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viagracex · 1 day ago

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okay here me out on this - you’re a youtuber and tiktoker who’s friends with the boys and always had a little crush on george, and he you, but you’re both cowards. it’s valentine’s day coming up and all the other boys have dates/are away and so are your girl friends so you say to george hey let’s do a friend v day like valentine’s day or smthn because he’s sad he doesn’t have a gf, he comes to your flat, you cook, watch rom coms, drink a lot of wine and you play games but you accidentally play a couples game 😉😉😉😉 and you end up doing the deed and in the end both agree to go on an ACTUAL valentines date the next day hehehehehe

A Valentine's Between Friends

george clarke x fem!reader

summary: a friendly valentine's evening leads to anything but…

warnings: sexual content, smut (MDNI)

3.4k words (may have got a bit carried away)

note: Anon, thank you so much for the request. It's my first time writing smut so I hope you like it, sorry if it's awkward and cringy. If it sucks let me know and would love to get more requests.

Masterlist

₊ ˚ ˚ ₊ ‧ 。☆ 。‧₊ ˚ ˚ ₊ ‧ 。☆ 。��₊ ˚ ˚ ₊ ‧ 。☆ 。‧₊ ˚ ˚ ₊

It was the sort of cold February evening that made you want to curl up with a blanket, a glass of wine, and pretend the world outside didn’t exist. The sort of evening that made you consider just not getting out of bed at all. Except for the fact that your phone was pinging with messages from the boys.

You groaned into your pillow, staring at the screen.

Chris had a date with someone he met on one of his spontaneous trips. Arthur was spending Valentine’s Day with a new girlfriend who he met through TikTok. Even your best friend was off on a family holiday. leaving you all alone.

You could already feel that aching hole in your chest. Valentine’s Day, of all days, was particularly terrible when you were single. The entire world seemed to be a constant reminder of the relationships you didn’t have. Of the fact that your phone was always empty, save for messages from your mates.

But then, there was George.

You had always had a soft spot for him. It started back when you all met, years ago, the banter, the cheeky comments, the laughs, the way he made you feel like you were always in on some secret joke. And now, well... now, it was just confusing. It had become a game of will-they-won’t-they. Neither of you ever crossed the line—too much fear of what might happen if you did. But god, how you both danced around it.

You hated the idea of spending Valentine’s Day alone, and so did he. So why not just make it a thing? A friend Valentine’s Day—no expectations, no awkwardness. You’d keep it chill.

You shot him a quick text.

“Wanna have an anti-Valentine's Day? I'll cook, we can drink wine, watch rom-coms and maybe play some games. Neither of us have plans, so why not? Let me know xx"

It didn’t take long before his reply came through.

"That sounds like exactly what I need. I’ll be over in an hour."

It was almost comically easy. But as the hour passed, you found yourself slightly nervous, unsure of what to expect. Was this just a chill night? Or was there something more lurking under the surface? You tried to push those thoughts aside, focusing instead on getting everything ready.

You busied yourself in the kitchen, the sizzle of garlic in the pan mingling with the rich aroma of tomatoes—a simple, hearty meal to pair perfectly with the wine you’d bought. As you laid the table, each placement was a silent testament to the years of friendship that had intricately laced your lives together.

The sound of the doorbell jolted you from your thoughts. George stood there, hands buried deep in his pockets, his smile shy but genuine.

"Hey," he greeted, stepping into the warmth of your flat, the cold nipping at his heels. "This is a surprise. Smells like you've outdone yourself."

You chuckled, "Microwave meals are tragic on Valentine’s, even for friends."

He let out a laugh, sitting down at the table. "Fair enough. This looks pretty decent, actually. I’m impressed."

The evening unfolded with an ease that only true friendship could afford. Dinner was a merry affair, filled with laughter and nostalgic exchanges about past escapades with the boys. As the wine flowed, the barriers of mere friendship seemed to melt away, replaced by a tender connection that neither of you had dared to explore.

He grinned, taking off his jacket and hanging it up, glancing around your flat. "I’ve got to admit, this is a bit of a shocker. You’re actually being… domestic?"

"Well, thank you," you replied, smiling. "I even put some effort into it, just for you." You pulled the wine out of the fridge, uncorking it and pouring another glass for both of you.

The conversation flowed easily after that—easy banter, jokes about past video shoots, hilarious stories about the boys. But beneath the jokes, there was something soft lingering in the air. It was the unsaid, the little sparks you both danced around every time you spent time together.

As the evening wore on, the wine started to loosen your inhibitions. You moved to the couch, both of you nestled into the cushions, a blanket draped across your legs. The rom-com marathon began, and you both laughed at the ridiculous plot twists, snickered at the corny lines, but neither of you could ignore the growing tension between you.

"Should we play a game?" you asked, glancing at the coffee table where you had set out a box of games, most of them silly. "Something to pass the time? No pressure, I promise."

George gave you smile. "Yeah, I’m game. As long as it’s not too weird."

You grinned. "Oh, it’s not that weird. It’s just a couples game."

He raised an eyebrow. "Couples game? What, like Truth or Dare, but for couples?"

"Exactly," you replied with a laugh, though your heart was now beating in your throat. "But it’s mostly silly stuff. You know, harmless. Just a fun thing to do on Valentines."

You could see his hesitation, the subtle shift in his posture. "Alright. But I’m not kissing you, just so we’re clear." He finished his sentence with a cheeky wink.

You snorted. "Who said anything about kissing?"

With a shake of his head, George grabbed the card deck, and you both started drawing cards one after another, each more ridiculous than the last. The questions were harmless, at first: "What's your partner's worst habit?" and "What's their favourite food?" The game seemed lighthearted enough. Until it wasn't.

George drew the next card, his fingers trembling slightly as he flipped it over. The room suddenly felt too warm, the air thick with unspoken tension. He cleared his throat, a faint blush creeping up his neck as he read the card aloud: "Describe your most vivid fantasy involving the person sitting across from you."

Your eyes widened, and you felt a jolt of electricity course through your body. The playful atmosphere evaporated in an instant, replaced by a crackling intensity that made your skin tingle. George's gaze met yours, his pupils dilating ever so slightly.

"We don't have to-" you started to say, but George cut you off with a subtle shake of his head. His voice low and husky. "No, it's okay. I want to answer."

"It's always the same dream," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. "We're alone on a deserted beach at sunset. The sky is painted in shades of orange and pink, and the waves are gently lapping at our feet."

You felt your breath catch in your throat as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

He continued, his voice growing more confident. "You're wearing that white sundress I love, the one that shows off your shoulders. Your hair is loose, blowing in the sea breeze. I reach out to brush a strand from your face, and suddenly we're so close I can feel your breath on my lips."

The room was dead silent now, and you’re hanging onto George's every word.

Your heart raced as George's words painted a vivid picture, one that mirrored your own secret fantasies. The air between you seemed to crackle with electricity.

"And then?" you whispered, barely trusting your voice.

George's eyes darkened. "Then I kiss you. Softly at first, but it quickly becomes more. My hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer. You taste like salt and cherries."

You felt a flush creep up your neck, your skin tingling with each word.

"We fall back onto the sand," he continued, his voice low and intense. "The waves crash around us, but we don't care. All that matters is the feel of your skin against mine, the sound of your breath catching as I-"

George's voice trailed off, the unfinished sentence hanging in the air between you. The tension in the room was palpable, a living thing that seemed to pulse with each rapid beat of your heart. You realized you were holding your breath, your body leaning towards George unconsciously.

"As you what?" you whispered, your voice barely audible over the thundering of your pulse in your ears.

George swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing. He looked almost pained, as if continuing would shatter some invisible barrier between fantasy and reality. But his eyes, dark and intense, never left yours.

"As I trace every curve of your body," he finally said, his voice rough with emotion. "As I worship you with my hands, my lips, my entire being. In that moment, you're my entire world."

You felt a shiver run down your spine, your skin erupting in goose bumps.

The silence that followed was deafening. You could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, feel the heat radiating from your flushed skin. George's confession hung in the air between you, electric and charged with possibility.

"I..." you began, but the words caught in your throat. How could you possibly respond to such a raw, intimate revelation?

George's eyes searched yours, a mix of vulnerability and desire swirling in their depths. "Your turn," he said softly, pushing the deck of cards towards you with trembling fingers.

Your hand hovered over the stack, suddenly aware of how this next card could change everything. With a deep breath, you flipped it over.

"If you could do anything right now, without consequences, what would it be?"

The question seemed to mock you, daring you to voice the thoughts that had been building since George began speaking. You looked up, meeting his gaze once more. The air between you seemed to crackle with unspoken tension.

"I..." you started again, your voice barely above a whisper. "I would make your fantasy a reality."

The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy with implication. George's eyes widened, his lips parting slightly in surprise.

Without breaking eye contact, you slowly rose from your seat. Your heart pounded as you crossed the short distance between you, each step feeling like an eternity. George's gaze followed your movement, a mix of anticipation and disbelief etched across his features.

As you reached him, you gently took the card from his hands, letting it fall forgotten to the floor. Then, with a courage you didn't know you possessed, you lowered yourself onto his lap, your legs straddling his.

George's hands instinctively moved to your waist, steading you.

"We may not have a sunset, but..." Your voice trailed off as you brought your face closer to his, your lips mere inches apart. "We can make our own paradise right here."

George's breath hitched, his fingers tightening on your waist. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as you hovered on the precipice of something monumental. Then, with a soft groan, George closed the distance between you, capturing your lips in a searing kiss.

It was everything you had imagined and more. His lips were soft yet insistent, moving against yours with a passion that made your head spin. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened.

George's hands roamed your back, tracing patterns that sent shivers down your spine. When you finally broke apart for air, you were both breathing heavily, your foreheads pressed together.

"I've wanted this for so long," George murmured, his voice rough with emotion. His hands cupped your face gently, thumbs stroking your cheeks as if he couldn't quite believe you were real.

You leaned into his touch, your heart racing. "Me too," you whispered back, surprised by the intensity of your own feelings.

George's eyes searched yours, a mix of desire and vulnerability swirling in their depths. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in again, this time placing a soft, reverent kiss on your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. Each touch of his lips sent sparks through your body.

When he finally reclaimed your lips, the kiss was slower, deeper, filled with a tenderness that made your chest ache. You melted into him, your bodies fitting together as if they were made for each other.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, his voice low, barely above a whisper, as if the question was as much for him as it was for you.

You leaned in slightly, your breath mingling with his. "I’m sure," you murmured, before closing the distance between you with a kiss.

It started soft—tentative. But as the seconds stretched, it deepened, becoming more urgent. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer. You could feel the warmth of his chest against yours, the rise and fall of his breath matching your own.

The world outside seemed to vanish. The only thing that mattered was the press of his lips against yours, the way his fingers traced the curve of your spine, sending sparks of electricity through your body. His touch was gentle at first, but as you shifted against him, something shifted in the air between you—a quiet hunger that neither of you could deny any longer.

"George," you whispered against his lips, a soft plea, and it was all it took. His hands moved to your face, cupping it as he kissed you again, deeper this time, as if he was losing himself to the moment.

You felt the intensity rise in him, in the way his hands wandered to the back of your neck, tugging gently, pulling you even closer. The taste of the wine mixed with the warmth of his mouth, and you could no longer tell where you ended and he began.

"Are you really sure?" he asked again, his voice rough with desire.

"Yes. I want this."

With that, the dam broke. His lips trailed down your jaw, your neck, leaving a fiery path behind. You shivered at the feeling, the electricity between you both undeniable. Each kiss, each touch, built the tension higher, and soon, it felt like the only thing you needed was him.

The wine seemed to fuel your courage as much as it fueled your desire, and soon you were both lost in the moment, not thinking about anything but the way your bodies responded to each other. His hands roamed freely, each touch sending your pulse racing, while you met him with equal eagerness, your fingers tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel more of him.

As things heated up, you both moved to the bedroom, shedding clothes along the way. George's eyes roamed over you appreciatively as you lay back on the bed. He joined you, his warm body pressing against yours as he captured your lips in another passionate kiss. His hands explored your curves, teasing and caressing. You arched into his touch, wanting more.

George trailed kisses down your neck and chest, taking his time to savor every inch of you. When his mouth found your breast, you gasped in pleasure. His tongue swirled around your nipple as his hand kneaded your other breast. The dual sensations sent waves of arousal through you.

You ran your fingers through his hair, urging him lower. He obliged, kissing down your stomach until he settled between your thighs. The first swipe of his tongue against your sensitive flesh had you moaning. He explored you thoroughly

George's lips trailed lower, leaving a trail of heated kisses along your inner thighs. His warm breath against your sensitive skin made you shiver with anticipation. When his tongue finally made contact with your center, you gasped at the sensation. He started with slow, teasing licks before focusing his attention on your most sensitive spots.

As George's ministrations intensified, you felt waves of pleasure building inside you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, urging him on as your hips rocked against his mouth. He slipped two fingers inside you, curling them in a come hither motion that had you seeing stars. Thel stimulation quickly pushed you over the edge into a powerful climax that left you breathless.

Before you could fully recover, George was kissing his way back up your body. You pulled him into a deep kiss, tasting yourself on his lips. Your hands roamed over George's muscular back as he settled between your thighs. You could feel his hardness pressing against you, igniting a fresh wave of desire. George gazed into your eyes, seeking silent permission. You nodded, pulling him closer.

He entered you slowly, both of you gasping at the exquisite sensation of finally being joined. George stilled for a moment, allowing you to adjust to his size. Then he began to move, setting a slow pace that had you arching beneath him.

Your bodies moved together in perfect synchronicity, finding a rhythm that built the pleasure higher and higher. George's lips found yours in a searing kiss as he quickened his thrusts. You wrapped your legs around his waist, changing the angle and causing you both to cry out.

The room filled with the sounds of your shared passion - soft moans, gasps of pleasure, skin sliding against skin. The walls seemed to disappear, as if they were the only two people in the world. George's hips moved faster, his thrusts deep and primal, as if he couldn't get enough of her. His lips trailed down her neck, nipping at her collarbone, urging her on.

You met his gaze, your breath ragged and your chest heaving. "George... I... I'm..."

