#his craft and its reception

[laurenttheninth]

i say this as a buddie and bucktommy shipper but also fundamentally i say this as a performing artist: i cannot imagine being an artist whose breakout role has been an anchor character for eight seasons on a huge network show and the only fucking interview questions i get asked are about which of my colleague’s characters i’m kissing or not kissing. he should be allowed to bite people perhaps maim them a bit

[kingdom-carer]

How to regress when you’ve literally never done it and you have no idea what to expect (or it’s been a while)

*turns around in chair like Captain America* so ……. you wanna be tiny.

Awesome! :D

Voluntary regression, when done intentionally, can be immensely fun and healing. Let’s get you set up for success.

Step 1: Set Your Goals

Your goal should never be “to regress” - it may not happen. You may spend all of your time just age dreaming (acting small with your big brain still in). You need to be okay with that.

The reason you’re regressing isn’t the same as your goal. “Because I’m traumatized,” “for fun,” and “for chronic pain” are all valid reasons, but they don’t provide you with the framework for healing that we’re looking for.

Here are some specific, achievable goals:

“I want to relax and have uninterrupted fun after a long day.”

“I want to reparent my inner child through affirmation work, gentle parenting, and rules for self-care.”

“I want to work through trauma I’ve experienced through play so I can experiment with new outcomes for tough situations.”

“I want to complete easy tasks/assignments to give myself a sense of pride and accomplishment.”

“I want to allow myself to trust and be cared for in a way that I am usually resistant to.”

“I want to allow Jesus to speak to me when I feel most vulnerable and receptive to His kindness.”

“I want to improve my self/care habits by making them fun and digestible.”

“I want to revisit childhood/deep-rooted fears so I can work through them with effective coping mechanisms, like journaling.”

Step 2: Selecting Your Tools

Here, you might have seen lists of things that people like to use when they’re little, but rarely do they explain why they like to use them. These lists also may not resonate with older or alternative regressors.

So instead, I will give you categories of things that I believe are relevant to regression, and you fill decide what satisfies it best for you.

Something to wear: do you have clothing that is easy and comfortable to move around in, makes you feel good to wear, and/or gives you sensory input you crave?

Something to watch: do you know of a show, movie, or YouTube channel that holds good memories for you? Is there one out there that piques your interest? It doesn’t have to be “kid-friendly,” but its effect should be comfort and peace, not intellectual or emotional strain. We are not looking for challenge - that is for developing your grownup brain. Many regressors prefer kids media for this reason.

Something to do (with your hands): Stimulating senses other than sight is vital for grounding, especially in today’s online world … and, considering the nature of the work we are doing, you may need it. Painting, sensory sand, going to the beach, swimming, making music, woodworking, crocheting, polymer clay, diamond painting, puzzles, coloring books, and more can all bring out your inner child. Again, we are looking for joy, not challenge; perhaps your local dollar store has a craft kit!

Something to read: are you a scientist who loves learning about animals? A horror fan who loves spooky tales? Do you remember a series from your childhood that brought you joy? Reading is a great way to escape into a simpler world and evade screens, especially if it’s crafted without profanity or triggering subjects. Children’s books may also minister to you in ways that adults failed, such as teaching emotional regulation, socialization, and how to fight common fears.

Something to hold: plushies have been proven to be beneficial for mental health, but a companion doesn’t have to be stuffed! Action figures, dolls, and other friends can be thrifted, bought, or dug up from closets. They provide sounding boards for scary thoughts that get less scary when said aloud, companionship during play, travel, or sleep, and serve as willing recipients of your creative outputs (bracelets, clothing, drawings, etc). And, when you need a hug, your favorite toy can be right there with you in the absence of a human friend.

Something to nibble: food is fuel for the body, but it is also love. Choose foods that are nutritious and fun, just like you’d give a child. My personal faves are Slim Jim’s, pepperoni, berries, nuts, dairy, and veggies with dip. Treats are great too, but spend your tummy bank on nutritionally valuable food first! Regressors also find fun in experimenting with different vessels for food and drinks, like crazy straws, bottles, ZooPals plates, or character dining sets.

Something to play with: ‘play’ has many definitions and types. Below is a short list of types of play. No matter if you like toys or not, gather objects or activities that encourage play.

Symbolic play - using one object to represent another (i.e. a flower becomes a wand - try blocks or play scarves)

Locomotor play - moving play (try roller skates, online exercises/dance classes, or small exercise trampolines)

Creative play - invoking a desired or experimental outcome (try Legos and art supplies)

Deep play and rough-and-tumble play - play that involves bodily risk and movement (try hiking, rock climbing, or swimming)

Dramatic play - orchestrating play without personal involvement (“setting up” elaborate scenes with toys was a big part of my childhood play! Try small toys and accessories like Calico Critters, stuffed animals, or dolls)

Exploratory play - play to gain information (try boxed or homemade science experiments, or simply asking, “I wonder what happens if I …?”)

Fantasy and imaginative play - playing in a way that is unlikely to occur in real life and/or the rules have changed (try dressing up to be a superhero, royalty, animal, etc)

Mastery play - bringing a task to completion (build a campfire, dig holes in sand to fill with water, complete a video game level, etc)

Object play - manipulating objects to learn more about them (common in developing babies and autistic stimming; try fidget toys)

Socio-dramatic play - taking on a role that involves social interaction (I.e. playing house or doctor)

Somewhere to go: novelty can be hugely effective in delighting your inner child. Try hanging out in the backyard, going to a park/museum/aquarium, taking yourself on a “little” shopping spree with a set budget, going to a theme park/state fair, or checking out kids media from your local library. Since you are exiting your safe space, you must be mindful of those around you. This is why I usually recommend this to those who know they will only be age dreaming, unless they are completely alone. For your safety, please do not involve anyone who has not consented in your regression.

