future. This is because they are targeted by commercial and recreational fishermen primarily due to their highly prized fins. Their meat is also in high demand and is considered a delicacy in many areas. Further, the continuing destruction of their habitat has led to the severe decline of lemon shark populations.

But thankfully, there are steps already being taken to help protect these sweet sea puppies. The Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission prohibits the harvesting of lemon sharks in state waters. Any lemon shark that catches onto a hook is to be released immediately, either by removal of the hook from the shark or by cutting the shark free—whichever will release the shark quickest. Some countries are also slowly starting to put in protections for them as well.

You can also help! Many people view sharks as blood-thirsty monsters due to decades of slander campaigns and hollywood scare movies (I'm glaring at you Jaws). But we can change that view by showing the world just how beautiful and intelligent these creatures really are! The more informed people are about the sharks, the more we can do to help them. Just by reading this post and learning about lemon sharks, you're helping! Now, the next time you hear someone talking smack about sharks, you can smack them with some cool shark facts! Then hopefully with enough smacking, we can change how people see these lovely predators and get more support for their protection.

[dreamsb0u]

making sans aus and some of my characters as sharks just bc i can

SANS AUS: Cross - Thresher/Foxtail. Look at that tail. Beautiful. I love him and I love threshers. Fight me. They're also not commonly seen and considered vulnerable. They're shy around humans and I like beating Cross to a pulp so go figure. He would use his tail as a sword also. Just saying.

Horror: Silky Shark. I don't know I just,,,,,,,, just take him. Please. Love him,,,,,

Dust: Oceanic White Tip. I don't know why I just feel like it suits him. ALSO. The white tips kinda look like dust geddit.

Nightmare: Frilled Shark. They're known for their eel like and ancient traits and living in the deeper sea which I feel like Nightmare would definitely be like. Bro wants nothing to do with those OTHER sharks (He gets roped into their shenanigans anyways)

Killer: Fuck. He'd be a Shortfin Mako for sure. They're super fast (The fastest shark and one of the fastest fish listed!) and live in the open ocean! They're endangered though which is sad :( But !! They're pretty and strong!

this image just gives off 'i know what you are' vibes

Dream: Lemon Shark. I like them you can also fight me on this one fucking do it. They're a very social type of shark and generally known for interacting with divers in friendly ways! Also they're yellow (I think)

Swap: Blue shark. Self explanatory and! They live in deep waters, are near threatened and rarely bite humans! They're very cool and I like them.

Ink: Epaulette Shark, they're colourful and live in reefs! Also that mf (/aff) WOULD evolve to walk on land. The spots? Ink fr.

Error: Bitch would be a greenland shark. They live in very deep water and have very slow metabolism, they look kinda gnarly and live for a long time (at least 250 years!!!). They often have eye parasites that make their vision shit and Error's glasses,,,,, yeah ok ill leave

MY CHARACTERS

Cur: Dogfish lol jk. Sand Tiger Shark, like most sharks- they only attack when they're bothered first (DON'T FUCKING PULL THE SHARK'S TAILS WTF....) and show protective behaviour. They have big teeth that stick out of their mouth and a big appetite but they're sadly critically endangered. They're the most widely kept large shark due to their tolerance of captivity.

Flesh: Angel shark. He's pretty, they're pretty. Next Question.

Cinder: Tiger Shark. They have a reputation for being 'trash eaters' because of the things scientists find in their stomachs. They swim wherever but are guided by warmer currents and stay closer to the equator when it's cold. They're an apex predator with their only known predator being the orca.

Extra image of a Greenland shark I found funny

LOOK AT IT DNJHSNDAJN

[swooning-skulls]

--- character list

blue - currently interested | red - not taking requests | green - no romance | pink - yandere allowed

i will occasionally write characters not on this list, that doesn't mean they will be requestable.

{...live action...}

BULLET TRAIN: Lemon, Tangerine, The Father, The Wolf

COMMUNITY: Jeff Winger, Britta Perry, Annie Edison, Abed Nadir, Troy Barnes, Shirley Bennett, Ben Chang, Dean Craig Pelton

WHAT WE DO IN THE SHADOWS: ---coming soon

YOU: Joe Goldberg, Peach Salinger, Guinevere Beck, Candace Stone, Love Quinn, Forty Quinn, Delilah Alves

YELLOWJACKETS: ---coming soon

FALLOUT: Lucy MacLean, Norman MacLean, Chet, Maximus, Thaddeus, Cooper Howard, Lee Moldaver, Bud Askins, Henry "Hank" McLean, Betty Pearson

{...animation...}

A.N.) depending on the continuity, i may decline romantic requests for scooby-doo characters since they're not adults in all continuities.