He kissed you again, hard and desperate, silencing your words as he drove himself deeper inside you. "I've got you," he murmured against your lips. "Let go."

That was all the encouragement you needed. With a sharp cry, your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. The intensity of your climax sent shockwaves through your body, your inner muscles clenching around George rhythmically. He groaned at the sensation, his movements becoming more erratic as he chased his own release. With a few final deep thrusts, George let out a guttural moan as he found his peak, trembling above you.

You both lay there panting, bodies intertwined and glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. George's weight on top of you felt comforting rather than stifling. Sliding out, he lifted his head to look at you, his eyes soft with emotion. He brushed a strand of hair from your forehead tenderly before capturing your lips in a deep kiss.

"That was..." he trailed off, seeming at a loss for words.

"Yeah," you agreed breathlessly. "It really was."

George rolled to the side, pulling you close against him. You nestled into the crook of his arm, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. A comfortable silence fell between you as your breathing slowly returned to normal.

George's fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin, sending pleasant tingles through your body. You tilted your head up to look at him, taking in his tousled hair and flushed cheeks. His eyes met yours, filled with warmth and contentment.

You both lay there for a moment, just breathing, both aware of the shift that had happened—of the line you had just crossed, and the new, thrilling tension that hung in the air. Neither of you spoke for a long time, simply enjoying the quiet intimacy.

"Well," he said, voice thick, "that… wasn’t how I expected the night to go."

You chuckled softly, catching your breath. "Yeah, me neither. But…"

"But?" he prompted, his eyes locking with yours, intense and filled with something new.

"But, maybe we should just go with it?"

He smiled at you, his lips curving mischievously. But when George finally broke the brief silence, it was with a soft chuckle.

"So… tomorrow," he said, his voice low and husky, sending a shiver down your spine. "I guess we're going on that Valentine's date after all."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound muffled against his chest. "I guess we are," you replied with a smile, lifting your head to meet his gaze. His eyes were soft and full of a warmth that made your heart flutter. As his eyes met yours, you knew that everything had changed.

Outside, the night continued on, unaware of the transformation happening within the walls of your flat. But inside, on this unexpected Valentine's Day, you found yourself celebrating not just the day itself, but the beginning of something new and exciting. As you snuggled closer to him, your head finding its now familiar spot on his shoulder, you both agreed to take a leap into the unknown together. This was more than just a date on the calendar - it was a promise for the future.

Valentine's Day was no longer a dreaded reminder of what you lacked, but a joyous celebration of what could be.

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thisuserisgonesorry · 21 hours ago

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1,, im not a teenager . might be young but i have a pretty good grasp on adulthood atp , and i’m not the only person that thinks this specific take; ive asked a lot of mutuals/friends who are (young,,) adults and agree w/ me and many people in rbs agree so like .. bringing my age into this is so left field cos . idk . weird thing 2 say

2 in my experience from living in a very “redneck” (lack of a better term) area (though not america, so there could be a difference), ive met 20-25 year olds who look and act exactly like daryl in s1 because teenagers in redneck areas just look like that. thats where my estimate came from, due to my own experiences

3,, norman reedus literally just looks young in everything he plays . you cant deny that he has a bit of a baby face and doesnt ALWAYS look his age . (but also celebrity men do look like that cos they dont just start rotting away the second they hit 23 because blue collar / minimum wage jobs suck) and never did i say there was a problem w/ him being 40 , just that it didnt make sense in my mind,,, nd actors can play characters that are a different age than them. norman being 40 ≠ daryl having to be 40

4,, he wasnt embarrassed until around season 3-4 iirc , closer to when he was around more people and less isolated , closer to merles death , more so around when he found out carol would go to that community home to get away from ed and then more around beths whole arc (iirc? im a bit aways from s3 rn,,)

nd considering 25+ is around when the frontal lobe developed. yeah. he would act like an idiot in s1. like all young adults do. and he would helplessly follow his brother around for validation considering his childhood, and he’d do whatever he wanted. he would be a terrible drunk, with no job. young adults do that. especially ones w/ mental health / bad childhood

then he develops into a person who was willing to learn to deal with his trauma when around season 4 when (in hc) he’d be like 27 at the earliest (?) because we have to remember that we skip all of loris pregnancy and then the first year (?) of judiths life. making him on the closer side to 30 around the time the prison, when his character starts developing.

(and i never said 25 was the solid age, just that hes “like 25”, meaning im happy to account s1 daryl as 26,27,28, whatever, just that hes under 30 in s1 in my mind)

5 i agree that him being older plays a part in his story but i dont think being 25 suddenly makes him a little baby that makes his development void. his frontal lobe developed. that is a valid subtextual reason for him to mature. but that isnt the only thing that made him reflect and want to cope with his trauma. merles frontal lobe developed and he never tried to do what daryl did - therefor the age thing doesn’t exactly diminish his story or else merle wouldve changed before the outbreak, but he didnt, because some people dont. some people reach frontal lobe age and stay the same. its not “he just grew up” because then merle would have too, but he did grow up, and realised following merle was stupid. but he wouldnt have reached that outcome if there werent other factors so it can easily be both

6 i never said 40 looks old or that theres a problem w it, but how is he older than rick? than most of the other people there? being older than rick feels like it makes no sense (although rick didnt grow up like daryl did and they had carl young so blab yeah theres reasons) and merle being 35+ does make some sense though id somewhat agree 35 is young for merle. m not saying that ppl start decomposing when they hit 30 but god forbid i hc someone as not 40

+ trauma physically ages people so even if daryl did look the same age or older than rick, then it would still be plausible that hes younger. we see trauma age characters in this show. its not hard to assume it happened to him outside of the outbreak too

prob formatted this like a mess but ,, m tired

n e way other people in the rb say that they think daryl is different ages to all of them (varying from 20-40) and as i said in those rbs its interesting that no one can really “agree” on what age he should be cos hes an enigma like that and i think it suits him,, like we all can agree on certain things about certain character cos its a unanimous vibe but then his unanimous vibe is that no one truly knows him??? subtext of it all .

anyway /nm for all of this . im just a little guy . i respect ur opinion cos i love my pookie and i really do love that everyone interprets his story so differently ,,,, i just like talking about it

idgaf im sick of not saying it. s1 daryl dixon is not fucking 40 bro. hes like 25. there is no way in fucking hell.

#mine #blab

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hollowed-theory-hall · 2 days ago

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What are your thoughts on the possibility of Petunia redeeming herself or atoning for her abuse of Harry? This is more ramblings and musing then coherent ask, sorry.

You mentioned in a previous post that while she might not love him, she is concerned for her nephew’s safety - as well as that her emotions towards Harry are quite complex (similarly to her emotions towards and relationship with Lily, post-magic revelation).

There are many fics where Petunia does eventually break the cycle of abuse she and Vernon perpetuate on Harry (but usually this is the result of either divorcing Vernon or her husband outright dying), but I’m kind of curious as to what you think in your analysis of her character.

Petunia is a tough nut to crack for me when it comes to fics where she is redeemed.

At the very least, the extreme neglect and enforced silence that Harry is raised in just…it’s terrible when you look at it more deeply than the early books intend.

Which is made worse still by later on, when she swings a frying pan at his head (Chamber of Secrets, I think?).

In the first books, I get that as the target audience was young kids, not much gravitas was placed in Harry’s treatment in the hands of the Dursley’s - they were the bad family he escaped into the magical world from, the anti-thesis to the Weasley family later, meant to seem more caricature and buffoonish.

If that frying pan had hit Harry, though? Depending on how hard Petunia swung it, no matter that she was concerned for Dudley (after Harry didn’t even use magic, just pretended to), that could have killed him.

We know Dudley beat Harry quite often with his friends, and Vernon at the very least threatened to do so (and from some of Harry’s lines, likely went through with said threats at times), but little about Petunia’s abuse of Harry is mentioned except in the very early books - her shaving his hair except for his bangs for example, leaving him to go to school mortified - so there’s no indication that she regularly threatened him physically over the emotional abuse, but still.

Not to mention the potential for neglect/abuse that Petunia herself went through, Lily being their parent’s favored child over her, how that in turn also affected her relationship with her sister, and then how that is turned on to Harry…

Petunia’s character, and redemption/atonement for Harry’s abuse is such an interesting concept.

Personally, I was never interested in a Petunia redemption arc. I think she's just as bad, if not worse than Vernon. So I'm going to have to disagree with you.

It's not that Petunia's sitting there feeling bad about how she and Vernon treat Harry and wish she could stop it — she doesn't. It's very clear throughout the books that she isn't remorseful at all.

Her feelings about Harry are complex because Harry is Lily's son. And as bitter and jealous as Petunia is, I think, she used to love her sister. Used to even be protective of her. So, deep down, I don't think she wants Harry dead or seriously hurt (to her standard), but at the same time, she feels justified in hurting him and treating him as subhuman.

See, Vernon truly does hate wizards. He fears magic, he loves normalcy, and he despises the "freaks" that essentially represent everything he hates. He's straightforward and completely honest in his approach.

The reason I sometimes consider Petunia worse, is becouse she isn't honest, she's a fucking hypocrite.

She wanted to be a witch. She wanted to be special and go to wizard school like Lily. She was jealous of Lily that she got to do magic and go to Hogwarts.

Petunia started calling wizards freaks and latched onto normalcy as a way to cope with not being special. I mean, she was told that magic exists, that there's a whole special world of magic out there, but that she isn't special enough to become part of it.

So young Petunia coped by going in the opposite direction. She became as normal as can be. Started claiming anyone special was a "freak" even when deep down she fucking knows that if she got a chance she'd leave and go to Hogwarts in a heartbeat. That deep down she wants to be special.

She transferred that jealousness and bitterness, then toward the wizarding world as a whole onto Harry personally, which is so unfair. Like, I find it disgusting, I find it disgusting how righteous she feels treating him the way they do. She is very similar to Snape in this regard (projecting her problems with Harry's parent onto Harry), just without any of the redeeming qualities since she isn't even all that smart, and she wouldn't give a shit if all her neighbors died one day (Snape would). And Snape was better to Harry than Petunia, let's be real, being an ass to a kid is not the same as starving a kid and locking him in a cupboard.

But I do want to point out, that she doesn't have the excuse of a cycle of abuse (I'm saying excuse because that's what it is. Tragic backstory can be used to explain characters' actions but it doesn't absolve them) becouse Petunia wasn't abused or particularly neglected. We have no indication she was, and I think it's more likey she was treated well.

We're told their parents loved having a witch in the house by Petunia in PS, but when we see Snape's memories, apparently their parents urged a pre-Hogwarts Lily not to do magic. They feared it until it was explained to them. Petunia is biased in what she says. Because while they were supportive of Lily once they understood, I don't believe they ever mistreated Petunia, and I don't think she is meant to be read as neglected.

I mean, Lily wasn't even home most of the year, Petunia was getting all of their parents' attention year-round, and during the breaks, they probably dotted on Lily because they hadn't seen her in months. This isn't neglect or abuse. This is Petunia being a petulant child who didn't get to be showered in attention all the time because her parents wanted to hear from the daughter they only got to see, like, 3 months a year.

I don't think either Lily or Petunia were abused or neglected, and I find it somewhat silly to try and justify Petunia by giving her a tragic backstory when the books make her reasons to hate Harry very clear. These being jealousy and pettiness.

So, I'm not interested in a redemption arc or atonement arc for Petunia or Vernon for that matter. I think neither of them deserves it and the only atonement I'd be interested in for them is a prison sentence for child abuse and neglect.

Yes, Petunia may not beat Harry physically as often as Vernon or Dudley, but she lets them. She watched him be chased by Marge's dog and laughed. She approved of Vernon's and Dudley's treatment of Harry because if she didn't, she wouldn't have let it happen. She stopped Vernon from throwing Harry out of the house when Dumbledore sent a threatening letter to her in OotP; if she cared to stop the abuse she didn't actively participate in herself, she had the power to do so, but didn't. Becouse she thought Harry deserved it. She mistreated him just as much. Looking at him with disgust and scorn and calling him a freak is abuse. Starving and locking him up is abuse. She isn't any better than Vernon.

The only Dursley I can see redeemed is Dudley. He started his journey in the books (btw, in that scene, Petunia thinks Dudley is "too sweet" for telling Harry he isn't a waste of space) and he actually was a child, like Harry. He did what his parents did like every child does. But he shows signs of improvement after Harry saves him from the dementors. He realizes his parents are full of shit.

So, yeah, Dudley is the only Dursley I'm interested in a redemption for. Petunia and Vernon deserve a prison sentence.

#harry potter #hp #hp meta #asks #anonymous #hollowedtheory #harry potter meta #the dursleys #vernon dursley #petunia dursley #dudley dursley

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rita-repulsa-ke · 3 days ago

Text

What If

AU where we let Agatha and Rio get back together in modern times. Also Agatha is not a ghost because I say so.

"Agatha, do you ever think about the past?"

"What? No, of course not. Terrible idea."

"Mm. All that time you spent running and hiding from me. In between saying terrible things to me, of course, when we did meet."

"Rio, my sweet, do you really want to discuss the past? With me?"

"…No. …Maybe. It's only, we never talk about it. Any of it. …Did you miss me?"

"Nope."

"…Ags."

"Of course I missed you! Don't be ridiculous. And yes, I know, it was nothing compared to the great and terrible anguish you suffered from not being able to see me, you've mentioned that about two thousand times since we've gotten, you know. Back into the swing of things."

"Into the…was the word you were looking for there 'together'? Or maybe 'married'?"

"...No."

"You really never change, beloved."

"Would you want me to?"

"…"

"...Hey, Rio."

"Heh. No, I wouldn't. Never, ever, ever, Agatha. Exactly as you are. …I could have done without the hiding, though."

"I couldn't have. Sometimes I need space."

"For centuries?"

"Yep."

"…Don't need that again."

"No promises. But before you get all annoyed and threatening, I did come back eventually, didn't I?"

"You did."

"And I even married you properly. And now I'm right here, with you."

"…So good."

"It is pretty nice, isn't it?"

"Tell me you missed me again."

"…All the time. That's why it hurt so much."

"…I always knew you never stopped loving me."

