#douche maneuver.

[spookydingus]

honestly I wanna love act 3 because it's the one time you even get to actually do anything real but it's just

so poorly done, a bugged out mess, with some of the most boring combats in the game that I get burnt out and leave by the time I've spent 3 hours fighting 40 sharrans and hitting a single button that does nothing once per hour about it

and the fucking Shadowfell screaming bug the whole time

[ddejavvu]

hi love i’m obsessed with ur writing!!! may i request asking best friend!james to be ur fake bf at a party so an annoying/creepy guy leaves u alone and he immediately gets SO into it like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment 🤭🤭 LOL tysm ur such an amazing writer i hope ur doing wonderful!! ❤️❤️❤️

James is the one that notices the man staring after you under the dim lights of the party you're milling about, and you're surprised you hadn't felt the eyes on the back of your neck. But James always seems to pay rapt attention to you, so you suppose it makes sense that he'd noticed the creep first.

"There's a douche staring behind you," He leans in to murmur into your ear, and the close proximity sets your nerves on fire, "He's got a red shirt on. Don't look now, but he's starting to walk over. Want me to take care of him?"

You're not quite sure what 'take care of him' means, but James is big and burly, and you're afraid that the man in the red shirt might not make it out of the party alive if you let him. You shake your head and take hold of his bicep, drawing his attention back to you.

"No, Jamie, it's okay. Could you just- um," Your face flushes hot with sheepishness, the terrifying prospect of suggesting fake dating to your best friend, "Could you maybe-?"

"Pretend to be your boyfriend?" He guesses with unfailing accuracy, "Sure, love. C'mere, he's on his way."

James scoops you beneath one of his muscled arms and tosses his head up to look at the man who's just taken the final steps across the room to speak with you. He casts a withering glance at James's hand placement, but says nothing, still staring silently at you with the faintest of grins on his face.

He's unsettling.

"Hey, man, wish we could talk, but my girlfriend here's feeling a little queasy." James doesn't give the man an opportunity to speak, jostling your shoulder slightly in his grip, "Can you move so I can get her to the bathroom?"

The man looks crestfallen, almost angry, and you're glad for James's excuse as it means you can lean into his side and look sickly. You let him maneuver you around the man who barely moves an inch, and James ducks you into a secluded hallway, away from the man's prying eyes.

"You alright, love?" He ducks his head to study your nervous gaze, and his hands come up to cover both of your shoulders.

"Yeah," You breathe, still slightly unnerved, "Uh, thanks, James. I really appreciate it."

"Anytime, darling," He grins, and you think his smile shines brighter than the crappy rave lights that the homeowner has installed, "Tell me if you see him again, and I'll step up my boyfriend game: kiss the living daylights outta you until he finds someone else to torment."

[occamstfs]

Road Raging

Road rage induced Himbofication and Muscle Growth, hope y'all enjoy and Drive safe y'all! -Occam

Peter has been waiting at this light for just shy of ten minutes. He wouldn’t normally mind but as he watches car after car blast past him only to merge back in ahead of him. After the fifth car does so he starts talking to himself just to prevent losing his cool. “It’s like no one knows how to drive! They all just think their time is more important than anyone else’s I bet.” 

The light turns red once more and he rolls his eyes as he prepares to sit through another cycle. He turns up the podcast he had been listening to distract himself from the peaking irritation as cars begin to pass through the intersection. He checks his rearview and scoffs seeing the man behind him playing on his phone as they sit in traffic. “God damnit, can we keep our eyes on the road? No wonder this city’s going to shit with assholes like him driving.” He stares daggers into his mirror and as soon as he finishes the man behind him looks up and smirks almost as if he knows he’s being observed.

Peter in turn flinches and blushes, returning his eyes to the traffic ahead as any responsible driver should. He suddenly hears a car blasting through the traffic in the left lane , scowling as he is sure this jerk is going to try and skip the line. Sure enough he slows to an idle crawl as he nears Peter’s position in line. The guy throws on his blinker to hop into line. Rage begins to grow in Peter’s chest as the car approaches inching further ahead of the traffic by the second.

Peter averts his eyes from the road ahead to glare at the man who has wronged his fellow drivers, only to find himself intimidated by the specimen of man taking advantage of him. The car in front of him makes room for the approaching BMW and Peter, caught off guard, accidentally lets the titan of a man maneuver ahead of him in traffic. The man shoots Peter a smug smirk and a wink as he shifts his car into the gap in traffic, securely pushing himself ahead of him.

Meek man he may be, the rage in Peter’s small body overcomes him as this asshole edges in front. He’s not going to let every muscle-brained bro just ignore him. He was not going to let this alpha asshole push him around. He lays on his horn as hard as he can and shouts any obscenity that comes to mind at the man ahead of him. In response the man only keeps up his arrogant expression, as he clearly has come out on top. He laughs at Peter as he mimes a blown kiss back at his overcome foe.

Peter screams loud enough that his voice even begins to grow hoarse as he continues to squirm in rage at the alpha man now squarely in front of him. He takes a quick breath and tries to calm down, suddenly shocked at letting himself act in such a vulgar manner. “God what is taking this light so fucking long.” He says to himself, not hearing that his voice has lowered in pitch. Easy enough to blame that on all the shouting anyway.

Peter continues to sit in his car in wait, trying not to let his anger at the man in front of him boil over again. He realizes that he’s now sitting in silence. Wasn’t he listening to something? He strains his mind trying to remember what he was occupying himself with not but a minute ago. Some NPR podcast starts playing through the static on his radio which for some reason starts to ignite his rage once more. Surely he’s not listening to that nerd-ass shit right? He slams his stereo a few times expecting it to just give in and play something else, it swiftly returns to static before his phone connects and starts playing the Eminem album he apparently had queued.

Suddenly the asshole behind him starts honking and Peter realizes the light has turned green. It’s unlike him to be so oblivious, not that it matters though since the douche in front of him hasn’t started going either. God the fuckers on the road these days. He flips off the man behind him for honking before returning his ire to the fucker in front of him. He starts to tailgate the BMW in his way, only leading the driver to glare at him, his eyes half-closed, dripping with dominance, demanding Peter’s submission.

Peter’s eyes glaze over as he makes direct eye contact, not even noticing as the light turns red once more, not even caring as he is to remain stuck in yet another cycle of traffic. His rage subsides as he stares at the man ahead of him, does he know this jerk? His rage completely gives way to confusion as he sits and struggles to even remember that he just blew up at the man in front of him. His stereo soothes him with music he feels deep in his chest should not be as nearly as comforting or familiar as it is.

He feels his arms briefly strain his shirt. Peter feels the sleeves stretch and nearly tear before they quickly dissolve leaving them still-growing arms barren. He starts subconsciously rapping alongside Slim, feeling confidence grow in his chest as the droll life of quiet irritation that he knows begins to feel unfamiliar. His arms and chest begin to pump up as he bops in his seat to the music. He feels his pecs quickly strain his shirt before it expands to fit them, the neckline dropping to allow everyone a view of his hard-earned pecs.

Pete feels the AC graze his now exposed chest and is taken aback, he breaks his gaze with the bro ahead of him and is overcome with shock at his body. He jumps as he sees how powerful his arms have become, triggering his seatbelt to force him back into his seat, squeezing his now shockingly powerful chest. He whispers to himself as his voice deepens even more, “this can’t be right, I’m I’ve..” The music rises in volume trying to edge out any remaining thoughts of defiance. He feels the music reverberate through his chest, pumping it larger still, asserting that he is powerful. He once more makes eye contact with the man ahead of him and recognizes, oh, that’s his bro yeah! He then turns his mind back to his body as he finds yet another aspect of his transformation, his car is beginning to smell as if it were a locker room as he begins to just pour out sweat.

Pete turns the AC even higher which only spreads his musk even more through the cabin. It almost immediately fills the whole of the car, as if he’s been using it as storage for dirty gym clothes for weeks. He blushes to himself as he wonders if this actually is the case. He desperately wants to question if he could possibly go to the gym enough for that to be a problem before he stares at his growing arm and flexes it. Bro all this time has been paying off huh. Pete smiles to himself as he basks in his own power.

The light turns green once more but this time the cross traffic has totally blocked his lane's ability to go. Further ahead of Pete and his bro a crowd of cars honk as are once more impeded. Pete feels like he too should be bothered by this but can’t find it within himself to care all that much. He continues flexing in his seat as he feels his jaw squaring out and his bulge start to fill out his pants. He sniffs his pits as he tries to remember if he’s headed to the gym or on the way back from it, guffawing to himself as he realizes he forgot deodorant today. Not that he minds though, the gym smells rank anyway, might as well smell like him.

Excited at the idea of going to the gym once more Pete is suddenly preoccupied with the idea of getting there faster. His bro in front of him flexes back at him and smirks, almost in encouragement. Pete sees him mouth the words “race ya” and winks once more. Pete’s entire body tenses up and he discards his tank, tossing it in a pile of other sweat-stained shirts in his back seat. He’s gotta beat his bro to the gym.

He feels a cap shape itself around his head as his hair shrinks into a short crew cut. Pete is far too gone to notice though, bathing in his own scent and compulsively flexing as he tries to brainstorm a way ahead of his bro. Slow as his mind now goes he guffaws once more as he lands on the perfect idea. He’ll just skip the line huhuh. Pete swerves out of the line he has been impatiently waiting in all this time and shoots past his bro who raises his chin at the challenge.

Possessed with self-superiority, Pete scans the line ahead looking for some meek nerd or hungry twink to let him in. Not too far ahead he sees a tired man glare at him through sunglasses, not knowing it is a reflection of a face he once had. Pete sneers at him, his smile perfect and white as if carved from marble. He raises his arm behind his head, briefly struggling to stretch the muscle justly. The other driver recoils in disdain at the sheer audacity of Pete forcing his car in front of him. He continues to stare as Pete continues to demand entry ahead. The glaring man who has never even done so much as curse under his breath at other drivers begins to feel a rage grow in his chest, a rage that Pete is all-too-eager to encourage. Won’t last too long anyway, just a little stepping stone to having another bro.

[holy-puckslibrary]

━ 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄

˗ˏˋ main masterlist ˎˊ˗

pairing(s) — (soft)dark!QUINN HUGHES x gray!reader word count — 4k

note — i am so sorry for this (not really)

recommended viewing — sorority row (2009)

bingo squares and additional content warnings under the cut.

bingo squares —orgasm control, non-consensual voyeurism (+ pictures taken) and implied past mutual masturbation (dubcon — you’ll see) additional content warnings — dom!reader + subby-as-hell!quinn (ngl he’s kind of a pathetic loser here, but that’s why we love him), m!receiving oral (perhaps too much idk you tell me) + cum play x2, quinn rendered dumb and speechless by his raging humiliation kink and his need for degradation (and an itty bitty bit of praise — quinn: new kink unlocked), i have been plagued w ball play as of late so im subjecting yall to it, mention of edging and orgasm denial, oh and just some pheromone kink bits and a cute lil oral fixation moment or two, nothing to see here!

QUINN HUGHES WAS ENAMORED the moment he saw you.

Three rows from the front. Laptop cracked, but more for show than anything. All your glittery, coveted attention fixed on the cellphone resting in your palm while you tapped away, your lips loosely draped over the pen you were gnawing on. 

You were positively mesmerizing.

He briefly contemplated sliding into one of the open seats beside yours, but a gaggle of your insipid "sisters" beat him to the punch.

As if he would’ve been able to capitalize on the golden opportunity anyway; it took half the semester for him to form a full, coherent sentence in your vicinity.

Ironically, Quinn was far more comfortable when you weren’t looking.

Or, rather, Quinn was more comfortable when you didn’t know he was looking.

He didn’t interact much with anyone outside of his coding cohort and the club team—athletic prowess only garners state-school clout when your sport is top dog, and this was a football school, through and through. As such, and at the hands of his tragic awkwardness, he rarely spoke to women, if ever.

And he never got face time with any as effortlessly beautiful and interesting as you.

Discovering that your large bedroom window faced the secluded side street he took to get home from practice each night felt like a sign. He’d struck gold, and it would be a shame not to put the knowledge to good use.

In his own shadowy domain, he could be whatever and whoever he wanted; he could be the guy who got the girl.

It was exhilarating, really. 

Quinn supposed some of that rush should be attributed to the feeling of unbridled control his daily routine sorely and consistently lacked. He hardly, if ever, felt like an active participant in his own life.

But in the privacy of his own head—and the safety of the very curb he’s stood on now—there were no alpha douche-canoes to eat up your finite attention or loud airheads to crave your tutelage. 

Between sundown and sun-up, you were his and his alone.

— Even if you were none the wiser.

As benevolent as you may appear, he knew you would never give a guy like him the time of day. Quinn was a lot of things, but stupid's never been one of them.

You wouldn’t even acknowledge his existence if it weren’t for your shared smaller sessions on Thursday mornings. Just you and him… and ten other students, with the occasional appearance of your slacker TA—how romantic.

And if he couldn’t even get a moment alone with you, he definitely wouldn’t get a night inside of you, either. 

So, he settles.

Quinn puts up with the bugs and tolerates the bushes, swallowing his pride (and his mortification), and takes what he can get.

He's accustomed to maneuvering in the dark—this stretch of pavement in particular—but he stumbles through the dimly lit street like he’s got two left feet that only grew in yesterday. 

If you were privy to his impromptu audition for Bambi, you don’t mention it.

And if you clocked the obnoxious bulge tenting his jeans, you don’t acknowledge that, either.

Quinn isn’t entirely sure this is happening in his real, waking life; it’s far too good to be true. 

This is not at all where he thought the night would go when your name flashed across the screen.

When he hesitantly clicked ‘accept’ and brought the phone to his ear, all while still palming himself to the memory of your head tossed back in ecstasy—the way it was before the lights went out abruptly —Quinn assumed he’d soon be gripping steel bars.

“H-How’d you get this number?” he asked after hearing his name.

You whispered it so ardently he could almost feel your breath on his cheek. It made him shiver and, momentarily, forget he’d likely been caught red-handed—literally.

“You made the group chat for our section, silly.”

Instinct compelled Quinn to chastise himself, but knowing you remembered that minute detail—a nothing of a fact, really—was enough to override the urge entirely.

And the complete lack of ire in your voice lured him into a false sense of security yet to be disproven.

He gulped and willed his hand to stop moving. “Oh, right. Uh, is there something you need? Did the outline for next week not go through? Because if not, I can just re-send it ri—”

“Meet me at the same door as last time,” you sliced through his rambling with a tone that was neither foreboding nor comforting.

Then, the line went dead.

For once, Quinn was grateful to be so eager to please. If not for that zeal, he couldn't have walked up to the service door of Delta Nu.

Risking the wrath of your underlings was never a goal of his, but considering how quickly they turned up their plastic noses at him when he came by to drop off notes from the class you missed, Quinn couldn’t imagine worse circumstances for Round Two. 

When the backdoor swung in, you spoiled him in all your glory and the assurance of an empty house.

Out of pure exhaustion—and in his excitement to resume his ritual after a long week away—it slipped his mind; tonight is the best and biggest Kappa Tau rager.

Hence the ghost town

“Do you stand out there all night, stalker?”

Quinn’s head bobbed despite the apt insult. Then, he remembered you couldn’t see his reply, given that you were leading him up a staircase.

“M-Most nights, yeah.”

At that, you spun on your heel. Quinn shook like a leaf as you stepped forward. Gripping the railing, a hand on either side of his shrunken form, you invaded his personal space for the sole purpose of degrading him further.

The sneer hadn’t reached your eyes, but it speared him just the same. “God, you’re fucking pathetic.”

Quinn launched into an attempt at groveling, but his own verbal clumsiness rendered the effort futile.

However, his sputtered half-thoughts and litany of sentences that went nowhere were brought to a screeching halt by a single, manicured finger. Unable to process the touch and the wicked grin on your otherwise cherubic face concurrently, he froze.

His predicament worsened when you gently breached the tight seam of his lips to rest your interruption against his tongue.

You stepped closer; he saw stars. “I like that.”

It was at that moment Quinn realized you came straight down to the side-yard...because he could taste you. As you massaged his tongue with the pad of your finger, effectively rubbing your essence into his body, it took every ounce of strength to keep himself from busting right there in your foyer.

Still, he managed the mortification he sought to avoid.

“Are you… Are you humping me?” you barked with an incredulous snort.

Humiliation blurred his vision as you backed away from him; it wasn’t his fault your perfume elicited a Pavlovian bodily reaction. 

You kept your finger in his mouth as you bit back genuine laughter, but that just made him harder.

“Y’know,” you hummed, contemplative. You paused to watch your pointer finger slowly thrust in and out of his needy mouth. Your smirk was noticeably wider when you spoke again. “My last boyfriend couldn’t even text me back—or remember that he was in a monogamous relationship.”

Quinn blinked. “Your last boyfriend?”

The question was garbled by your finger—and his own sucking. It didn’t matter, though. His reply wasn’t necessary.

At least, not yet.

“Mhmm, my last one.”

You repeated yourself as if you were speaking to a child and not to the grown man whose boner was digging into your skin. 

It made him whimper. Your condescension was his kryptonite, apparently.

“But...I know my next one will be different; you’re too devoted to hurt me.”

He wasn’t given time to respond because as soon as you got your desired reaction—mewling akin to a bleating lamb and the whites of his eyes—you were dragging him up the remaining stairs and into the president’s suite.

Quinn’s spent countless hours wondering what your bedroom looked like, and even more fantasizing about what might happen if he ever saw it firsthand. His mouth splits after working up the nerve to compare the reality of your space to his mental notes, but before he can shove out any words, you’re backing him across the room with a devious glint in your eyes.

���W-What are you doing?” he asks when his back hits glass.

Right now, he’s pressed against his standing window into your most private moments. It feels wrong to be on this side of the wall.

Quinn gets none of the bubbly warmth he assumed he would if he ever found himself here. Instead, he feels unbelievably small as he drowns in a sea of poor choices.

“I think a little exhibitionism would be good for you, Hughes.”

"I-I don’t understand…”

You smile. His stupid heart flutters.

God, love’s fucking embarrassing.

Again, you crowd his space. This time, though, until there’s barely enough room between the window pane and your body for his wilted one. You press a single, fleeting kiss to his pulse point, your breath fanning over his clammy skin. His hitches in his throat.

“I want you to see things from my point of view.”