SCOOBY-DOO (all except hbo velma): Norville "Shaggy" Rogers, Scoobert "Scooby-Doo" Doobert, Fred Jones, Velma Dinkley, Daphne Blake, Thorn, Luna, Dusk, Vincent van Ghoul

G1 MONSTER HIGH: Frankie Stein, Clawdeen Wolf, Draculaura, Lagoona Blue, Cleo de Nile, Ghoulia Yelps, Deuce Gorgon, Clawd Wolf, Toralei Stripe, Scarah Screams, Abbey Bominable, Spectra Vondergeist, Operetta, Venus McFlytrap, C.A. Cupid, Nefera de Nile, Mr. D'eath, G. Reaper, Ms. Kindergrubber, Mr. Rotter, Mr. Where

G3 MONSTER HIGH: ---coming soon

SONIC BOOM: ---coming soon

LOVE, DEATH & ROBOTS: ---coming soon

{...video games...}

MARIO FRANCHISE: Mario, Luigi, Pauline, Princess Peach, Princess Daisy, Princess Rosalina, Yoshi, Bridette, Bowser, King Boo, Wario, Waluigi, Vivian, Goombella, Madame Flurrie, Lady Bow

CLASSIC SONIC FRANCHISE: ---coming soon

MODERN SONIC FRANCHISE: ---coming soon

FALLOUT NEW VEGAS: Courier 6, Arcade Gannon, Craig Boone, Lily Bowen, Raul Tejada, Sharon Cassidy, Veronica Santangelo, ED-E, Rex, Christine Royce, Dean Domino, Joshua Graham, Benny 'Gecko', Legate Lanius, Robert House, Ulysses (MORE COMING SOON)

FALLOUT 3: The Lone Wanderer, Butch Deloria, Charon, Clover, Cross, Dogmeat, Fawkes, Jericho, RL-3 (MORE COMING SOON)

FALLOUT 4: Nate, Nora, Cait, Codsworth, Curie, Danse, Deacon, Dogmeat, John Handcock, Nick Valentine, Piper Wright, Preston Garvey, Ada, Old Longfellow, Porter Gage, Bobbi No-Nose, Desdemona, Erikson, Ham, Irma, Kent Connolly, KL-E-0, Pickman, Red Tourette, Swan, Tinker Tom, Travis Miles, Vault-Tec Rep, Whitechapel Charlie (MORE COMING SOON)

COD: COLD WAR: Bell, Russell Adler, Lawrence Sims, Frank Woods, Alex Mason, Dimitri Belikov, Perseus, Vikhor "Stich" Kuzmin

RAINBOW SIX SIEGE: ---coming soon

APEX LEGENDS: ---coming soon

OVERWATCH: Soldier 76, Reinhardt, Sojourn, Mercy, Winston, Tracer, Genji, Mei, Brigitte, Echo, Lucio, Pharah, Zarya, D.Va, Baptiste, Bastion, Doomfist, Moria, Reaper, Widowmaker, Sombra, Sigma, Ramattra, Junker Queen, Roadhog, Junkrat, Wrecking Ball, Hanzo, Ashe, B.O.B., Symmetra, Lifeweaver, Zenyatta, Orisa, Illari , Venture

{...books...}

---NA:

[inkformyblood]

make me scream (COD Kinktober 2024 Day 17)

Alejandro x Rudy x Ghost, AleRudy. Thigh fucking, Canon Era. Lemon.

There’s a bed in the backroom of the bar the Vaqueros like to frequent after missions, barely big enough to be classed as a double and a loose smattering of sheets thrown across it. It’s that same bed that Ghost lets himself be bullied towards, his shoulders tense but his hands rest on Rudy’s hips, fingers twined through Rudy’s belt loops like he belongs there. 

Alejandro shuts the door firmly behind the pair as Rudy continues the movement, steers Ghost back towards the bed and then down to sit on the edge of it. They’re nearly of a height when Ghost is sitting, no longer curled towards Rudy’s insistent mouth as he demands to be kissed, able to meet him head on. Rudy’s hands drop to his belt, fumbling with the fastenings before Alejandro moves closer, curls around Rudy’s back. 

He can feel the heat from the other man’s skin, the sticky sweetness of the last drink Ghost had drank at their shared table clinging to Rudy’s mouth as Alejandro kisses his cheek, licking over the rough stripe of stubble there. “Rudy’s been looking forward to this,” Alejandro says, not looking at Ghost but tracking his movements all the same. 

The other man’s hands rest on Rudy’s hips, his thumbs pressed against the curve of bone just beneath the surface. Alejandro presses his hands over Ghost’s, a flinch echoing beneath his touch but Ghost settles once more. Reminds him of a dog, too used to being beaten and craving sweetness all the same. 

“Yeah?” Ghost rasps. Alejandro moves their hands to the fastening of Rudy’s trousers, smoothing Ghost’s palms over the line of Rudy’s cock. Ghost continues, his voice strained, cracking on the edge of his own wants, “Thought he was scared of ghosts.”

“Aterrorizado.” Rudy leans back to Alejandro, one hand braced against Ghost’s shoulder. His breath speeds up as Ghost’s hands move beneath Alejandro’s. “Como algo sacado de las peliculas.”

It’s the matter of a couple of moments to strip Rudy, his trousers pooling beneath his feet before he kicks it aside, the same with his shoes. His shirt is thrown, the fabric catching on Alejandro’s shoulder before he shakes it free. Ghost’s gaze sweeps over Rudy, catching on the flash of silver through his nipple before it moves lower, settling on his cock, hard and curving towards his thigh. 

“Rudy’s first love,” Alejandro croons, placing Ghost’s hands back onto Rudy’s hips before he begins to move the pair, nudging Ghost backwards up the bed so Rudy can scramble in between his legs. “Not an actor but the character he played. He wore a mask too, kept his face hidden.”

“Want to fuck your thighs,” Rudy murmurs, his eyes dark. He’s not pulling against Alejandro’s hold on his shoulder, but he’s leaning into it, drawing Alejandro closer by proxy. Ghost releases Rudy’s hips to shove his trousers down just enough to expose a stripe of bare skin at the apex of his thighs, his shirt close to his belly, his boxers dark. There’s a smattering of scars there, some pale silvers that encompass one thigh like rings on a tree trunk and a dark patch on the other, perfectly square. 