Something to see: if you can, decorate your safe space or a portion of your safe space in a way that makes your inner child happy. Try changing your phone wallpaper, collecting figures, displaying stuffies on your bed, putting up wall stickers or drawings you’ve made, or changing your bed sheets.

A note on pacifiers: pacis made for adults are a great way to abate thumb-sucking and unhealthy oral stims. They will shift your teeth only if you use them excessively; try limiting use to an hour at a time, and always wear your retainer if you have one. If you feel pain, stop. Disassemble and clean immediately after use.

A note on diapers: I personally do not use diapers because I don’t want or need them, but should you choose differently, there are lots of creators who have more information on them. Most importantly, they are not shameful.

Step 3: Meeting Your Inner Child

How do you know when you’ve regressed?

When play takes over.

When you find yourself fully engaged in what’s in front of you, finding captivation in the simplest things, you are regressed. It isn’t some magical transformation - you’re just revising a part of you that has always been there, latent. It is an unlocking of childhood whimsy … a state of being easily awed.

Thoughts may simplify; adult reasoning for comfort objects may reduce to a petulant mine. Anxious spirals may be replaced by a simple mama, I’m scared. Thoughtful analyses of character arcs and subplots may sound more like yay, ponies!

If you have an internal monologue, it may disappear, replaced with more primal emotions like “angry” or “scared” or “happy” or “calm.” There have been many times that my husband has asked little me what’s wrong, but instead of words, only sobs make it out of my mouth. Then, when he holds me, a warmth I can’t name fills my chest and makes me sleepy.

What is your inner child like? Are they more or less …

Sensitive?

Chatty?

Energetic?

Creative?

Impulsive?

Experimental?

Outspoken?

Stubborn?

Relaxed?

Giggly?

Curious?

Focused?

Defiant?

Angry?

Expressive?

Your inner child, like all children, is subject to fits and flights of fancy. This is normal! Love them as you would love a normal child.

Step Four: Caring For The Bunchkin

Since our goal is not to regress, we have the freedom to take a third-person point of view while we are in our safe space, check in on ourselves, and see how we are doing.

If your goal is to heal, take things slow. Choose one activity at a time that allows you to explore your deeper thoughts, and allow ample room for fun and relaxation.

Instead of focusing on your trauma and hurt, start by asking yourself - “what are my deepest desires? What am I lacking? What is important to me? What can I give myself that I did not receive?”

Kids’ “About Me” worksheets are a great place to start, since there are no wrong answers. As you get more comfortable being small, try making or completing worksheets that ask the weightier questions.

Caring for with your inner child can be as simple as imagining them like another person. For example:

If you are shameful of your desire to connect with an old fandom, ask yourself why that might be. Did someone tell you that it was shameful? Did you have a bad experience in that fandom? Were you at a turbulent point of your life? What might you say to a child experiencing these emotions now?

If you are reluctant to make noise or take up space, ask yourself why. Did someone tell you that you were ‘too much?’ Were you afraid to be judged? Did someone punish you for getting in their way? What would you say to a child afraid to take up space in your presence?

If you are distressed at the idea of stimming openly while small, ask yourself why. Did someone - or life experience - teach you to mask? Are you afraid of being judged as a “faker?” Are you afraid of looking or feeling incapable in some way? What would you say to a child who is afraid to stim?

If you are upset with yourself for reacting to a trigger, ask yourself why. Do you feel like you should be more healed, or more in control of yourself? Are you afraid of slipping back towards a state you used to be in? Are you afraid of re-experiencing trauma?

What would you say and do for a child who struggles with a trigger?

Showing your little self compassion and modeling joy from an adult headspace is vital. Don’t say anything to your inner child that you wouldn’t say to an actual child.

You may not be quite ready to believe the healing truths you have learned when you are big, but putting them into practice when you are small is a great way to soothe yourself from the inside out.

(I filled up my star chart by making my bed each day! Good job, me! I worked so hard, and now I get a treat!)

(I did a drawing all by myself! I can put it on my fridge now. Wow, I’m so glad I made something today.)

(I went outside, and there are so many cool things to see! What an awesome world I live in.)

Healing can be tough, but it’s so fantastic. It all starts with being kind to yourself. You can do it!

Step 5 - Putting Out Fires

Oh dear, something went wrong, and now a tantrum is afoot. Or a meltdown. Or a flashback. What do we do?

Hold up your fingers like birthday candles and blow them out to encourage deep breathing.

Play a song that makes you feel good, and dance if you can. Physical movement is your best antidote.

Name 5 things you can see, 4 you can touch, 3 you can hear, 2 you can smell, and 1 you can taste.

Repeat your affirmations aloud. There is power in hearing something that isn’t your own mental hurricane. “I am loved, I am safe, I am going to be okay.”

Assign the trigger to a stuffie (don’t worry, they are willing participants!). Say, “hey, wait a minute, why should you be in charge? These are MY thoughts! Take that! And that! And that!” Toss your stuffie around and get those crazy thoughts away from both of you!

Assign the trigger to a stuffie, and pretend they are you. What would you say to calm them down and tell them you are here for them?

Get a change of scenery. Go outside, go somewhere else, take a shower or bubble bath.

Scribble your feelings on paper. No, really, go ham. Break some crayons. Then crumple them, tear them, and throw them away.

Most importantly - don’t be mad at yourself.

The debrief - what can we do for next time?

Handle triggers with care, but don’t be afraid of the feelings that accompany them. There is an unmet need somewhere in your soul - what is it, and how can you meet it?

Journaling and affirmations - record what happened and why you think it happened, and then write kind things to and about yourself.

“Do it scared” - push past the lies you have been told about yourself and enjoy things anyway.

I am a Christian, and I live by the phrase: “if it isn’t your reality, make it your prayer.” Even if you don’t believe now that you are safe, loved, and capable, saying these things to yourself constantly will help them be realized.

Obviously, avoiding negative language about yourself in your adult life is the other half of the pizza. Your inner child is doing work for adult you, too! Don’t undermine it!