The words seep into his neck. Your intentions slam into him like a semi-truck going full speed. Anyone walking on the path—his path— would need only to venture a peek at your window to know exactly what was happening.

It would be too easy to watch him the way he’s watched you for weeks. 

A taste of his own medicine.

The candy-coated threat shouldn’t have the effect that it does. Given how emotionally charged the air’s become—for him, at least—it makes sense for his body to get some wires crossed; the same sticky emotion causing him to wither in fear should not be making him harder than ever.

He isn’t expecting you to kiss him, so it takes Quinn’s mind a beat to catch up. Still, he melts into the affection like it's the only thing keeping him alive. Though, as soon as Quinn regains enough composure to actually participate, you kill the kiss as swiftly as you brought it to fruition.

He chases after your mouth, much to your amusement.

“What, sad there was no tongue?” you tease as if you weren't the one to ruined the moment. 

Quinn doesn’t find you very funny right now.

“We’re going to play a little game.” 

Your lips brush his as your hushed words march out, but he remains still. He knows better now than to ask questions prematurely. You hum in acknowledgment, satisfied. 

Quinn beams. He's always been a quick study.

You take him by the wrist and guide him into the space you just vacated.

Physically, he knows he’s stronger. It wouldn’t take much to overpower you, but that means nothing in the face of your mental sway. Quinn can’t move because you don’t want him to—because you haven’t told him he can.

And any hope of gaining the upper hand crashes out onto the concrete the moment your bare knees hit the carpet.

Quinn knows he’s a dead man when your hands coast up his thighs.

“Put your hands on the window sill.” He does without hesitation. “Keep them there. You move, I stop. Understand?”

“Yes, I-I understand.”

“Good boy,” you say.

It’s more of a taunt than true praise, but his bulge twitches all the same before your eyes. The slight betrayal announces the internal chaos in the wake of the unexpected praise.

Quinn knew he liked that, but he didn’t want you to know it, too. What little control he managed to horde dissipates.

The delight on your face confirms the worst; you plan to do with that information what he hoped you wouldn’t. “God, I am going to have so much fun with you.”

It's an uphill battle, trying to keep his eyes open and his hands where they are supposed to be.

Quinn tastes nirvana when you finally flick the tip of your tongue over his cherry-red tip, the skin having adopted a luminous intensity courtesy of the few street lamps nearby. Glowing, after too much teasing.

Normally, he veered toward edging and denial JOI content, especially if the voice actor sounded anything like you. Tonight, he’s never hated a concept more. Still, he's making sure he behaves because he knows you’ll reward him handsomely.

You can be sweet when you want to be.

Like right now, for instance. You’re snuggling your face into his body, generously nuzzling his painfully stiff length with your cheeks. Whenever the friction mounts to anything substantial, you pull back to decorate his hips and inner thighs with little pecks.

They're reminiscent of the chaste parting kisses you’ve given his cheek in the past just to make him squirm.

You lap up what you can of the escaping arousal, hungrily drinking down all he has to offer. You do your best, you really do, but there’s just too much. The successor to each puddle arrives faster than you expect, and quicker than you can keep up with.

So, you stop trying.

You’re both so desperate, anyway.

Quinn bites back a scream when your dominant hand loops around the base of his cock; the cruel, beautiful beast only settling once the middle finger finally reaches the accompanying thumb. The pressure is light, but encompassing enough to make him dizzy.

So dizzy, in fact, that he actually appreciates your one rule.

However, nothing could have prepared him for what torture you enact next.

Blinking up at him, you rub the leaking tip over and between your lips. With one hand braced against his bare thigh and the other unchanged, you gently tug downward as you suckle the bulbous head.

The sensation is unlike anything Quinn has felt in his limited experience, which he wears like a scarlet letter. The little huffs that make him feel like a dog panting in mid-July remind him that while he's gotten a blowjob or two before, they were nothing like this one. They weren't from you. It might be unfair to lump those instances in with the magic of your mouth.

You can’t compete where you don’t compare.

So, Quinn showers you in soft, airy whispers. Even when you pull back until only the ridge preceding the tip rests past your spit-stained lips, he goes on and on about how good your mouth feels and how much he adores you. 

And, if he were slightly more coherent, maybe he would’ve caught the obvious squeeze of your thighs at his flushed cheeks and the reciprocal effect your lazy teasing.

His hips go rogue when you try to swallow him a little deeper, jerking forward and sending the firm tip to the back of your throat. Naturally, you lose your grip and gag around him, your eyes watering more and more with each subsequent unintended impact.

Quinn is bashfully apologetic, but you’re quick to remove him from your mouth.

“Shouldn’t you already know I like to choke on it?” your raspy voice goads.

You shoot him a wink before hollowing your cheeks to accommodate his wide girth, your tongue flattened and pressed tautly to the underside.

The shallow movement triggers images he shouldn’t have, bright and flashing through his head: of you, on your knees like this for that jerk-off ex-boyfriend of yours—of you, from a distance and fuzzy, forever immortalized in a single film unit pinned to the back wall of his closet.

Quinn does know you like to choke on it. He knows you like to be choked, too.Quinn knows a lot of things about you—likes, dislikes, sleep patterns, study habits… sexual preferences.

Your bizarre reaction to his Peeping Tom antics makes him wonder what you might know about him…

He’s given no time to fall down that rabbit hole on account of your nose brushing his public bone once more. Quinn cannot fathom how his length disappeared down your throat so smoothly, and it's useless to try, given how thoroughly muddied his head’s become with your tongue gently petting the delicate skin of his sack.

With your lips stretched around the base—and your thumb tucked into your palm to subdue innate reflex—you begin massaging what you can. Until you realize quinn has absolutely zero volume control. As crazy as his loud and breathy moans make you, you’ve come too far only to get this far.

Viscous, glasslike threads hang between your withheld mouth and his anguished cock in the lower fringe of your vision. Above you, Quinn is struggling, whimpering like a lost puppy caught in a storm. 

Lips parted ever-so-slightly, his forehead rests against the frame, limp. He's white-knuckling the historic, but recently refurbished wood, trembling in your barely-there hold because he’s that aroused. Mindlessly teetering on the border of “too much” and “not enough," all the while mumbling unintelligibly between choppy breaths.

You could get drunk on those pretty sounds; you’re sure of it. 

Maybe next time, you will.

“I know I said everyone was out, but I don’t think you want Ms. Patty busting through the door before you have a chance to.”

The thought of your sixty-year-old, strict-as-fuck house mother catching him with his pants around his ankles is just horrific enough to coax him a bit closer to the ground.

Quinn bites his lip in a show of good faith.

“Good boy,” you hum your approval while stroking him. “Now, tell me what you want. Tell me what you need to cum in my mouth, Quinn.”

“I need—f-fuck!” he grumbles, at war with himself. Ultimately, primal need overpowers the fickle social invention that is a shame: “I need you to play with… with my b-balls again—please.”

Delaying his wish, you wrap your mouth around him one last time. You need to elicit that one-of-one sudden, uneven intake of air—the giveaway gasp, the tremor of truth. Insatiable, you fill your throat to the brink. The distinct, thick scent of the day’s natural musk swirling with the sheen of hard work on the ice keeps you there until your vision blurs and drool pools under your tongue.

Motivated by a sticky, overdue reward and a whine bursting from deep in Quinn’s throat—the sweet sound of total surrender—you succumb to your own desire to make him feel the best he’s ever felt.

You lick at them gingerly at first, and with a doughy, flattened tongue. You meant to test the waters, to take things slow and drag out his orgasm, but a string of colorful language tumbles from his pretty, pink mouth to derail your plans.

With the dam crumbling, you have to suck one into your hot, wet mouth.

His reaction does not disappoint.

Your spit-soaked hands rise to his recently abandoned length as you devote equal attention to the pair with your mouth. Quinn swells and heavies on your tongue and everything is throbbing.

Including the tight heat between your knees, pulsing around the mere thought of him fucking you there instead.

“S’close, ‘m gonna c-cum soon—Shit!”

Amidst the drawn-out expletive, you detach in order to aim his release on his behalf (though very reluctantly), knowing full-well Quinn is far too gone to be capable of anything.

His eyelids flutter seconds before snapping open, intent to watch you watch him fall apart.

Oh, and fall apart he does…

Crude and ear-piercing, and over faster than either of you would’ve preferred, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little flattered by it. You enjoy how easy he is—how pliable.

His hips jerk too easily and his hands wander aimlessly, and you can’t bring yourself to chastise him, entirely consumed by the show unfolding at your hand. It's like he can’t help himself; can’t help but twitch and drip, can’t help but whimper and beg for anything and everything.

He won’t even let you pull away to catch your breath without whining. At one point, whether by accident or designed to keep you from retreating, Quinn’s knees squeezed together, effectively caging you in from both sides.

A messy concoction of cum, spit, and tears paints the lower half of your face. Quinn’s chest heaves as he watches it collect and drip down your neck and into the valley of your chest, soiling your delicate pajamas beyond repair.

Unfazed, you leave the emotionality to him while you lick your fingers clean. Once you’ve finished, you mop up the dissenter spray on your cheeks, chin, and décolletage, and greedily swallow it down, too. It's when you delve between your tits to scoop out the remainder of his spill that Quinn just about keels over.

He falls back against the window, and you shift back into your heels.

He rights his pants, and you wipe your mouth with the corner of your bathrobe. 

For a while, you observe one another, having not been this close—or alone—together before.

That’s not to say you didn’t notice him, though.

You actually struggled not to, and it drove your now-ex insane. His enmity toward Quinn came to a head this afternoon. Unable to deny your raging, juvenile crush, you finally pulled the trigger on something that was a long time coming—and for reasons beyond that not-so-unfounded jealousy.

“C-Can I have a head-start before you call the c-cops?” Quinn asks.

He’s so timid, you can’t help but laugh. He blinks down, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head as he rifles through yours, searching for malicious intent or knotted strings—fury behind an unspoken threat.

You let him look; this is a conclusion he needs to reach without you holding his hand.

When the investigation runs its course having turned up nothing dubious, he slides down to the floor beside you. He’s reverted to avoiding eye contact, unfortunately. Quinn watches the tremor in his fingers instead.

“I am sorry, y'know, about… Well, uh, you know.”

You find the way he dances around committing a felony (repeatedly) weirdly endearing.

While you very well could put him out of his palpable misery—you can actually smell it on him—there's no fun to be found in that. As such, you force Quinn to wrestle with his words a bit longer.

Eventually, you offer him a shrug that isn’t the least bit pacifying.

“You’re going to make it up to me, don’t worry.”

His eyes snap to yours just as you knew they would. His throat quivers in the wake of a sharp gulp.

The nervous tick cracks your nonchalant demeanor. You roll your eyes. “If you’re going to keep watching, you might as well make yourself useful.”

Quinn’s eyes narrow, perplexed. You grin in anticipation.

“My vibrator’s dead, and I can’t find the right charger. Time to get your ass off the bench, Hughes.”

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[muddyorbsblr]

all i could give you

See my full list of works here!

Summary: It seems that nearly the entirety of Asgard had forgotten that today was supposed to be a day of celebration. Everyone but you, at least.

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Warnings: some cuss words; sad Loki hours; mentions of Odin being a douche rocket of a father; Thor and the W4 being shitty friends

Things to be aware of: besties to lovers

Today's training session had gone on incessantly longer than usual, keeping you and your warrior friends in the training fields for hours more than necessary. All because Thor had thought it a grand idea to showcase his superior might by holding a friendly competition amongst yourselves. 

It took him three quarters of an hour just to best Volstagg. And then another half hour each for Fandral and Hogun. And now he and Sif were sparring away as they had been for the past twenty minutes, your leg bouncing from your impatience as you awaited your turn so that you could all finally part ways.

And then you could go find Loki and give him your present. After all, it wasn't every day that one turned a thousand years old. 

"Excited to land on your behind, Lady Y/N?" Fandral jested, motioning toward your bouncing leg. "Worry not. Thor and Sif should be finished in a while." 

"I just wish to conclude our session, that's all," you answered him, offering no explanation. After all, it should be known what today is. Truly, you wondered how come there hadn't been any celebration throughout the castle this entire day. Why everyone had gone on as if this were any regular day.

Surely they hadn't forgotten. Had they? 

"You are usually so patient, my friend," Volstagg commented. "What has you in such a state?" 

You eyed the three warriors in incredulity. "Do you truly not know?" They shook their heads slowly, apprehensively, as if they were cautious of how you would react if they said or did the wrong thing. "Norns help me, you all of you are hopeless. According to the Midgardian calendars, today is the 17th of December." 

"And that date should ring in the significance you showcase because…?" You glared at Fandral, wishing more than anything that you could scar his smug face from that comment alone. "Do not look at me like that, my friend, I only wish to know--"

"Languish in your ignorance," you told the three of them as Sif fell to the ground, Thor bellowing in victory as he pointed his weapon toward you and called you forth. "Finally." 

Your bout with the god of thunder did not take too long. You went into the training field unarmed, deftly evading his swings and avoiding getting knocked down to the ground. When the tender area under his chest was unguarded, you used the momentum behind your evasive maneuvers to bring your elbow in hard at the tender spot, knocking the air out of his lungs and loosening his hold on his training sword.

And then you reached for his weapon, easily disarming him, and pointing the blunt tip to his throat. "Yield, Son of Odin," you bellowed for the benefit of the four warriors watching with their jaws dropped as the crown prince of the realm put his hands up in surrender. "Right. That's that, then. Have we finished? Can we leave?" 

The blond prince chuckled as he undid the fastenings of his leather breastplate. "What has you in such an impatience, my friend? And who taught you that maneuver?" 

"Loki," you answered simply, knowing that he would take that as the answer to the second question. In truth, it was the answer to both. "He accepted long ago that he wouldn't be as strong a warrior as you, so he chose to observe. To evolve into a smarter one instead. And since you and your friends--"

"Our friends," he corrected you. "Do not forget you are one of us too, Lady Y/N." 

Yes, but I do not hold a title, all thanks to your father deciding not to reward those who have aligned themselves more with Loki than yourself, you thought bitterly. "Right, then…our friends…since you and our friends have insisted on not playing with him, he figured that someone should have the privilege of knocking you on your arse, so he taught me the maneuver." 

"Ever the strategic one, my brother," Thor commented, his tone surprisingly holding a touch of fondness rather than contempt. "Anyway, the Warriors Four and myself are going out on the town, fill ourselves with mead to our heart's content. Would you care to join us?" 

"You're going out drinking? Today?" There was more bite to your tone now as he shrugged. "Thor. My friend. Please tell me you know what today is." 

"The end of the week," he answered so casually it made your skin prickle in irritation. "Midgardians would call it…Saturday. Why? Where are you off to?" 

You shook your head, clicking your tongue in disappointment. "When you finally realize what today is, how important today should have been for you, you will feel a fool. For choosing to waste away today in the company of our friends, drinking to your heart's content out on the streets of Asgard." With the people who had also forgotten him. 

With your words of disdain, you marched over to your belongings, picking up the satchel that held your present. "I take it you're off to spend the day with my brother then?" Thor called out toward you. 

You threw your hand in a thumbs up gesture toward him, not once looking back or breaking your stride. "Where else would I go?" you whispered into the empty hall, moving as fast as your feet could carry you toward your dearest friend's chambers. 

When you walked through the golden double doors, it didn't take long to find him; in fact, it took no time at all since he was at the steps of the entryway, sitting with his posture slouched, shoulders slumped, head hung down. Your heart broke for him. It broke at the sight of him. You never could take it whenever he was in such a sullen mood; it was as if someone had taken all the light from your world and snuffed it out with one look at his downcast eyes. 

"What's wrong, dear prince?" You did your best to keep your tone light as you moved to take a seat next to him, a feat in itself as you noted his red-rimmed eyes, his cheeks already wet from the tears shed. "Oh, sweet boy," you choked out, tears of your own beginning to flood your vision as you pulled him into an embrace, stroking the top of his head. "What has gotten you in such a state? On a day as important as today, no less?" 

"What do you know of today?" he mumbled into your shoulder, the sound of his sniffling breaking your heart even more. 

"What do I know of today?" you repeated, an attempt at playful incredulity coloring your tone. "The day of your thousandth birthday? I know that it should be a day of celebration. That there should have been greetings coming your way from all directions. That I should have had a difficult time even getting here, shouldering my way through hordes of adoring well-wishers. That is what I know today should have been. And I know that I am livid at every single soul who forgot." 

Your father being at the top of that list, you finished in the privacy of your mind. I should have his head for forgetting about you. When he had arranged such a grand fortnight of festivities when it was Thor's turn a few years back. 

You let out a broken exhale as you felt him wrap his arms around you, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck as he breathed out, "Where were you?" 

"Training ran late," you explained, your voice strained from holding back your own tears. "I used that maneuver you taught me. Put your brother on his arse." 

"I feared you'd forgotten, too." His voice came out so uncharacteristically muted, so faint that that alone could have broken you. But his words were ultimately what had the tears finally falling from your eyes. "The rest of Asgard could forget for all I damn well care, but you? I would not bear it if you--"

"Never," you cut him off. "I would never forget." You pressed a kiss to his temple as you made a motion to move away. "In fact, that's why I came here. To give you your present." 

Once he'd pulled away, breaking your embrace, he immediately placed his hands on the sides of your face, a mixture of concern and pain in his eyes as he eyed the little nicks on your face from your training with the warriors. "You're hurt…" You held your breath as he proceeded to heal each wound with his seiðr, the way he had done so for the last half millennium, pressing his lips to the injured skin. 

Your heart pounded in your chest as he pressed kisses to your temples, your cheeks, and finally to your chin. All places where one of your friends' weapons had struck you today. Long gone were the times where you would protest this particular act of care from him, since he would insist and it would be this lengthy bout of bickering between you two that ultimately ended in him healing you anyway.

Besides, it was laughable for you to protest, seeing as this would be the only manner in which Loki would kiss you. You'd be a fool to turn down even the fleeting attention of the man you loved. 

"There you are," he breathed out, a small smile breaking through as he looked upon your healed face. You reached into your satchel and pulled out the wrapped parcel, placing it in his hands. "Y/N…"

You'd once again found yourself holding your breath as he unwrapped your present: a blank grimoire you had custom made by one of the bookbinders in the kingdom, the leather set in his signature green, the hardware a brilliant, shining gold. 