"Yes, yes, you were right all along. But stop rubbing it in or I'll get annoyed, okay?"

"Yes, beloved. …You know I love you?"

"I know. You waited for a long time."

"I did. …Ags, say it back."

"Hmmm...no, not right now. Later, maybe."

"…Ugh. Maybe you could change a little."

"Never. I'd die first."

"…………Agatha."

"Yes?"

"…you're teasing me…"

"Might be. Could happen. I mean, it's at least notionally possible that I might be teasing you, but who can say, really?"

"…It would be so nice if you died."

"Creepy. You'll just have to deal with me being alive and your wife."

"…Say that again."

"Alive?"

"The other thing."

"Mm. Your wife. All yours."

"…"

"Rio. Rio, I can't brea…that's too many flowers, Rio, where are those even growing from, we just bought this hou…"

"Come to bed, beloved."

"...Can't think of anything I'd like more. But after that, we're going to talk about the flowers and I'll try one more time to explain what a mortgage is."

masterpost or go read the dating game series, it's so silly.

#agatha all along #agatha x rio #agathario #I've been gone so here I'll be nice #you guys can have fluff

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svgarseason · 14 hours ago

Text

𖹭 cw: suggestive, fluff, angst

══════════════𖹭 MINORS DNI 𖹭═════════════

PT 1 ⋆ PT 2 ⋆ PT 3 ⋆ PT 4 ⋆ PT 5 ⋆ PT 6 [SOON]

English professor Nanami could tell that you were uncomfortable the first couple of days that you stayed with him. He could see it in the shy way you asked for permission for every little thing. "You don't have to ask," he tells you. "I'm glad you're here," he says. He feels suddenly warm, the way you smile at that. It takes a while, but it seems you're finally comfortable, if the way you hum moving around the kitchen and plop down right next to him on the couch with your laptop are any indication.

Professor Nanami tries his best not to stare, but it's hard. He can't understand why seeing you do mundane, domestic things, like making coffee or rinsing dishes, makes his heart feel so full, but it does. He guesses he is probably in love with you, and if that's the case he is well and truly fucked because it can never come to anything. He hopes it is just a passing infatuation, not that he is particularly prone to those. It has never happened to him before, actually.

Professor Nanami knows that, when you leave, his house will feel quiet and empty and he'll torture himself with thoughts of who you're with and what you're doing. He knows it will be soon. The selfish part of him dreads it, but his practical and morally upstanding side will be relieved. The couch situation is becoming potentially problematic, after all. The shorts aren't helping.

"Professor Nanami, what do you think of this paragraph, like, is it actually terrible?" He couldn't truthfully tell you because the plush of your thigh is pressed up against his as you lean over practically on top of him. Your hair is falling over his arm and, although he doesn't mean to look, he can see down the front of your shirt over your shoulder. It is so much worse than when you would crowd in on him in his office.

"Why are your eyes closed," you giggle "Is it that bad?" It is that bad. His cock stays at least half hard pretty much around the clock, now. It has a mind of it's own. He is squeezing his eyes closed, desperately grasping at any thought that might direct bloodflow away from his twitching dick. But he doesn't tell you that, of course.

"Just thinking," he says, instead.

Professor Nanami opens his eyes and your face is so close it kind of takes his breath away. You have never been this close before, and you are so still. Still like a coiled spring holding tension until it just can't anymore. He doesn't mean to, but he looks down at your lips. When he looks back at your eyes, he knows he's caught. He knows he should look away, create distance between the two of you, but he is frozen in place.

And by the time he has done all that thinking, it's too late anyway. The crush of your mouth against his is soft and warm, like the press of your body against his as you crawl into his lap.

Professor Nanami wants to pull you closer, taste you deeper. He wants to undress you and explore your body with his hands and his mouth. Really take his time with you, memorize you like a favorite lyric. His hands find the angle of your jaw, trace the line of your neck he had so often admired before coming to rest on your shoulders.

Professor Nanami pushes you away. "Stop," he says, an alien strangled quality to his voice. "I can't."

Professor Nanami stands in the doorway of the guest room, saying your name softly. You are a quiet blur of motion as you stuff your things into a bag and tug on your shoes. Your face a shiny, red mess of ruined mascara. He says he wants to talk about it, but you don't care, you're too ashamed. You feel like a stupid little girl with a stupid crush who did a stupid, stupid thing.

Professor Nanami doesn't try to stop you when you go.

a/n; hey guys, spoiler alert, but I'm thinking of making the next part a smau. It would be texts between these two. Idk. I love reading smau but I've never made one. Or maybe the next part will be readers POV, then a smau. Anyway, any thoughts on that? & ty for reading as always.

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chuuminn · 1 day ago

Text

chuuya x athazagora!reader - scorched lungs

featuring; early dating period awhhhh, athazagora!reader being a bad smoker, reader wears mascara, chuuya uses ‘doll’ as a nickname, shotgunning, just something a lil silly, intentional lowercase, 1.2k word count

'what to do when your stupidly handsome date offers you a cigarette’ was not covered on your theoretical pre-date flashcards. stumbling out a “sure ! i’d love one” probably wasn’t the right answer. but chuuya's leather dressed fingers were already retreating to tuck away the polished silver cigarette case, leaving you with a neatly rolled stick dangling dumbly between your thumb and forefinger.

"just relax,” yosano's words had been cooed with a reassuring smile when she swiped mascara onto your lashes, not three hours before. “i'm sure your 'mystery man' will adore your quirks."

pshhh, quirks. the term normally refers to small things, right? the little endearing habits you notice about another person. like how you know that ranpo’s hand always brushes his pocket when he stands from his desk, seeking out spectacle shaped reassurance. or, that dazai is a terribly clingy drunk; but only until he hits drink number nine or your fingertips accidentally graze the edges of the cotton that wraps his skin. whichever comes first.

quirks aren’t the ugly, hacking cough that accompanies your every attempt at smoking.

you could just return it, yes. laugh it off and continue to enjoy the sound of the water lapping at the pier beneath you. only, the mere possibility that your date, effortlessly suave as he seems, might brand you as ‘lame’ or ‘a buzzkill’ summons an uncomfortable bubbling into your chest and the rising of a shrill nagging voice in your mind. it heaves, preparing to berate you, until-

a flicker against the dim evening — subtle, but enough to catch your gaze — banishes the nerve.

chuuya’s struck his lighter, illuminating the planes of his face for you to admire. there was no better backdrop for him than here, leaning against the railing of one of yokohama’s many bridges.

he mentioned growing up here, and judging by that passionate gleam in his eyes when he’d spoken about it, you could tell he loves the city fiercely. a few unruly strands of fiery hair catch the flickering light, stark against the muted twilight blues behind him. it’s a museum worthy painting, if not for the five pronged silhouette of the port mafia towers intruding over chuuya’s shoulder. an irksome smear on the yokohama skyline.

nooo. nope. you didn’t need to spend more time than absolutely necessary thinking about the port mafia and your many unpleasant. especially not while on a date that, up until now, was going suspeciously well.

you follow chuuya’s movements as he cups the lighter, shielding it from the harbour breeze, to deliver it to his lips. the glow of the flame stretches towards him as he inhales, a motion you were becoming all too familiar with. barely a month of dating and already you were giving into the grand gravitational pull of chuuya nakahara. so when those gloved hands extend the light to you, it’s all too easy to tilt your body closer to his.

difficulty comes when you fumble with the end of the cigarette over the lighter. the blasted flame, it was mocking you! mischievously dancing around the edge of your cigarette and refusing to share its heat. you offer a sheepish smile to your merciful date. “mine’s broken.”

there’s a breathy chuckle before reassuring fingers wrap around your wrist.

it wasn’t as though this was the first time he's touched you; but still, the gentle guidance sends warmth blooming along your skin. he curls your fingers and moves them to better cup the light, protecting it from the wind as he’d done. immediately it settles into a steady flame. traitor. “better?”

“better…” you can’t say the same for your heart, sure the damn thing was about to beat out of your chest. the new proximity makes your head spin. a seductive cinnamon-y musk joins the lingering smoky smell in the air. he’s close enough to feel the air shift across your shoulder as he takes a slow deep drag of his own cigarette.

“ow -” the flame in your grasp jumps, nipping your thumb and demanding your attention. you’ve already been standing there an awkwardly long time, and frankly the angle of your arm was beginning to hurt.

what more was there to do, other than take an enthusiastic and far too ambitious inhalation…

there’s a glint of amusement in chuuya’s eyes as he watches you sputter, a lopsided smirk adorning his pretty features. your eyes are wide, no doubt in alarm from the choking miasma burning its way to your lungs. yeeeah, he’d figured that’s how it might go. you were polite, maybe a little too eager to please, a far cry from the company he normally kept. definitely not someone who indulged in this particular vice often. it was… sweet. “you alright there, doll ?”

“uh huh, yep, just- perfect-“ you wheeze, head bobbing quickly. unconvincingly. a blind hand waves the air clear of the wisps still curling from the offending stick. “how are you- ugh, holy mother of- how are you meant to enjoy this when it burns so bad !?“

you summon the meanest glare you could muster, scowling down at the cigarette. the muscles in your abdomen cramp and seize as you cough into your sleeve, earning a smoky huff of amusement from chuuya.

“cute." he hummed with a slight laugh, silver curling into the evening from his quirked lips . "here, lemme help ya”

his fingers uncurl from yours, surrendering contact only long enough for him to catch your chin. your stomach turns and any air remaining in your poor burning lungs is stolen as the tips of his bangs brush against your nose. when he next speaks his voice is a soft rasp, eyes flitting over your features. somewhere hidden in the breaths that follow, a whisper of vulnerability tickles your lips. “this okay?”

“yeah,” you reply easily. “ i trust you.”

you aren’t sure why those words made his breath hitch.

“just, try it again, yeah?” he drawls, bringing the cigarette to his lips once more. “breathe.”

the cherried tip flares as he takes a long slow drag, before he leans into you. the dangerous beginnings of a protesting whine build in your throat when he stops just shy of a kiss, only to be stifled by the sight of bittersweet silver cascading from his slowly parting lips.

you drink in his breath, the smoke trickling down your throat to pleasantly warm your chest instead of scorching it. the fiery fog fills you, singeing his name into your lungs.

with a shaky 'whoosh' it wisps out from your lips, smooth and silky tendrils dispersing into a hazy curtain between you. the barrier does nothing to quell the heat of his gaze, mismatched eyes half lidded and smokey in their own right. you’d be more than content staying here, counting his lashes. the sheer intimacy of sharing a breathe sent your mind reeling into a dizzying swirl.

“heh,” his lips twitched up as his smoldering gaze finally tore from your own, casting over the rest of your slightly tilted face. “you’re blushing —“

“am not !!!”

thank you for reading !!! this is the first part in a series of nonchronological one shots between our reader and chuuya, with dazai poking his head in every now and then. i am super duper excited, i hope you enjoy where we go from here. comments, feedback and reblogs are all welcome and appreciated ! mwah !

masterlist

#athazagora ୨୧ #bsd ୨୧ #minnie writes ୨୧ #chuuya nakahara #bsd chuuya #chuuya x reader #chuuya x you #chuuya nakahara x reader #chuuya nakahara x you #chuuya x y/n #chuuya nakahara x y/n #bungo stray dogs #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you #bsd x reader #bsd x you

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danmeichael · 3 days ago

Note

Can u talk about why JC is your fave

jiang cheng was not my favorite character for a long time. specifically, i actively disliked him when i first watched the donghua.

a turning point, funny enough, was actually the scene in the donghua where he chokes wwx. which i think says a lot about me... much like that scene says a lot about jc.

that was a scene that really humanized jc for me and showcased really clearly what he was in that moment. a lost child, a helpless child desperately vying for any amount of control through violence and lashing out at those around him because of it.

i like when characters do that -- when they hurt the people around them in moments of weakness without really meaning it.

you know when a character asks a loved one to run an errand for them, and something terrible happens while they're running that errand? maybe their loved one gets into a car accident and dies, for example. and instead of blaming the conditions on the road that caused that, the other driver in the accident, the hospital for not saving them, they think "if only i hadn't asked them to go out?"

it's because it's smaller. it's easier to conceptualize that blame, it's easier to grasp guilt or to place fault on a single, knowable entity.

reality isn't like that. there is no one singular point of fault. it's not their fault, not really. but a single point of failure is easier to conceptualize, to cope with, more satisfying in the moment than "sometimes things just happen"

jiang cheng doesn't hate wei wuxian, he isn't really mad at wei wuxian for saving lan wangji. or rather, he won't be when he's calm or in hindsight.

but he needs something manageable to be angry at. he needs something smaller, some neat, easy solution this all stems from that he could say "this wouldn't have happened, if--"

he doesn't really blame wwx. but in addition to... everything, wwx is also the one stopping him in that moment from doing the thing he could do to, his monkey brain thinks, exert control and make it hurt less.

this is wwx's fault. this is wwx's fault, because he saved lan wangji, because he wouldn't let him go back to try to save his parents, because he wouldn't let him try to get revenge. but it's not, really. and deep down, he knows that. he knows the wens would have come for them eventually whether wwx saved lwj or not. he knows he could not have saved his parents. he knows that he would have died trying to get revenge and left jyl and wwx alone. he knows there's nothing he, or wei wuxian could have done.

but being out of control while you're in pain is scary. so he lashes out. because he can control being mad. because he can hurt wei wuxian. because he needs something, anything in that moment to feel like he isn't spinning out and about to crash.

i think that violent ugliness in response to his own suffering is compelling.

that sort of added onto the endless "what if" pursuit common of fandom, after finishing the novel and finding that jc and wwx were still estranged. logically, that was the best possible ending. them suddenly getting along at the end of the book for a happy ending wouldn't have made sense for either of their characters. them making up in a way i found satisfying would have taken another 2 english volumes and circumstances i can't even imagine, and mxtx might not have even written it in a way that i found satisfying even under the theoretical that she did devote an entire additional novel to making it happen.

but that ambiguous, unwritten, theoretical making up that exists in my minds eye haunts me.

even after all that, i still didn't *like* jc. he was compelling, i appreciated him as a mechanism in the narrative, but he wasn't my blorbo. i didn't *like* him in the way i *like* other favorite characters.

no, no. the real catalyst is that nobody who dislikes jiang cheng dislikes him for the right reasons and it pissed me off so bad that i became protective over him.

there's plenty of good reasons to hate jiang cheng but you're just MAKING UP ONES that DO NOT EXIST and IGNORING ALL OF HIS INTERESTING CHARACTER WRITING.

what do you MEAN he doesn't love his brother?! what do you MEAN he only warmed to jyl's marriage because he came to see her as a political pawn and didn't actually love her either?! what do you MEAN he should have just been GRATEFUL that wwx surgically placed his entire fucking martyr complex into jc's body while ACTIVELY LYING TO HIM ABOUT IT?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE'S A MISOGYNIST? WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE'S *COLORIST*????? AM I FUCKING LOSING IT????????? DID I READ A DIFFERENT FUCKING BOOK??????????????

being so pissed off by incorrect analysis of his character made me think about him as a character, his nuances, his relationships with his family and his position of power.

there's no specific trait or scene or thing about him that makes him my favorite. he's just a good shape. he clicks into my brain in a good way.