The Wrap Up

Well, Kiddo, I’m so glad you’re taking this step in your healing journey. A few things to remember before you go:

You may grow out of regression! That’s good! It’s a sign that your inner child is happy and content.

You may never grow out of regression. That’s okay! Your inner child can get love all your life!

Your regression is your business. You don’t have to tell anyone about it if you don’t want to. Choose who you tell very carefully.

Ignore the haters. You’re doing great.

Bye, Kiddo! You are so loved!! 🥰

[brklynbxby]

closed starter for @mysteriousxgirls

Azriel’s formal Oxford shoes struck the pavement with a sharp, deliberate cadence as he emerged from the sleek black SUV, his presence undeniable amidst the chaotic hum of the nightclub’s entrance. Dressed in a sharp navy suit that hugged his frame just right, the crisp lines of the jacket contrasted against the casual edge of his unbuttoned white shirt underneath — a look both refined and dangerously laid-back. Luca moved just behind him, ever silent, his gaze cutting through the crowd with a cold, methodical precision. Maria was several paces ahead, her movements deliberate and laced with purpose, the subtle sway of her hips punctuating her every step. Her laughter, infectious and slightly careless, rose above the pounding bass, already weaving its way through the crowd as she set her sights on her prey. She was working her angle—feigned inebriation, the slightest tilt of her head, eyes cast toward a handful of strangers—an artful distraction.

The club pulsed with life, a kaleidoscope of flashing lights and bodies crammed into a space that left little to the imagination. Their movements were synchronised with the relentless beat of the music, each step in perfect harmony with the next. The air was dense with the acrid tang of cigarette smoke and the cloying scent of overpriced cologne, a suffocating haze that blurred the edges of reality and rendered everything just a shade too intimate. Azriel navigated through the throng with purposeful intent, every step measured, eyes scanning the room with surgical precision. They were here for a singular purpose: the ex-gang chemist who had vanished, now resurfaced under a new alias, peddling party drugs in places like this. Azriel had studied the intel; the man was tall, dark-haired, with a jawline as sharp as his calculated gaze. His eyes—those eyes that never quite met yours—locked onto him in an instant. The man they sought was stationed near the bar, his predatory gaze sweeping the room, searching for an opening. Luca’s eyes flicked over the dance floor, always alert, always assessing. “I don’t like this place,” He murmured, his voice barely rising above the incessant pulsing of the music. “Too many eyes, too many distractions.” Azriel shot him a glance—steady, unwavering, the calm in the midst of chaos. “That’s precisely the point. We blend in. We don’t attract attention. Keep it tight.”

Already in motion, Maria’s gaze locked onto the dealer across the room. With the precision of a seasoned operator, she moved toward him, her walk artfully exaggerated by a slight stumble, as though slightly tipsy. Easing onto the bar stool beside him, her posture languid and seductive, she leaned in just enough for him to catch the faint scent of alcohol on her breath, a calculated invitation. “Hey there, big guy,” she purred, her voice a syrupy blend of faux sweetness. “I’m not usually this fun, but tonight’s been... one of those nights,” A slow, tipsy grin curled at her lips as she spoke, the expression lazy and deliberately drawn out. Her gaze, deliberate and inviting, lingered for a fraction of a second longer than needed, crafting the subtle illusion of vulnerability, as though she were irresistibly receptive to whatever temptations he might extend.

Azriel’s attention remained fixed on the dealer. The ex-chemist’s features were unmistakable—his angular jawline, the shrewd, calculating gleam in his eyes, all wrapped in that same predatory allure. Subtle flickers in his gaze, darting between Maria and the sea of bodies, betrayed his intentions: he was poised, waiting for the perfect moment to act. Azriel’s focus was laser-sharp. There was no room for distraction, no tolerance for delay. The objective was clear. If this man was indeed the one they sought, the truth would be pried from him with ruthless efficiency. If he wasn’t, Azriel would ensure that he became irrelevant, swiftly and decisively. Maria had already captivated the dealer’s attention, and Azriel, knowing her methods all too well, recognised the delicate dance she performed. She was a master of misdirection, playing the role of a tipsy seductress with effortless precision, drawing him in with the promise of something more. Azriel knew some games required patience, so he pushed off from the wall and made his way to the other side of the bar, casually ordering a drink. His gaze never strayed from her, though, keeping a careful watch without drawing attention.

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

˖✧ The Jackpot

✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader ✦ Summary: You join Arthur and the boys for a job on the Grand Korrigan riverboat where you act as Arthur’s lap girl. The man in question is more than excited about this decision. ✦ Warnings: Guns, mention of shooting, swearing, SMUT, oral (reader receiving), edging if you squint, unprotected p in v ✦ Words: 3,8k ✦ a/n: A big heartwarming thank you to @zae-heeyyy!! Who took the time to correct my dumb spelling and give me her thoughts on this before publishing it! Please go check her work, I swear it won't disappoint! Also: pictures are not mine! I usually try to use a pic for Arthur from my own playthrough but I'm fcking stuck on Guarma rn. Found them on Pinterest.

Dim lights are flickering all around you, making the golden ornaments of the luxurious place you're in shine like a thousand stars. You couldn't believe this gigantic reception room, gratified by a bar, a grand piano, and of course, three elegant poker tables, was actually floating on water right now, as you were on the Grand Korrigan boat, the jewel of its kind, den of the richest gentlemen in St. Denis, in search for some amusement and of course, even more money.

Trelawny and Herr Strauss had plotted a well-crafted deal that could earn a lot of money for the gang. Along with Javier disguised as one of the guards, Arthur would act as a new wealthy businessman who had just made a fortune in oil. Strauss would give him signals during his poker game, which guaranteed him to win considering Trelawny had made a friend out of the dealer.