"I thought merchants only made these in--"

"In your brother's colors, the imbeciles," you finished for him. "I may have persuaded one of them to make this one special. One of a kind. Just like you." He turned his gaze towards you, your chest tightening with unspoken emotions as he looked at you with an expression you could not fathom in his eyes. "Granted, I had to be the one to provide them their supplies since they couldn't be bothered. Again. Imbeciles." 

He took your hands in his, gently running his thumbs along each of your fingertips. "That day when you arrived at training with cuts on your hands? You were plucking leaves?" 

You simply nodded. "Did you know that it takes ten thousand leaves to make a dye that potent? And that Midgardians guard their gold in foolish little boxes so easily infiltrated?" you informed him with a proud smile. 

"You did all this--"

"I did," you answered his unfinished question. "And before you even ask me the why, because I know  you will ask me why, it is because you will be a master sorcerer one day. And you will need a place to store all the rituals and spells and potions that that brilliant mind will concoct." You finished your point by lightly touching your fingertips to his temple. 

When he removed the cover of the gold plated label, your heart ached at the sound of his slow intake of breath as he took in the engraving that said property of Prince Loki. "Darling is this in--"

"My hand, yes. It took a considerable learning curve but I got to make one that didn't have my blood etched in it eventually." 

"Those days you had cuts that smelled like metal shavings?" You nodded. 

"You remember those? Those were trivial wounds…I'd barely even call them--"

"I remember every one of them." He tucked his fingers under your chin, urging you to look up at him. "Y/N I cannot fathom--"

"It's not much, but I do still hope you--" 

He silenced you by pulling you into a tight embrace, once again nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, his fingers weaving into your hair. The sound of him sniffling tore at your heart once more. "It's perfect, Y/N. Just like you." 

You did not get to spend the rest of Loki's birthday with him. Not an hour after you'd given him his present, his mother arrived at his chambers, having prepared something herself to celebrate his first millennium. And much as he did try to bring you with him, almost resembling yourselves in your childhood years as he held on to your hand, you got him to relent to the sentiment that this  should simply be a moment shared between mother and son.

So the sound of knocking at your bedchamber door right as you were about to sleep was most definitely not something that you were expecting to hear. Let alone having it be Loki on the other side, looking at you as if there was a newfound knowledge in his eyes that he couldn't wait to share. 

"Shouldn't you be asleep, Your Highness?" 

"We are well past such formalities, Y/N. You know this," he evaded your question with a chuckle, bringing his hand up to cup the side of your face. You resisted the ridiculous urge to lean in to his touch. And the even more ridiculous thought of kissing his palm. 

"Not at this hour," you shot back. "The implications--"

"Fuck  the implications." He let out a low chuckle as your eyes widened  from his choice of words. "You are one of the people in this realm I hold most dear, I will not have you addressing me so formally." 

"Fine," you huffed, doing your damnedest to mask the thrill that ran through you. "What are you doing here, Loki?" 

"One of my mother's ladies in waiting informed me of a tradition on Midgard. About how a birthday celebrant is entitled to…kisses?" Your stomach dropped at the information, your mind immediately conjuring up a visual of him with his lips pressed to one of the queen's staff. "One for every year," he finished with a chuckle.

You forced a smile onto your face. "Well I'm sure that between all her ladies in waiting, each of which I'm positive are more than willing participants in this Midgardian tradition, you'd already reached your quota." The smile on his face faded as he eyed your face. 

"I turned them down," he said so simply, as if he was surprised it even needed to be pointed out. 

"Never known you as the type to turn down a perfectly willing woman. Why the change of heart?" 

He stepped toward you, placing his free hand at the curve of your waist, his other hand moving to cradle the back of your head, fingers weaving through your hair. "There has only been one woman I have wanted to kiss for the last few centuries. And the only times that I would get the chance to is when I heal her wounds." 

Your heart began to pound in your chest, so much so that you could swear that your pulse was in your ears. "Loki--"

"If I could choose who I would receive a thousand kisses from, I choose you." Tears began to flood your eyes at his words, a squeak getting caught at the back of your throat as you felt him softly press his lips to yours. "The woman I love." 

He pressed another quick kiss to your lips before you stupidly blurted out. "You love me?" 

"I do, my darling girl. And it would make not just my birthday, but my life, complete…if you would be mine. If I could court you." 

His words had you wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in for another kiss. "I love you, too. I'm yours. I'm all yours." 

"I would wish for more than a thousand kisses, though, my love." 

"How many then?" 

"All of them." He wrapped his arm around you and lifted you until your feet left the ground and he walked you both further into your bedchamber. 

"I think that can be arranged," you answered coyly, smiling into the next kiss. 

He set you back on your feet and pulled away, placing his hands at your waist. You eyed him as you felt a tinge of desperation make itself known within you, your body overcome with wanting more. 

"Though tonight I must probably go," he said, a mischievous smirk gracing his annoyingly perfect face. "The palace is rife with gossips. They could see me enter your bedchambers and start to think lurid thoughts if I do not leave in a timely fashion." The tone coloring his words was obviously teasing, and yet somehow it just stirred the desperation in you even more. "The implications--"

"Fuck the implications," you blurted out, repeating his own words from earlier, standing on the tips of your toes, your hands braced on his shoulders. You shamelessly let out a whimper as he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours once more, bending down and lifting you into his arms in one fluid motion. "Stay," you murmured against his lips.

A thrill ran through your body once more as he flashed you a wicked grin, laying you down on your bed. "As you wish, my love." 

A/N: Ngl, I didn't think I was gonna be able to finish this before Loki's birthday ended considering how late I started. This story was based off of this request that @ijustloveloki sent over to @sarahscribbles which she passed on to the SAS, so I hope that I did good by your request! 🥺💖

Everything tag list: @lokisgoodgirl @lokischambermaid @imalovernotahater @mygfloki @lucylaufeyson3 @thomase1 @fictive-sl0th @mochie85 @laliceee @xorpsbane @gigglingtigger @silverfire475 @cabingrlandrandomcrap @vickie5446 @salempoe @lokixryss @sinsandguilt @lokidbadguy @alexakeyloveloki @glitterylokislut @arch-venus25 @freefrommars @littlemortals @cakesandtom @girl-of-multi-fandoms @mischief2sarawr @thedistractedagglomeration @five-miles-over @goblingirlsarah @peaches1958 @huntress-artemiss @lilibet261 @iobsessoverfictionalmen @holymultiplefandomsbatman @lovingchoices14 @avoliax @devilsadvocactus @purplegrrl27 @lokiprompts @sititran @imherefortomhiddleston @ladyjames78 @kikster606 @evelyn-kingsley @kats72 @ronnieissupermegafoxyawesomehot @creationsbyme @coldnique

[shesjustanothergeek]

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Twenty

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: Hey, besties. Sorry for the late update. I was in my head second guessing everything and just not doing good. I just needed a small break away from the story for a few days. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and thank you for your kind words and patience.

Chapter Warnings: Old rich white men, Ser Crispin Cole being a douche.

"To capture a predator, you can't remain the prey.

You have to become an equal in every way." -

Karliene, Become the Beast.

By the grace of the Gods, you awoke before your maids. The thick sheets were torn away from your body and wrapped around a sleeping form, their lips parted and squished together against a soft pillow. You tied the strings of your nightgown together as you slowly snuck out of bed, peeking your head through your chamber doors to ensure the guard was still asleep.

Aegon looked ethereal, with strands of his white hair draped across his porcelain face. The swarthy circles that seemed permanently stained underneath his eyes had lessened, a youthful flush dusting across the tops of his cheeks. It seemed sinful to wake him when he appeared so peaceful, relaxed, and almost happy.

You rolled back into your place in bed, bringing a hand to Aegon's temple, gently brushing back his silver locks. You heard his sharp intake of breath, his brows raising slightly before you met his sleep-laced eyes.

"Good morn, Prince Aegon," you greeted with a smile. "It seems you've had a restful night's sleep." He nodded lazily, turning on his back as he stretched. "I have enjoyed your presence here, my Prince, but you must understand the impropriety of it and my wish for discreetness," you expressed, straight to the point.

A frown tugged on Aegon's perfectly pink lips, rubbing the sleep from his expression to hide it. A pang of sympathy radiated in your chest, maneuvering your body closer to him as you draped an arm over his torso.

It was an odd sentiment, and you couldn't help but feel a slight apprehension gnawing at the back of your mind. You hadn't meant to initiate comfort. Truthfully, it wasn't something that needed doing, but as you saw the disappointment on Aegon's countenance, your body went faster than your sense.

You convinced yourself that it was just another process in the plan.

"We shall meet for a walk in the gardens on the morrow," you offered, trailing your finger across the Aegon's bare skin. "Will that appease my spoiled prince while I am tending to my duties?"

You discerned the pet name was something he adored and tucked that into your mental arsenal-a trick you had picked up from the Rogue Prince.

"What duties do you tend to?" Aegon scoffed, the blush on his cheeks not unnoticed as he abruptly rose from the bed into a seated position.

You weren't insulted by his childishness as you should have been. Instead, you found it rather endearing, proud that you were winning him over after just one night, a grin threatening to split your lips.

"Tis bastardly duties, nothing to concern the eldest son of the King," you jested, crawling behind and wrapping your arms around him.

You pressed your face into the cool meat of his back, enjoying the heavy musk of sex and wine that wafted there. His skin was so soft against yours, and the sudden urge to bury your nose within him was strong. The emotion caught you unaware, momentarily tensing against Aegon as you prayed he didn't notice.

"Ugh," the Prince sneered, moving his hands to grip your own harshly. "I hate it when you are called that. You don't deserve such a name."

You felt yourself honestly smiling at his words, with no ulterior motive or arrogance behind it.

"What else am I to be called then? By my name? Surely, such a common thing is no match for the honorary title bastard brings," you poked, attempting to remove your arms from his white-knuckling grip.

Aegon brought your hands to his lips, kissing the back of them in a tender gesture that caused unwanted butterflies. "And that is more than enough, little one," he said.

Aegon allowed you to release him, standing to gather his discarded clothes across your chambers.

The sun was not close to rising, the hour of the owl upon you and leaving plenty of time to return to a peaceful slumber before dealing with the exhausting politicking of the day. How people were willing to do this baffled you, but you supposed the final product was worth it.

"I shall see you this evening, then?" Aegon asked, his violet eyes wide and hopeful.

You felt that emotion of regret already forming but steeled yourself and nodded sincerely, throwing him an encouraging smile from beneath your thick lashes. "Yes, my Prince."

He clapped his hands giddily like a boy who had found a tray of sweets ripe for the taking as he bounded to the door with an unusual spring to his step. Aegon tossed you a cheeky wink and smiled, blowing a kiss before he finally left your chambers.

Tucking the covers underneath your chin, you let out a shaky exaggerated breath. You hadn't realized how easy it was to slip into the role of Aegon's lover, forgetting every wrong he committed. The words of comfort were not as difficult to say as anticipated, and the intensity you felt while saying them unnerved you.

There was some truth in your statements, however. You were cross with Aegon for accepting the gift of those two women and how you saw them retreating to his chambers that night, but it wasn't your place to tell him what he should do. You feared that attempting to curb Aegon's appetites so early would cause him to recoil and hinder your intended progress.

Later, when the Prince was wholly smitten with you, you would forbid him from such lecherous acts, but until then, it would be a delicate process of biting your tongue and letting him take whatever he wished.

***

Sleep did not come to you as hoped. The remaining hours of darkness were spent inside your raging head, planning what to say at the Council meeting, wondering when you would receive another letter from your Father and Ser Dalton Greyjoy, and hoping Jace and your mother would send word too.

Your maids couldn't hide their surprise when they saw you reclining on the green chaise beside the fireplace, a book in your hands. They brought a tray with slices of ham, bread, fruits, and a cup of morning tea to break your fast. Jeyne went to your wardrobe as normal, and Diana and Fiora made your bed. None of them greeted you like the past as you cut through a piece of food, skepticism and anxiety gnawing your insides as the food settled.

"Jeyne," you called, crossing your arms over your chest. "What time is the Council meeting today?"

She briefly paused, rummaging through your closet but quickly returned to it as if nothing happened, laying your dresses for the day out. You swallowed your last sip of tea, setting the cup on the saucer as you dabbed the sides of your mouth with the green cloth napkin.

"My Lady Jeyne, I know you heard me. Whatever you wish to say, you can. Speak freely and openly," you commanded.

She placed her hands on her hips, gazing over the outfits, procrastinating her response. "It is rather cold today. I believe this gown would meet the weather today." Jeyne paused, dropping the dress she was holding and moving to another. "But I do think we should make a statement today."

You rose from your seat, pacing to the eldest servant, removing the clothes from her hands, and throwing them with the rest.

"Jeyne," you widened your eyes, placing your fists on her shoulders as Daemon did when trying to be serious. "Tell me what you are avoiding."

She turned her head away, worried eyes flickering everywhere but you.

This was unlike her. Jeyne was hardened and made serious after years of working for pompous high borns; nothing would ever stir her in such a way. Whatever was burdening her created tension in the room, Fiora and Dyana stopping their tasks to come near the pair of you.

"We overheard the Lords at court mentioning Your Grace's name. They seemed to be talking of having you removed from the Small Council by the Hand's orders before the meeting at high noon today," Dyana spoke out uncharacteristically.

Your head snapped toward her, startling the poor little maid from the fierceness of your stare. "They cannot do that," you yelled instinctually, "only the King can appoint or remove Council Members."

Dyana retreated within herself, bowing quickly as she went back to fluffing your feather pillows, a slight tremble in her step. You inhaled a calming breath, briefly shutting your eyes to exhale the sudden anxiety in your gut.

"I thank you for telling me, Dyana. What Lords were speaking of such things?" you asked in a gentler tone, going to sit in front of your vanity.

She tucked in the strands of blonde that came loose from her servant's cap, clasping her fingers with her face downcast. "I am not privy to the names of Lords, Your Grace. My apologies, I am unsure."

You bobbed absentmindedly and dismissed the subject, chewing at your lip as Fiora began to brush your hair. You felt the slight gnawing of guilt in the back of your mind for frightening Dyana with only a look in your eyes. It wasn't as if you meant to scare her. You were insulted at the notion of your peers conspiring behind your back, and it showed within the tone of your voice. You hoped she realized it wasn't directed at her. You would never purposely hurt any of your servants, let alone one so timid and meek.

You did not know what Council Members could be conspiring against you. Ser Otto Hightower was the most obvious one, but you understood he wouldn't remove you from the table outright. You were serving in the heir's stead. It would be equivalent to having Rhaenyra herself removed from the Small Council, which was something that could not be done.

Lord Lyman Beesbury was not one of your conspirators, you believed. He was loyal to the King and his word, not easily swayed by coin and the opinions of others. Jasper Wylde and Tyland Lannister were a pair you were certain of, in any case. With his iron rod opinions and having as many male heirs as possible, Lord Wylde believed a woman's sole purpose was in the birthing bed. Lord Lannister's prejudice against your mother for refusing his brother's and his hand in marriage were all motives.

It would be surprising if Maester Mellos knew what was happening around him, so he was not one. The man was so ancient and decrepit; you would be shocked if he survived through winter. Lord Larys Strong had yet to appear for the meetings, but you wouldn't put it past him to desire to be rid of you. You always remembered the one encounter with him. It sent shivers down your spine to think about it. Queen Alicent, of course, would prefer if you never asked for a position but understood that if she went back on her word, the havoc that would follow with your absence with her eldest son would be unimaginable.

The three servants interrupted your thoughts, Fiora almost yanking your black hair from the roots as she coiled a braid in the shape of a crown around your skull, Dyana applying cream onto your cheeks from where the wind had burnt you, and Jeyne asking which gown you would like to wear once more.

The older lady was unsurprised whenever you chose a dress of charcoal grey with golden embroidery dripping from the naturally high neckline, the matching style on each side of your waist and cuffs, giving the illusion of more curves to your figure. A rope of woven aureate threads was snatched around your hips with a circular metal broach, a blood-red ruby in the middle. A similar pattern to the one on your wrists was also on the bottom of the gown, the soft fabric lightly billowing out and dusting the floor.

Jeyne handed you a matching asymmetric cape with swirling golden trim for the venture you would have to make across the grounds. She sent you off with a gentle squeeze to your biceps to traverse through the castle until you were sat on the battlefield.

The time was not yet midday, perhaps three to two hours off, you speculated, deciding to spend the remaining time within the Godswood. With the help of daylight, you saw details you had missed when you visited a previous night.

The walls that squared the Heart Tree had more cracks than you remembered, vines of green ivory crawling up the expanse. Some bushes and shrubs lined the small perimeter before an iron gate opened to the rest of the landscaping. No flowers were budding or in bloom like when you briefly spent time here, the colder temperature taking effect on every living thing on these grounds. A strange glass structure piqued your interest, something you hadn't noticed before.

It was placed just out of the Weirwood's shadow, ensuring the sun's rays would always shine on it no matter the time of day. The roof of the small building was only an arm above your head, the inside barely wide enough to fit two bodies comfortably. You squinted your eyes to peer through the glass, a glare making it so you could only see yourself looking back. Cupping your hands around your brows, you pressed their sides to the transparent wall. Strange near cylindrical lumps dangling from the ceiling with tiny strings, looking like a freshly plucked leaf from a plant a child had rolled on itself.

This was the first time you had done something like this. It was odd, sparking the curious interest of your open mind as you descended your fingers to pop the small metal latch that kept the door shut.

"Cousin!" you heard Helaena's cheerful voice echo in the wind, causing your to turn.

You greeted her with bright eyes and grinning lips, pleasantly surprised by her interruption. She arrived with two servants trailing behind her, a tot in each of their strong arms. Your heart melted to see the young Prince and Princess, golden blonde hair and violet irises matching their mothers.

Helaena's silver dress glimmered as she embraced you, her petite frame swallowing you whole. You felt like you would cry as you circle your arms around her, finally feeling the welcoming warmth of kindness and love you yearned for in a place of icy distastefulness. The eldest Hightower daughter was too good for the life she lived.

"Helaena," you chirped as she let go. "I am pleased to see you here and with your children no less! I have only heard of their cuteness in talks, but nothing said could have prepared me for... this!"

You rushed over to the maids, cooing at little Jaehaerys and Jaehaera as they observed you with curious eyes. Though they were identical, they differed in many ways. Jaehaerys furrowed his blonde eyebrows at you, almost appearing as if he was scowling, while Jaehaera reached for you with grabby little hands, not even the size of your palm. You welcomed the young girl with open arms, awing and babbling nonsense as her tiny fingers deftly rubbed your cheeks. It was the sweetest of touches and made you uncaring for how her sharp nails stung your sensitive flesh with her inexperience.