#car accident mention #as a theoretical. but you know.#mdzs #jiang cheng #long post #i did not think i had this much to infodump on the topic but apparently i did.#this is barely skimming the surface also.

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rogueandflame · 6 hours ago

Text

The Diplomat

Hi friends,

Since I'm a Daemon girly through and through and horny as fuck, I imagined what it would be like to have terrible, angry sex with Daemon. None of the fics were hitting the spot, so I wrote one instead. There are two parts to this story, but the second part can be read as a standalone if you squint a little. Here is part one, enjoy!

✨My Masterlist✨

WC: 9.4k

Warnings: 18+, just fluff and a lil suggestiveness, no use of y/n, light descriptions of fem!reader, kind of a little jumping around (let me know if i put too many sword dividers in)

Daemon Targaryen x Wife!Reader

MDNI!!!

The small council chamber was thick with unease. Though the warm spring breeze drifted through the high windows, stirring the black banners bearing the sigil of House Targaryen, it did little to lighten the atmosphere. The men gathered around the long oak table wore the weight of the discussion in their stiff shoulders and furrowed brows.

Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, spoke first, his voice measured but edged with authority. “The Blackwoods insist their knight acted in self-defense. He claims the Bracken lord drew steel first and would have struck him down had he not defended himself.”

Across the table, Lord Lyman Beesbury adjusted his spectacles, his aged face lined with worry. “Regardless of intent, a Bracken heir lies dead. His father demands retribution, and he’s mustered men to see it done. This feud risks spilling over into open conflict, my lords.”

“It has always been this way between the Brackens and Blackwoods,” chimed in Lord Tyland Lannister, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. He leaned back in his chair with an air of indifference. “Their hatred for one another is practically tradition. Why should the crown involve itself in their petty quarrels?”

“Because they are sworn to the crown,” Otto replied sharply, his gaze narrowing. “Their lands and titles are held in service to the Iron Throne. If we do not intervene, their conflict will destabilize the Riverlands and undermine royal authority.”

Daemon scoffed loudly, drawing every gaze in the room. He lounged in his chair, though his posture was more calculated than relaxed. His dark eyes glittered with impatience. “Destabilize? Spare me your dramatics, Otto. This is nothing more than two dogs fighting over scraps. Let them tire themselves out.”

“And when those scraps include burnt villages and dead smallfolk?” Otto countered, his tone clipped. “You would have the crown turn a blind eye while the Riverlands descend into chaos?”

Daemon leaned forward then, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “I would have the crown remind them who they answer to. Send riders, summon their lords to kneel before the throne. If they refuse, then you send swords.”

Lord Beesbury sputtered, his hand trembling slightly as he adjusted his quill. “Violence is hardly the answer, my prince. Surely, diplomacy—”

“Diplomacy has done nothing but embolden them,” Daemon snapped, cutting him off. “Every year, it’s the same. Bracken blames Blackwood, Blackwood blames Bracken. It’s a waste of the crown’s time and patience. They need to be reminded that their squabbles end where the Iron Throne begins.”

“You speak of violence as though it’s the only solution,” Tyland interjected smoothly. “The Riverlands are already tense. A heavy hand might unite them—against us.”

Viserys, who had remained silent until now, raised a hand, commanding the room’s attention. His weary expression spoke of a man burdened by the crown he wore. “Enough,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “This matter is not so easily solved. Both houses have their grievances, and both claim to act in the right. I will need time to consider our response.”

Daemon’s chair scraped against the stone floor as he rose, his movements sharp with irritation. “While you consider, brother, they will act. And your indecision will be seen as weakness.”

Viserys’s gaze hardened. “Do not mistake thoughtfulness for weakness, Daemon.”

“Call it what you will,” Daemon muttered, turning on his heel and striding from the chamber, his dark cloak billowing behind him. The remaining lords exchanged wary glances but said nothing, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on.

Viserys sighed heavily, the sound of a man long accustomed to the burdens of the throne. His fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair as he watched the doors swing closed behind Daemon’s retreating figure. For a moment, the chamber was silent, save for the distant cries of gulls from Blackwater Bay and the faint murmur of activity in the Red Keep below.

“This council is concluded,” Viserys said at last, his voice quieter now, the fight drained from it. He rose from his chair, and the lords followed suit, their expressions a mix of relief and unease.

“Your Grace,” Otto began, stepping forward as the rest of the council prepared to file out. His tone was deferential, but the gleam in his eye betrayed his eagerness to press his point. “Might I suggest—”

“Not now, Otto,” Viserys interrupted, waving him off. “I’ve heard enough for today.”

The Hand of the King inclined his head, though the tightening of his lips spoke volumes about his displeasure. One by one, the council members departed, their whispered conversations trailing behind them like smoke.

Viserys lingered for a moment after the chamber was empty. The answers would come, but not today.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

Daemon stormed through the halls of the Red Keep, his boots striking the stone floor with forceful purpose. Servants and courtiers scattered at the sight of him, their eyes darting to the crimson and black of his cloak, the Targaryen sigil embroidered in rich gold on his tunic.

The prince’s mind churned with frustration, the council’s deliberations replaying in his head like a wound he couldn’t stop picking at. Otto’s pompous tone, Tyland’s smug indifference, Viserys’s endless dithering—all of it grated against his pride.

By the time he reached the chambers he shared with you, the heat of his temper had reached its peak. He flung the doors open with enough force to make them shudder against the stone walls.

Inside, the room was a picture of calm. Sunlight filtered through the open windows, casting soft, golden light across the chamber. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the sweet warmth of spring.

You sat near the hearth, cradling your young son in your arms. His small fingers grasped at a strand of your hair, his innocent laughter filling the room as you smiled down at him. The sight was a balm to any who might witness it—anyone but Daemon in his current state.

The nursemaid, standing a few paces away, froze at the sight of the prince’s thunderous expression. Her hands faltered mid-curtsy, and she looked to you for guidance, her face pale.

“Out,” Daemon barked, his voice sharp enough to cut. He didn’t bother looking at her as he strode into the room, his dark eyes locked on you.

The nursemaid hesitated for only a moment before gathering the child in her arms and retreating swiftly, her footsteps nearly silent against the rush of Daemon’s presence.

When the door closed behind her, Daemon’s pacing began, each step a sharp, deliberate motion that mirrored the storm in his mind. His hands flexed at his sides, as though longing to grip the hilt of Dark Sister and channel his anger into something tangible.

“This is what passes for leadership now,” he began, his voice low but vibrating with suppressed rage. “My brother, the king, sitting in that gods-damned chair, twiddling his thumbs while the Riverlands teeter on the edge of chaos!”

You set your book aside, folding your hands in your lap as you watched him. You had seen Daemon in this mood before, his temper a force of nature that could not be stopped but only weathered. It was better to let him speak, to let the storm rage until it spent itself.

“I told them what needed to be done,” he continued, his pacing growing faster. “Ride out, demand their fealty, remind them who they serve. But no—Viserys would rather sit and think.” His lip curled as he spat the word, as though it were a curse.

Daemon’s pacing was relentless, his steps carving invisible lines into the chamber floor. His voice rose as he continued, his words dripping with scorn. “Otto’s solution? Send letters. As if words written on parchment will mend generations of blood feuds! And Tyland—he all but shrugged! ‘Let them fight it out,’ he said, as though it’s his lands that will burn when the fighting starts. Useless, the lot of them.”

He paused, finally turning to you, his dark eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and expectation. “And my brother,” he growled, his hands clenching into fists. “The great Viserys, King of the Seven Kingdoms, paralyzed by his own fear of making the wrong choice. He’ll sit there until it’s too late, as he always does, and then expect me to clean up his mess.”

You met his gaze calmly, though you could feel the weight of his fury pressing against you like a tangible force. “Daemon,” you said gently, your tone an attempt to temper the flames threatening to consume him.

But he wasn’t ready to be calmed. “No,” he snapped, cutting you off before you could say more. “Don’t tell me to let it go. You weren’t there. You didn’t see the way they looked at me—like I was some brash fool for speaking sense. They undermine me at every turn, and Viserys allows it!”

His voice echoed off the walls, and for a moment, the room fell silent. The distant sounds of the Red Keep seemed impossibly far away, muted by the tension that filled the space between you.

You rose from your seat slowly, smoothing the fabric of your gown as you crossed the room to stand before him. He watched you, his chest rising and falling with the force of his anger, his jaw tight.

“I’m not telling you to let it go,” you said softly, placing a hand on his chest. His tunic was warm beneath your palm, the steady thrum of his heartbeat betraying the tempest within. “I’m asking you to save it for when it matters most. You’ll have your chance to be heard again. But not if you burn yourself out now.”

For a moment, Daemon said nothing. His eyes searched yours, his expression still tight with frustration, but the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly. He placed a hand over yours, his fingers curling around it as if anchoring himself.

“They don’t listen,” he muttered, though the edge in his voice had dulled. “Not to me. Not unless I force them to.”

“Then make them listen,” you replied, your tone firm but kind. “But not like this. Not in anger.”

His lips twisted into a smirk, though it lacked its usual sharpness. “You think you know me so well,” he said, his voice softer now, almost teasing.

“I do,” you replied simply, holding his gaze.

Daemon sighed, the last of his anger bleeding away as he pulled you into his arms. His embrace was strong, almost possessive, as if you were the only thing grounding him in that moment.

“You’re too clever for your own good,” he murmured into your hair.

“And you’re too stubborn for yours,” you replied, earning a low chuckle from him.

When he pulled back, his expression was lighter, though the frustration lingered in his eyes. “The feast,” you said gently, steering him toward a different focus. “Rhaenyra’s wedding is in a few days. You should be thinking about that, not letting the council get under your skin.”

Daemon snorted, but there was no heat behind it. “Unity,” he muttered, echoing words he had likely heard too many times already. “A grand spectacle to pretend the realm isn’t fracturing beneath us.”

You arched a brow. “Then let them believe otherwise. Isn’t that the game of thrones you so enjoy?”

He let out a short laugh, the sound both bitter and amused. “You’ve been spending too much time around me.”

You smiled, brushing a hand along his arm. “Perhaps.”

Daemon released a long breath, the tension in his shoulders finally softening as he stepped away, his gaze drifting toward the open window. The warm spring breeze ruffled his silver hair, and for a moment, he looked less like the fearsome rogue prince and more like the restless man you had come to know so intimately.

“The wedding feast,” he said, the words tasting foreign on his tongue. “A spectacle of union for a realm that can’t even decide which house to favor in a petty feud.”

You stepped closer, your tone light yet pointed. “And yet it’s not the realm’s union we’re celebrating, is it? It’s Rhaenyra’s.”

Daemon turned back to you, his expression softening further at the mention of his niece. His lips quirked into a faint smirk, and he tilted his head. “I’ll admit, the girl’s managed to surprise me. Agreeing to wed Laenor Velaryon of all people. I thought she’d have burnt the keep to ashes before conceding.”

You chuckled softly, reaching for his hand. “Perhaps she learned from someone that rebellion isn’t always about fire and blood. Sometimes, it’s about choosing when to bend, so you can strike harder later.”

He raised a brow at that, his smirk deepening. “If you’re insinuating that I’ve taught her anything resembling restraint, I fear you’ve misunderstood me, my lady.”

“Not restraint,” you countered, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “Strategy. She’s clever, your niece. As clever as you are, and just as stubborn.”

Daemon’s gaze softened further, and he let out a quiet laugh. “She’ll need that stubbornness to endure what’s ahead. The Velaryons are not without their pride.”

“And neither are the Targaryens,” you replied with a small smile. “It’s fitting, really—a match to unite two ancient houses and bolster the realm’s strength. A necessary union, no matter how imperfect it may seem.”

He sighed, his free hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “A necessary union,” he echoed. “And yet, Viserys sees it as more than that. He thinks it’ll heal old wounds and inspire loyalty. As if a feast and a wedding can undo years of division.”

“Maybe it can’t,” you admitted, your voice softening. “But it can remind people of what’s worth fighting for—family, unity, the realm’s future. Even if it’s only for a night.”

Daemon looked at you then, his expression unreadable. But there was a warmth in his gaze, one that seemed to melt away the last of his earlier frustration. He pulled you closer, his hands settling on your waist.

“You have a way of making everything seem simpler,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “Even when it’s not.”

“It’s a gift,” you teased, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “Now, will you let me dress you in something appropriate for the feast, or will I have to endure your complaints the entire evening?”

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich. “Oh, you’ll endure them regardless. But yes, my dear, I’ll wear whatever ridiculous finery you deem fit. I wouldn’t want to shame you in front of the court.”

“Nonsense, perish the thought,” you said with a grin, resting your forehead against his.

For now, the storm had truly passed, and in its wake, a fragile peace remained. The feast loomed ahead, a symbol of hope for some and an illusion for others. But in this moment, there was only you and Daemon, and that was enough.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The grand hall of the Red Keep was resplendent, its vaulted ceilings adorned with streaming banners bearing the sigils of the realm’s great houses. Flickering torchlight and the warm glow of chandeliers lit the space, casting dancing shadows over the lavish feast laid upon long trestle tables. The scent of roasted meats, fresh-baked bread, and spiced wine filled the air, mingling with the murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.