Still beautiful, still one of the hottest things Alejandro has ever seen.

Alejandro bites at Rudy’s neck, working a bruise into the tang of sweat layered over the skin there. Ghost tugs a sheet closer, hooks one leg behind Rudy’s hip to draw him forwards before the sheet covers the juncture of his thighs. There’s a slight pause, fabric rustling, and Ghost shoves his trousers to one side, bare beneath the sheet. 

“Go on, love.” Alejandro sits back on his heels behind Rudy. Beyond him, Ghost’s gaze shines in the low light and he couldn’t decide if Ghost is watching him or Rudy. “Fuck him good enough for us both.”

“You after,” Ghost murmurs. “Want you both.”

[buryustogether]

kinktober day 8: lingerie - lemon

When your handler had told you and your boys your next job involved infiltrating a strip club, you already knew where the plan was headed.

You had tried to refuse at first, tried to demand a different role than the one you knew was coming; but it had all been for nothing, because as it turned out, you found yourself standing in a backstage dressing room adjusting the barely-there strap between the apex of your thighs.

It was a garish, unsightly little uniform you had gotten your hands on in order to blend in with the waitresses tending to the men out on the floor while they watched and whistled at girls twirling about on the stage. Black and red, roses and little bows where it mattered. Nothing holding it together but a few flimsy bows and poorly-made material.

"This is degrading," you said loudly, aware Lemon was standing guard at your cracked door while you changed. "I look like... I don't know. I look awful."

"Nah, darling, you could never look awful," comes his reply through the crack of the door, and you roll your eyes at yourself in the mirror before you.

You call back, "You haven't even seen it."

"I think I've seen enough in this joint to get the idea of what it looks like, love."

A flare of something hot and writhing, like an angered serpent, coils tight in the pit of your stomach at his words, and you pause your primping. Jealousy, you recognize. And rightfully so, you might add. If you'd had it your way, Tangerine would have taken this job himself, so that you wouldn't have had to wear this get up, and your fiance wouldn't have been in a club surrounded by ladies in nothing but one-stitch thongs and bras barely covering the peaks of their breasts.

Turning on your heel, you strode across the room in three quick strides and yanked open the door separating the dressing area from the narrow little hallway reserved for employees of the joint. Lemon faced you, his lips parted to say something, before his gaze wandered freely down the planes and slopes of your body bared practically naked. You didn't miss the way his pupils dilated or the slight glimpse of the tip of his tongue as he wet his lips.

"The only girl I want your eyes on tonight is me," you told him, then grabbed him by his tie and pulled him with you into the dressing room. "Now come and help me ruin this costume. I wanted a different one, anyway."

[adoris-falling-blog]

Another wonderful commission from @lemon-drop-soda !!!! Thank you so much again for drawing Tate and my little dragon-demon guy, DeMaryon Apex!

[ackerfics]

FAMILY LINE — a house of the dragon fanfiction | aegon ii targaryen x oc

act one, chapter four: first, a dead wife; second, a dead mother (wc: 6.1k) | masterlist

i forgot to mention ... this is going to be slow burn as fuck

116 AC

“Your Grace, the strawberry scones and the lemon tarts are here. Where should I place them?”

A well-groomed finger points to the space right beside the tiered display of glistening honey cakes and small blueberry pies. “If you can place them right there, it would be delightful.” The handmaiden arranges the platters of desserts just the way the person in charge likes them. “Thank you. Oh, that’s lovely.”

The soft hands behind the emerald green gown sleeves adjust the plates until the flowers on the ceramics shine through without being overshadowed by the splatters of colours on the table. Teapots are checked if the right tea flavour is procured and once that is done, the lemon candies are also poured into a bowl. The owner of the non-calloused hand sighs in accomplishment, her brown eyes taking in the assembly of what could have been an array of sweets in a luxurious bakery in the more noble circles of King’s Landing. 

Alicent doesn’t know why she is fussing so much.

Afternoon tea is usually spent with all of the children the handmaidens can round up. Aether and Aegon would be the contributors of the most noise inside her solar, with the two boys circling the only girl in their little trio like a gaggle of geese; Helaena would be murmuring things to her little friends (Alicent makes sure that the bugs she brings to the tea sessions are happily crawling inside a jar); Aemond would be reading about the basics of swordsmanship or listening to his female cousin narrate the events in the book she was reading; Daeron and Daemian would be having a contest of their own, which ends up in too many crumbs on the carpets; and Aesira would be the prim little lady that she is, reading books that she managed to take from one of the libraries or simply writing in her journal while the chaos reigns in. Each child has their own little world and the placid chambers fit for the Queen become the royal nursery where they all resided years ago. Alicent never worries about presentations with that many children. Spreads of an assortment of sweets are laid out on her table because little hands always pick what they prefer.

Maybe that is why she is pacing with her head rolling on the ground; Alicent will be alone with one of them and for some reason, everything has to be perfect.