You shifted your body to Helaena, seeing her thin lips smiling as you doted on her daughter. You stroked the fine hair on Jaehaera's small head, adoring its silky soft feeling as you delicately bounced her on your hip.

All too soon, you were stolen from your babe-induced trance when a piercing cry rang in your ears, instinctively making you cringe. Prince Jaehaerys was wiggling in the nursemaid's hold, pushing weakly against her body and flailing his short legs. The young boy's eyes were welling with tears. His face beat red as he furled and unfurled his fists, nearly throwing himself out of the servant's arms in your direction.

You glanced back at Helena with a confused look, unsure what to do. She came towards you, reaching out in a gesture to give Jaehaera to her. The young girl did not protest, babbling happily to be with her mother again while her brother screamed as if he was being murdered.

Pacing over to the wailing child, he was plopped into your grasp, nearly being dropped in the process in his desperation. His crying immediately ceased once he was with you like a switch flipped in his head, cherubic face rounded with joy as he played with the tie that held your cloak together. You gazed down at him and then at the older wet nurse, stunned, uncertain of what happened.

"Just like his father," the other women in red commented, and you snapped your head toward her. "Screaming and crying until he gets what he wants."

You quickly glanced at Helaena to see if she heard the maid's near-treasonous words, but she was distracted, trailing a curved finger down Jaehaera's button nose as she giggled.

"Now, let us check our sovia," Helaena chirped at her daughter.

Another set of purple eyes watched from within the Keep's pale red stone walls, a decanter in his hand. It was an interesting site to see his sister, the woman Aegon intended to love, with the woman he truly did, a cruel representation of his life. He took a swing of his firewater, the burn a welcomed feeling as he saw his whining son be thrust into you.

Aegon's mind couldn't help but wander to the imagination of that boy being half your blood instead of his sister's. He pictured your belly round with child, back aching, and breasts sore from the labor that is a babe. He couldn't remember much of Helaena's pregnancy, too drunk and high off pleasure to even spend a moment with her. The day she gave birth, Aegon was nowhere to be seen. He could not recall if he was in the Silk Streets or fighting pits at the time; either place was preferable to see what a night of his own rape created.

He never wanted this life, even before he met you. Aegon was wonderful to whore, drink, and gamble to his heart's content, and he would've loved to continue his life that way if it wasn't for the duty that was forced upon him at the moment of his conception. But the longer he thought about it, the more he observed you doting on his children; Aegon realized that he did want the responsibility his status created. He just wanted it with you.

A scowl formed on Aegon's lips as he forced another gulp of Dornish Red down his throat.

***

You entered the Small Council chambers before the others, grabbing the large marble off a table and placing it in the holder, taking the same seat as before. Ser Harold Westerling and Criston Cole were the only two occupants, each standing on their respective sides of the room—you threw Ser Harrold a half-hearted but well-meaning smile which he returned with a dip of his head. Ser Criston's chocolate orbs studied you in silence as one would their enemy, making you fidget with the glass ball with the pads of your fingers.

The three of you continued to sit in an awkward quiet, the rolling of the marble against wood being the only noise as you waited for the other Lords and the Queen to arrive. You began chewing the forever scarred portion of your lip, picking the white skin with your teeth in anxiety. Your curious eyes couldn't help but drift to the man on your right, his layered silver armor like a mirror, reflecting the yellow glow of the scented candles and sun.

Ser Criston was an enigma. A man who held such contempt behind his Dornish features only to speak so kindly and eloquently to those around him. It created much skepticism in your interpretation of him. You couldn't put a pin to it, but something about him made your hairs stand on edge, the urge to constantly look over your shoulder when he was near. It was as if, at any moment, Criston would unsheath his deadly longsword and slice whoever was in his path without provocation. You were certain if Alicent gave the word, he would plunge whatever weapon available into your throat, no questions spoken.

It was terrifying and caused you to be hyper-aware of his presence forever. A frown tugged at your lips with the thought, averting your gaze toward the two Valyrian Sphinxes at the end of the room. Even their stony, emotionless faces were more of a comfort than that of Ser Criston Cole's.

You released a huff, ridding your mind of the bone-chilling imagination as you shoved your chair backward, deciding to indulge in the full pitcher of spiced wine. You leaned against the long wooden table of the Council Chamber, focusing your vision on the closed doors.

It was unlike anyone of the Lords to be late, which irritated you. Surely, you were not given the incorrect time, though you wouldn't put it past them to do that as you took a long sip of your drink. You knew of their intentions to remove you from the Council, and their delay was another piece of evidence to support what you heard. When they inevitably arrived, you hoped that your stern and unimpressed look would make them realize their mistake.

"Ser Harrold," you called absentmindedly, waving your full goblet, "where are the other members?"

You heard the rustling of his armor before he spoke emotionlessly. "I believe that they are to arrive at any moment."

You gave an unimpressed "hmm" at the Lord Commander's reply, crossing your arms over your chest as you pursed your lips.

"And you Ser Criston, where do you believe my fellow members of caucus are?" you inquired with the raise of your thick brow.

"Mayhaps with their kin, as you should be," Criston answered unabashedly, which you chuckled at.

"Cole!" Ser Westerling scolded before you stopped him with the shift of your hand.

"Tis all right, Lord Commander, I take no offense. Ser Criston is right, after all. I should be with my family at home on Dragonstone, but unfortunately, I must spend my days here serving in the stead of our heir until she is able to rule," you quipped with a brilliant smile. "Such a burden to ensure the duty and safety of the realm, but if that is the price I must pay in order to make certain my mother continues to strengthen our House with an adoring husband she would sacrifice anything for..." you paused, positioning your body so that the kingsguardmen saw your expressions and processed your words, "tis a burden I shall carry gratefully."

You smirked with pride as you saw Ser Criston shift his gaze from you, his hand tightening on the pommel of his sword with that same contempt look. From the corner of your peripheral, you even saw the barest of smiles on Ser Westerling's face, an unusual sight.

Tension was thick in the room, though it did not last long. Lord Laymen Beesbury entered the Small Council chambers with a creak of the door, his presence cutting the thickness like a knife. He gave you a polite smile in greeting as he briskly walked past you to take his place on the left side of the table. You followed his movements returning to your own as you waited for the others.

"I apologize for my tardiness, your Grace," Lord Beesbury spoke. You chuckled at him, glancing at the barren spaces around you.

"As you can see you are not the only one, my Lord. I take no offense. Do you know why they have not arrived yet?" you interrogated graciously.

"Truthfully, Princess, I am ignorant on the matter. Lord Hightower said this meeting was of great importance, so I'm unsure why they are not here either. Something to do with the King and his mind," he replied.

You cocked a brow at him, your expressions mirroring each other as you both waited in reticence. Thankfully, you didn't have to for long as Jasper Wylde, Otto Hightower, Queen Alicent, Tyland Lannister, Larys Strong, and Prince Aemond entered immediately. The abruptness of it all bewildered you and Lord Beesbury, sharking stunned looks as each filed into their respective seats, except for Aemond.

Your sights flickered over each of them, a lamb looking at a pack of wolves as they cornered it. The dagger at your waist was a comfort you did not know you needed today until now.

"Prince Aemond," the Queen spoke first, everyone's attention on her. "Will be joining our gatherings from now on as the King's cup bearer, upon his Majesty's request."

A wicked gleam showed from your eyes, hiding a satisfied smirk under the rim of your bronze chalice.

How peculiar...

"A wise choice, indeed," Lord Lannister replied, gesturing for the young man to give him a glass.

Unable to stifle the giggle this situation caused, you covered it with a cough, apologizing and saying you choked on the liquid. It was not lost on you the irony of the problem. Prince Aemond, a true-born son of the crown, a cupbearer, while you, a mere lowly bastard born from a whore and rouge prince, sat on the King's Council.

Fate was a cruel and twisted thing, and oh, how you loved it.

To Aemond's credit, he took the embarrassing position in stride, ensuring everyone's goblet was filled to their desires and not a single drop was spilled. He assumed the quality of not being seen or heard as each Lord conversed, his lithe form and platinum hair slinking into the background unnoticed. You kept his presence tucked securely within your mind, not forgetting the night of the feast.

"Princess, it has been many moons since I've seen you," Lord Larys said, interrupting you from observing the second son. The other men surrounding you hushed their conversations, eager to listen to yours.

"It has," you answered. You didn't want to converse with the man. He was twice as warped as his club foot and his mind as cunning.

"You have changed much since then. The skinny street rat I once saw is no more, a strong and fierce woman you have grown into. Your Father must be proud," he continued, ignoring your obvious insult and disinterest in the conversation.

"He is," you nodded curtly, swallowing the scowl that threatened to form.

"I would love to learn of your life at Dragonstone. I, sadly, have never been and would love to know much about the landscape. Is it true that the land smells of brimstone?"

You were losing your patience with the man, nearly standing from your seat to leave and forgetting the purpose of your entire stay as the large oak doors opened again.

A heavy silence fell over the room like a cloud shielding the land from the sun's rays. You turned a beat after the men, briefly examining their faces before you saw King Viserys slouched on his makeshift throne. A self-satisfied smirk pulled your lips, threatening to split the raw skin. An eager, excited look danced across your features as you stared at the dumbfounded, almost... furious gazes of the men before you.

There were feelings of doubt looming inside your mind as to whether Viserys would show. He was a living husk of a man slowly being eaten away by an incurable disease; you understood why he would be unable to deliver. The idea that he would risk his health for something as unimportant as his bastard niece and adopted granddaughter was a heartwarming victory for you and an icy insult to his advisors. 

It was wonderful.

Gold Cloaks came rushing by, silently gesturing for the Queen to move her seat next to the Hand so that his majesty's throne could fit. The look of ire upon Alicent's heart-shaped face and big doe eyes was nearly enough to quell the victorious feeling thumping in your chest. But then suddenly, you remembered the cruelness that woman could wield to those unlucky to witness it, and it blew away like fallen leaves in the autumn wind. You would turn away just as she did to you when your kin's head was sentenced to be sliced from their body.

Ser Harrold leaned into Viserys' ear once settled, his face too concentrated on not fainting to betray anything to your watchful eyes. Larys Strong was the only man who appeared unfazed, smirking, shifting his mousey features from you to the King and the rest of the members.

Again, a severe stillness blanketed the room, save for the raspy breaths of Viserys. Though all he did was be carried, staying conscious was enough of a feat for him. You said nothing, not daring to utter a single word and ruin this long-earned victory. The palpable emotions in the room said more than you ever could.

"My King, it is most joyous to have your presence with us once again. How do you fare?" The forever proud lion spoke first. A smug look slanted your eyes as you took another drink.

"Your King," Viserys spat through gritted teeth, surprising you all, "is enraged."

Concerned glances were tossed from everyone within the room, even you, the unwanted bastard.

"It seems, my advisors mean to undermine my rule. First, you refuse to hear my grandchild's petitions, my own flesh and blood, the daughter of the realms heir." You tried not to choke on the lukewarm wine you swallowed, clenching your fists to will your cough to leave. "Then, I hear you conspire to have the heir's ward thrown from the Council! The King's Small Council!"

Your eyes became slits, shifting your gaze across every person sitting at the table. Your middle finger tapped the bronze chalice harshly, the onyx dragon ring clinking as you channeled your offense.

"This is treason! I could have all your lives for that, even you wife," Viserys shouted venomously, a vein popping out of his stretched, crepey skin.

Aemond suddenly appeared at your side, pouring from the silver pitcher without consent. You tossed him a miffed look before waving him away like a fly, nearly backhanding the spare prince.

"Your Grace. I told them of the insult it would be. That it is unlawful to attempt a process only the King himself can commit," Otto Hightower pleaded.

The Lords looked incredulously at the Hand, their mouths gaping as a fish freshly caught out of Blackwater Bay. Truly, they saw how treacherous Otto Hightower could be. How conniving and yellow-bellied he was to keep a position as the Protector of the Realm's advisor.

"Enough, Otto!" Viserys shouted, stunning everyone into muteness. "Rhaenyra's child will treated as she would. She is my daughter's voice. You will listen to her as you would Princess Rhaenyra and is to stay on this Council until the Princess's return."

You were momentarily speechless; the wind knocked out of your lungs by the ferocity of his voice. You had never seen your Grandsire speak in such a way, always living up to his title of "peaceful" in the brief times you spent with him. A new respect for the older man was made from the act.

"Thank you, Grandsire," you said gratefully, bowing your head in appreciation.

He sighed at your gratitude, the rage he once felt slowly depleting with a sweet look of your soft brown and violet orbs. "Speak, now child," the King commanded gently.

Inhaling a gulp of air, you closed your eyes as you stood, using the pads of your fingers for support. You saw Aemond twitch just out of view, appearing as if he wanted to reach for something but thought better of it, folding his lean arms behind his back. His expression became dark as you spoke, teeth gritting and jaw clenched with every sway of your arms.

"As I mentioned in our previous meeting, there is need for aid in the Stepstones. Our ally Lord Corlys Velaryon has beseeched my mother and the crown for help by any means necessary." Alicent's bejeweled digits clasped in front of her, looking at the wooden table with downturned lips. "My mother will use her own personal fleet of ships filled with any supplies one might need. It is not my intent to send men over to fight a war Westeros has never been a part of. We will only give aid. My brother, Prince Jacaerys, my Father, and I will escort the fleet to ensure their safe travels to the Islands."

"How would we acquire such items Princess?" Lord Jasper asked, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

Your fingertips idly traced the rim of your cup, creating a ripple in the purplish liquid. "I have seen to it that my personal allowance be put into acquiring extra products for our imports. Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon have volunteered partials of their shares to, as have my kind brothers Prince Jacaerys and Lucerys." Aemond visibility bristled at the mention of his childhood assailant, switching his posture into almost a fighting stance. "My brothers and I shall have no celebrations in our name and nothing commissioned until the money is paid in full."

"Princess," Lord Beesbury spoke instead, "your generosity moves me. I too shall invest my own coin into this effort."

You hadn't expected any of them to donate, no less the Master of Coin, and it shocked you into dumbness until you finally thanked him.

"When the Triarchy and their Dornish supporters see the three headed banners of the dragon instead of the seahorse, won't they feel entitled to declare war on the west?" Lord Hightower interrogated.

You smiled brightly at him, biting your teeth like an eager child as you answered. "But they will not see the dragon, it will be the same seahorse that has been sailed there for nearly a decade."

"Tis not in good taste to commit such a deceitful act, it goes against our laws of duty and honor to disguise ourselves to the enemy and get an unfair advantage," Jasper Wylde spoke again.

"This is war Lord Wylde. Men are murdering each other. The act in itself is dishonorable," you countered, causing the other members in the room to hush.

"War is not an excuse to commit such craven acts. We must be better than our enemies and win with dignity and pride," he shot back.

"Have you ever seen bloodshed Lord Wylde?" you asked with a raised brow. "I've seen men die for less. Dignity and pride mean nothing when you are at the end of a sword."

Lord Ironrod turned his gaze from you, staring at Otto Hightower for assistance but receiving none. One thing you could give the man was to know what battles to fight and which to retreat from. When Ser Jasper realized he was receiving no help from who he thought was an ally, the Lord turned to the King, hoping he would see reason, but met the vacant stare of a man clinging to life.

"I do have a suggestion, Princess, if you'll allow me," Alicent interjected.

"Of course my Queen," you nodded, sitting back in your seat and taking a long drink from your cup.

The Queen rose from her chair, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles in her seafoam green dress, the Seven-Pointed Star around her high-collared neck.

"There is no need for three dragons to be flown when we need only one. I volunteer my son, Prince Aemond to escort the fleet. Vhagar's power is second to none, her alone could protect an entire army," she said plainly, her voice carrying a regal and pragmatic lilt. "Also, my Lady, would it not be advantageous for you to stay here at the Keep to ensure all coin and inventory was accounted for?"

You acknowledge her statement with the furrow of your brow, curling your index finger over your lip as you rest your chin on the heel of your palm. "I understand your logic, my Queen. I will speak to Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon to gather their input."

Alicent nodded, not agreeing nor disagreeing with the plan. Hightowers knew when the fight was over.

Your gaze fell onto Aemond, his piercing violet eye focused on the King instead of you, the scarred skin underneath his leather patch twitching. You would tell your parents about Alicent's suggestion, but you were against it, as you knew they would be too.

The One-Eyed Prince wasn't to be trusted. You needn't that spelled out to you. Anyone who had experienced something as traumatic as losing an appendage would surely harbor the rage of a thousand suns for all involved and those who did nothing to rectify it. The assailant's brother, Father, and sister were all targets of his rage. You would not be surprised to wake up without your left eye one day. Part of you would be glad that Aemond had his revenge and what it meant.

Little Luke would finally be at peace. He would no longer have nightmares of his uncle ascending upon him in the dark, wondering if or when the Queen decided to seek her form of justice for her son that was never served. You would lose your eyes and life before Alicent or Aemond tried such a thing.

You diverted your attention back to the men passively bickering before the Prince took note, listening intently to the points and counters of each, deflecting and explaining when prompted of you.

With a lull in the conversation and Lord Jasper Wylde visibly fuming from within as Viserys coughed, a crimson glob of phlegm spewed from his mouth onto the wooden table. You stood faster than the Queen, rushing over to him as you supported his upper body.

Lord Beesbury rose from his seat, unable to stomach the sight of blood and saliva dripping from the corners of the King's mouth. You used loose fabric from your sleeve to wipe away the red mixture, motioning to Aemond to fill his Father's drink. Viserys' feeble digits grazed your knuckles, gently bringing the liquid to his mouth, his touch as cold as the snow in the north. He inhaled a ragged breath as he finished, his body slightly swaying, still recovering from the violent coughing fit.

Alicent came from behind you, shouting for someone to get the Maesters as you backed away, letting her be the dutiful wife. Viserys smacked her prodding fingers away, frail enough to accept the help of his grandchild but not humble enough to take his wife's.

"I believe..." the King wheezed, his voice wet, "that a decision is to be made."

A few paces from where Aemond stood, you stepped further away and began to chew your lip, concealing your fidgeting fingers behind your waist.

"I declare that we're to send aid to Lord Corlys Velaryon in the Stepstones," he stated, hate radiating from each Council Member. "The Princess is to oversee the project. You will look to her regarding the process to proceed."