You? You'd play his mistress, sitting on his lap during the game to make the scene look more convincing. On top of that, you had been able to hide a little gun in a hidden pocket in the underside of your dress, guaranteeing some extra protection, which wasn't a bad idea considering the Grand Korrigan was heavily armed and neither Arthur, Trelawny nor Strauss had one.

So here you were, thriving in your role, comfortably sitting on Arthur's lap, hands wrapped around his neck, both legs hanging on his left side. His arms were enveloping you, hands resting on the edge of the table as he was focusing on his cards.

Well, more like trying to focus, actually.

Maybe it was because you two had started a quite passionate relationship a few weeks ago, sneaking in each other's tent, simple kisses and whispers in the night quickly turning into something more, the both of you having cravings to fulfill.

Maybe it was because Trelawny, the damned man, had chosen a particularly suggestive dress for you to wear, comforting your play considering wives weren't allowed at the poker tables, only work girls and such, your cleavage on full display for his immoral eyes.

Maybe it was the way he could feel the round and warm flesh of your ass even through the fabric of your clothes, right where he wanted to, making his brain impossible to function properly, desperately trying to keep the hardness between his legs to stay in line.

Either way, Arthur had to make enormous efforts to focus on the job and was frankly relieved Strauss was telling him what to do; despite being a pretty good poker player, he would never have been able to win the easiest of games in this state.

Strauss told him to go all-in. He did. You smiled, you would have lied saying you weren't enjoying yourself right now. You had known far worse jobs than playing Arthur's lover. Much to your surprise, he had played a really convincing character through the night too, his usual mumbling far gone, replaced by a bright and confident speech and a cheeky grin that was making you want to kiss it even more. In fact, you wanted to take care of him just to see this cocky smirk flatter under your touch, replaced by a pleasured expression on his handsome face.

It was easy to say both of you were acting pretty good, but inside felt like two teenagers in love.

Arthur had won another hand, men were starting to leave the table, angry. It was only you both and the target now, an opulent man known as Desmond Blythe, loaded with money thanks to his hosiery business.

You pulled a cigarette out of Arthur's pocket along with a match, and you felt his breath hitch for an instant when you slipped your hand in it. Rubbing the match against the wood of the table, you lighted the cigarette casually, little flame illuminating a thin grin on your lips. You took a small drag on it to make sure the tobacco had plainly burnt, then you placed the cigarette in front of Arthur's lips, holding it for him between your index and middle finger, so that he could smoke on it while keeping both his hands on his cards.

It was downright one of the hottest things anybody had done to him and he was starting to lose it. Wrapping his lips around your offering and smoking a long drag, he allowed himself to avert his gaze from his opponent for a few seconds, planting his turquoise pupils into yours.

His eyes were half-lidded, long lashes accentuating the languorous gaze he was giving you. Your heart started racing. The power this man had on you was insane, but if only you knew what you were doing to him in return. You had a glimpse of it though, right there in the depths of his two blue diamonds, this so distinctive dark glow of him, direct window on the sinful pit of his urges.

You were sure your own eyes were mirroring it. And it got worse when, after exhaling some smoke, he quickly kissed the palm of your hand, indicating he had smoked enough, the warm sensation of his chapped lips on your skin giving you goosebumps. His eyes went back to Blythe, and you exhaled as if you had been holding your breath during the whole time you had locked eyes.

You retrieved your hand, taking a drag yourself on the cigarette after him, loving the idea of sharing it with him, of putting your lips right where he did a few seconds before, your biased brain telling you you could taste sweet remnants of him there.

Another all-in, another hand won by Arthur who couldn't stop himself from smiling this sly cocky smirk, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Shit, shit!" Blythe shouted, hitting on the table with his fists furiously.

"I guess ma luck held... Is that you done?" Arthur asked him, his tone triumphant while bending over the table to gather his not-so-well-deserved chips. "Or, do you got somethin' else to play with?" He added more lowly, his baritone voice almost making you shiver just hearing it.

"Meaning?" Desmond questioned back, visibly frustrated. Looked like frustration was a popular feeling around this poker table tonight, about the game or other things...

Arthur had gotten up from his chair and you too, now standing by his side, partially glued to his body as he had snaked an arm around your waist while finishing to put in order his chips. He answered using the same taunting, arrogant tone as before.

"Well, I heard there was some big boys on this boat, maybe that's not you, no offense-"

"Sit your and your whore's hillbilly asses down." The rich men cut him off, voice dark and serious.

You felt Arthur's hand grip tighter on your waist. For a faint moment, you thought that his cover would collapse, considering how tense he had gotten hearing him calling you a whore. But the way he was still smiling was almost even more scary, it was a false, threatening one. The kind of smile that hides a cold anger, boiling silently inside.

"Why?" Arthur simply answered, tone brilliantly contained considering the way his muscles were flexing on their own under his fancy suit.

"I got a watch... An expensive one, swiss... a Reutlinger no less. It's in the safe, upstairs. It's worth more than you."

You forced yourself not to cross eyes with Arthur. Your target. He had just confirmed what you were all here for. Perfect, just a bit more of this whole play and Arthur would be able to access the strongbox.

"Okay, I trust ya." Arthur consented while sitting back on his chair, placing you with his two big hands back at your place, on his lap. You were definitely loving this job. You'd have to thank Trelawny for it, someday.

The rest of the game passed just like before, your outlaw ultimately winning once more thanks to your colleague's little trick. Desmond was furious, and you obtained your goal.

Arthur happily got up once again, gently helping you stand, one of his hands naturally resting on your shoulder. Before following the gentleman who was supposed to bring him to the safe, he bent over to you, head brushing against yours, his stubble and hairs tickling your cheeks. He whispered in your ear, voice deep and hoarse, this one voice that was always making your head turn.

"When we're finished here, I'm gonna take care of ya, darlin'."

You sighed, cracking up a sly smirk, your cheeks turning a bit red. These simple words were enough to make the heat between your thighs make itself known; crying out for attention. Being so close like this was allowing you to breathe in his scent, its combination on top of his breath on your ear was a dangerous mix for your sanity. You took the opportunity of having his skin so close to your lips to place a small kiss on his neck, right below his own ear.