Aesira is a ghost set to ignite Alicent’s heart and mind in bouts of internal battles — a shot in the heart for the young Queen, for the little girl bears the most uncanny resemblance to the late Aemma Targaryen. The only known daughter of the Rogue Prince is a reminder that Alicent remains to be the least of priorities for the King. There is no chance for her and her children if this familiar face roams the halls, being the perfect Valyrian beauty that she is at such a young age — white blonde hair flowing in cascading waves, lilac eyes that glisten like the most expensive jewels, and magic in her veins that puts her in the apex of the chain of beings. Alicent wants to loathe her, she really does, as selfish as it sounds and as ugly as it can get. It is not becoming of her as the most powerful woman in the realm to wear her most private insecurities on her sleeve for everyone to see just because she feels so low compared to this child. It doesn’t help that she receives sympathies from the court Ladies, all with faux smiles and the ambitious intention to climb into her social circle, every time Aesira wears her blue gowns — a statement that she will always be her mother’s daughter and nothing else; as high as honour.

It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, to set up this tea session with only Aesira and not with the entire brood of Tragaryens in the Keep (minus the newest addition to the family courtesy of Rhaenyra). It comes with an intention in mind. Any move she places on the board is laden with purpose, including this one.

Alicent knows about her duties as the Queen; to stand with her husband through the thickest of thickets and to bear children that will further spread the magic of Old Valyria for generations to come. Yet one stands out the most. It comes from her father’s lips. Place Aegon as Heir. And it haunts her still. At some point, she doesn’t want to place a heavy burden on her son — her closest companion for five years when she felt the most alone in the castle, the babe's scent clinging to his skin giving her comfort above all else while she shed tears away from prying eyes. While Helaena never saw her with her dreamy disposition as a babe, Aegon always placed a tiny palm on her cheek to pat away the sadness staining her face. But this duty of putting him as Heir means survival. Such a pity how desperation shapes humans. So starts putting Aegon to the most subtle lessons in hopes of preparing him for his role in the future. Who was once her closest companion becomes the child who flinches when she merely places a finger on his shoulder.

It stabs her — whatever she touches is doomed to hurt, starting with her eldest son. 

She hopes that this impending decision on his future would soothe the wounds she inflicted on his skin, a gift disguised as a political move.

The presence of Aesira as the royal family’s ward is one way of securing Aegon’s claim. The Queen grasps an opportunity when she sees one. What better way to utilise Alicent’s ghost than to thread her fate with her son, probably giving the young boy the good graces of her husband in the process? She is pretty sure the seed planted by Aegon’s affection for Aesira is starting to sprout in her husband’s head, only waiting for the right time to announce it to both children and watch it blossom into a flowering plant that will be a rarity — a marriage primarily borne from the purest and most innocent of loves (from one person, still love nonetheless). Both children are at an age where arrangements are made but Alicent doesn’t want to subject them to the binds of a betrothal yet. Having Aesira as Aegon’s potential bride will be a weapon that brings down Lords to their knees, only solidifying their proximity to the throne when they birth trueborn children, something that Rhaenyra only speaks as one of her many lies. With the current Heir’s erratic behaviour, Alicent promises to herself that she will make this union happen and it will start by enticing the young girl to be closer to her.

“Lady Aesira Targaryen, Your Grace.”

Criston’s voice makes her jump. Alicent turns toward the open doors of her solar but not before hastily tucking stray auburn curls away from her face, an unsteady smile pulling on her lips. She unconsciously runs her hands over the skirts of her emerald gown, erasing the invisible creases from view.

“Thank you, Ser Criston,” Alicent’s voice is clear among the bricks holding her chambers. She looks over her shoulder, to the handmaidens who stand still beside the table with hands intertwined in front of their navels. “You are dismissed.” They bow at her and exit with Criston, leaving her with the little girl by the door. Alicent smiles, tilting her head a little to take in Aesira’s appearance. “Aesira.”

“Your Grace,” Aesira enunciates, lowering herself in a curtsy that seems to be a product of her lessons with the Septa. Clad in a soft lilac gown that is one of the many commissioned to her under the Queen’s orders (none of that eye-catching blue that the court Ladies keep whispering about), Aesira is a vision of the perfect little comely Lady bound to have hearts served for her on a gold platter. As always, her hair is styled with matching ribbons from her dress and is free to bounce with every step she makes. Alicent notices that the girl is starting to carry herself with dignity, her eyes only letting the sliver of emotions shine through — nervousness and anticipation as to why the Queen invited her and only her to her solar. Aesira straightens her posture, hands carefully holding one another in front of her as she adds, “Thank you for honouring me with an invitation. I hope I will be a good enough company for your afternoon.”

Alicent waves her hand, a practised thing that she acquired since she became Queen. “None of that,” she jests. “Your presence in my solar is already the best company I can ask for so far into my day. Come,” she beckons the girl to the table, backing to one of the cushioned chairs, “our refreshments and sweets await.”

A wave of gratitude washes over the young girl’s body. There is a little pep in her step when she makes her way to the table of various colours and waits for Alicent to sit before doing so herself on the adjacent chair. Alicent sometimes forgets that she is the same age as her eldest son with how she’s carrying herself.