Rhaenyra sat at the head table beside her new husband, Laenor Velaryon, her expression poised but faintly distant, as though she carried the weight of the realm’s gaze with practiced indifference. Her silver hair was woven with pearls, and her gown shimmered with dragonfire embroidery, every inch the picture of Targaryen majesty.

The lords and ladies of the realm had gathered in full force, a sea of vibrant colors and glittering jewels, their movements a choreographed dance of subtle rivalries and unspoken alliances. Among them sat the Brackens and Blackwoods, carefully separated and positioned at opposite ends of the hall. Their faces were schooled into neutrality, their hands busy with goblets of wine or trencher bread, but the tension between the two houses was palpable to those who knew where to look.

You were seated at Daemon’s side at a table reserved for the royal family, a position that afforded you a perfect view of the festivities—and the undercurrents of unease beneath them. Daemon was dressed impeccably in dark crimson and black, his usual defiance tempered into a sharp elegance that suited him well. His expression was unreadable as he sipped his wine, but you could see the way his gaze flickered over the room, cataloging every interaction, every veiled slight.

“They’ve managed not to kill each other—for now,” Daemon murmured, his voice low enough for only you to hear. His eyes flicked toward the Brackens and Blackwoods, a glint of amusement mingling with his sharp scrutiny.

“Give them time,” you replied dryly, reaching for your own goblet. “The wine hasn’t yet worked its magic.”

Daemon chuckled, his smirk deepening as he leaned closer. “Or its mischief.”

You arched a brow at him, though you couldn’t help but smile. “You seem far too entertained by the prospect of chaos at your niece’s wedding.”

He shrugged, his gaze shifting back to the hall. “Chaos keeps the night interesting.”

Before you could respond, a herald’s voice rang out, calling for the first dance. All eyes turned to Rhaenyra and Laenor as they rose from their seats, their movements graceful as they stepped onto the polished floor. The music began, a lively tune that seemed to ripple through the hall like a spark catching fire.

The lords and ladies soon followed, filling the floor with a swirl of color and movement. Laughter and applause echoed as couples spun and twirled, their steps weaving together in intricate patterns.

Daemon leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming idly against the table. “Are you going to make me dance, too?” he asked, his tone teasing.

You smirked, leaning closer to him. “I was going to let you off easy tonight. But if you insist…”

He groaned in mock exasperation, earning a soft laugh from you. For a moment, the tension of the evening faded, replaced by the warmth of shared humor.

But even as the festivities unfolded, you couldn’t shake the sense that the peace was fragile, a veneer that could crack at any moment. The Brackens and Blackwoods were not the only ones walking a fine line tonight, and in the shadow of the Iron Throne, every move felt like a gamble.

Daemon’s groan was followed by a mischievous grin, the kind that always made your chest tighten and your resolve weaken. “You’re insufferable,” he said, though there was no heat to his words as he extended a hand toward you.

“And you’re predictable,” you countered, placing your hand in his. His fingers wrapped around yours, firm yet careful, as he guided you from your seat.

The music shifted as you both stepped onto the dance floor, the melody lilting into a slower, more intimate tune. The crowd parted, eyes subtly following your movements as you took your place in the center of the floor with the rogue prince at your side. You could feel the weight of their attention, but you were no stranger to it.

Daemon’s hand rested lightly on your waist, his other holding yours as he began to lead you in the dance. His steps were confident, fluid, each movement purposeful yet unhurried. “They’re watching us,” he murmured, his voice low and for your ears alone.

“They always are,” you replied, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “You’re hard to ignore.”

His smirk deepened, his thumb brushing against your hand. “And you,” he said, his tone softer now, “make it impossible.”

You rolled your eyes at his flattery but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. The dance brought you closer, his hand at your waist pulling you just shy of propriety, but enough to make your heart race.

The world around you seemed to fade, the music and laughter becoming a distant hum as you moved together. Daemon’s presence was magnetic, his intensity grounding yet exhilarating, as though the two of you existed in a world apart from the one where alliances were made and broken over cups of wine.

“You’re rather light on your feet for someone who pretends to loathe courtly things,” you teased, letting him spin you gently before drawing you back into his arms.

“Don’t mistake talent for affection,” he replied, though his smirk betrayed him. “I’d burn this entire hall if it meant avoiding another round of politics.”

“And yet, here you are,” you said, your tone light but pointed. “Dancing at a wedding, pretending to tolerate the people you claim to despise.”

“For you,” he said simply, his voice low and sincere in a way that made your breath hitch. “Always for you.”

For a moment, the tension of the feast melted away, replaced by the warmth of his confession. But it was fleeting, a stolen moment in a night that promised anything but peace.

As the dance came to an end, Daemon held your gaze, his hand lingering at your waist. Applause filled the hall, but you barely heard it, your focus locked on the man before you.

“You’re going to set tongues wagging,” you said softly, stepping back as decorum demanded.

“Let them wag,” he replied, his smirk returning. “They’d do it anyway.”

The spell was broken as the music shifted again, and other couples moved to fill the floor. Daemon led you back to your seat, his hand brushing against yours one last time before he turned his attention back to the feast.

The hall was alive with revelry, yet beneath the surface, you could feel the fragile balance of the evening teetering. The Brackens and Blackwoods had kept to themselves so far, but there was no denying the sharp glances exchanged across the room, nor the tension lingering like a storm on the horizon.

Daemon, of course, noticed it too. He leaned toward you, his voice low and conspiratorial. “How long do you think it’ll take before someone breaks the peace?”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “Hopefully not before dessert.”

His laughter was soft but genuine, a rare moment of levity in a night that felt like a game played on the edge of a knife.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The revelry continued unabated, the music and laughter rising to fill the cavernous hall. Goblets were refilled, plates heaped with delicacies, and the scent of roasted quail and sweet pastries hung heavy in the air. Yet, despite the vibrant atmosphere, an undercurrent of unease persisted—an unspoken tension that seemed to ripple just beneath the surface.

At opposite ends of the hall, the Brackens and Blackwoods remained in their carefully orchestrated positions. Their eyes rarely wandered toward one another, but when they did, it was with the kind of simmering disdain that no amount of protocol could conceal.

Daemon leaned lazily back in his chair, one arm draped over the back of your seat. His eyes roamed the hall, sharp and assessing despite the deceptively casual posture. He sipped his wine, his smirk growing as his gaze lingered on the Bracken table.

“They’re twitching like hounds on a short leash,” he muttered, the words meant only for you.

“You’re not helping,” you replied, though your own gaze flickered toward the Blackwoods, where a young lord’s hand gripped the stem of his goblet just a little too tightly.

The first sign of trouble came in the form of a raised voice—a sharp, mocking laugh from the Bracken side of the hall. Heads turned as Ser Amos Bracken, a stout man with a ruddy complexion, leaned back in his chair, his booming voice carrying over the din.

“Tell me, young Blackwood,” Amos said, his words dripping with condescension, “is it true your family still claims descent from the First Men? Seems a bold thing to boast when all it’s earned you is a table in the corner.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter followed, and for a moment, it seemed as though the insult might go unanswered. But then, a young Blackwood lord—tall, lean, and barely out of boyhood—rose from his seat, his face flushed with anger.

“And yet we’re here,” the Blackwood retorted, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. “Unlike your ancestors, who’d sooner kneel to any conqueror who offered them a scrap of power.”

The hall fell silent.

Daemon’s smirk widened, and he leaned closer to you, his voice a low murmur. “Here we go.”

You shot him a sharp look, but before you could reply, the tension in the hall snapped like a drawn bowstring.

Ser Amos Bracken surged to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. “You’ve got a sharp tongue for a boy who hides behind his mother’s skirts!” he barked, his meaty hand slamming down on the table.

“And you’ve got a lot of nerve for a man whose house clings to its titles like barnacles to a sinking ship!” the Blackwood shot back, stepping forward.

The two were separated by the breadth of the hall, but the air between them was charged, their mutual hatred igniting like dry kindling.

From his place at the head table, Viserys rose, his voice booming over the commotion. “Enough!” he commanded, his face flushed with the effort of asserting authority. “This is a wedding feast, not a battlefield!”

The hall quieted, though the tension lingered like smoke after a fire. The Bracken and Blackwood men glared at one another, their hands twitching near their sword hilts despite the king’s warning.

Beside you, Daemon watched with unveiled amusement, his smirk never faltering. “Viserys will tire of this soon enough,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “And when he does, the real fun begins.”

You sighed, your hand reaching for your goblet. “It’s a wonder we ever manage to call ourselves united,” you muttered.

The feast continued, but the mood had shifted. The Brackens and Blackwoods returned to their seats, though their tempers simmered just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest provocation to boil over.

And in the shadows of the great hall, as wine flowed and music played, you couldn’t help but wonder how long this fragile peace would last.

The feast dragged on long after the first sparks of conflict had settled into the deep, tense silence of uneasy truce. The Brackens and Blackwoods remained seated at opposite ends of the hall, their eyes darting sideways, but never meeting. The music played, but it seemed faint, muted by the hum of strained politeness. The air was thick with the weight of unsaid words and the knowledge that the night was not done with its drama yet.

Daemon’s hand never left your side, though he barely spoke throughout the evening. His gaze, sharp and watchful, moved across the hall with the same intensity he had shown in the small council, as if he were cataloging every movement, every slight. Yet, when he turned to you, the ever-present amusement lingered in his eyes, softened by the flicker of warmth that only you could evoke.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

Finally, the night wore on long enough that the revelers began to tire. The hall was slowly emptied of its guests, many of them still nursing their drinks, their conversations lowered to murmurs. It was only then that you and Daemon rose from the table, both of you feeling the weight of the evening—its many unspoken tensions—and the need to retreat from it all.

As you made your way through the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, your thoughts were heavy, your feet quickening to match the pace of Daemon’s long strides. The air had cooled slightly, but the heat of the feast still lingered in your chest, the pressing weight of what had transpired and what might yet come. You were both silent, the quiet of the corridors filled only with the faint sound of your footfalls.

Upon reaching your chambers, the door was barely shut before Daemon’s mouth found yours in a fierce kiss, a hungry press of lips that spoke more than words could. It was a fire that hadn’t been stoked since the tension of the council, since the weight of the evening’s events, and now, it erupted between you both, a spark turning into a blaze.

His hands were quick, unhurried but firm, as they sought the fastenings of your gown, the fabric brushing over your skin like a whisper. He pulled you closer, his breath warm against your ear, as he murmured words that had no need for meaning—just the undeniable presence of him, the demand of his touch. You responded in kind, your hands threading through his silver hair, pulling him even closer, your own lips demanding, pushing, surrendering.

The world beyond your chambers ceased to exist, only the feel of his body pressed against yours, the heat of your skin mingling in the dim light of the room. The frantic pace, the shared desperation—this was the only way to truly escape the suffocating expectations of the night, of the court, of the world that always surrounded you both.

Time seemed to lose all meaning as you moved together, your bodies in perfect sync, the world beyond the stone walls forgotten. And when it was over, when the storm had finally subsided, you lay together in the coolness of the sheets, breathing heavily, the weight of the night still lingering but now softened, shared between you.

For a moment, there was only quiet, the kind that spoke of an intimacy deeper than any words. But eventually, Daemon’s voice broke the silence, his tone low and thoughtful.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, his fingers trailing lazily down your arm. “I expected you to have more to say about tonight.”

You shifted slightly, propping yourself up on one elbow as you looked at him, his silver eyes darkened by the faint candlelight, the weight of the evening still present but subdued now. “What more is there to say?” you asked, your voice soft, though a trace of the earlier tension remained in it. “It’s all a game, isn’t it? A dance between houses, between power, between… everything we can’t control.”

Daemon’s lips quirked into a faint, almost rueful smile. “Not everything is a game,” he said, his voice low, his hand coming to rest on your waist. “But sometimes it’s the only thing worth playing.”

You let out a small laugh, but it was tinged with weariness. “And we’re all just pawns.”

He turned toward you fully now, his eyes sharp but softer, the edges of his smirk fading into something more sincere. “Not pawns. We’re the ones pulling the strings, whether we admit it or not.”

You met his gaze, searching his face for any sign of doubt or calculation, but found none. For all his cynical remarks, for all his posturing, Daemon was a man who knew the weight of power—and the way it could be wielded.

And yet, there was a part of you that wondered if, beneath it all, he still feared being pulled into the same web of politics, of manipulation, of being a player rather than a kingmaker.

“I suppose we have no choice but to play,” you said after a moment, your voice softer now, more resigned. “And if we can’t win, we make sure no one else does.”

Daemon chuckled, the sound low and dark, and he pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your forehead. “That’s the spirit. And if the night’s mischief didn’t satisfy you, you can always count on me to make things interesting tomorrow.”

You smiled faintly, your fingers idly tracing patterns along his chest. “Let’s sleep first,” you said, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to you. “We can fight the battles tomorrow.”

Daemon’s arms tightened around you as he kissed your hair softly. “Tomorrow, then. But for tonight, let’s leave the world outside.”

And as the flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls, you closed your eyes, the weight of the night finally lifting, knowing that come the dawn, the battles would still await—but for now, you were content to simply rest beside him, the world outside a distant echo. ▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The next morning, the tension that had hung heavy over the wedding feast still clung to the air in the Red Keep. Even the rays of sunlight filtering through the high windows of the small council chamber seemed to carry an oppressive weight, as if the very castle itself was holding its breath. The room, normally filled with the dull murmur of routine affairs, now buzzed with the friction of yesterday’s simmering conflict.

Viserys sat at the head of the table, his usually placid expression marred by a faint crease between his brows. The day after Rhaenyra’s wedding feast, it seemed the wounds were still fresh, not just in the eyes of the Brackens and Blackwoods, but in the silent resentments of the council members who had grown all too accustomed to the tense dance of alliances.

Daemon sat with his usual relaxed posture, though there was no hiding the coldness that lingered in his eyes. He had never been one to mince words or tolerate the games of court, and today, it seemed, his patience was thinner than ever.

The council’s discussion was still focused on the aftermath of the previous evening’s altercation. Some spoke of ways to soothe the ruffled egos of the Brackens and Blackwoods, but it was clear no one quite knew how to do so without further escalating the situation.