Arthur smiled at you, his bright blue eyes sparkling as he took a last look at you before walking off. You sighed softly again, already missing his presence. The wait for some time alone was only making your own needs grow.

You were only hoping the job would end up smoothly.

Of course, it didn't. 

Desmond, sore loser, had accused Arthur of cheating. That and the fact that the guard Javier had knocked off to steal his clothes had appeared out of nowhere yelling to shoot him had set things on fire on the Grand Korrigan, the boat now witness to a heated shooting the Van Der Linde Gang was known for.

You had instantly pulled out your hidden gun and helped Arthur clean up the place thanks to Javier who had thrown him a rifle. The night had ended with your incongruous team jumping straight in the water, swimming back to the shore, a quite odd and armed to the teeth fish shoal. At least, everyone was alive, and you even had obtained a pretty decent amount of money, not even mentioning the watch Strauss had authenticated as a real Reutlinger. Arthur had quickly taken back the precious object from his greedy hands, "well give it back then", which made you laugh to yourself.

True to himself, your cowboy had instructed everyone to separate and get out of the shore, as always after a job. You were all quite a sight, soaked to the bones. As you were greeting everyone a good night, Arthur silently walked to you and grabbed your hand. Even with the water you both had leaking from your clothes to your skin, you could feel how warm his hand was, contrasting yours which was completely freezing cold from having swam in the icy waters. You wondered if this man was even human.

"But you, Miss, are comin' with me." He playfully informed you, not leaving you any choice.

It was not as if you wanted to go anywhere else anyway.

"Really now? What d'ya have in mind, cowboy?" You asked him with an equally mischievous tone on your own, your eye glued to the way his hair looked completely soaked, subtle rivulets sliding all the way from it to his neck.

"Maybe we could pay ourselves a well-deserved night in town..." He proposed, voice turning more and more into a low growl as he was letting his desires take the lead on his reason.

"I would love that." You simply agreed, before getting closer to him, tilting your head up to bring your lips to his. He gladly let you, one hand still holding yours, the other gently landing on the side of your face.

The walk to the La Bastille Saloon was supposed to be a short one, but you both looked like you couldn't wait to be there before teasing each other. You would sometimes stop walking to just attack his neck, lips merciless as you sucked and kissed him there. Your taunting acts were often met with his equally heated answer, one of his palms ending on your ass, or your thighs, your wet clothes transparent and glued to your curves not helping him to keep his touch away from these places of your body. Arthur's breath sharpened as he called you his lil minx, and no, darlin’, we can't just do it on the streets.

Finally, after having shocked the barman by arriving at such late hours in completely soaked clothes, which honestly just made the both of you laugh mischievously, you reached your love nest for the night.

And what a nest! Silk sheets, canopy bed, sumptuous decor glistening with the dim lights of the chandeliers. Even the floor looked comfortable, carpeted with some fancy patterns, matching the couch and bed's color. Red, just like passion, just like lust. Red, like the color of your cheeks right now as Arthur had closed the door and was already on his knees, placing you on the edge of the mattress. Red, just like what Arthur was seeing right now, hungry hands pulling your dress up, positioning himself between your thighs.

You looked down at him, his darkened eyes looking at you. You noticed he had ripped off his fancy tie, needing to breathe properly, the heat between you both already making him suffocate. In those moments, his beautiful pupils were always shining with a more murky color, his usual sky blue turning into a more cobalt one. They were staring intensely into yours, expression questioning. A silent demand. You nodded positively, quietly answering. Dooming yourself.

The moment you did, he buried his head between your legs, left hand resting on your hip, holding you gently. His lips started kissing softly on the fabric of your undergarments. His other hand quickly came, helping him in his task by pulling it to the side, granting him access.

The moment his lips met your folds, you let out a moan, unable to resist the feeling he was giving you. He was loving it, his ears getting redder as he was more and more aroused himself. He was so big between your thighs, his shoulders were spreading them almost completely open.

He licked in a long, slow movement all the way to the top of your pussy, making you sigh in pleasure already, hips jerking against his head, begging for more.

"Easy, girl... I've got ya." He soothed you hoarsely, left hand holding you more firmly to prevent you from crushing him totally. Nevertheless, he took your eagerness into account; he couldn't deny you anything. Not when it came to sex. Not when you were so beautiful in this ostentatious dress. Not when he had grown more and more found of you, even if he was refusing to admit it to himself completely for now.

He brought his lips on the top of your core, tongue gently circling around this so special knot of nerves, his stubble scratching pleasantly against your skin, bringing you even more sensations.

It was already so good, Arthur's mouth showing you no pity, licking, sucking, kissing, as if you were becoming the only food he could ever feast on, the only oxygen he could breathe with. The sight of his broken nose buried beneath your skin, as if he was searching to go even deeper within you was almost too much for you to handle. Your hands that were gripping the sheets had now found the top of his head, spurring him to continue, please please please, Arthur, more, or you could have died right here on the fancy bed of the La Bastille Saloon.

Arthur's tongue answered your begging call, lapping your sensitive spot faster, harder. How the Hell was that man so good at pleasuring a woman? That, sinful, dirty man, just like the sounds you were letting out right now.

Your vision started to blur, the back of your head sinking onto the mattress, your back arching deliciously, and you were going to let him know just how close you were until he stopped all of a sudden.

"A-Arthur!" You protested, head snapping back at him, eyes pleading, tone both offended and needy as his name had sounded more like a whine when it had felt from your mouth.

He smiled cockily at you from where he was, his mouth looking wet with your arousal. He loved it, he loved being responsible for it.

"I'm here, girl... I jus' need ya too much right now. Lemme just..."

His voice was now a low rumble, coming from the depth of his chest. You watched as he quickly ripped off his clothes with little care for them. Trelawny would have shouted at how he was treating one of the most expensive suits he had ever brought.