The childish glow in Aesira’s eyes never dims while she trails them over the outlines of every whipped cream, filling, and dough shapes all prepared for her. It makes the shackles in the Queen’s heart loosen. Alicent doesn’t recall why she was worrying so much about Aesira’s favourites before she entered her chambers. The girl doesn’t dive straight into the honey cakes she likes so much in their usual tea sessions with the other children, rather, she carefully takes a piece of strawberry scone, the pieces of the fruit peeking through the golden bread permeating in the air. Alicent saw the exact piece of pastry in Daemian’s little hands every time. What she didn’t notice was Aesira eyeing it the same as a curious pup yet she chose to indulge in her regular honey cakes instead of taking her little brother’s share of sweets. Because it was always like that — Aether with his lemon-flavoured choices, Daemian with the hues of strawberries, and honey following Aesira like a perfume’s sillage on a summer day. Now, Alicent understands that the girl doesn’t have only one thing going about with her. It’s refreshing to see in a child of nine name days.

Alicent sips on her blend of flower and citrus tea, a specific kind of blossom the Maesters told was shipped from Yi Ti, content with the still moment for once in her hectic schedule. She lets out a chuckle when she hears a satisfied hum from Aesira, the little lady’s eyes closed to savour a second pastry, this time, a small bite of the blueberry tart.

“This is delicious, Your Grace,” Aesira hums after gulping down another bite of her blueberry tart.

Alicent smiles. “The handmaidens told me they were freshly picked and made into a new batch of sweets. Do you find it to your liking?” Her smile widens at Aesira’s animated nodding. Alicent spends a couple of moments just watching the girl stuff her face as elegantly as she can while being able to relish in the fusion of flavours brought by the treats. The initial intention of bringing Aesira here was to place the idea that she will most likely marry Aegon in the near future, it simply doesn’t exist at this juncture of the afternoon. Aesira finishes her second tart, eyes lingering on her next piece of sweet but never realising that there are residues clinging on the corners of her lips — blue from the tarts and a reminder that she is every bit of the child that she is. Alicent unconsciously picks up the napkin folded into a swan (hoping that it will add to Aesira’s fascination) and leans forward in her seat. She carefully wipes the girl’s mouth, mindful to never hurt her with her cursed fingers. “You really like it that much, little one?”

Wide lilac eyes take her in, reflecting the image of her jutting her lip in a smile while wiping invisible crumbs from Aesira’s cherubic cheeks. It is at that moment that Alicent realises she never touched her children this tenderly for so long. Her beautiful daughter—her beloved little girl—started to flinch every time a single sensation crawled on her skin. Alicent doesn’t even get to embrace Helaena after her dreams because it would make her scream more and the woman can do nothing but watch while her daughter continues pulling hair out from her scalp. It’s reminiscent of when Aether was found terrified and out of his wits that when she moved to take him away from the Kingsguard, the poor boy looked near mortified with how overwhelming everything was. Alicent forgets what it feels like to hold her children, to become the mother they deserve. As the Queen, she is expected to be standoffish but that doesn’t mean she longs to be within the circles of laughter lighting the Keep’s royal wing. With each pattern her thumb creates on Aesira’s cheek, she gains that familiar warmth again. It’s the same warmth she had when she first held Aegon, when Helaena clung to her as a babe, when Aemond smiles every time she appears, or when Daeron giggles at everything he finds funny.

She’s touching Aesira and Aesira is not hurting.

A slow nod answers her question and all thoughts vanish from her head.

Alicent tucks a lock of striking blonde hair from Aesira’s face. Time is suspended as they stare at each other, every drop of care radiating from one’s fingertips, travelling from where they touch down to the apex of a beating heart. The little one’s eyelashes shake with a flutter, the surface of her eyes becoming even more glassy by the second. Alicent purses her slips when she sees a betraying tear appear from one of Aesira’s bottom eyelids, the girl still seeing a glimpse of someone through her. She’s been on the other end of those looks since she married her husband. First, it was a dead wife and now, it’s a dead mother. Yet she keeps tidying Aesira’s hair. For once, it doesn’t squeeze her chest the way it should. She doesn’t feel like ripping her heart from the inside out nor has the urge to shout obscenities to the eye of the beholder. Instead of turning away, Alicent cups both of Aesira’s cheeks, slightly squeezing them in a manner that she herself experienced from her father before he went away to Oldtown.

Without saying a word, Alicent pulls the little girl into an embrace and the moment she does, Aesira starts sobbing.

Upon hearing the gasps for air the little one makes, Alicent looks up at the ceiling with her vision clouding with unshed tears. Her larger hand rubs soothing circles on the girl’s shaking back. When she feels a tear or two slipping from her eye, Alicent closes her eyes and presses a grounding kiss on the crown of Aesira’s head, swaying the two of them in a lullaby she starts humming unconsciously.

“I’ve got you, little one,” Alicent whispers on her forehead. “You have me now.”

The cries increase in volume and she tightens her hold around the small body slumping over her. Alicent hears the door open behind her, probably someone who heard the muffled sobs coming from inside her solar and thought it would be best to check for any altercations. True enough, when she slightly turns her head, she sees Criston frantically looking around for any threats, his hand firmly gripping his sword. The two of them make eye contact and instantly, a wave of understanding and sympathy paints Criston’s face. Alicent tries flashing a convincing smile. The Kingsguard glances at Aesira with downturned eyebrows and a rueful smile before bowing his head and disappearing through the door as if he didn’t grace the chambers with his presence.

The music of the fauna residing in the gardens goes on as Aesira tires herself out from crying.

Alicent doesn’t make a move to remove the girl from her side. She gives the little one the only thing she didn’t receive when her own mother died from a sickness that inevitably took her life way too early. Not one person thought that the little girl hugging her brothers while they let out cries of their own would ever need any semblance of comfort all these years. Alicent herself carries this guilt. She may be late but it is better than turning a blind eye and letting the girl cry within the confines of her chambers.