Before the Gold Cloaks that carried the King in, you swiftly bowed. "Thank you, my King," you articulated, unsure if he heard you as the men ushered him out of the room, leaving you alone within a dean of starving vipers. 

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Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @alexandra-001, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte, @silverslive, @unclecrunkle, @prettykinkysoul, @duesobabe, @djlexi, @ynbutbetter, @honestlykat, @graykageyama, @legolas017, @iiamthehybrid, @brezzybfan, @dd122004dd, @ladybug0095, @millies0bsimp, @kalfild, @sheislonelyalways, @tempt-ress, @bellameshipper, @minttea07, @trikigirl271, @esposadomd, @buckylahey, @justarandomflowerchildofthenight, @partypoison00, @please-buckme, @pastelorangeskies, @joliettes, @existential-echo, @priyajoyy, @valaenatargaryensdragon, @merovingianprincess, @rachelnicolee, @candy12110, @w3ird11, @ruhjkie, @somemydayy, @ariana-dumbledore8, @marikkjj, @zillahvathek, @sunfyresrider, @sunny-boy-06, @heavenly1927, @prettylittlelady, @hjgdhghoe, @im-sidney

Thank you so much for your patience. I know it's not fun waiting for someone to update a story you're reading, so I appreciate that y'all aren't upset with me and have been so nice. Sadly, I'm going to disappoint you again. I'm going to be going on a little vacation away from updating. I'll still be writing tho, just not having to deal with the anxiety of a due date. I just feel like I need a small break. I've been doing this for 8 months!

Thank you again for taking the time to follow this story with me, and I look forward to seeing your interactions once I'm back! <3

[somniuslucis]

uh…

Look, all I’m saying is think about:

cowboy! art growing up amongst ranch hands and animals and being oh-so down-to-earth and self-assured.

Art grew up bull-riding on weekends and playing tennis as a pastime and fell in love with the sport so much that he kept up with it and went off to Stanford on a tennis scholarship where he met Frat Boy! Patrick.

Patrick, the tennis player, who grew up with his parents being filthy rich, and yet he has no desire for their financial support and is so sure about making a name for himself.

Patrick has always been too smug for his own good and still gets away with his crude jokes and has girls and guys chasing after him left and right. Patrick can always be found at the loud frat parties chatting up someone with a beer in hand and just being obnoxiously drunk.

Patrick, who has taken a keen interest in Art since the first day of practice because he can see just how tight Art is wound. Patrick knows just how to get under Art’s skin and pushes all the right buttons to annoy him after they get paired as doubles partners.

All their squabbling and jabs come to a head one day when Patrick happens to make a joke about Art’s grandma that hits a little too close to home and results in some bloodied knuckles and a busted lip or two.

Patrick’s laughing in his face like a douche, back flat on the earth with Art hovering over him when both boys get yelled at by their coach to go deal with their issues off the court and end up suspended from practice for a week.

Both boys somehow make the turn to friendly play and banter and suddenly it’s like they’ve known each other all their lives. Everyone’s surprised at the 180 the pair have made in their relationship, and Art and Patrick are inseparable practically from day 1 of their friendship.

Unfortunately for Art, Patrick’s proximity starts to unveil some feelings Art had originally chopped up to annoyance…like knowing just when Patrick is starting to teeter on the bad side of irritation in practice, or how Patrick’s overbearing cologne and deodorant is starting to have a soothing effect when Art’s stressed.

Even more so, Art starts to notice how hot under the collar he gets after hearing Patrick’s grunts during particularly challenging practices, how fit Patrick is in his sleeveless tennis shirts, or how he enjoys being able to smell Patrick on his clothes after Pat’s borrowed his shirt for a night out.

One day, Patrick suggests Art takes him out to a rodeo fair that’s come to town. “Come on, Art. It’ll be like a guy’s night and you can show me all the hot barrel racers! You owe me after getting you into the last house party” Patrick pleads and how can Art say no when Patrick’s making that face?

They’re having a great time watching the shows, with the occasional remark about how “dude, I’d totally let a bull rider hit” that makes heat flood Art’s face and down his chest. They take breaks in between shows to inhale fair food and beer until both are a little past buzzed.

Patrick’s using Art as a means of not eating shit face first, with an arm slung around his shoulders and tucking his face into the space of Art’s neck while trying to stay upright. Art has to excuse himself to throw their trash away (and calm himself down because he’s got Patrick fucking Zweig hanging onto him like an octopus) before coming back and guiding them both back to the car.

Art’s trying to balance Patrick’s weight in one arm, heat rising to his ears and Patrick’s breath keeps ghosting his neck, and trying to maneuver the passenger door open and suddenly Patrick’s crowding him with his back up against the car door.

Pat’s nosing up against his cheek and Art’s shaking, trying to make sense of what’s happening while his brain is short-circuiting with Pat’s thigh pressing up in between his legs.

Art keeps telling Patrick they should get home and how Patrick’s just drunk in between groans and whimpers and whines as Patrick’s leaving tiny wet kisses up his throat. He can hear Patrick groan in his ear before he says “Just trying to save a horse. Watching those riders had me thinking… you should show me how it’s done. Why don’t you give it a shot and ride me instead?”

[artiststarme]

Road Rage

Here's just a little thought I had after someone cut me off yesterday. Enjoy and please leave your thoughts in the comments!

~*~*~*~

Imagine if Eddie didn’t hate Steve because he was a rich jock that symbolized everything wrong with society or because of his entitled behavior in high school or because he was jealous of hearing about him from the kids. What if he really hated him because he was the only guy in town that matched his level of road rage? 

Steve fucking Harrington, the only douche in town that would attempt to one-up his violent bird-flipping and periless driving maneuvers. He matched his tone in yells, obscene gestures, and speed whenever Eddie tried to zoom around him. 

The real reason he put that broken bottle so close to his carotid artery in the boat shed wasn’t because of fear or panic. No, it was because that bastard made him get a ticket for reckless driving and he still hadn’t forgiven him for it. However, after the Upside Down, Eddie takes a seat in the Beemer’s passenger seat and they drive off into the sunset, road-raging together and leaving fear in their wake.

And when the kids ask them about their horrible driving habits, well, they just don’t know what they’re talking about (regardless of what Hopper says). 

[foreverrandomwritings]

Stress Relief

Summary: After a rough day Natasha comes home to her dutiful girlfriend that makes it her job to de-stress the aviator. 

Pairings: Natasha “Phoenix” Trace x Afab Reader

Warnings: 18+, Minors do not interact with this post or you will be blocked. This is pure smut and filth. You have been warned. 

Word Count: 2345

You had been sitting in the living room watching Legally Blonde for the 100th time when you heard the front open and then slam shut. That was your first clue that your girlfriend was stressed. The second and third clues were the sounds of her keys being thrown harshly into the bowl on the front table and then a loud “fuck” as she tried to get her boots off. 

Standing up from the couch you paused the movie and made your way into the foyer. Natasha was clad in her khaki uniform struggling with the laces on her boots. Slowly you walked up to her, sitting on the bench next to her boot. She stilled at the movement and looked at you. From up close you could see her hair was already out of its bun and looked like it had been pulled on. It was a habit of hers to pull on her hair when she was stressed. Then she was standing up. You made quick work of the laces on her boot and pulled it off her foot. She put her other foot on the bench and you helped her out of that one as well. 

You put both of the boots under the bench in their rightful place and then stood up. She whispered a small thank you to you and then put her hand in her hair pulling on a handful. You pushed up on your feet a little as you were a tiny bit shorter than her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Once you pulled back you could see the small smile on her face.

 “Do you want to talk about what has you in such a sour mood or would you like to just have a quiet night?” You quietly asked her not wanting to scare her into not talking to you at all. 

“I dropped my coffee on the way to work this morning. Mav has us doing all these new maneuvers in training today and no matter what I did I couldn’t get it exactly right. I forgot my lunch in the fridge and had to get some from the cafeteria and it was gross. On top of all that Hangman and Rooster were even bigger douche bags than they usually are.” She said, taking a deep breath seeming to relax a little bit. She had brought her hand out of her hair and her shoulders seemed a little less tense. 

“How about we get a hot shower together and when we get out we can order from that taco place you like?” You asked her with a sweet smile, grabbing one of her hands in your own.

“I like the sound of that.” She replied, giving you a quick kiss on the lips. 

“I’ll get the shower ready while you get out of your uniform.” You replied to her as you turned around her hand in yours making your way to your bedroom. Letting go of her hand when you got into the bedroom you went into the bathroom. Turning on the water and getting out a stress relief candle Natasha was especially fond of. You lit the candle and got undressed. 

As you took your hair down from the ponytail it had been in all day you felt arms wrap around your middle and a kiss being placed on your bare shoulder. “The water should be warm enough for us to get in now love.” You could feel her nod against your shoulder and then she was dragging the two of you into the large shower. 

She let you under the water first. You quickly got your hair wet before you put your hands on her hips and we’re turning the two of you so she was under the water. She let out a low moan at the feeling of the hot water making its way into her hair and down her back. 

Grabbing your shampoo you started lathering your hair. Then you were grabbing her shampoo, having her turn around so you could start lathering her hair. She groaned as you worked your fingers through her hair. Then you swapped places rinsing your shampoo out. Then she was rinsing hers out. You were then turning the two of you so her back was against the wall of the shower. 

Her hands were on your cheeks as she pulled you in for a deep kiss. You worked your hands down her chest taking a breast in each hand pulling your thumb and pointer finger together to start gently rolling her nipples between the two digits. She let out a low whimper opening her mouth so you could slip your tongue inside. 

One of her hands stayed on your cheek while the other made its way into your wet hair. She took a grasp and lightly pulled causing a groan to leave your mouth. One of your hands slowly worked its way from her hard nipple to her stomach then finally between her legs. You slipped two fingers between her folds and started to work them over her clit softly. She shuddered at the feeling. 

You moved your hand further and slipped 2 fingers inside her. Groaning at how tight she felt around your fingers. She pulled her lips from your own and took a deep breath, eyes closed tightly and head thrown back against the wall. Your lips found their way to her shoulder and chest as you started leaving sloppy kisses. There were the occasional bites and marks along her chest. Her hand was still secured in your hair, the other was palming the wall. One hand was still on her breast. The other one inside her started pumping in and out. A slow and steady rhythm. Curling up to hit that perfect spot inside her that had her squeezing around you. You moved your thumb to circle around her clit. 

Just over the sound of the water you could hear her breathy moans. As you kept working your fingers into her and your thumb over her clit the moans started to get louder. You could tell she was close with the way her legs started to shake and the strained “fucking hell.” That came out of her mouth. She pulled roughly on your hair pulling you away from the assault on her chest back to her lips. As your lips met it was a slow and deep kiss. You felt her tense and then she was squeezing around your fingers. Legs starting to give out. You wrapped the arm that wasn’t between her legs around her back holding her up as you continued to kiss. 

Coming down from the climax she pulled away from your lips breathing deeply. She gave you a blissed out smile and pecked your lips again. 

“How about we finish up here and we go lay down on the couch together?” You questioned her. She nodded her head in agreement and reached for your blue loofah, squeezed your soap on it and then handed it to you. Then she was doing the same for her red loofah. You washed your bodies and rinsed off. Then you both washed your faces before getting out of the shower. The bathroom was filled with steam as you grabbed your towels Wrapping your hair and bodies. You blew out the candle. The the two of you quickly moisturized and dried off before putting on sleep shorts and sleep shirts and making your way to the couch in the living room. 

You sat with your back against the arm of the couch with Natasha between your legs. A blanket thrown across her legs as you worked your fingers through her damp hair. You played the movie while discussing what you were gonna order from the taco place. Once you decided you got up from behind her and found your phone calling and placing the order. Estimated delivery time was 15-20 minutes. 

Walking back to the couch Natasha grabbed the front of your shirt before pulling you down on top of her. She left out an oomph sound as you let out a quick “oh”. You barely braced an arm on the back of the couch with the other by her head before you came completely down on her. Moving her lips to yours she started a heated kiss, her hand still on the front of your shirt and the other on your hip. 

You broke the kiss to get some air and then made your way to her neck. Slowly you kissed down her neck to her shirt covered breasts. You mouthed over one of her nipples thankful that she picked a thin shirt tonight. Then the hand on the back of the couch made its way to the waistband of her shorts under the blanket. Your hand slipped inside as you continued to mouth at her nipples. 

She moved her hands so one was in your hair and the other was bunched in the blanket still covering her lap. She let out a moan as you slipped your fingers between her wet folds for the second time that night. Her hand slid from the blanket and held onto the cushion of the couch. Her other hand still in your hair. You moved your head further down her body moving the blanket from her lap and staring at her shorts.

She shuddered as she looked down at you with lust filled eyes. She could see her hard nipples through her shirt and the look of lust on your face. The thought crossed her mind as it often did on how she got lucky enough to score you. But her mind suddenly went blank as you pulled your fingers out of her and worked her shorts down her legs. Her hand slid from your hair as you stood up to pull her shorts off the rest of the way. 

Then you were pulling her legs apart so you could settle between them. Getting situated with your face over her cunt you blew a little bit of air to it. She tried closing her legs at the sensation of the cold air on her. But you held her legs apart watching as she clenched around nothing. You took in your girlfriend from where you were between her legs. She had propped her head up with a pillow so she could see you better. Her eyes were filled with lust, her chest going up and down as she tried to take in air and her face had a rosy hue to it.

With that image in your head you buried your face into her cunt. She let out a loud whine at the feeling of your tongue licking a strip between her folds. One of her hands flew to your hair as the other gripped the couch. The way that you were licking at her and your nose was bumping against her clit had her back arching off the couch and moans slipping from her lips. You moved a hand from her leg to help you. Slipping 2 fingers inside her tight hole you started lightly sucking and lapping at her clit. You curled your fingers inside her hitting that perfect spongy spot. You repeated that motion while working on her clit.

She buried her hand deeper into your hair pressing you to her as her legs started to close around your head. She started squeezing around you and bucking her hips into your face. Then with a stuttered “Fuck I’m close.” you felt her tense completely. You continued to lap at her and slowly moved your fingers to help ride out her high. Once she stilled and the hand in your hair became loose you pulled away grinning up at her. 

“How’s your mood now hot stuff?” You quizzed her as you put your fingers in your mouth licking off all the sweet slick from her with a moan. She just laid there admiring you. Your mouth and chin glistened with her slick as you cleaned your fingers off. You tilted your head with a silly grin and then stood up walking to the kitchen to grab a wet rag and some water. Making your way to her still sprawled out form on the couch you started to gently clean her up.

Walking to your bedroom you threw the rag into your hamper. Before getting your towel from earlier to clean off your face, you threw that into the same hamper. Then you made your way back to the living room. As soon as you stepped foot into the living room you heard a knock on the door. 

“How about you go to the bathroom while I grab the food Nat. Then we can finish our movie.” You called out to her already making your way to the door. You didn’t hear a reply but you heard her feet move across the floor and the bathroom door open as you opened the front door. Smiling at the usual delivery driver you had when you ordered. You grabbed some cash from your wallet and gave him a tip with a thank you and good night. He returned the goodnight and turned around heading back to his car. 

Natasha was already on the couch waiting for you as you rounded the foyer wall. She had gotten you water and refilled her own. “Here’s the food m’lady.” You said dramatically as you placed the bag on the coffee table in front of the couch.

 “Thank you for tonight babe. I love you so much.” She said to you as you sat down next to her giving you a kiss on the cheek. 

“It’s no problem Nat. I love you and I like taking care of you in every way.” You grinned at her with a wink. She hummed and nodded her head before turning to the bag and handing you your food before getting her own. You grabbed the remote and restarted the movie happy that you were able to help her when she was stressed. 

A/N: Spicy Natasha has me in a chokehold that is all. 

Tags: @wkndwlff​ and @sylviebell​

[sarahs-secrets2]

Cowboy Casanova (Phillip Graves x Reader) 18+࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ

I needed to write Graves to a country song bad, and this one is SO HIM, I also dk what I just wrote but yasss cowboy graves

based on Cowboy Casanova by Carrie Underwood

fem! reader (no use of Y/N)

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: douche Graves??, mentions of alcohol, swearing, sexual tension, makeout sesh, NSFW

₊°✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ ♡ ˎˊ ˗

The bar was dimly lit with crowds of people hovering around their tables as they sipped on lukewarm beers. You shuffled your way through swarms of people, attempting to wiggle your way up to the bartender. 

“Your usual?”, the bartender nodded in your direction as he grabbed some bottles from behind the counter and started shaking a cocktail. 

“Yes please”, you smiled as you leaned against the bartop, “Busy night?” you laughed

“You could say that”, he winked as he slid the drink toward you, “This ones on me, for being my favorite regular”.

“I'm honored, thank you”, your hand went over your heart smiling back, “I’m still tipping you though,”

“That’s why you’re my favorite”,

You slipped a five-dollar bill into the tip jar before walking back into the horde of people to find a place to survey the crowd to see if there were any viable candidates for the night. Eventually finding an empty high-top, you set your drink down and leaned slightly against the table looking around the bar. 

Your eyes skimmed the room, eventually landing on a handsome blonde leaning up on the jukebox. He was wearing a blue button-up that was rolled up on his forearms with dusted blue jeans, a cowboy hat sat prettily on top of his head. Even from a distance, you could see the scar that stretched from his ear to his cheek. He was laughing as he sipped a beer from the bottle. His head turned as he looked directly at you, catching you staring. He tossed you a wink before going back to his conversation. 

A strong blush crept across your cheeks from a combination of embarrassment and nervousness, the wink sending a spark through your body. You shivered, tossing the drink back before heading to the bar for a refill. 

Before you had a chance to flag down the bartender, a hand wrapped around your waist, turning you around. 

“Let me get this one darlin’, the pretty girl deserves it”, a cocky smile grew on the man's lips, his hand remaining on your waist. He raised a finger signaling to the bartender, “Hey man, another beer and whatever the lady wants”, he slightly nudged you hoping you would speak up about your drink order. 

You stayed silent, your usual appearing before you alongside the man's beer in minutes. 

“Your usual ma’am” the bartender smiled at you, “and that beer, that on your tab sir?”

“Yea just throw it on there for me” he turned his attention back towards you, “Phillip Graves”, he stuck his hand out waiting for you to shake it. 

“Nice to meet you Graves”, smirking as you sipped your drink, leaving his hand waiting in front of you. 

“I see, you’re the hard-to-get type,” his blue eyes were piercing through you.