But he didn't care about the suit. And neither do you, as your eyes were devouring every inch of his flesh that was appearing under them. The sight of a completely naked Arthur always had the same effect on you, no matter how many times you already had seen it.

His muscular body looked like it had been carved by Angels. No, more likely by an angry, dark God, who would have sculpted him from a hard and brutal material, his many scars and blurs a remnant of it. You could almost picture his tools molding your lover's broad chest and shoulders with sharp, furious hammer blows. His powerful arms and legs had received the same treatment, as if the deity wanted to pass on all of his brutal force into his creation. And his cock was definitely no exception to it.

And yet, this massive force of nature was blushing under your gaze. He couldn't have resisted the hurtful sensation of emptiness around his shaft, one of his hands now giving himself a few strokes to try and relieve some of it. His eyes closed in a frown for a few seconds, your pussy burned at this unholy scenery he was offering you.

You were in such a state of need it was almost depraved. You quickly got rid of your own clothes, tossing them somewhere on the floor of the room, needing to share this intimacy with him, to feel his skin against yours.

"Oh, please... Arthur, jus' take me..." You asked yourself before he could probe your adequation. You knew him well now, you already knew the next words he was going to speak would be another demand to make sure you truly wanted this.

He seemed to enjoy how you had forecasted it, his eyes opening again to look at you, his cock hardening even more, precum slowly leaking from its top, wasting all the efforts he had done to relieve it a bit.

"If that's what you want darlin'... I'm your man." He answered in a growl, climbing next to you on the bed.

You weren't sure why but his last words had made your heart swell in your chest. You were sure, deep down inside of you, that he meant it in another way. He really had become yours, and you, his. Lost in your thoughts, you let him handle you gently, placing you on your belly against the silk sheets, lying himself on top of you, legs between yours.

You slightly moved your rear up against his erection, earning a grunt of pleasure from him. Saying he had loved it was an understatement; he had been thinking about doing this with you since you had sat on him on the riverboat.

Using his right hand, he placed his cock against your entrance, and finally started pushing, your pussy already ready for him thanks to his ministrations, your mouth mewling at the sensation. Your perfect, hot walls were finally enveloping him, and he tried his best not to come just from that intense feeling alone.

He was so big and tall behind you, his head could reach yours and he buried it onto the crook of your neck, his hair still wet offering you a cold feel, contrasting with his whole hot chest pressed on your back, making you feel as if a literal inferno was burning it. He slowly started to pull back, only to shove himself in you again, starting a slow but intense back and forth.

"God, damn it... 'Feel so good girl..." He mumbled against your skin, his arms encircling you from both sides, caging you under his tall figure.

You sighed at his praise, wanting to answer something to compliment him back, but he snapped his hips just at the same time, making you shut your eyes close, and moan louder than before. Your voice was starting to crack under the amount of pleasure he was bringing to you, hard shaft brushing this deep spot within your core every time his hips moved, hitting just right where you needed him to.

He had noticed, and it was only making him lose his mind even more, unable to keep his pace slow, letting his body unleashed. He had waited this whole night to bury himself in you, listened to this moron calling you names without having the right to punch his goddamn idiotic face. He couldn't hold anything back anymore.

He started thrusting more frantically, pistoning his cock in and out of you so fast and hard he was now fucking you onto the bed. His right hand grabbed a fistful of your ass, the feeling of it colliding with his pelvis with every thrust making him insane, the other one next to your left shoulder, preventing him from crushing you completely.

You could feel it, the familiar feeling, the divine relief, building more and more thanks to him, the pace increasing your pleasure. Feeling how impossibly hard his sex had gotten in your cunt, you knew he was close too. This simple fact was the last push to your deliverance.

"A-Arthur! God, yes!" You screamed, unable to form any coherent thoughts, existing simply for this, for this moment with him, naked on the bed of this saloon. Just you and him.

"Oh, darlin’, shit!" Your orgasm had made your walls clench even more around his dick, exploding his limit. He quickly removed himself from you, and finished at the last second on your back and ass, his burning release painting your skin in flaming spurts. His very own sinful art piece.

The room felt silent again. The air stifling from your lovemaking, the only sounds being heard were your sharp, quickened breaths. Arthur took a few seconds to collect himself, feeling better and so satisfied, almost euphoric. Turning your head to the side, you took a glimpse of your lover's gorgeous state. Hair messy, cheeks and ears crimson, sweat dripping everywhere on his skin, chest rising and falling in big, profound exhales.

He then grabbed a piece of fabric from one of the wardrobes to gently wipe off his seed from you, and tossed it away, wanting nothing more but to rest against you now. A perfect contrast, from an agitated, stormy sea to a quiet, secret cove. As if you were the only one who could see him like this, vulnerable, loving even.

You watched him lay by your side on his back, your head still feeling dizzy, slowly coming back from a world of fantasies. You snuggled against him, resting your head on his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you, feeling spent but so, so happy. And you felt the same. Still naked, skin against skin, heart beating together, just the two of you.

Tonight had been quite something, and despite having won a few thousand dollars, it was definitely not money that was making Arthur feel like he had hit the jackpot.

[inkmonster21]

I Don’t Play Anymore

Hwang In-Ho / Frontman x Fem!Reader

Series Masterlist

As the daughter of the American Frontman, your life takes an unexpected turn as you accompany him to South Korea, to witness the 33rd Annual Squid Games. Being a spectator to the violent events unfolds, and you find yourself unexpectedly connecting with the Frontman.

01. Red Light, Green Light

The American Frontman had traveled to Korea with a purpose: to observe and learn from the infamous underground games. He wanted to gather as much knowledge as possible, so he could translate those elements into the games hosted in the United States.

He was a sharp, cunning individual, drawn to the spectacle of carefully crafted games that challenged people's wits, morals, and will to survive.