She isn’t a Queen who found the perfect match for her son. For now, she is a mother caring for her child. How wrong she was for thinking that this girl is nothing but a pawn in her Game of Thrones.

“Do you want to see a magic trick?” She asks with a gentle voice.

Aesira peeks from the bodice of her dress, eyes rimmed with red and cheeks too puffy to hide that she just bared her soul in front of the Queen of the realm. “Yes please,” she answers meekly, almost as tiny as the day they first met in the royal nursery.

Never losing the smile, Alicent pours Aesira a cup of the butterfly pea tea she was indulging in not too long ago. “Keep a close eye, alright? Don’t look away from the cup.” Aesira answers with another slow nod. It is all it takes for Alicent to take the secret ingredient from a small container at the side of the table and pour it into the cup. The deep blue colour of the drink gradually becomes a purple shade that is mostly associated with Targaryens. Oh, how Alicent never regrets glancing at Aesira. The girl has come out of her shell to peer at the cup in awe, the stars lighting up her eyes once again. She brushes a hand over the waves of her hair. “Isn’t it lovely? It’s a trick I’ve learned from the Maesters when they introduced this specific plant to make soothing teas with. Why don’t you give it a try, little one?”

Aesira exchanges a smile with her before sipping from the cup in the proper way that a Lady should. Once again, Alicent marvels at how Aesira fully executed what has been taught in her etiquette lessons. Surely the Septa in charge of teaching her girls is basking in pride for producing one of the most comely little ladies in court.

The teacup clinks against the saucer and Aesira faces her with wonder on her face. “What did you add to turn it into purple, Your Grace?”

The title doesn’t sit well with Alicent. Tiny baby steps first and they will get there eventually, nothing of the Your Grace greetings; she wants to hear titles befitting that of family ties attached to her name. Whatever the case, she will start showering unconditional affection to this child. Alicent winks a little, whispering, “A learned person never reveals their secret.” The answer doesn’t satisfy Aesira for she pouts while staring at the ripples on the surface of her tea, the small dried flowers floating and bumping on each other inside the rim. “You must simply visit my solar every other afternoon now to witness the sorcery flowing from my hands. Don’t tell the others about our meetings though. It remains our little solace from the rambunctiousness they always bring.”

Aesira giggles, agreeing with her. “They are quite loud, especially the boys. You have my promise, Your Grace. Though, Hel shouldn’t be left out.”

How adorable. “Then, we shall invite her as well. A tea party is better enjoyed with the people you wish to share priceless memories with after all.”

Now, Alicent comprehends why Aegon is so taken with her. The way she laughs is laced with the purest delicacy that fully captures your attention. One can tell that benevolence and humility oozes from every fibre of her being. It is the kind of beauty that lasts for lifetimes — timeless. While some Ladies fabricate stories to put the child against her, more sensible Ladies step forward to say nothing but amazing things about the little Lady. She is absolutely wonderful; she complimented even the tiniest details of my new gown, even I, myself, didn't know I have embroideries showing a rare species of butterflies. Oh, a divine little thing; no shed of her horrible father in her for the Sevens’ sakes, she is her mother through and through. The second coming of Rhaenys Targaryen, Aegon the Conqueror’s wife, herself. Maybe Alicent should have listened to the better part of the court instead of feeding into the words dipped in flowery lies.

The smiles die down and Aesira utters, “I understand the reason you invited my company this afternoon, Your Grace.” Gone is the easygoing air surrounding the table, replaced by a weighty gust of wind that worries Alicent. Aesira gives her a rueful smile that has her heart clenching. “The Lords and Ladies have been talking, Your Grace. They speak of theories that concern me and Aegon.” The girl doesn’t waver from Alicent’s widening eyes and parted lips. “I’ve always known that my placement in the Keep has meaning. Father told me so. He was already planning on betrothals when I was but a child of two name days, as far as I can remember. Mother was furious,” she gazes at a memory only she can see, “and it was the first time I ever saw it on her face. But the fact never changes that I should face it when the time comes. The court acknowledges me as Aegon’s match, he even does it himself whenever he finds the most opportune moments to say so, and with the timing of your invitation, I placed the pieces of the puzzle together.

“I only ask of this for my peace of mind, Your Grace; am I his betrothed?”

Alicent cradles Aesira’s cheeks in the ridges of her palms. She shakes her head without saying anything at first but with the distress soiling the little one’s features, she quickly brushes her hair away from her forehead. “Fret not for the matters circulating court, especially ones that are clearly passed from mouths whose main aim is to fuel a fire. They don’t know anything, little one, and they never will. The moment the King says any word of your impending marriage, you will be the first to hear about it from me. Understood?” 

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Besides, if you ask me, it’s too early for you to wear any extravagant gown made from white fabrics. Enjoy all the colours before putting on a wedding dress, alright?” Aesira shares a little laugh with her. Sombre blue rains down Alicent. “I would never wish to burden you with something so shackling like a betrothal.” Guilt gnaws the lining of her stomach. It’s a good thing she never ate anything and only watched Aesira enjoy the spread that is baked solely for her. She takes back everything she planned. Her father might have scolded her for her decision but he isn’t here to throw verbal daggers at her. “You are still nine; thinking of betrothals can wait.”