Lord Mervyn, a portly noble with the tendency to speak before thinking, suggested, "Perhaps we should offer them gold—some measure of coin to settle their quarrels, a show of goodwill."

The Master of Coin, Lord Ormund, a sharp-eyed man with a wry sense of humor, laughed aloud, his voice cutting through the tension. “Gold?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “And where, pray tell, do you expect to find this coin? We are in a constant state of debt, Mervyn. Should we start selling off the castle to please the Brackens and Blackwoods?”

The room shifted uncomfortably, though Lord Mervyn, his cheeks growing redder by the second, remained silent, his suggestion now hanging in the air like a poorly timed joke.

Daemon rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Perhaps we should all just stop speaking entirely, seeing as it’s become a contest to see who can drone on the longest about the same petty squabbles.” His words were not aimed at anyone in particular, but they struck a chord in the room.

The rest of the council fell into a strained silence. Viserys sighed deeply, rubbing his forehead as if to ward off the growing headache he surely felt. “Enough,” he commanded, his voice quiet but firm. “Let us take a break for now. I will consider all your suggestions and call upon you when I have come to a decision.”

The meeting, like so many before it, ended without resolution. There were no clear answers, no easy solutions to the brewing tensions in the realm. The room emptied slowly, each member of the council filing out, their faces etched with the same frustrations.

Daemon stood quickly, brushing past his fellow lords without a glance, his movements sharp and restless. He had never been one to tolerate idle chatter, least of all in a place that made him feel like a caged animal.

With a grunt, he headed for the exit, intent on blowing off steam in the training yard. It was there that he could find his peace, if only for a moment—away from the endless plotting and bickering of the council.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The council meeting had ended in a tense, uncertain silence. Daemon’s comments had left the room heavy with discomfort, and the usual murmurs among the lords had subsided into a quiet unease. The entire realm could feel the tension as it thickened in the Red Keep, especially with the lords now speaking in hushed tones about Daemon’s latest tantrum. His temper, unchecked and untamed, was becoming too much even for his own family to ignore.

You, however, were no stranger to Daemon’s anger, and as much as it threatened to boil over, you knew something had to be done. The matter was already critical—his pride had endangered everything, and the last thing you could afford was another of his impulsive decisions damaging the realm.

You had not attended the council meeting; there was no need. You knew that the key to solving this issue would lie not in words spoken around the council table, but in private action, taken swiftly and subtly.

When the last of the councilors had left the chamber, you’d already made your way to Viserys’s solar, your mind fixed on a plan. The moment you stepped into the room, you could sense the quiet weight of the king’s exhaustion. His shoulders slumped under the weight of the crown, and there was a weariness in his eyes that had grown familiar over the years.

He turned slowly as you entered, a faint glimmer of recognition in his gaze. “So, it’s done then,” Viserys remarked, his voice low and heavy with the same tension that clung to the walls. He knew. The moment Daemon’s rage had been unleashed, it had been clear that something would need to be done, but you had taken no part in the council’s discussion.

You closed the door softly behind you, moving closer to the king. “Daemon’s actions cannot go unchecked any longer, Your Grace. The Brackens and Blackwoods have made their demands clear, and the council is growing restless. This will escalate if we don’t step in quickly.”

Viserys’s lips tightened in a frown. “And you have a solution?” he asked, though the weariness in his voice suggested he was more than ready to hear one.

You nodded, settling yourself beside him at the table. “I do. I’ve already considered it carefully.”

Viserys raised an eyebrow, his gaze fixed on you with curiosity but no doubt. “Speak plainly, then. What do you propose?”

You hesitated for a moment before diving into the details, your voice steady and measured. “The Brackens are proud. They demand recognition, something that will soothe their wounded egos and quell their desire for vengeance. We offer them a royal boon—a land claim that will satisfy their pride and keep them from seeking bloodshed.”

Viserys listened intently, his gaze not wavering. You knew that he understood the importance of keeping the peace, especially in the wake of Daemon’s volatile temper. “And the Blackwoods?” he asked, his brow furrowing slightly as he sought clarification.

“The Blackwoods are more about justice. They’ll demand the life of the knight who wronged them, but we can’t allow that. Instead, I will offer them exile to the Night’s Watch. It’s a compromise—justice without bloodshed.”

Viserys nodded slowly, considering the weight of your words. “And how do we prevent Daemon from knowing about this?”

You smiled softly, though there was no humor in it. “That’s where you come in, Your Grace. This needs to be seen as your decision—your action. We will stage a public reconciliation ceremony, where both the Brackens and Blackwoods will swear oaths of peace before the Iron Throne. The realm will believe it was your command. Daemon will not suspect a thing.”

Viserys stared at you for a long moment, his expression shifting as he absorbed the intricacies of your plan. You could see the internal conflict on his face—he had always strived to maintain the appearance of unity between himself and his brother, but there was no denying the mounting pressure to act swiftly. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he sighed, his shoulders drooping.

“This will anger Daemon,” he said, the words heavy with the weight of a decision he knew he would have to make. “He will not take kindly to being excluded from such an important matter.”

You nodded in agreement. “I know. But we cannot afford to let his temper ruin everything. We need to act swiftly, before the situation spirals beyond our control. The realm depends on it.”

Viserys stood slowly, walking to the window and staring out over the city below. You could see the exhaustion and the weariness of ruling in his every movement. Finally, he turned back to you, his expression resolute.

“Very well,” he said, his voice carrying the heavy authority of a king. “I will handle it. But you must understand, this may not be the last time we face such a challenge with Daemon.”

“I understand, Your Grace,” you replied quietly, your voice resolute. “But for now, we act. This will prevent any further escalation, and it will protect the realm.”

Viserys gave a small nod, a faint trace of a smile appearing on his lips as he stepped forward, his resolve hardening. “Then we proceed as you’ve outlined. You’ve made it clear that Daemon cannot know, and I’ll ensure that the public sees this as my decision, not his. It will work.”

You bowed your head slightly. “Thank you, Your Grace. This is the only way forward.”

As Viserys turned back to his window, the weight of the crown settling back on his shoulders, you knew that the plan was in motion. The Riverlands would be pacified, the Brackens and Blackwoods would be brought to heel, and Daemon would never suspect that it was you who had orchestrated it all behind his back.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The quiet hum of the Red Keep was always present in the early morning hours—footsteps echoing down long hallways, servants bustling with preparations, the distant sound of metal clashing as the guards went through their drills. But in the stillness of your chambers, there was no sign of movement save for the careful glide of your quill as it moved across the parchment. The dim light of the hearth flickered, casting shadows across the room, and the quiet whisper of ink meeting paper was the only sound you allowed yourself to hear.

The plan had been set into motion after a whispered discussion in Viserys’s solar. He had agreed, reluctantly, that action needed to be taken—but he had trusted you to carry it out. You had laid out the details of the diplomatic approach, and while it was Viserys’s seal that would adorn the letters, the intricate work, the precise wording, and the careful manipulation were all your doing. The king, though burdened by his crown, knew you were the one with the strength to handle the delicate negotiations.

You’d already sent word to the Brackens, a carefully worded letter crafted with precision. To them, you’d extended an olive branch wrapped in gold. A recognition of a contested land claim, something that would soothe their pride without pushing them too far. You had given them a reason to let go of their anger, without allowing them to feel they’d lost face.

Now, it was time to turn your attention to the Blackwoods.

You dipped your quill in ink once more, the tip gliding across the parchment. This letter was more delicate—more intricate. The Blackwoods had a deep sense of honor, and while they were willing to settle, their thirst for justice could not be ignored. You’d offered them the exile of the offending knight to the Night’s Watch, a compromise that would keep his life intact while still serving a form of justice. It would appease their pride, for their enemy would face punishment, but without the bloodshed that would only fan the flames of rebellion.

Each stroke of the quill was deliberate, forming words that sounded gentle but carried the weight of authority. You wrote as Viserys would, sealing your words in the king’s name, though it was clear to both of you that it was your own hands guiding the outcome. Viserys’s approval had been given with the understanding that the matter would be handled quietly, behind closed doors. The lords wouldn’t question the king’s actions—they would simply follow his lead, as they always did.

The letters were ready, each addressed to their respective families. You carefully rolled them, ensuring no trace of ink stained the edges, before sealing them with the king’s seal. You paused for a moment, looking at the waxen emblem, the sign of Viserys’s rule. It was a symbol of power, but it also carried the weight of everything you were trying to protect.

Ravens were summoned, and you entrusted them with the sealed letters. They would carry your carefully crafted words far from the Red Keep, bearing messages that would shape the future of the realm. And while Viserys would ultimately take credit for the decision, it was you who had orchestrated it all.

With the letters dispatched, you turned your attention to the next step of the plan: ensuring that the public reconciliation ceremony would go smoothly. But for now, you allowed yourself a rare moment of quiet. The ravens were on their way, and there was no turning back.

The small council chamber fell silent as Viserys took his seat at the head of the table, his weary eyes scanning the gathered lords. The air was thick with tension, remnants of Daemon’s outburst still hanging in the room.

“Let us be clear,” Viserys began, his voice steady but firm. “The situation with the Brackens and the Blackwoods has been resolved. There will be no bloodshed, no more open hostilities.”

Daemon, who had been sitting quietly, his expression simmering with frustration, leaned forward slightly, his voice low but sharp. “And you believe you can simply end this, without consulting me?”

Viserys’s gaze met his brother’s, unwavering. “I did not consult you, because this matter required swift and delicate action. It needed to be handled quietly, with the authority of the crown, not driven by emotion or pride.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened, but Viserys continued, his voice cool. “I’ve sent a message to both houses. The Blackwoods will receive the justice they desire, but in a way that preserves peace. The Brackens, meanwhile, will be granted a significant boon—a recognition of their claim to disputed lands. A small price to pay to prevent further bloodshed.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “And what of my role in this, brother? What role do I play in this ‘delicate’ matter?”

Viserys looked at him, unflinching. “Your role, Daemon, is not to interfere. You are the Commander of the City Watch, but this was not a matter for the City Watch. It was a matter of diplomacy. Of keeping the peace.”

He paused, allowing the words to settle in the air. “The reconciliation ceremony will take place before the Iron Throne. Both the Brackens and the Blackwoods will swear oaths of peace, under my direct orders.”

Daemon opened his mouth to speak, but Viserys raised a hand, silencing him. “The matter is settled. There will be no further discussion. The lords of the realm will see this as a wise move—one that ensures peace in the Riverlands.”

Viserys leaned back in his chair, his expression softening as he glanced around the room. “Now, we move on. We have more important matters to discuss. The realm cannot wait.”

The silence in the room was palpable as Daemon, his temper barely contained, stood up abruptly. His chair scraped loudly against the stone floor as he stormed out, leaving a tense stillness behind him.

Viserys turned to the remaining council members, his voice once again calm. “Let us proceed with the agenda.”

And with that, the council resumed, but the air was thick with unspoken words.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

You weren’t expecting to find yourself outside the council chambers today, but the moment you heard raised voices echoing through the halls, you knew something was amiss. You didn’t need to hear the words to understand what was happening—Daemon and Viserys were locked in yet another heated argument.

As you neared the door, you paused, quietly listening to the tension that hung thick in the air between the two brothers. You knew this wasn’t a casual disagreement. No, this was deeper, more volatile than anything that had come before. Daemon’s temper was a fire that could not easily be quenched, and Viserys’s patience had long since reached its breaking point.

“—and you’re willing to let them do this without me?” Daemon’s voice rang out, full of disbelief and fury. “You sit there in your throne and make decisions that should be mine to make!”

Viserys’s voice followed, sharper, colder. “I am the king, Daemon! Not you. And you’re not in charge of the Riverlands. You’ve made it abundantly clear that your temper will only make matters worse, and I will not let you jeopardize everything we’ve worked for.”

You couldn’t help the tightness in your chest as you slowly opened the door. You knew that Viserys had been under pressure, but hearing the raw anger in both of their voices made your heart ache.

Daemon’s eyes snapped to you as you entered, his features momentarily softening when he saw you. But it didn’t last long. His frustration was too much to hide.

“You heard all of that, didn’t you?” he growled, his words aimed not at you but at the air around him. “He undermines me, as always.”

Viserys, still seated at the council table, gave a weary sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s for the good of the realm, Daemon. Your actions, your temper... they’ve made it impossible to move forward.”

Daemon took a step toward him, eyes blazing. “And you think I haven’t sacrificed enough for this family? For you?”

You stepped closer, placing a hand on Daemon’s arm gently, though the weight of the argument still hung between the brothers.

“Daemon,” you said softly, “let’s not do this now.” Your voice was calm, but firm, a gentle anchor amidst the storm. “You can talk about this later, after you've both had time to breathe.”

Daemon’s jaw clenched, his eyes still locked on his brother, but his posture softened ever so slightly as your touch worked its magic. He exhaled deeply, frustration still etched in every line of his face, but he made no further move toward his brother.

Viserys looked between the two of you, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer. There was a faint flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he stood, straightening his robes. “I’m done with this conversation for today,” he said coldly, and Daemon shot him one last, bitter glance before Viserys turned to leave.

As the door closed behind the king, the weight of the room seemed to lift, but Daemon’s anger still simmered beneath the surface. You could see it in his clenched fists, his furrowed brow, and the way his shoulders tensed with each breath.

You didn’t say anything at first. Instead, you gave him a moment to calm himself, knowing all too well that a conversation now would only lead to more frustration. Slowly, Daemon turned to face you, and when his eyes met yours, they were softer, though still clouded with the storm of emotion he was struggling to contain.

“You shouldn’t have heard that,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, the anger in it fading, replaced by a weariness that had settled deep within him. “It’s not for you to hear.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “I know you’re frustrated, Daemon. I don’t like seeing you like this.” You paused, your gaze steady. “But this fight... it’s not one you’re going to win. Not now.”

Daemon was quiet for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, he pulled you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all this,” he admitted, his voice raw and vulnerable. “I don’t know how to make it stop.”

You held him a little tighter, feeling the weight of everything pressing on him. “I know. But we’ll figure it out together. You don’t have to do this alone.”