The American game maker, accompanied by a small security team and his daughter, boarded the boat that would take them to the remote island where the games took place.

You were well-acquainted with the concept of these games, having experienced firsthand the high-stakes thrill of your father's smaller-scale games. These events, limited to no more than 50 players, unfolded at a rapid pace, often concluding in just one day.

The games held a dark legacy within your family, a tradition passed down through generations. You had participated in the games four years ago, and emerged victorious, a title that filled you with both accomplishment and guilt. Your father, the current game master, was proud, carrying on a legacy started by your great-grandfather. The competition held its price - the cost of taking lives - but the thrill and satisfaction of victory outweighed any lingering doubts and remorse.

You were accompanying your father on a journey to the annual games held in Korea. This trip was more than just a spectator's view; it was an opportunity for both of you to learn and gain insights from the complex and ruthless games that unfolded on foreign soil.

The boat swayed and rocked as it navigated through the waves, and you gripped the railing tightly, a mix of annoyance and slight unease present on your face. You had never been fond of boats, finding the continuous motion and the vast expanse of water beneath you unsettling.

Frustration tinged your voice as you raised your phone, attempting to catch a single bar of service. The signal was weak, barely catching the faintest hint of a connection.

"I can't even get a single bar out here!" you exclaimed, the lack of reception leaving you disconnected from the world.

Your father, observant as always, shifted his gaze towards you. His expression was serious, and he spoke calmly.

"Do you really need it anyway?"

He raised an eyebrow, subtly questioning the need for constant connection and the distraction that technology often provided.

You nodded in response, your response coming out in a confident tone.

"Um, yes. Anderson said he was going to send the address of his friends' club. There's supposed to be a big party, and I can not miss that."

Your father's face remained impassive, but a small flicker of amusement flashed in his eyes at your eagerness for the party.

Your father chuckled, “maybe you can make some new friends, tell them about the good opportunities we could offer,” a hint of amusement in his tone. However, your reply, about friendships being cut short by the nature of your upbringing, carried a touch of bitterness.

"Yeah, and then have them killed. I swear I haven't had a friendship longer than 2 years because of you assholes." Your voice held a mix of frustration and resignation.

Your father's response was curt, and he reprimanded you harshly. "That 'asshole' paid for the Louboutins you're standing in," he scoffed. "I'd fix that attitude before we arrive. You don't want to make me look bad here, (y/n)."

His words held a mix of authority and warning, subtly reminding you to maintain decorum and uphold the family reputation.

As the boat neared the island, your father's head of security handed him a black crystal mask, shaped with the features of the mythical jackalope, adorned with its own set of black shimmering jeweled horns. The mask was a masterpiece, exuding a sense of power and exclusivity.

Your father's head of security handed you a smaller, more delicate mask, its design resembling an innocent rabbit compared to the intimidating jackalope. You looked at the mask with a hint of disdain, a scoff escaping your lips.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" you asked, your tone tinged with a mix of stubbornness and skepticism. Your father's tone was terse, his words simple yet commanding. "Wear it," he instructed firmly, his gaze unwavering. Without hesitation, he placed the black jeweled mask onto his own face, the mask accentuating his features in an eerie way.

With a reluctant sigh, you followed suit, slipping on the elegant black jeweled rabbit mask. The coolness of the metal against your skin sent a faint shiver down your spine. The intricate design of the mask felt both elegant and concealing, a subtle reminder of the event you were about to become a part of.

The black masks placed on the security men's faces only heightened your sense of unease, solidifying the gravity of the situation. The cold realization hit you like a wave, and you couldn't help but feel a sudden surge of regret. A whisper of doubt echoed in your mind, questioning whether staying home would have been a wiser choice. The island loomed ahead, a silent harbinger of the events yet to unfold.

As the boat neared the island, your father's tone held a tinge of seriousness, his words a stern command.

"I want you to pay attention to these games," he stated firmly, his gaze firm. "Observe the players, observe their responses, and see what makes the mind break." The stern words of your father echoed in your mind, his authority unwavering. "Yes, father," you responded, a mix of obedience and reluctance in your voice.

The boat docked, the path ahead uneven and treacherous, especially given the choice of footwear you wore. The path was clearly unwalked and unsteady, making it difficult for you to navigate properly. As you cautiously made your way along the path, you stumbled upon a seemingly invisible hatch door, hidden from prying eyes. The head of security stepped forward, punching in a code and signaling to a hidden camera. The hatch door slowly creaked open, revealing a descending staircase.

As the hatch door opened, you were met with the sight of a man dressed in a striking pink jumpsuit, his mask featuring a distinctive square shape. Behind him were an entourage of four pink-masked guards, each adorning black masks lined with triangles. The contrast of the bright colours and masks against the dim lighting of the stairwell created an atmosphere of surrealism and foreboding.

The head of security's words cut through the silence, his tone low and guarded.

"These are the American game makers," he spoke, his voice holding a mix of neutrality and wariness. "They've been anticipating their arrival."

The man in the pink jumpsuit responded in a simple, yet eerie tone that sent a chill down your spine.

"Yes," he said simply, "please, follow me." Without a moment's hesitation, he turned and began walking down the dimly lit stairwell, his guards falling into a precise formation behind him.

As you followed the pink-suited man up the staircase, you couldn't help but observe the surroundings, taking in the bright colors and cheerful décor. The room was intentionally designed to appear playful and pleasant, a stark contrast to the darkness and mystery that shrouded the truth.

You were led towards a pair of imposing double doors, their golden handles gleaming beneath the lights. The pink-suited man stepped inside, his voice carrying a respect and formality. "Sir, the American game maker has arrived," he announced, his words carrying a weight of significance. The doors opened wider, revealing a grand room.

As you entered the grand room, your gaze fell upon the imposing figure across from you - a man clad in a sharp black suit, his distinctive black mask adorned with a hood. His presence immediately commanded attention and respect, and you couldn't help but make the connection - this must be the Frontman, the counterpart to your father's role.