Aesira’s shoulders drop the tension. A radiant smile beams from her face; the sun is put to shame. “Oh, thank you, Your Grace! Now, Aether can rest his pacing.”

“He doesn’t like the spreading rumours of your match with Aegon, I gather then.”

“He keeps threatening to make Aegon pay during their lessons with Ser Criston,” Aesira whispers with a secretive twinkle of mischief in her eyes, seeing the improvement in her brother’s handling of the sword. Aether has the same as well and it makes Alicent laugh. “It’s quite sad to watch from the viewing balcony, to be honest.”

Poor Aegon, the embarrassment he must feel. “Ah, so that’s where Aegon gets his scratches from.”

Nonetheless, Alicent never saw any sign of resignation coming from her eldest son. It is subtle — the influence of the twins in his life. When he started learning the ways of the sword years ago with Aether, he never showed a shred of determination unlike his companion, who hardened through the years and only became ruthless with the sparring partners he had. It is only when Aesira graces the balconies does he fully commit to swinging the practice sword he’s given as if it would make Aesira come down from many flights of stairs to watch the bout in the courtyard. During the times the subject of Aesira’s prospective betrothal is brought up, with Aegon usually within hearing range, Alicent notices the little changes in his behaviour. He starts taking things seriously according to the Maesters and Ser Criston as if he is trying to prove something to everyone and himself. At dinners these days, he’s often seen glaring at Aether rather than settling little desserts on Aesira’s plate while the other boy sneers at the sight of him making unnecessary snarky looks. How fascinating it is to see the hold a girl has over her son. 

The little one places a hand over her mouth in realisation. “Please don’t admonish Aether, Your Grace.”

Alicent affectionately pinches her cheek until she whines. “I would never. Boys are bound to gain small scars from their training now and then. It is a given when they learn how to be better fighters. Aegon should know that picking up the sword means having permanent marks etched on his skin.”

Aesira nods, looking down at her whimsical tea while smiling. “Aemond is doing well, I notice. He told me all of the things he learned from his first lesson.”

“Really? Do tell me more, little one.”

As the stories revolving around her younger children (ones she never even heard of) encircled Alicent and Aesira, the high afternoon sun dipped down the crests of the mountain ranges in the distance, sunburst igniting the heavens to flare a magnificent view — and it washed everything golden. 

Hearts are opened that day and there is no sign of them closing.

Days have passed and Alicent is walking through the hallways of the Keep with a destination in mind, her skirts swishing along with the resolution coating her actions. Lord and Ladies turn their heads as she passes by, never forgetting to pay their respects by greeting and bowing even though she only wishes to see one thing in front of her as she navigates the intricate architecture of the castle — those double doors barring the inhabitants away from the harsh whispers of the halls. The clanging from behind indicates that Criston is doing his best in keeping with her pace yet she pays him no mind, slippered feet padding on the stairs leading to the castle wing dedicated to her newest children. She finally reached the level where her destination resides and immediately, the guard placed by the doors bows at her presence, his face pursing in concern. Criston doesn’t have time to announce her arrival as she opens the doors.

Three pairs of varying shades of purple from the chaise lounge look up. Just like she predicted, the three children are all gathered inside Aesira’s solar after hearing about the message Viserys received from Daemon across The Narrow Seas. Without saying a word, Alicent gathers them in her arms and offers them the unconditional warmth of someone holding their comfort dear to heart. She kneels in front of the children as their arms clutch her torso and neck. Alicent’s heart breaks when one of them starts crying, the sound alerting Criston to shut the doors and give the four the privacy they all need.

“Does Father not love us anymore?” Daemian wails on Alicent’s chest, still a toddler in his four name days to fully understand that their father left them for good.

“He is nothing but a fool,” Alicent says to the three of them. “Some men simply don't deserve to become a parent for the abomination that they are.”

The older siblings don’t speak a word but it is clear on their faces how they feel about the situation. Aether wears rage like a second skin, eyebrows furrowed and mouth set in a deep scowl. His chin is lowered a little, giving the illusion of shadows brushing against the top of his eye and his fists are clenching on the sides of his pants, creasing the fabric between his fingers. While Aether is a master of having his heart on his sleeve, Aesira’s silence sends Alicent a spine-chilling sensation from the crown of her head down to the tips of her limbs. The little one is glaring at nothing and something at the same time; one would think her mind is vacant with how still she is. Her brothers are shaking from anger and misery yet she remains unmoving at their side, her head not even touching the shoulder of the woman rubbing their backs. Alicent hopes that in her lifetime, she will never be placed on the other end of Aesira’s stare.

“I despise him,” Aether spits the word with so much emotion that a single tear runs down his cheek. “If I see him again, I might actually kill him.”

Alicent pulls the boy closer to her. “Do not speak of such terms,” she murmurs on his hair. “We do not dabble in kinslaying. We are above that.”

Aether makes a sharp gasp, a result of holding back his incoming sob. “I am just so angry, Your Grace. How could he do this and not feel any shred of remorse?”

It’s Aesira who says the words. “Because he thinks of no one but himself.” Her eyelids are rapidly blinking to prevent the tears from flowing. There is a tremble in her bottom lip, but no sign of a frown pulling down her mouth. Alicent instantly gets an image of Helaena’s dolls.