“I think you can handle it, cowboy”, you started to walk away back towards the table you were originally at, hoping he would follow. As you maneuvered through the crowd you felt a strong hand on the small of your back helping guide you through the sea of people. 

“I gotcha doll,” he whispered in your ear.

Arriving at the table you set your drink down, the blonde followed suit, his eyes raking up and down your body.

“Can I help you?”

“Takin’ in the view, that's all”, the glassy brown bottle connected to his lips, “So you a regular here?” 

“What can I say, I love a shitty bar” you swirled the small plastic straw in your glass avoiding eye contact, “What about you, what brings you here?”

“Deployment soon, we ship out tomorrow so I’m enjoying shitty bars while I can”

“Army?”

“You heard of Shadow Company?” you shook your head no, “Good, way it should be”, he chuckled as he leaned up against the high-top. The conversation came to a lull as the both of you sipped your drinks, watching other patrons of the bar. 

Your eyes had wandered to the man next to you who was angled slightly away. You could see his muscles through his shirt, his arms with visible veins, and the scar you saw from a distance was much more visible now. 

“Go ‘head darlin’, I don't mind a pretty girl checkin’ me out”, he turned, catching your eyes

“I don’t know what you’re talking about” you shrugged as he scooted closer next to you, shoulders now touching. 

“You are a tough one aren't ya?”

“How about this Phillip Graves, I’ll be in the bathroom, come find me if you're interested,” you patted his chest as you sauntered towards the bathroom. 

Graves adjusted his hat, swishing down the rest of his beer, before jogging to keep up with you through the crowd. You quickly slipped into the bathroom, cracking the door for Phillip to sneak in quickly. 

“I’ve been waitin’ for this since the moment I saw ya”, he smiled hungrily as his hands found their way to your hips pulling you closer to him. 

“And I’ve been waiting for you to make a move cowboy,” you flicked the edge of his hat up, exposing more of his face. Almost immediately he bent down placing his lips on yours, kissing you feverishly like it was his last kiss on Earth. His hands explored your body causing a moan to escape your lips, he smirked into the kiss, happy with the response he had garnered from you.

“Don't tease me,” you mumbled to him

“Don't give me a reason to,”

His hands played with the hem of your shirt before tugging it up revealing a black lacy bra, he pulled back one of the straps allowing it to snap against your skin, “Cute”, he smiled devilishly, his hands sneaking around your back, pushing the band together releasing the tension, and popping the clasps off, allowing him to discard your bra, his eyes widening at the sight in front of him. 

“Your turn”, you pushed him up against the tiled wall, your fingers working diligently to undo the button-up. Once you had finished the buttons you slipped the shirt down his strong shoulders, exposing his toned figure to you. 

“C’mere,” he spoke just above a whisper. He immediately connected to your neck, placing sporadic kisses, and biting lightly at your skin. Your head rolled back at the pleasure, his hands held your breasts as he continued his work. You were so lost in the moment you almost didn't hear the knock at the door

“Occupied”, Graves shouted out

“Get the hell out of there, I know what y'all are doin”

“They don't sound too happy with us darlin’ now do they?”, he bent down picking up his shirt, beginning to button it back up. You stood shocked at how quickly he was ready to leave. 

“I’ll be seeing you around, yeah?” he tipped his hat, sneaking back out of the bathroom. As quickly as you could you grabbed your bra and t-shirt, slipping them on, and running out of the bathroom hoping to catch up with the man you had only met a few hours ago. 

Your eyes scoured the bar, with no sign of Phillip Graves, he was already gone.

"He just left, looked like he was in a rush", the bartender spoke up. You nodded sullenly, thanking the bartender for the tip.

"Always the cowboys huh?" you mumbled to yourself before ordering another drink to forget the chaos of what had just happened.

₊°✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ ♡ ˎˊ ˗

tumblr mobile stays glitching and messing up my fully formatted web drafts

[marxism-transgenderism]

Do you have any douches or enema gear you'd recommend? I'm looking to get some new stuff to replace my old one so I'd love some recs to specific ones you have had good experiences with!

Genuinely I have never had a good experience with any of the bulb douches cause theyre hard to maneuver and can very easily wind up power washing your colon. I have pretty much exclusively used a oral syringe like this

I'll do about 5-6 rounds of using this 8-12 times per round starting at 8 and escalating from there. Works like a charm, easy to clean and easy to replace. It has never failed me in nearly a decade

[daysofourlivesrecaps]

The players

In the interest of providing some context for this incredibly ill-informed venture, here are the 50+ main characters currently appearing on this show:

Abe Carver  

Abe has been on the show since the early 80s and he's managed to keep more of his Billy Dee Williams looks and charm than Billy Actual Dee Williams Hisownself has. Currently mayor of Salem and married to Paulina "It's All The Time With Her" Price.

Abigail DiMera

Deceased wife of Chad, sister of Gwen and easily this show's greatest "you love to hate them" character until the performer decided she wanted to go off and do movies. Last seen as the actual angel atop her family's Christmas tree, she briefly came to life to tell Dead Wife Chad to fucking move on with his life already.

Alex Kiriakis

Extremely handsome and surprisingly enlightened member of the Kiriakis clan. Alex showed up a week after Ben Weston stopped appearing on the show, which is fortunate since they're played by the same actor but not in the fun "wigs and fake teeth" way that Kristen and Susan Banks are. Alex seems at first glance to be a douche-bro but has always been extremely respectful of women, conscious of the importance of consent and is now actually going to therapy.

André DiMera

Allegedly dead twin of Tony (last seen briefly resurrected by Satan in the DiMera family crypt). Included here because I read a spoiler that he might be coming back really soon. (Turns out that spoiler was wrong, actually. But I'm leaving him on the list, if nothing else, for the phrase "resurrected by Satan," which absolutely did happen.)

Andrew Donovan

Secret agent with the totally-real ISA. Related to a bunch of these people in ways I don't feel like looking up right now. Currently half of the only gay couple on the show (along with Paul Narita). For this reason alone, we're really hoping he moves to Salem with Paul because they just shipped the last gay couple off to New Zealand & we need some boys kissing on this show.

Anna DiMera

Wife of Tony & in a show filled with interloping, entitled Karens, easily the most interloping entitled Karen in all of Salem.

Ava Vitali

The other half of "Kara Squad" (see: Gwen Rizczech). Ava was a former mob boss who tried to go legit but she recently lost her damn mind and did a bunch of crazy shit that culminated in her driving a car off a cliff & possibly killing Susan Banks (our cat's namesake). She (Ava, not our cat) is currently in an off-camera mental institution & is regularly visited by her son, Tripp.

Belle Black

Daughter of Marlena & John, wife of Sad Eyes Shawn and one of the only three lawyers in town.

Ben Weston

A former serial killer who is now supposed to be sympathetic somehow. Is in love with Ciara, whom he refers to as "babe" about every fifteen seconds. And this is the entirety of his character. Ben left the show in favor of Alex (played by the same guy) and things improved substantially when this happened. They're threatening to bring Ben back again and I really wish they wouldn't because he sucks.

Bo Brady

With Hope, one of the great "supercouples" of the show's history. Died quite some time ago. A recent miniseries actually focused on him in heaven, watching the events on earth as though they were a soap opera (GET IT?!) Bo has recently been brought back to life by Megan Hathaway, but escaped her custody and ran off, only to be shot by his son Shawn. Is currently in a coma.

Bonnie Lockhart

Tacky, outspoken southern wife of Justin (once referred to by Victor as a "dime store Dolly Parton.")

Brady Black

Son of John, ex-husband of Kristen. Brady and Kristen have a daughter together. Her name is Rachel, and thanks to Kristen's not-so-subtle maneuvering, Brady was recently forced to break up with his girlfriend Chloe because Rachel openly despises her.

Chad DiMera

also known (by me) as Dead Wife Chad. Chad was married to Abigail, until she was murdered in the first complete plot line I saw when I started watching the show (ie, everyone else has long forgotten about it, but it will loom large for me indefinitely). Chad spent most of last year drunkenly threatening people, assuming they were the ones who MURDERED HIS WIFE!!! He eventually calmed down a little and is now dating Stephanie.

Chanel Dupree

Daughter of Paulina Price and owner of Sweet Bits, a popular bakery that recently served poisoned biscuits to a bunch of people in Salem. Chanel was great for the first couple of months she was on the show, but then they abruptly switched performers and now she's like a ten year old who looks 25.

Chloe Lane

Apparently a pretty interesting goth girl when she was introduced on the show as a teenager in the late 90s, the most interesting thing about Chloe now is that her arch-nemesis is an 8 year old girl.

Clyde Weston

Living embodiment of the word sleazy. Imagine a dollar store version of Twin Peaks' Bob and he's from, like, Alabama or something.

Colin Petersen

Brand-new (as of last week) character and immediately a detestable piece of shit. Brother of Sloane, currently manipulating his girlfriend, Talia, to seduce Chanel (Talia isn't even into girls and it's all really gross) so she can then break her heart. British. But not in a hot way.

Doug Williams

The guy who plays Doug is literally 98 years old and we often joke that he only has enough mental capacity left to say I'M DOUG! every now and then. But honestly, he recently played the devil and he kinda fucking nailed it.

Duke

A bear.

EJ DiMera

British (in a hot way) co-CEO of DiMera Enterprises. Everyone talks about EJ like he's a villain but in almost two full years of storylines (since this performer took over in the role) we haven't seen him do anything remotely evil apart from very occasionally retaliating when someone wrongs him first.

Eric Brady

Son of Roman. Former priest. Currently dating Sloane. Eric was orignally played by Jensen Ackles, which is why we were able to locate copies of every episode he originally appeared in from 1999-2001.

Gabi Hernandez    Sister of Rafe, currently dating Stefan. I do not wish to overly objectify anyone on this show, but EJ once referred to Gabi's "platonic ideal of an ass" and he was 100% correct.

Gwen Rizczech

Gwen is my precious cinnamon roll and she can do no wrong. The first week I started watching this show, she was in prison. Her sister, Abigail, came to visit, saw the horrible coffee mug that Gwen had made for their dad, and smashed it on the ground. Gwen didn't deserve that. Or anything else bad. She's British, and she's one of two characters who looks a lot like my friend Kara (who voice acts for my projects and plays, among others, Naomi on Endeavor).

Harris Michaels

Former Navy SEAL who was brainwashed to do Megan Hathaway's bidding. Harris has since recovered and dated Hope for about 30 seconds until she discovered Bo was still alive.

Hope Williams Brady

With Bo, the other half of one of the show's great "supercouples." Hope has been working for the definitely-real ISA, but is currently stuck in a hospital waiting for her recently-resurrected lover to come out of his coma.

Jack Deveraux

Father of Gwen and Abigail. Has apparently left town after Gwen (along with Xander and Leo) extorted control of the town newspaper away from him.

Jada Hunter

Detective serving under Rafe, and also apparently romantically interested in him (gross). Jada's sister Talia recently moved to town and Jada strongly suspects that Talia is behind the poisoned biscuits served at Sweet Bits bakery.

Jan Spears

The extremely delusional woman obsessed with living happily ever after with Sad Eyes Shawn. Has been in four different comas. Last seen attempting to escape apprehension in the harbor, but they never found her body. Come on guys, I've read comics. She's still out there somewhere. Jan is Amanda's favorite character.

Joey Johnson

Tripp's extremely lame brother with an extremely lame little mustache. Joey lives in Seattle, and if I ever ran into him, I would point right at him and laugh at how bad his mustache is.

John Black

John is played by Drake Hogestyn, who has apparently only ever had one acting job: this one. And... what an eccentric performance it is. John is ostensibly a private eye (with Steve) and is married to Marlena. (They are another of the show's "supercouples.") He's not very bright but kind of lovable despite this, like if Mister Peanutbutter was played by a knockoff of Clint Eastwood.

Johnny DiMera

The worst character on the show by far. Johnny claims to be a filmmaker, but the only film he attempted to make (a fictionalization of his grandmother Marlena's satanic possession) failed spectacularly and he hasn't done a goddamn thing since. Mostly spends his time judging the sex lives of the people he's close to (particularly his father) and whining.

Julie Olson Williams

Wife of Doug (and the performers are actually married in real life too, which is pretty cute). Julie's job, as far as I can tell, is to invite herself into people's homes and ask extremely personal questions when she doesn't think the plot is moving along fast enough.

Justin Kiriakis

Dad of Alex and Sonny. Justin is a lawyer. I don't know a whole lot else about him, actually. I guess I'd hire him if Sloan or Belle weren't available.

Kate Roberts

Tough old broad who is currently being held captive at sea for some reason. I have a big coffee table book about this show that divides the characters up into families (Brady, DiMera, etc.) and there's a whole section called Kate's Brood, because she has apparently been married to half the significant male characters in this show and I think did at least hand stuff with the other half. Is ostensibly the partner of Roman, but despite them being extremely well-established legacy characters, I do not buy their supercouple status at ALL.

Kayla Brady Johnson

Chief surgeon at the hospital, wife to Steve (now THERE'S a fucking supercouple) and Dr. Marlena Evans' actual best friend.  Was recently dead, but returned to her job at the hospital last week.

Kristen DiMera

My initial read on Kristen was that she was a glamorous, scheming supervillain-type... and she still has the potential to be. But she used up all her energy trying to (and succeeding at) breaking up Brady and Chloe. Has tried to kidnap her own daugter seven or eight times since I started watching.

Leo Stark

A character so gay that they might as well have gotten Charles Nelson Reilly to play him. Leo has actually grown on me as I spend more time with him, and he currently writes a gossip column under the name Lady Whistleblower. This has proven to be an outstanding narrative excuse for characters to know each other's business.

Li Shin

Li was formerly Gabi's husband, formerly a top executive at DiMera Enterprises and was never a good actor. Seriously, he just stares forward like David Puddy and reads all his lines really fast with no inflection. The only time he ever played a believable emotion was at Thanksgiving when he thought there would be pie but then there was no pie.

Lucas Horton

Lucas is a real piece of work (shit). He kidnapped Sami, the love of his life, but then (by his own admission) had no idea what to do next so just kind of... held on to her for awhile. Then he pretended to rescue her and almost married her. He's currently in jail. I hope they let him out soon because he's one of those characters that you love to watch fail over and over again.

Maggie Horton Kiriakis

Matriarch of the Kiriakis AND Horton families and current CEO of Titan. Married to Victor, who is definitely still alive oh hey that's him on the phone right now sorry I need to take this hi Victor I'm so happy you're definitely alive

Marlena Evans

The obvious hero of this entire 65 year spectacle. Marlena has been possessed by the actual devil; she died and went to heaven; she woke up from being dead and discovered that she was in a cryo tube in a lab someplace; and she's the only psychiatrist in Salem, who regularly hypnotizes hard-to-access plot points from people's memories. All of this has happened since I started watching the show about a year ago. She and John are a supercouple and despite the fact that John is... like that, it kind of works because Marlena is fucking amazing.

Megan Hathaway

This character died IN NINETEEN EIGHTY FIVE and they recently brought her back to life. NINETEEN. EIGHTY. FIVE. Almost forty years ago. Apparently a DiMera child, and every bit the supervillain Kristen should have been. Megan used her considerable resources to resurrect Bo, a guy she dated in high school LIKE FIFTY YEARS AGO. I cannot get over this. She's currently in jail but there's no chance she'll be there for long.

Melinda Trask

Hard-assed district attorney of Salem and the recent victim of the infamous poisoned biscuits. Melinda was only a plot device for a long time, but I guess the producers got the letters I forgot to write because now she's getting actual storylines complete with love interests and she's every bit as great as I expected her to be.

Nicole Walker

Nicole is currently dating EJ, but she never stays with anyone for very long. Mostly she keeps hooking up with Eric, who should fucking know better by now.

Orpheus

Yes, Orpheus. An actual evil genius who recently poisoned (and killed!) Marlena, Kate and Kayla. Best voice on the show, by far.

Paul Narita

Son of John. Currently dating Andrew. This is all I know about Paul, but I'm hoping he moves to Salem so I can get to know him better. He was involved in one of the show's greatest moments, in which his extremely doting father came to visit him and celebrate Pride. (see picture below.)

Paulina Price

Wife of Abe, mother of Chanel. Paulina is played by Jackeé, who was best known for sitcoms and quite honestly really works best on this show when she's playing comedy.

Rafe Hernandez

Brother of Gabi. Commissioner of Salem PD. Side note: this is a fictional world where it's best to pretend cops aren't horrible. That said, Rafe hasn't been particularly great for most of my time with him... but he's finally starting to grow on me a little bit.

Roman Brady

Owner of the Brady Pub and apparently maker of decent clam chowder. They keep trying to convince me that this nobody is the love of Kate's life but I remain unconvinced. The performer who plays Roman kinda sounds like he had a stroke.  I really don't feel comfortable making fun of that but I also find him very hard to understand, which just makes me uncomfortable any time he's on screen. (This is definitely more my problem than it is his.)

Sami Brady

Daughter of John, sister of Belle, apparently the love of both EJ and Lucas' lives. Sami is a fucking mess —one of those delightful messes that we wish was on the show more. But she also has better things to do than be on this show, so she only shows up about once a year for a couple of weeks.

Sarah Horton

Love of Xander's life who recently departed the show. But she was pregnant when she did, so she's absolutely coming back with that baby at some point.

Shawn-Douglas Brady

aka Sad Eyes Shawn. Most recently, Shawn learned that his father, Bo, was back from the dead and thought it would be a good idea to shoot him (?!) Now Bo is in a coma. If nothing else, Shawn has finally earned those sad eyes.

Sloan Petersen

A cutthroat lawyer obsessed with getting revenge on Chanel and Paulina for some drama involving her dead parents. Is dating Eric and, for some reason, has the name of Ferris Bueller's girlfriend (not the first time this show has cribbed character names from John Hughes, either).

Stefan DiMera

Boyfriend of Gabi and brother of EJ, with whom he is currently involved in a bitter rivalry over who controls DiMera Enterprises. (They currently share CEO status.) Was brought back from the dead like... 6 months ago, but only recently shook off a bunch of brainwashing that convinced him that he didn't love Gabi but actually loved Chloe (which should have been his first clue that something was amiss because... really? Her?)

Stefano DiMera    

Long-dead patriarch of the DiMera family. Stefano looms large over the show and his children, and his portrait hangs in their living room, where they monologue to it regularly. (A replica of said portrait is also hanging in our living room.)