His arms tightened around you as he buried his face in your hair. For a moment, the tension seemed to lift, and all that remained was the two of you, holding on to each other in the quiet aftermath.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

A week passed since the resolution of the Bracken and Blackwood dispute, and while Daemon’s anger had simmered down to a quiet brooding, the tension in the Red Keep was palpable. The lords had spoken their piece, the council had concluded their deliberations, and the kingdom, for now, appeared to be at rest. Yet you knew better than to believe in a calm that came too easily. The peace had been achieved—quietly, subtly—without Daemon’s direct knowledge.

It had been your plan, executed with careful precision. The letters sent under the king’s seal, the meetings with the Brackens and the Blackwoods, the subtle maneuvering to avoid bloodshed—all of it was your doing. Daemon remained unaware of your role in it, and you intended to keep it that way. His temper, as volatile as ever, had quieted somewhat since the ceremony in the throne room. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the quiet between you both was fragile, and the whispers of the court only added to the unease.

The public reconciliation between the Brackens and the Blackwoods had been nothing short of a spectacle. The Iron Throne witnessed their sworn oaths of peace, pledging loyalty to the crown under Viserys’s direction. And while the ceremony had been regal and well-executed, the true work—the work done behind the scenes—remained a mystery to most.

But not to you. The weight of the success felt heavy, and you knew it would not stay secret for long. Even as you stood in the shadows of the throne room, observing the lords of the Riverlands make their pledges, you could hear the faint murmurs beginning to stir. First, it was a passing remark. A raised brow. Then, it grew louder, until it was impossible to ignore.

It was Daemon’s wife who had orchestrated it, they said. Not Viserys, not the king—Daemon’s wife. The rumors spread like wildfire. How had she managed to bring two feuding houses to the table? How had she secured the peace when all seemed lost? The whispers spoke not of Daemon’s involvement, but of your quiet influence. It was you who had orchestrated the peace—through your diplomacy, your steady resolve, and your deep understanding of the delicate balance that held the realm together.

At first, the whispers were faint, almost unnoticeable. But the longer the court simmered in its quiet post-celebration lull, the louder they became. A glance here, a sidelong comment there, as courtiers spoke behind their hands, careful not to draw too much attention. You overheard their theories—the reader of the letters, the one who had soothed the lords’ tempers, the one who had convinced the Brackens and the Blackwoods to lay down their swords.

Daemon had been busy in the training yard, his mind focused elsewhere, and so the whispers were a quiet storm that he hadn’t yet noticed. Yet, you knew it was only a matter of time before he pieced it together. For now, you kept to your silence. Your role in the peace had been deliberate. The credit, you were certain, would fall to Viserys. He was the king, after all, and it was his decision in the eyes of the realm. But it didn’t make the whispers any less insistent, nor did it quiet the growing suspicion in your heart that your husband might soon learn the truth.

You didn’t seek attention for your actions; your only goal had been the realm’s safety. But with each passing day, you could feel the weight of what you had done. Viserys had given you the freedom to act, trusting you to handle it, and you had. But now, as the court grew more talkative and the truth became less veiled, you couldn’t help but wonder: When would Daemon learn the full extent of your involvement? And what would his reaction be when he did?

The whispers only grew louder as the days wore on, echoing in the hallways and chambers, but for now, you remained tight-lipped. The peace had been secured. The rest, for the moment, didn’t matter.

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pan-kojiwa · 5 hours ago

Text

𝐃𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠?

𝐑𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 -> 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝, 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲. 𝐇𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡.

CW: Sfw. (A little bit a tension)

WC: 2k

Waffle’s Note: Rin is aged up here, even this it’s not mentioned. It’s my first time ever writing for Rin so he might be a little ooc. A bit of self insert. Also you have a pet owl? Kinda proofread. (I literally had to stop cuz I kept changing/adding things)

You sigh, lost in your thoughts.

You and Itoshi Rin have been acquaintance for two years now. Yes acquaintances. It’s ridiculous right? You’ve been trying to convince him ever since but he just ignore you every time.

You two are friends— if not even best friends because clearly, if it wasn’t the case, how could he explain why ‘acquaintance’ are constantly glued together like you two? How could he explain how well you two know each others so well, to the point where he could see when you were faking a good mood? And come on now— what sensible person would crash at their acquaintance’s apartment out of the blue just to see their pet owl?

Still, no matter what proof you could possible give him, he simply refused to acknowledge the truth. Yep. Even after two years of friendship—or should you say “acquaintanceship”, you still are a lukewarm nuisance.

Actually, he said pest at first… But you like to think of it as an auditory hallucination on your part. You know— for the sake of your ego.

To be fair, you do annoy him on a daily basis anyway, so you kinda see where he’s coming from. But whatever, he likes to yap about how much you annoy him but never takes action. That man loves your company.

You giggle, your eyes drifting to the ceiling, while your fingers idly tap one of your thigh. Lazily slumped on the couch you sink even deeper into it, your head resting against the armrest as you yawn. Yep, you’re bored.

Last week you needed cleaning supplies for your apartment. So you decided to go to the mall. But you don’t have a car. And you hate the lack of space and the pace of public transportation. So you asked you so generous and awesome friend that happens to have a car to drive you there. But of course he said no. You weren’t surprised though. That’s why you innocently mentioned needing to buy bedding and food for Hoo’ster your pet owl. And of course, as soon as you mentioned your pet, he changed his mind— begrudgingly but you didn’t care about that!

Terrible mistake. Like people say karma’s a bitch, because you got yourself a ticket to a Friday movie night. Again. ‘Yaaay…’ You keep forgetting about the local video store on the way to mall, that for some reason, always have a display of their most recent arrival of horror movies. Seriously, how it’s only the horror section that gets displayed??

Oh, of course Rin immediately went to buy a copy.

‘We’re watching in next Friday. You better show up.’ He said. You facepalmed.

A movement to your right jolted you out of your thoughts, making you turn your head. Rin, sitting beside you slightly shifted in his seat, slowly leaning forward. Eyes a little bit widened and the tip of his tongue sticking out. His head is even moving along with the scenes shown on the TV screen.

You blink. ‘Wow…’ you were definitely used to this sight by now— yet you still look at him with the same fascination you’ve had over the year, dripping in your eyes.

The first time Rin invited you to watch a movie with him, you were ecstatic— well at least until you realised it was a horror movie. But anyway, at first you thought that he was finally warming up to you! You thought that you could ask him a bit more about himself and his hobbies! That you two could chat while watching the movie, even! Oh boy, how wrong were you. It’s also when.. you discover this— quirk, of his? You remember being a bit weirded out back then. You even tried to punch him. You know… to bring him back to reality.

Yet now…

Now, seeing him so fully immersed in the movie this way is… quite endearing.

“ - Rin?” You called out to him.

He doesn’t answer.

… And that’s all you’ve been waiting for. The game begins.

In this game, you just need to shift Rin’s attention on you. Even if it’s for one second. The moment his eyes leave the screen, you win.

A cunning smile creeps up your face as you gently bite your index finger while trying to contain your excitement. When Rin is in this state, you can do pretty much anything you want to him and he won’t mind. Well not that he won’t mind— he’s just so focused on the movie that he’d basically ignore or let most of your shenanigans slide.

It’s only fair anyway. Since Rin seems to have a passion in forcing you to watch movies that bore you to death, you’ll certainly enjoy your new passion: annoying the hell out of him when he’s hyper focused.

Of course at times it was pretty challenging, because the movies he chooses are generally pretty good, so nothing you did could really break his focus. But right now you’re confident. A gut feeling tells you that you can do it.

You shifted on the couch straitening up yourself back into a sitting position. Your lips pressed together in a suppressed smile while your right hand discreetly makes its way to Rin's head, poking it.

“- Rinrin?”

Of course he shows no reaction. You knew he wouldn’t. It takes more than that.

“- Rinrin~ I’m bored…” You say poking at his left cheek again and again.

“- Rin?” Poke. “- Riiin!” Poke. “- Rinrin.” Poke, poke.

Nothing.

Rin’s eyes are still glued to the screen. It’s as if nothing happened, like you’re not even here. Normally he’d have already smacked your hand away, scowling at you to stop that. But you refuse to let his lack of reaction stop you.

You raise your hand again, about to poke at his side, but he stops you before you can do it, simply grabbing your hand before placing it back on your lap.

‘Hehehe… it’s working’

You start to poke his side again, changing location often to avoid hurting him. And you even shamelessly move closer to him, little by little as you poke him. Until there’s no space left between you two. Then, you place your right hand on the back of his neck.

His head twitches slightly at the touch of your cold hand.

Now, now you just got a big reaction. A sly smile tugged at your lips.

Okay. So now you have to be careful, because breaking someone’s concentration could get them mad somtimes— like really mad. And in Rin’s case, it always result in a fight— not a physical on though. He would just spend days ignoring you, and you didn’t want that.

So to make sure that scenario doesn’t happen, you try to ease him a bit by gently rubbing his back. Your hand slipping further down tracing a line along his spine until you reach the small of his back, making him shiver.

You tilt your head a bit. It’s the first time he’s reacted like this— then again, it’s the first time you touch him like this… ‘Did that tickled?’ you ask yourself.

Without pulling your hand off his back, you use your left hand to poke his shoulder repeatedly, letting it slide down to poke at his side again.

With a low rumble, Rin slaps your hand away. ‘Oh! There you go!’

You stare at him, trying to meet his eyes, but they’re still glued on the TV. It’s usually at times like this that he gets mad at you and demand you to stop. But right now he just slapped your hand away! You totally have a chance in winning! You almost want to get up and bounce around the room.

When you glance back at him, you immediately notice something. Something important. His tongue. He tucked it back into his mouth! Oh~ You are so winning this little game of yours! And for the first time ever!

Now, you just have to deliver the final strike.

‘A kiss on the cheek.’ You thought, internally cheering your victory already.

You never kissed him on the cheek before— for obvious reasons, it’s Rin duh he won’t let you— so you’re hoping that this bold action would be enough to break the remaining bits of his already thinned concentration. So you went for it, placing just a little peck on his cheek.

But, the second your lips brushes his skin, he spins around, grabbing your arm with his left hand while shoving you a little bit roughly on the couch. You closed your eyes due to the impact.

When you open your eyes again, the first thing you see is Rin on top of you, pinning both of your hands above your head with his left hand, while supporting his weight with his other hand, placed right next to your shoulder. Suddenly, time freeze as you lay there, completely stunned. How are you supposed to react to what is just happening now?

‘What the hell is he doing??’

And what the hell is this situation? Rin Itoshi currently has you pinned down on the couch? This is completely new to you. Rin has never been like this— like grabbing you and shoving you against a wall to cage you between his arms? Never. Why would he even do that? Rin never really touch you. And if he does, it’s to push you away. So yeah, never. You almost thought he was playing a prank on you, for some reason. That is at least, until you meet his eyes.

His gaze on you is cold. Chilling you to the bone. Yet, you can feel the intensity of his stare burning a hole your face.

‘What—’ From then, you desperately try to look for a hint that he’s messing with you. You search desperately in his eyes some form of anger caused by your little game. In vain. There’s not a single drop of hostility or even his usual annoyance in his eyes. Just an intense and fiery gaze piercing through your defence, leaving you speechless.

You try to steady your breath as your eyes start to water from being open without blinking for too long. Your senses went numb yet at same time, you can still feel his hand slightly brushing against your shoulder, his knee pressed on your hip, and every single pore on your face, trying to regulate the rising temperature of your cheeks.

You can feel Rin’s shallow breath matching the rise and fall of your chest.

All the noise in the room disappear, filtered by the intensity of the moment. Your heartbeat is going crazy as he lets go of your hands, still staring you down. His, now, free hand makes its way to your cheek, gently brushing his thumb on your jawline.

He’s still looking at you, with the same burning intensity, which is now way too intense for you as time passes— intense to the point where you’re no longer able to withstand his gaze.

You avert your gaze, turning your head away from him. You feel dizzy, as if the room is spinning. Seeing your reaction, Rin’s hand slowly stoking your cheek, leaves abruptly, making your breath hitch. You got used to its warmth and now the cold sensation of its absence bites your cheek painfully.

You desperately want to say something. You want to ask Rin what has gotten into him, however the lump in your throat is forcing you into silence. It’s the first time that you’ve ever been this shy in front of him. But it’s also the first time that you can’t figure out what he’s thinking at all.

You just know that him pinning you under him this way, makes you feel so tiny— like a little mouse trapped in the paws of a cat. All you can do is to pray that he doesn’t eat you whole.

You finally muster up the courage to face him, turning back your head to face him. And right at that moment, you catch him staring at your lips. Your eyes widen instantly and your breath hitches. You try to say something. Anything. Yet nothing but a quiet squeak comes out, which makes him look back into your eyes.

Though, it’s too late. Your brain has already crashed.

You’re no longer present, well yes, you are because your body is here, but your mind? Long gone—literally evaporated.

Rin just looked at your lips…

You’ve never imagined yourself with him before. It never even crossed your mind once. He’s just a friend, that’s all he’s ever been to you. A friend— well okay a fucking good looking one. You can’t lie about that. And even if his personality can be quite the challenge, once you get to know him he’s not that hard to deal with. So… why does the idea of being in a romantic relationship with him doesn’t bother you at all? Like at all. If he asks you to go out on a date with him, like right now, you’d definitely accept right away.

Now that you think about it… since when did you even started to feel this way about him? Since when do you want to him to hug you and kiss you so badly?

And Rin? Does he feel the same way as you do? Does he feel something more than friendship for you. Is it for this very reason that constantly refuses your hugs and your affection? Was it why he looked at your lips?

As those questions swirl in your head, Rin gets up and turns off the TV, making is way to the kitchen. You bite the inside of your cheek, hearing him sigh softly while one of his hand runs through his hair.

“- Let’s get something to eat. I’m hungry.” He says.

You only nod, still a bit shaken up by what just happened.

In every movie nights, you’re in charge of the food. Rin tells you what he wants to eat and you either make it—when you feel like it, or you order it. But this time you didn’t even ask him what he wanted to eat. You can’t verbally face him yet, a ton of question still spinning in your head making it impossible to focus. Well, to be completely honest, you’re also being too shy to voice any of your questions. Which is really not like you.