“But Father is—”

“He is not our father, Daemian!” She glares at the whimpering boy. Alicent doesn’t even have the room to interject when Aesira adds with as much distaste in her voice as she can muster, “And he will never be. He chose to leave us in a place we do not know. He nearly took Aether from us and left him somewhere in the Keep for three days until he was found terrified to the bone.” She gulps down, breath hitching, and shoulders taut with tension. “He doesn’t care about us. If he did, he would have landed his blasted dragon in the Dragonpit and raised us himself instead of siring children with his new wife. He doesn’t love us, not even when Mother is swollen with carrying us. How can he when we’re not born from love—”

“Sira!” Aether shouts, hugging a distraught Daemian closer to him. “You’re scaring Damy!”

At that moment, Alicent sees Aesira cry for the third time.

“Oh, little one,” Alicent says the words like a caress. She hears broken sentences on her shoulder, all with a combination of sorry and I didn’t mean it. “I know, I know,” she answers every single phrase she can pick up. Alicent manages to catch Aether’s teary eyes, beckoning the young boy to bring himself and his brother back to her embrace. They go back to huddling close to Alicent as if they are meant to be there and not anywhere else. “That man is an imbecile for leaving behind three beautiful children. I may not know if he truly felt that deeply for the family he created with your mother but I know you three can make one of your own here. We might not be of blood but I can care for you like I am made by the Seven to do so. Now, little one,” she strokes Aesira’s hair from her face, “apologise to your younger brother.”

“I’m sorry for scaring you, Damy,” Aesira’s voice wobbles. “Your big sister is just angry at him.”

Daemian lets go of Alicent and buries himself into Aesira. “Don’t do that again,” he pouts.

She kisses his temple. “I won’t.” Aesira picks him up, letting out a small huff at the added weight, remarking, “You’re getting bigger, Damy. Please don’t get any bigger on me now. I won’t be able to carry you like this if you keep on getting taller than me.” All she gets in reply is a lovely giggle. She wordlessly asks Alicent for permission and the woman nods her head. “Damy, what have you been eating?” She grumbles away to the table where the jar of blueberry and lemon sweets Alicent gave lay resting, her brother clinging onto her like one of those creatures Aether drew during one boring tutoring lesson with Aegon’s name attached to it.

“What will happen, Your Grace?” Aether asks Alicent, who turns back to him. “Will the King send out dragon eggs just like Daemon asked for?”

“The King will make a decision that he thinks is right,” the woman is now fully sitting on the carpeted floor to accommodate the boy of name days in a more comfortable position against her, “ and whatever will happen, we have no part in it. Nothing will change if my husband decides to send out dragon eggs to Essos just because The Rogue Prince demands them. Life will not stop its course — you will keep on growing and you will have futures to play into. My husband’s younger brother is not the end of your world, Aether.” She gazes at the pair of children picking up variations of sweets from the jar, recognizing the piece of expensive ceramic as part of her personal collection. Alicent sent her little one stocks of the candies her brothers and she loves chewing on on a regular basis, the contents of the jar coming from one conversation they shared about what her brothers preferred. Aesira is fussing over her baby brother while the boy continues smearing the cream of the blueberry sweets on his mouth. “Daemian stops his crying easily now.”

Aether follows her eyes to where his siblings are. He snorts at the moustache above Daemian’s lip. “It’s mostly because of Aesira,” slowly, he adds with a growing smile, “which is funny because she made him cry in the first place.” He catches Alicent’s frown and mutters, “Sorry.”

What is with oldest brothers and jesting about younger siblings? Gwayne did it to her growing up. Aegon does it with Helaena and Aemond each time they breathe the same air as him (never Daeron because the boy follows him around like a little duckling). Aether constantly teases the Seven Hells out of his little sister and brother. She supposes it is simply in their nature to be their kin’s greatest bully. Though that doesn’t mean Aegon gets away with pushing his brother into a bush to catch Aesira’s attention or comment on Helaena’s weird insects out of the blue. (Aemond cried to Alicent that Aegon pushed him simply because he was mean about everything but when Aether smacked Aegon at the back of his head for snatching Aesira away after pushing the younger boy, Alicent instantly understood.)

“But really, I’m glad Sira is here. I don’t need other siblings when I already have her and Daemian. They are enough for me as is. Besides, the kids Lady Laena gave birth to are nothing to me; they just happen to share the same father as me, Aesira, and Daemian.” Then, he stops leaning on Alicent. “Is that one of my lemon candies?” He scrambles to stand up from his comfortable position, scurrying to where Daemian is on the verge of gobbling one of his prized lemon candies, the sugar coating glinting against the sun’s rays. “You already have your blueberry candies, Damy! Don’t eat it! Sira,” he whines, pouting away as fixes his sister with a purposeful rendition of a puppy asking for treats, “he’s eating my sweets!”

Alicent picks herself up from the floor and stares at the children for a few moments, what Aether said ringing in her mind. Does Rhaenyra share the same feeling? Does her anger spread to Alicent’s own blood that she doesn’t have the heart to acknowledge that they are her siblings despite not sharing a mother? Again, her father’s words add to the headache. Rhaenyra will not stop until there are no threats to her throne. Alicent will have to cleave for her mercy to not have a single strand of hair on her family be harmed. She doesn’t realise she has been pulling apart pieces of thin skin from her fingers, the sharp sting of newly-healed wounds opening again.

She will indulge in this domestic bliss for now; but when the moment comes for her to wear the crown fitted on her head, her first move will be putting forth the greatest union known among the realms — a marriage.

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