Stephanie Johnson

Son of Steve and Kayla, currently dating Dead Wife Chad. Stephanie runs her own PR firm, and inexplicably has as many work-related storylines as her mother, WHO IS A SURGEON.

Steve Johnson

The show's requisite Handsome Eyepatch Guy. Longtime love of Kayla. Private eye. Good dad. Good dude. I like Steve. It's hard not to like Steve.

Susan Banks

A full-on southern fruitcake and actual psychic. When Dr. Marlena Evans (whom Susan refers to as her "best friend," though Marlena doesn't seem to agree with this assessment) was possessed by the devil, she turned Susan into "a li'l kittycat," which is why we named our li'l kittycat after her. Susan is (was?) played by the same performer who plays Kristen, and this is often mlked for (pretty effective) laughs. Susan plummetted to her apparent death in some stock footage swiped from an old "Toonces" sketch.

Talia Hunter

Sister of Jada, apparently romantically involved with Colin (gross). Talia used to be a doctor, but quit so she could bake. And then it turned out this was all a cover for the sinister plots that Colin is putting her up to. She clearly knows better though. And she's going to stop doing what that creep tells her to do any day now. Right?

Tony DiMera

Brother of EJ, Stefan and Chad; husband of Anna. The consigliere to EJ's mob boss. Tony's like if Richard Dawson were still alive but not quite as handsome or charming.

Tripp Johnson

Son of Steve and Ava. Handsome, charming, a good dude. TLo has a little song she sings when Tripp shows up. It goes TRIPP! TRIPP TRIPP TRIPP TRIPP! It's pretty adorable.

Victor Kiriakis

Patriarch of the Kiriakis family. Victor was an absolute delight to watch, as he was openly hostile to every character on the show except for Maggie, whom he obviously cared for a great deal. Victor was played by John Aniston (Jennifer's dad), who died last fall. The show persists in informing us that Victor is "just over there, off-camera," despite this.

Wei Shen

Owner or board member or something of DiMera Enterprises. We've never been able to determine what DiMera actually does, so Wei Shin's role there is also a bit of a mystery. Father to Li and Wendy, and usually pretty disappointed in both of them.

Wendy Shin

Daughter of Wei, sister of Li. Wendy works in IT at DiMera and keeps threatening to date Johnny, which makes absolutely no sense. She is now dating Tripp, which makes a lot more sense because seriously, Johnny's the worst.

Wilhelm Rolf

Actual mad scientist who once worked for Stefano DiMera. Has brought so many people back from the dead that people actually refer to it as "being Rolfed." Recently seen trying to undo Stefan's brainwashing with ad hoc equipment built out of a crock pot, and eggbeater and other assorted kitchen props. Even more amazing than I'm making him sound.

Xander Kiriakis

British (Scottish actually, but sounds British) himbo who keeps ending up with amazing women (Sarah, Gwen) and then completely fucking it up. Xander is currently part-owner of the town newspaper for some reason, and is currently getting an apartment with Chloe for seriously what the fuck I have absolutely no idea.

[virgil-thane]

open starter | location: In the Pits Auto Repair

"Well, here's your problem right here. This do-dad is on the frits." The omega grunted while underneath the car he was working on. The New Haven summer heat spreading a sheen of sweat across the werefox's face. It didn't help that he wasn't exactly in a voyeuristic mood. Not that the omega didn't like getting looked at, but he hardly knew his name. Virgil's sure he's heard it upon first meeting him, but there was no way for Virgil to be considerate for more than a second, at least not until the repair bill was paid. Luckily, it seemed like the do-dad in question could be fixed with a simple oil change. All of which Virgil so succinctly describes in so little words as he maneuvers himself out from under the vehicle. "Just need to give her a good douching, replace it with some clean oil and you should be on your way."

[ekebolou]

Academy Days: Day Two, Evening

This is for those of you who love bureaucracy. Originally it had a lot of architecture in it, too, but I had to cut it because 8,000 words is really too much, even for me. What I'm saying is, this may be a bit boring, but we do leave our boys' perspective behind for a bit, so that's a nice break.

If I were writing this to be in a book, I would definitely have to cut stuff like this, but I'm not writing it for a book, I'm writing it for serial release. Maybe it'll get put into book format, but serial format means I can kinda go hog wild with what in TV would I guess be called 'filler' - it's not that it doesn't move the plot forward or do important things for character development and introduction, it's just that it doesn't do so in the most exciting or straightforward way. It may make it harder to get into as a novel, but frankly, I expect the Academy Days stories are harder to get into as a novel anyway - I'm not so sure how independent they are of the main Kostas storyline (which I've heard is still up in its entirety on Wattpad, which I've been meaning to delete, but maybe haven't because maybe you want to read it. No I'm not going through the psychological torture that would be reposting that on Tumblr, it'll be on the website eventually).

Anywho, I have lots of thoughts about narrative etc, but for the time being here's a chapter featuring a meeting, Corin being douche a being shut down, and the introduction of Quartermaster Ghent (and Horace, which if you remember Horace I am pretty impressed). I should probably start labeling these with what's in them more consistently, 'cause, you know, that might make people more interested in reading them.

The fire roared in the fireplace, the plates steamed on the sideboards, and the wine sparkled, red, gold, and yellow in the thick patterned glasses, yet you could not have purposefully assembled a duller crowd.

“It is a despicable kind of joke that mocks our very values…”

The Representative for the Palace leaned back in his chair and pressed a cherry to his lips, tempted to practice some kind of flirtatious stem-twisting maneuver for later, when he might attend a real party, with actual important people. But he didn’t want to give any of the dour Military men the wrong idea. And also, he was supposed to be representing the Palace (not accurately, but respectfully, so no flirtatious maneuvers of any kind).

At the Palace they probably would have pitted the cherry and removed the stem, anyway, which was a shame both because it ruined the cherry, whose deliciousness lay in the unbroken tension of its skin, and because it removed the opportunity for flirtatious maneuvers. But it probably also removed the chance for someone to choke to death on a pit, which he supposed might be good.

He reminded himself not to put his heels on the table, ate his cherry, and observed.

“…How can the other cadets be expected to perform at their best…”

This was the nicest of the meeting rooms, so it was a terrible shame it, like the pitted cherry, was being so abused. It really was too small for the crowd the opening meeting this year had garnered – or, rather, it wasn’t actually too small, but its usual comforts were waylaid by it being slightly too full.

The Gold Room at the Palace would have scoffed at calling many times more people a crowd, but these were (for the most part) Military officers, and high-ranked ones. It had long been below their dignity to be squeezing into barracks or classrooms. To have so many so close was like trying to pack porcupines in a box. They puffed to maintain their stately space from one another.

“…much less receive adequate training, when so distracted…”

Yet, they stayed, crowded. In fact, a few more filtered in sending a little rippling squoosh through all the bubbles of personal dignity, and adding a fresh spritz of resentment to the air. The poor little room! Could they have changed venues? Yes, but this, the traditional space, was the easiest to find, the most comfortable (when properly attended meetings were held), and had the second-quickest service. And, of course, the Council was not going to change its traditions for the sake of the comfort of guests.

To the Council anyone not preoccupied with the day-to-day running of the Academy counted as guests, whether they had merely the unexercised right to attend (as many of this evening’s attendees did), or were supposed to have been attending all along (as a slightly smaller number of attendees), or were the actual public (technically, he supposed, the guests who were guests that were also military officers who made up most of the rest of the crowd, because no citizen of the Capitol deigned to give the Academy too much serious attention, lest it begin to believe itself important).

Thus, the air of resentment.

“The ollamh were not even consulted! What strange customs and beliefs…”

Sweet Peace, if only there could be dancing. Was there even a space for dancing at the Academy? (Logically, there had to be – all the little cadets showed up to their graduation relatively skilled, if stiff, dancers, at least of the traditional forms). It was, at this moment, hard to imagine.

The Representative of the Palace briefly entertained himself with memories of past graduation balls, and by the depth of his distraction was briefly saved from hearing the stentorian complaints of whatever ollamh it was holding forth.

“…might have been the case in the past, though I doubt the veracity of these claims and even IF true…”

By Modesty’s Shaded Nipples, everyone was being quite uncharacteristically polite.

Even and especially Quartermaster Ghent, who was the Representative’s only real hope.  He quite liked Ghent, not because he was particularly impressive, friendly, or sociable, but rather, he was so thrillingly uncouth he tended to move the meetings along with tremendous efficiency.

This admiration existed only from afar. Quartermaster Ghent, if he knew the Palace Representative existed as a person, as opposed to an office, would probably hate him more than he appeared to hate most of the population of the Academy. Likewise, if in any proximity to Quartermaster Ghent outside the Academy walls, the Representative could easily imagine himself hiding behind bushes or perhaps drowning in a pond to avoid being seen so accompanied.  But parliamentarian admiration from afar was fine.

Case in point, though: sometimes, when he thought something particularly stupid or useless was being discussed at too great a length, Quartermaster Ghent liked to suggest they should get bells and motley to put on the Academy Tower – he could really go on at great length about it, always with new details and suggestions, however long was needed to bully the other speaker into silence. But nobody liked to listen to Quartermaster Ghent, for precisely this reason: his suggestions tended to be in the ‘go fuck yourself’ direction.

Why he wasn’t doing so now was baffling.

“…can even be accounted for, much less matters of custom and hygiene…”

Bells and motley would at least give him something to look at, though. All the grey stone and dark wood and flickering torches and ceremony (but, like, the stiff and boring kind, not the necessary and beautiful kind, that you got dressed up for). What about a little flair? Colored fire? Some music? Surely the Academy Council could arrange something – surely they didn’t purposefully impose how boring these things were.  The King, who also hated the Capitol, at least let people throw parties down here.

Not that bells and motley would help, currently. They couldn’t see the Academy Tower from this dim basement (was it all basement? Maybe!). They were underground, at a crotch proximal to the Tower where several eras of building overlapped like pastry. Still the best room, as the windows of its neighboring rooms created a cross breeze to ventilate it, and the Tower kitchen was only a floor below and somewhere left (also, miraculously, ensconced in a basement – how everyone didn’t die of smoke or heat baffled him, when he thought about it, which he didn’t, at least not often).

“…furthermore the traditions of the Academy itself should be considered, its bricks laid down by Keadar-Ainjir himself…”

The Representative was thinking about how the crowd in the room should dim the ring of the ollamh’s voice, at least a little bit, but this brought on the terrifying thought that this was the ollamh’s voice ‘dimmed’, and his thoughts rapidly diverted.

It was hard to tell exactly when the meeting would start, but their hand wouldn’t be forced merely by being annoyed. Though a beautiful, heavy, long table stretched importantly across the head of the room before the fire, none of the Councilmembers sat until they absolutely had to, to avoid being overheated in the ambivalent cold of early spring.  Everyone else – sans orator – was trying to mill about sociably amongst the tables scattered around the floor, three or four chairs around each so decidedly inadequate in number for seating them all that hardly anybody sat in any of them. The only place with any current at all – again, an admirable marker of (very boring) Military manners – was around the many thin tables arranged at the edges of the room, generously laden with food or drinks as appropriate.

They might not change venues, but they were at least not so stupidly rigid as to under-prepare the kitchens for an overabundant crowd, which any fool could have predicted would attend. 

The Military didn’t do unprecedented, so it had been quite a long time since anything unprecedented happened. He just wished it hadn’t inspired pre-meeting oration, which might be his new most hated occurrence at a meeting.

But thank fuck, here was Ghent.

“Aren’t you hungry, Ollamh Corin? Thirsty? Winded? Bravery’s Brass Balls, that could stop your mouth for a moment, couldn’t it?”

The Representative restrained himself from cheering. Quartermaster Ghent, being on the council, was one of few of rank enough to stem the tide, and of those few was perhaps the only one who maintained a soldierly sense of when to tell someone to shut the fuck up. (To be fair, he only ever told people to shut the fuck up. That there might be other, more polite ways to handle things never seemed to occur to him).

Their orator particularly disturbed to be so addressed by a member of the Council. “I would think you of all people wouldn’t be soft on this issue–”

“Fucking Fate protect us from you thinking, Corin.” With this, the old Quartermaster heaved himself painfully out of his chair and wandered over to one of the sideboards, gravelly voice continuing in a not-at-all contained rumination, twin to the one he had so effectively stopped. 

“I know, why don’t we have a little meeting about, eh? Why don’t we get everyone together let’s say, within the first few days of the new classes arriving and just have ourselves a little group think, and once that starts, we’ll have a whole section of it devoted to listening the bleating of idiots, and then you can express your blighted opinion all you want, eh? How about let’s do that instead of listening to you patter like rain while we wait for the blasted meeting to start.”

The officer who had remained sitting at Ghent’s table – an unusual-looking fellow with more-than-sun-browned skin and white hair – cast a glance over his shoulder, perhaps to hide his smile more than watch Ghent shamble to the food.

Brave of him to sit with Ghent (he was beloved, just not often by anyone of rank).  This companion was one of many the representative from the Palace didn’t recognize, though some he could pick up through his study of descriptions of the relevant players in Military matters. It was an unusually stacked crowd, but again – unprecedented. 

Corin seemed like he was about to go on – Charity’s Twin Cheeks, how could he? – when they were saved by General Durante abruptly mounting the step up to the head table.

“As good a sign as any – shall we get started?” 

Tall and well-built, just past his middle age with only the finest of gray hair showing, Durante had the presence one expected from a military officer, and the politesse more befitting the court than these dank halls. At times he had seemed to know it, and he made a good show of himself in Palace events, but then he would recede, disassociate, find himself too busy for every invitation (and as an officer, it was surprising he received any).

Durante was really the Representative’s main concern – or, he had been told so. He just wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to do about it. The meetings were boring. Nothing of great import was ever discussed. It wasn’t like a social event. It was all quite unpromising, really, but that wasn’t for the representative to judge. The Palace had its connections to the Academy the way the Academy had its – neglected and somewhat atrophied in this day and age – connections to the Palace, and they begrudgingly fulfilled the duty of maintaining them.

At least the object of the Palace’s vague interest wasn’t Ghent.

Now, the Councilmembers who weren’t Ghent slowly made their way from tables of food or drink or old friends to their designated spots at the head table. Durante took the center seat, his back to the fire but face nonetheless alight thanks to well-mirrored crystal lamps spaced across the table. Ghent continued to get himself food and drink. The other Councilmembers didn’t seem to think it necessary to wait for him.

“Let the first meeting of the Academy Council for year 541 commence; please recognize Marerog, note-taker, and Saeloch, senior; Ghent, senior; Ichtoran, Fiodar, and Durante, serving, and…” his eyes moved over the room, “some fifty, guest, honored guest, and ollamh.”

Now, the Representative did not particularly like thinking about politics, or would not admit to liking it, but like tinder taking flame – he lit up.

With the exception of Ghent, whose service as Quartermaster required his constant presence, the other Councilmembers rotated. Members could depart, resign, or be called to the field, so a roster existed of ‘active’ and ‘inactive’ candidates for Council seats in perpetual rotation, with the exigencies of Academy business and requirement of odd number the determining factors of its composition. They usually served no less than a year, those bouts of five to eight were more common, and peaks and valleys in the intensity of their work determined who was on hand any given day. The opening meeting required a full bench – no polite notes accepted – so there were only five.

Five was a low number; the peak was something like fifteen. A normal year, with some unrest, would be more like seven or nine (three was the kind of minimum that revealed an emergency or perhaps plague). So some months ago, at the autumn recess, when the decisions had been made about who to bully into being responsible for being there, they had expected little disruption in the day-to-day business of the Academy.

So, in some sense, they had been surprised, too (though they had had months to ruminate on it. The Military did not just make adjustments. That was a kind of flighty, reflexive, responsiveness reserved for the unreliable Nobility or the Executive officers).

With the meeting commenced, Durante was now looking down at a pile of paper, threateningly thick. 

It would contain all of the bureaucratic detritus that piled up between the end of one academic ‘year’ and the start of the next: overviews of schedules, information on divisions of students, reports on supplies and personnel in the medical facilities, some few early requests for more material for classes, early reports of trouble on the grounds from delayed maintenance of buildings or gardens (always so many requests from the gardeners). The onrush of new cadets, the return of old, the re-engagement of staff and resumption of projects delayed acted like the weight of a step on a semi-rotted stair; there always seemed to be some cracking and breakage not noticed on the last trip up.

All of it needed to be addressed in order, or the Academy – nay, the nation – nay, the entire world, would fall into chaos.

“I open the floor to the ollamh.”

Ghent, who had seated himself back at his table instead of the head table, grunted a “thank fuck” nonetheless audible for the scrapes of shifting chairs and little gasps of surprise.  He heaved himself up – repast in hand – to laboriously make the trek up to his official seat.

“We cannot allow a Midraeic to continue as a cadet,” said ollamh Corin, not waiting to be called.

“You are formally recognized as speaker, Ollamh Corin,” Marerog said dryly, scratching it into his notes and titching the sand closer to his hand, prepared to combat the smears of fast writing.

“Complaint registered,” Durante intoned. His final say on admissions made him liable. “But what is its substance?”

“It’s ludicrous,” Corin spat.

“Elaborate,” Durante replied.

“This is ludicrous,” Corin said, looking around the room for support. “On the face of it. I cannot imagine it an oversight, as classes have begun and this Midraeic is among the cadets. So I must assume it was done on purpose.”

Ichtoran, whose duties included ranking and thus the class rosters, seemed annoyed more by the aspersion on his record-keeping than opposed to – or in favor of – Corin’s objections. “All of the appropriate steps were taken for enrollment. There is nothing in the regulations that would prevent enrollment.”

“I would not doubt General Ichtoran’s grasp of the regulations, but some reasoning must be provided to those of us perhaps less familiar with their intricacies,” Corin said, barely maintaining a polite tone over his seething. “There should be an explanation.”

“Would it not be unusual to explain admission of a cadet in compliance with regulations?” Durante inquired, much better at maintaining a neutral tone. Not that it mattered, because–

“Why not?” Saeloch asked, offering the requested explanation in a bored, raspy voice, looking down to pick a new morsel from his plate.

“The objections are obvious and numerous, and to go through the procedure for removing a cadet at this point could be harmful to the class formation, and reveals a shortsightedness–”

Ghent’s glower seemed to imply he would respond, but before he could Durante raised a hand to stop them both. “On what specific premise would admission be refused?”

“We refuse admission all the time,” Corin objected.