Rin sits down on the dining table and looks at you briefly. It’s quiet. You’re quiet. Too quiet. You’ve never been this quiet ever with him, and that seems to bother him deeply. He tsk in annoyance, a frown tugging at his brows as he seats down at the dining table.

“- For someone who’s always pestering me, trying to get a reaction out of me, now that you’ve got it, you’re this quiet? How tepid.”

Your heart begins to race again as he brings up what has just happened. You never expected him to be the one to mention it first.

“ - I was just… It’s weird! You’ve never done that before, that’s why!” You blurt out defensively.

“ - Keep messing with me like that, and I’ll do it again.”

There’s a brief silence and you blink, processing what he’s just said. Did he just...? You tilt your head and raise an eyebrow, well you were used to Rin being bossy— but not like this? Feeling more confident thanks to him, you smirk, your true self slowly coming back out.

“ - I’ll just have to get used to it.” You retort with a challenging tone.

Rin locks eyes with you, and for a brief moment, you spot that same intense look he had earlier when he pinned you down on the couch. And, just as quickly, his gaze shifts to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“ - I’ll just have to shut you up.”

Rin’s phone suddenly rings, cutting through the silent stare down, the building tension between you two had created. And not without glancing at you one last time, he gets up, heading out of the kitchen to answer the call.

You’re left sitting here, heart racing like a wild horse in your chest. A big but dumb grin plastered on your face, your cheeks and ears burning hot, as you couldn’t help but think out loud.

“ - Guess we’re still not friends then.”

GOD… this took longer than expected. I KEPT ADDING STUFF THATS WHY 😭 I yap a lot when i write. I swear it was supposed to be a 700/1K drabble . But anyways I really had fun writing this!! I Got inspired by my interaction with the Rins RP blog! (I love them so much! Shout out to the mods!) I might do one for Sae but Idk yet.

Well thank you if you read till here!

#⟢inking waffle⟣#bllk rin #blue lock rin #bllk x you #bllk x reader #bluelock x reader #rin itoshi x reader #rin itoshi #waffle inks #rin x reader #rin itoshi x you #rin itoshi x y/n #blue lock #blue lock fic

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spectral-phases · 2 days ago

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Tim Drake as Rook (and Blackbird)

I've seen posts floating around trying to suggest new names and new costumes for him, and I've seen really great designs (u/Hunkerdown_son's Gray Ghost suit) that I like a lot more than what he's gotten. (Poor kid's gone back to Robin and was feuding with Damian about who's the better Robin? Like, boy, you could be in college, you are a whole-ass adult now, god damn, can the writers let you develop). There's Cardinal, Flamebird, Redbird, every red bird there is. And like, I get it, Red Robin was one of his more iconic runs (pre-Flashpoint), his OYL costume was primarily red, he was Red Robin wearing basically a Robin costume for a little while there too.

One of the name's I've seen is Rook. And that fascinates me. I actually had a hazy image of it pop into my mind, like a terrible "got any more pixels?" JPG picture of an artbook all zoomed-in and blown out one, of what that might look like.

(Artist's recreation of the above described image)

So I made it.

(Look, I know. I know. That is not how "Rook" would be stylized for the logo, but listen, listen. Cursive k basically has a mini-R in it and I was having fun with this. Okay? I don't draw much these days and I'm not a comic artist/graphic designer. I do math for a living.) (I spent very little time on the logo for Blackbird, but you get the idea. The "R" gets twisted nicely into a "B" for Blackbird, in my opinion.)

Design choices and everything below. Very stupidly long.

Rook first because I know the color is going to be a sell.

Rook is a bird in the corvid family, with crows, so they're exceptionally smart birds. Rooks are also the name for the chess piece that can perform the trickster maneuver called castling where they trade places with the king (It's not hard to do, necessarily, just like, a 4D move compared to the normal chess moves, and not something the average person knows about). Being that he's been relegated to the "boy genius" role and he is vicious and cunning with his mind more than almost anything else (See Robin #137's "Show your face here again and we'll frame you for the kind of crimes even other hardened kills don't condone or forgive" speech, him blowing up the LoA's computers in Red Robin #8 after somehow creating a program/virus on their systems while under constant supervision, or all of Red Robin's "The Hit List" arc). (I know he's not the only one who can do or has done, things like this, but he does it a lot, is my point).

Rooks, the birds, as a symbol of death are also fascinating to connect to Tim. He's never "died" like the other Robins have, but his mantra in his introduction is basically "Batman needs a Robin." Because Batman/Bruce has been traumatized by losing his son, Jason, and is spiraling, dialing up the violence towards criminals, dialing down his ability to care whether or not he survives, destroying his interpersonal relationships in the process. Death as a symbol can mean the literal figurative death, but it also can mean the end of a phase of life, of letting something go, and moving onto a new chapter.

And that's what Bruce needed to do. He, of course, would always miss Jason, but he needed to move past the pain, move past the agony, become what Batman was supposed to be again. Tim's the one who got him there. He's the one who convinced Bruce to open that new door. Tim's the one who put the "family" in Bat-Family because Bruce sure as shit was not going to do that. Here, this post explains that a bit more eloquently.

https://www.tumblr.com/thattimdrakeguy/190044791065/would-you-consider-tim-the-heart-of-the-batfamily

Rooks, the birds, are also blue/purple in color, which I think is great for Tim. I know, I know, everyone wants him with red. I get. I really, truly, get it. But let's just...take a step back and go outside of the box a little for his color. Now, I know, not everyone keeps the same color consistently (the number of times Nightwing has just bounced between Blue and Red, for example), but there is usually a "main" color strongly associated with each member of the Bat-Family.

Nightwing gets blue, duh (and also bluebird). Red Hood gets red (and also Nightwing when he's having a shit time and also Kate Kane's Batwoman and also Damian's Redwing). Damian's Robin often gets green (though I low-key associate green with Tim's Robin more than Damian's, Tim's no longer going to be Robin here, so Damian can have it). The Signal gets yellow (and so does Cass's Batgirl/Black Bat/Orphan). Stephanie as Spoiler/Batgirl has purple (and so does Huntress and Barbara's Batgirl). And Oracle gets lime green.

We don't need any more red symbols in the family. It's already out of hand without throwing Tim in there. And out of all the siblings, he's the only one without a distinct color.

Anyway. If we dip into tertiary colors, we can fix all of that. I made a mock-up of what I mean drawing the symbols mostly by memory in a few minutes. For Huntress/Helena Bertinelli, I just used her mask.

See how Tim as Rook gets to be wedged in between Nightwing's blue and Stephanie's purple with Violet? Tim Drake is a Dick Grayson fan first, Nightwing fan second, and person a distant third, so going more blue with his scheme is a much better fit. You could come up with a name for him to be teal, but violet is better for Rook, and like he's also close to Stephanie's Spoiler/Batgirl colors and say what you will of his relationship with her, she is important to his character as friend/girlfriend/friendly-ex. And Dick went from "Red/green/yellow" to "Blue/black" so Tim can go from "Red/green/yellow/black" to "violet/black."

Oh, and it lets him get his "R" back. The one from the 90's that's just so iconic that he was literally introduced with as Robin. If we can have a million different bat symbols then we can have two different R's floating around and no one will be confused.

And anyway, with all of that in mind, and that terrible image haunting me, I decided to draw a quick reference sheet for what Rook might look like. I think I spent like 2 hours on the final version, with an hour and a half on sketches I hated/deleted. Anyway.

I had a nice dark green in here instead of sky blue and a dark purple instead of dark blue, but then I was looking at the purple/green combo and "I'm in dangered" my way out of the Joker color-combo.

Instead I decided, since he's a young person and the violet I chose was sort of blacklight-esque, then why not make him look like some kinda blacklight glowing guy. The youth these days still love that kinda stuff, right? And it ties into the themes of being a light in the dark and crime-scene stuff and all that. The colors came from how lead glass reacts under black light, and while I imagine the violet parts do show up in black light, it's the light blue parts that actually glow in blacklight.

If you want to draw this design or make up your own Rook design or tweak this design go ahead, like, for example if you wanted him to have the sharp pointy cuffs that I couldn't get to look good at all (but please tag me if you do, I wanna see it, unless you're shit-talking me. Then don't tag me.)(Shit talking means "my god, this asshole who cannot draw at all" and not "It was okay, but I thought it might be better like this/with some tweaks/more coherent colors" one I can take and the former will make me cry).

(If the notes are hard to read, they will be in text at the very bottom)

Obviously, I got a little too obsessed with the mask for my own good. I didn't want him to just have a domino mask, I liked the protectiveness of his Red Robin cowl (if not the look), and I wanted more coverage while also having his hair out because he has really good hair. So it goes around the back of his head in a band, protecting his temples and the back of his head, but nothing else for his hair to show. It is supposed to blend with his hair so we get the illusion of the cowl, but drawn by someone better/more time/shading it'd be fairly obvious up front where his hair and mask are, but less so from the back. And Tim has done the mask under a mask gag before and a self-destructing mask, so I feel like him having approximately 30-billion fail-safes to prevent it from just being pulled off of him is in-character.

And then I decided, that since Tim is Nightwing fan second, he can have a red version of the outfit named "Blackbird" for when he's feeling a little moody or feisty the same as Nightwing has the red Nightwing suit for...reasons ("We wear red in new continuities" or whatever. Why have one outfit when you can have several?). This time the colors were inspired by red cadmium glass under blacklight and the red winged blackbird.

Red Winged Blackbird's symbolically are "a sign of change and transformation. They represent the power of love and compassion, as well as the need to take action in order to make positive changes in your life. The red winged blackbird is a symbol for spiritual growth, inner strength, courage, determination and self-awareness." Which. You know. Fits Tim. And there's red. So. I feel like that's an easy sell. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I wanted to reference his OYL, Post-Crisis Red Robin (regular and data alter), and Robin (Post-Crisis/Rebirth) outfits for the design. I didn't care for much of his post-Flashpoint Red Robin outifts, adding Nomura/Kingdom Hearts zippers levels of belts to him or just being Robin with two "R"s for a symbol and bad hair. You can see the OYL in the edges of the cape and the interior of the mask. Robin, Rebirth in particular, with his elbow pads and knee pads, shoulder armor and the shape of his boots. Red Robin in the bandolier harness/belt thing he's got, but every thing on it is one of those hammer space utility belt pouches the Bats are so well known for, so he can have a bajillion of them as the "tool using" Robin. The "V" center and arm-stripe/finger-stripe combo is, obviously, reminiscent of Nightwing, and his Red Robin data alter, which is also reflected in the larger mask (though the nose is not as beak-like).

(OYL References, the dialogue in the second to last panel of the first reference is misattributed, in case you were confused as to why Tim is dissing his outfit and Dick is talking like Tim)

(Red Robin References)

(Robin References)

And obviously, I just put his "R" symbol on a circle and called it a day. Although I was clearly going off of memory instead of a direct reference, but whatever. Whatever. It fits better in a circle the way I did it. And a circle is a better buckle/clip than the oval, which was a deliberate choice. So. Anyway.

Notes (from top left to bottom right, grouped by what they're describing):

Shoulder Shot: "We're brining back his iconic 'R' from the 90's for 'Rook. (pointing to the R symbol)." "The cape can be rolled back to reveal some light shoulder armor that doesn't change his silhouette when the cape is down (pointing to his shoulder armor and the rolled back cape that is reminiscent of his over the shoulder "black with yellow" capes)." "Feather pattern that emulates Nightwing's arm/fingerstripes (pointing to the side of his arm)." "His elbow pads have the same shape as his kneepads for the skaterboy vibe. (pointing to the pads over his arms and knees)."

Sketch of harness: "Bandolier harness hides under the cape that clips into his insignia (pointing to the symbol in the center)." "Each space is a pouch (pointing to every area between the pointed ridges (which are hollow tubes with screw caps that can also hold things for maximum hammerspace))."

The detailed shot of the mask: "The face mask is partial emotive with white lenses that have thermal and night-vision (next to the white eyes)." "The foil layer of the mask can peel off unless actively held when the mask is lifted, and cling to his skin with a static charge that makes it almost impossible to peel from his skin (pointing to the teal circuit bit that is lifted from the pointy bit of the mask (the circuits are water/sweat proof, don't worry))." "There are dozens of magnetic locks that have to hit in the right on/off pattern to life all layers of the mask. Each finger in his gloves can have an active magnetic charge, so there are over a thousand combinations (pointing to the foil layer and the inside of the mask)."

The sketches of the mask lowered and raised: "The back of the mask is made of interlocking combs that seal together with metal locks to avoid it coming off unintended (pointing to the back of the raised mask)." "Durable, flexible rubber-like material (pointing to the sides of the mask, back, and the expanding fan like section that allows it to raise while still being one-piece and the top of the mask that would roll against his forehead)." "The mask can be lifted up when the locks are undone (pointing to the raised and lowered mask and the expanding accordion like structure)."

The sketch of a side profile of his head with his bangs and face half there: "Where does the mask end and his hair begin? Like Kujo Jotaro's cap, the world may never know (pointing to the back of his head where the black mask and black hair would blend together)." "The back of the mask combs through his hair and the top layers of his hair cover it (providing an actual answer)." "The nose of the mask has padding that protects his nose from breaks and conceals the shape of his nose and cheeks (next to his nose, which is half covered by the mask)."

#tim drake #robin #red robin #tim drake robin #dc red robin #dc robin #robin dc #fanart #my art #spes talks #I swear to god something possessed me with that mask #Literally the only thing I was thinking about #while sketching #and coloring #Was adding layer after layer of failsafe #so Tim Drake's identity is protected #while still letting him pull it up quickly for drama #or whatever the story needs #Also #Barry Allen had a watch that his outfit condensed down into #or whatever science thing it did #His belt and bandolier can be smooth and flat and hold many things #It's science-magic #Bigger on the inside #and all that #More hammerspace for Bats #without me needing to draw a million finicky pouches #so glad we *didn't* collectively decide that the bats had to be the most realistic superheroes #like imagine making a super gritty and realistic batman #who is limited by what humans in real life can or would do

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