“On regulatory grounds,” Ichtoran replied coolly, apparently still smarting from having his punctiliousness slandered.

“Also on the grounds of the spirit of the institution,” Corin retorted.

“Can you provide any specific examples of such?” Durante said over Saeloch grumbling “‘Spirit’ my ass.”

(The Representative assumed Marerog did not record this addition, though he did flourish his paper into a new orientation to quickly continue his notes)

Corin balked, but only for a moment. “The second son of the Royal Family, who applied as second son but became Prince Cullan.”

“That happened more than a hundred years ago,” Fiodar said, almost reluctantly. “And was the Palace’s business.”

“The Council then applied its right of refusal on grounds of the purpose of the institution.”

“But the objection was raised and prosecuted by the royal family,” Fiodar said. “The Council’s ruling was a concession of the branches and not on internal regulatory grounds. It was a gift of the Military to the Nobility.”

“And how could such a similar ruling not apply in this case? Prosecuted by the people of Ainjir for the sake of the purpose of the institution?”

“Because that’s horseshit,” Ghent said, which Durante quickly followed with, “the people of Ainjir have no such voice in the doings of the Academy.”

This was actually quite tetchy, in a way that sent political-theory tingles up the Palace Representative’s spine. There COULD be something like a voice of the people IF the third branch were revived…

But, perhaps finally realizing there was some chance that the Council had already discussed the matter, Corin paused to reassess, glare sweeping from one side of the great table to the other.

Finally, he took a nice lungful of air and started back where he had begun before the meeting commenced, “It’s a stain on the honor of–”

Durante held up a hand. “Condense your objections only to the salient points and we will commence discussion only if the Council’s answers prove insufficient.”

Really, he should have realized then that he was dead in the water, but it appeared that Corin’s anger up to this point had been mostly rhetorical, put on for show.  This call for concision truly got to him – the Representative could tell as the little tips of his pressed-flat ears reddened. “I don’t see how that’s a reasonable request. The ollamh were not consulted, not even warned–”

“It is neither the habit nor a requirement of the Council to consult ollamh on decisions of admission before the Academy year begins.”

Lips pressed into a line, Corin re-engaged. “The differences of belief, custom, even basic behavior and moral–”

“Differ from region to region,” Saeloch interrupted this time, “from family to family, from station to station – braile-breith cadets and noble and east and west and plain and forest, farm and mine – if the cadet adapts to the Academy from any of these places of difference then there is no reason to expect that a Midraeic cannot do the same. If he fails to adapt he can leave, like the rest.”

“Have you not considered the level of disruption–”

“This is one cadet,” Saeloch said, as if having to bring it up tired him. “The Academy has run its business during war. This cannot be more disruption than the raids from Geron were, and cadets died in those.”

“The level of disruption,” Corin continued pointedly, “this may bring to the Academy’s reputation? That it may not be a ploy?”

He had struck gold! The Council’s hesitation proved that they had not considered this. But that was because it was so very stupid an idea.

After a brief glance at the rest of the members, Durant raised a flat hand to invite a response from the Palace Representative.

The Palace Representative stared dumbly, for he was surprised.

“The nomination was made by Baron Seolgaire. Speaking on behalf of the Nobility, does the Palace wish to address the nomination of a Midraeic cadet by Baron Seolgaire?”

“As you know, the Palace on principle takes no interest in who chooses to attend Academy and how Noble families might wish to handle their sponsorships. Those are adjudicated entirely individually, within the family, except on small matters of inheritance when certain conditions of conflict are met, which in this case doesn’t apply – one assumes.”

He didn’t want to suggest that Baron Seolgaire might somehow have an unknown Midraeic inheritor, but… well, it wasn’t likely, though it wasn’t UNlikely, either, but… that was… well, that was quite out of the Palace’s purview and really any of his business and nobody, including the Military itself, would want the Military involved.

Durante was still looking at him, though, so the Representative went on, pausing between each statement to see when he had said enough that he could stop. “Which Baron Seolgaire? There’s some dispute, over title inheritance, at the moment. There’s a pretender.”

This damaged Corin’s clever suggestion, if only because it was yet another indication that the Nobility were very silly people.

Durante had to consult his stack of paperwork, digging down several sheets, adjusting his distance from the paper to consult the right note. “Baron Raghailligh Seolgaire.”

“Oh, well,” the Representative shrugged, “that’s who I would back. Anyway, no.”

“No what?” Corin objected.

“No, I can’t possibly see what Baron Raghailligh Seolgaire would get out of this. Actually not the other one, either, but still. That Baron Seolgaire is known for being eccentric. Thus the title challenge. Might actually be a Seolgaire by blood, which would mean there’s been some… close marriages in his ancestry. Runs a fine estate but makes odd choices, so it’s in keeping. Quite harmless most of the time. Likes to wear furry knickers, puts butter on–”

“Enough,” Corin barked.

Since Durante was still looking at him – as was the rest of the Council – the representative shrugged again. “I would imagine not. No ploy that makes any sense, anyway. And, of course, it goes without saying the Palace disavows any knowledge of such a plot, so even if there was one, it would be up to him, and I don’t think he’s up to much of anything except filing lineage proofs and frightening the peasants with the occasional public eccentricity. Of which the Palace also avows no pre-emptive knowledge. Officially.”

“Are there any other objections to raise on this issue?” Durante said tiredly to the assembly. Then, particularly to Corin: “Consider what Councilmember Ichtoran has said. Proceed with the understanding the decision has been made.”

“What loyalty can we expect from a Midraeic to Ainjir?” said a man with a severe face, square-jawed and narrow-eyed – an ollamh, sitting amongst the others. “The point of this education is to raise officers who will then give their oath to defend the nation. The Oath would be meaningless to a Midraeic.”

Corin nodded, as did a few others in the room. Even the other Council members turned to Durante.

Though it was evidently his answer to give, Durante instead turned to Ghent. “Quartermaster, your experience might suggest a better answer. What say you to this objection?”

Startled at having been called upon, Ghent started to answer, only for Durante to cut him off: “Please refrain from casting aspersions on the meaning of the Oath or other unrelated objections to the premise. A cadet is at issue.”

Ghent resettled himself, spending a moment looking out into the room without necessarily seeing it. His face maintained the same disgruntled expression that had settled on it upon first walking into the room. Corin seemed to be about to interject when he finally rumbled out a response.

“There is no difference. If this boy has chosen the path, then he’ll walk it, or not. The decision was made when he walked through the gates in the first place, same as the rest of them.”

“The weakness of superstition–” Corin began.

“Will get him kicked out. Or it won’t. He would hardly be the first superstitious cadet, and certainly not the last. Believers have come through the gates before, open and, more likely, many clandestine. It has never been raised as an objection to the Oath, which relies only on the personal valor of the cadet, their individual worthiness and participation in our society. To go through the Academy is to participate more fully than many a person outside the Midraeic people in Ainjir. If he lasts to the end, he may swear as truly as any other.”

“To disrupt the learning of the other cadets–” Corin began, but Ghent had no more interest in letting him finish than he had all evening.

“Many might be less worthy. Many a superstitious person has sworn the Oath, and many more a stupid person has done the same, and it’s the stupid ones that worry me more. I didn’t see you objecting then. Probably because–”

“That will do. Thank you, Quartermaster” Durante interjected. “The matter is settled. The Midraeic cadet has been admitted and will perform or fail as any other cadets performs or fails. Shall we proceed?”

Ghent stayed up at the table for the duration of the open-floor part of the meeting, but there was – perhaps surprisingly, perhaps not – little to bring in that was not already on the agenda at some other point. So the Palace’s Representative soon watched Ghent stump away from the table, back presumably to one more comfortable, with very little to add to what the Representative had thought was going to be the most exciting portion of the evening.

But alas again, all the interest of this particular evening had been spent, and now there was nothing to look forward to, except whether the discussion of the medical budget would lead to fisticuffs between the practitioners of rival healing arts. Which, frankly, appointment of the latest head, a woman who almost certain had ties to the Families and clandestine religious beliefs, had put quite a damper on. Though exciting in that she added to overall political drama of the Academy, she seemed to frown on the practitioners spending their first few weeks healing themselves, and thus doomed the meeting. So there wasn’t even that to look forward to.

**

Despite Durante’s radical reordering of the agenda, the meeting still stretched into the wee hours of the night. This was why Ghent advocated for holding all such meetings in the stables, where they would all be as sore and aching from sitting on dirty floors and railings as he got from the ‘comfortable’ chairs indoors, and would all come out stinking of shit literally instead of just figuratively. It would take some walking to work out the stiffness in his joints and twists in his muscles, but his rooms were some ways away of walking, so it worked out.

Ghent stumped through the halls with his broad rolling gait; his companion walked beside him with long, slow strides.

“Thank you for inviting me,” he said.

Ghent grunted. “What shit. You were conveniently around to be invited. Awfully conveniently. I hope you got what you came for – there’s nobody that would thank anyone for being put through that shit.”

“Well, it was interesting.”

“It absolutely was not.”

“I was interested.”

“Aiming for my job?” Ghent glanced up at him through narrowed eyes, but it was a show. He grunted again. “You can have it. Who wants it? Too much grief. Fucking gardeners wanting every cursed plant. Then they want to dig it up and put in every other cursed plant. These bloody meetings. Cadets.”

“Surely no one could hope to do your job as well as you.”

“Horseshit,” Ghent grumbled. “Any idiot could do my job.”

They ambled together in silence for a few paces.

Ghent seemed finally to lose his patience; though every bit as gruff, his outburst was quiet. “What do you want, Horace?”

Rather than responding, Horace turned his face to the sky, appreciating the stars.

“Oh, fuck you,” Ghent said, but in his way, meaning it was a kind of compliment.

“Well, if I just asked, would you do it?” Horace was smiling, as he often smiled with friends, whose company, though they might be yelling to wake Ainjir’s dead gods, make him happy.

What this meant was that Ghent was going to have to figure it out. Because of course he wouldn’t do it if he was just asked. At least, if he hadn’t already thought of doing it himself. So Horace must think he has an unusual request. This could be any of a thousand things, given the wide range of duties of the Academy Quartermaster, whose power really was second only to Durante’s, if he chose to exercise it (Ghent did not, but then, they had chosen Ghent at least partially because he could not leverage power through personal connections, his being quite so sparse). Ghent had other strengths.

But that wasn’t why Horace was asking; Horace was asking because he was Ghent, and was asking because he was Horace. Because he was Horace, there was an obvious connection to make, well outside Ghent’s usual wheelhouse.

“What do you think I can do for him?”

Horace smiled, as if for the thousandth time as for the first, dazzled by his companion’s brilliance (that he did this in a way that didn’t seem patronizing was one of his exceedingly unique gifts – when he was patronizing, you sure did notice, though).

“That’s a bit of the puzzle, isn’t it?” Horace asked, looking down at the grass as he kicked his feet through it. “I don’t even really know why I’m asking.”

“Beyond the obvious?” Ghent said.

Horace had been nodding along as soon as he had started to speak. “There’s not some conspiracy, you know. I wasn’t even raised in the faith, as you’re aware. I wish I could offer some kind of unique perspective to tell you what you might look out for, but really, I think the reason I thought of it, and the reason I thought of you–”

“–Other than my amazing puissance–”

“–Other than your amazing puissance, is because it seems so mightily unfair.”

“It’s not a fair place,” Ghent said, but as a pat response, not an objection.

“Neither was the border,” Horace replied. “At the border, at least, we all had a sense that we were there to make it fair.”

“‘We all’, my ass,” Ghent said, anger heating his voice. “It was setting bones getting all you grubs to think anything. All you had was hot blood and wet loins.”

“To be fair, many of us only hoped for wet loins,” Horace replied thoughtfully, to Ghent’s conceding nod. “Yet some sergeant seemed driven by death itself to get us to think of something else.”

“Well, there was hope for you, yet,” Ghent said. “You weren’t officers.”

Horace didn’t have to say anything about their officers. They walked in silence for a few long, slow paces.

“We talked to the Fourth Year class. Reminded them that if they had any pretensions of having reached their station through merit, the role of merit was theirs to maintain. I think they picked it up.”

“We?”

“Durante and I.”

Horace grunted, a surprisingly Ghent-like noise. “Well, I wonder if anything should be done beyond that.”

“The Fourth Years can’t be everywhere,” Ghent said. He had clasped his hands behind his back, slowed their walk to give them time to resolve the conversation.

“They’ll be busy,” Horace said.

“Very,” Ghent agreed. “At the same time, I’m not sure what I can do.”

“Keep an eye out, maybe?” Horace said, turning to look sidelong, smile on his face. “As you once did for another young soldier forced into your company?”

Ghent grunted disdainfully. “You didn’t need my eye out. You had them all running.”

“Maybe,” Horace said. “But maybe it mattered that somebody didn’t run, too.”

“And wasn’t thin as the last piss squeezed from a pencil dick.”

“Oh, some of them turned out alright.”

“Once they had it beaten out of them.” This time Ghent’s grunt was a little raspy, more from phlegm than sentimentality, probably, but raspy all the same. “If they lived.”

“If they lived,” Horace agreed. “It wouldn’t hurt to give this one a fighting chance at living, you think?”

Ghent spat, whatever had been building up in his lungs excised by pleasant conversation. “If he turns out not to be a limpdick snot stone.”

Horace nodded and smiled. “If he turns out to be a limpdick snot stone. But frankly, if he’s made it this far and hasn’t realized he’s thrown himself to the wolves, I would be very surprised. Takes a bit more than a limpdick snot stone to keep at it after that. Surely there’s at least some stubbornness there. Stubbornness can be admired. Or at least keep him alive until he’s worth being admired for something else.”

“How dare you,” Ghent said flatly. “There’s nothing else worth being admired for.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Horace replied, grinning. “I’ve heard people quite like sociability, also one of your foremost traits.”

“You just want my liquor.”

“Not true! I also want your recommendation for the best House to visit.”

“Virtue’s Tits, man,” Ghent grumbled, “make sure you’ve got your own wrapper.”

“For the liquor, or…?”

“Come in, you reprobate, and keep your dick away from my liquor, wrapped or no.”

“Ah,” Horace said, as Ghent laboriously unfastened the antique lock to the tiny outer court of his quarters, “to visit old friends is to know joy, even if you aren’t allowed to put your dick in their liquor, isn’t it?”

“Fuck off,” Ghent said, by which he meant, yes.

[whookami]

Whoops. Got my first Reddit ban for posting on r/ImTheMainCharater, musing that it might’ve been better if that prankster who got shot had actually died, because maybe it would make other pranksters think twice before doing something truly stupid, because it could likewise get them killed.

I understand this ban though, and yeah, it was deserved, even though I meant my post more as hyperbole than a literal desire to see someone dead. But also, I posted it on a video of a guy pranking a blind man and a person on crutches, running up to them and performing a wrestling maneuver on them called a “Diamond Cutter”, in which he grabbed them around the neck and forcibly yanked them down to the ground. So, yeah, my comment was out of pocket, but it was more of a “what is it going to take to teach these people they can’t go doing shit like this unsuspecting innocent strangers”

I will admit, this assumes it wasn’t staged, but this one felt like it might be legit. I know some are deliberate set ups, but I also know some are real. There was one video a day or two before showing a guy punching people in the park in the back of the head, and it was really him doing it to complete strangers, including a news story about it. There’s a reason you don’t rabbit punch people; it has a high chance of causing severe cranial and cervical injury. So was “Diamond Cutter” dude real like “Rabbit Punch” dude is? I can’t say for certain, but I’m fairly internet literate and can usually get a feel for what is staged ragebait, and what is an actual douche attacking people under the guise of “it’s just a prank, bro!”

So yeah, I don’t really wish a person had died, but I also wonder what it will take to stop these people. Feels like this is the only case where “good guy with a gun” isn’t just a meaningless right wing speaking point. It would be far more entertaining to me for a prankster to have a gun pulled on them and watch them cry and beg for their lives, I’ll say that much.

[evita-shelby]

i headcanoned in ur jack/eva universe that Eva does some brujeria that kills Hoover (dude who likely ordered JFK be killed, (i’m sorry if it sounds psycho but i do think he did bc JFK was against CIA type of intervention in foreign countries)).

also esp after watching oppenheimer i can’t help but be struck with that red scare crap. Like i understand the historical context and how the cold war was incredibly influential but like… being so scared of communism? Both sides are stupid, the communists are too idealistic and weirdly focused on providing Russia relief… also some of them were either for rapid integration or incredibly racist (viewed POC as subhuman therefore belonging in a hierarchy below them). But like dude why are you so obsessed with giving russians secrets and money…worry about yourself first. Like i understand that they don’t have the access to information we do in current day but like history and literature provide endless examples of what is likely to happen if you give one group/man power. (i’m in the firm belief power corrupts like 99% of the time) Also like people not just back then with that whole red-scare community thing but also ppl today who point at communism/socialism as if it’s the devil … and can’t even explain why nowadays it honestly feels like media brainrot but back then? all those politician douche bags come off as egregious and pompous as they try to demonize meanwhile offering up their alternative of a capitalist hellscape where we’re cannibalizing eachother because there’s nothing left to consume…

lmao sorry for the rant i’m just annoyed post-oppenheimer about stupid men in stupid politics and i’m imagining Jack/Eva maneuvering that political landscape and it’s just….honestly daunting so koodos to you if you manage to get it off the ground

I might need to brush up on that cuz its been a while.

the red scare was pretty much just right wing groups doing what they do best: finding someoen to blame and see as an enemy.

Remember how the gop were bitching about Hillary Clinton's emails? Remember how much they hate mexicans? How they blame queer people for fucking everything and disney and poc and doverse casting and treating people with dignity and respect?

Yeah. Communists were that for them.

Communism is good as long as the people in charge are perfect, which is never going to happen because humans are not so and abuse of power will always happen.

Hence why it eventually fails, and is used as see capitilism is better(its not its worse) thing.

Shit could be fixed and done better to make it last. Unfortunately, we haven't gotten there yet. We could, but it hasn't happened yet

Whoever put the hit on jfk knew he'd get away with it and likely was a right wing conservative as it is a trademark of theirs to hate progress amd good shit and anyone that opposes war(unless its with russia these days because trump grabs his ankles whenever a dictator is near him)

In the National Anthem fic, Eva and Jack know better than to be too public and inconspicuous about it, so they'll probably just play mind games and ruin their lives and have them do their work for them as they are not as young as they were even though Jack can still wrap a garrote round a man's balls in seconds.