Your father stepped forward and introduced himself to the Frontman, ignoring your presence. You were not the focus here; you were merely a spectator, a silent observer, your importance seemingly diminished. The sense of insignificance gnawed at you, but you remained composed, maintaining a stoic expression as you watched the encounter unfold.

The Frontman spoke, his voice authoritative and confident. "It is a pleasure to have you witness our 33rd Annual Squid Games," he echoed with a practiced smile, his gaze fixed on your father.

The words echoed in the grand room, a stark reminder of the gravity and spectacle of the events about to unfold - the annual game where lives were on the line, and the consequences were severe.

Your phone buzzed, interrupting the tense atmosphere. With a pleased smile, you reached into your purse and retrieved the device. As you sat down on one of the couches lining the wall, you muttered, "Finally," under your breath. Despite the gravity of the occasion, you couldn't help but feel a surge of satisfaction at the distraction, grateful for a moment of respite from the tension.

You scrolled through the texts from your friends, their pleas for glamourous pictures from your vacation with your father only fueled your growing urge to break away and explore. As you glanced up, observing the room and the ongoing conversation, you weighed the option of sneaking out to indulge in something exciting of your own.

Just as you stood, preparing to casually leave the room, your father called out to you, his command firm and unwavering.

"Sit," he ordered, his voice stern. You froze in your tracks, the words reverberating in your mind. Your desire to step away and explore was abruptly brought to a halt by his authoritarian command.

“I’m just going to go-,” The click of the gun echoed in the room, causing you to halt your words. Your father's stern glare and the sight of him pointing the pistol at you filled you with a mix of fear and resignation. You reluctantly walked to the designated chair diagonally across from him and sat down, your eyes locked on the gun. It was a tactic he had used before, but it never failed to send a wave of fear through you, reminding you of the consequences of disobedience.

Despite being his daughter, you couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that your father wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger. The tension in the room was palpable, and the cold, unwavering gaze of the gun sent chills down your spine.

You muttered your apology, the words leaving your lips with a mixture of guilt and resignation. Your father's glare softened slightly as he lowered the pistol, a hint of acknowledgment in his eyes. He said nothing, merely giving a subtle nod, acknowledging your apology but still keeping a watchful eye on you.

Your father turned his attention back to the Frontman, continuing the conversation with a casual tone.

"Kids," he remarked nonchalantly, referring to you with a subtle nod in your direction. "They can be quite a handful." You remained still in your seat, trying to blend into the background, silently absorbing the words exchanged between your father and the Frontman.

As the Frontman stared at you, his masked gaze fixed upon you, you couldn't help but feel a strange sense of acknowledgment. His gesture, the slight tilt of his head, conveyed a silent curiosity. Without fully understanding why, you responded with a subtle nod of your own, a silent acknowledgment passing between you.

The Frontman's curiosity grew as he observed you, his masked gaze now filled with deeper intrigue. There was a hint of concern beneath the hard exterior, a subtle indication of his genuine interest in your well-being. He couldn't quite pinpoint why, but there was an undeniable pull to ensure your safety and comfort.

The Frontman broke the silence, offering a gesture of hospitality. "Would you like a drink?" he asked, his voice calm yet with a touch of formality. The offer seemed almost casual, a small gesture amidst the tense atmosphere, but the underlying purpose remained clear - to maintain control and ensure everyone was comfortable while the games began.

With a grateful nod, you accepted the Frontman's offer of a drink. The nerves were building within you, and the thought of numbing the tension even slightly was enticing.

"Please," you replied, your voice carrying a mix of relief and anticipation, while your father remained stoic in his seat, observing the interaction with a guarded expression.

The guards moved swiftly and efficiently, providing you with a drink with remarkable speed. You couldn't help but appreciate the efficiency and the thoughtfulness of the gesture, offering a small nod to convey your gratitude, your smile tinged with a hint of tension. Your father watched the exchange with a guarded expression, his eyes scrutinizing every move you made, observing your every reaction.

The moment had arrived. The games were about to commence, and the first event was set to be red light, green light. A seemingly simple premise, yet the tension and anticipation hung heavily in the air. The atmosphere seemed charged with anticipation and the potential for both triumph and defeat.

As the screen lit up, the scene unfolded before your eyes. The field of players, clad in green tracksuits, moved forward, their movements slow and measured as they explored their surroundings. Their attention was immediately drawn to the large doll stationed at the far end, a sight that both captivated and unnerved.

The calm and cheerful voice echoed through the field, issuing the directive.

"Please stand behind the white line drawn on the field," it repeated, the words resonating in the air. "Once again, will all players please stand behind the white line and await further instructions."

The players, dressed in green tracksuits, stood in a line behind the white line, seemingly unaware of the danger that loomed ahead. They followed the instructions with obedience, showing no signs of comprehending the true nature of the games they had willingly entered. There was a sense of blind trust, oblivious to the impending chaos and violence that awaited them.

The phone on the small table beside you rang abruptly, catching your attention. The Frontman moved closer, answering the call with a sense of authority. "This is the Frontman speaking," he said, his voice carrying a confident yet somewhat chilling tone. "We can begin now," he confirmed.

The Frontman took his seat beside you, maintaining a respectful yet noticeable distance between you. However, you couldn't help but feel a subtle sense of unease as you felt his gaze on the small parts of your face that were left uncovered by the mask. There was an intensity to his gaze that felt almost disquieting, a mix of curiosity and observation, his eyes seemingly taking in every detail of your features.

The Voice's tone carried a blend of cheerfulness and authority, as it instructed the players on the imminent event.

"You will be playing Red Light, Green Light," the voice announced, a tone of gleeful anticipation evident in its words. The players, dressed in green, stood still, their expressions a mix of anticipation and tension, their eyes focused on the voice coming through the speakers.

The rules of the game were explained with a strange blend of innocence and coldness.

"You are allowed to move forward when 'it' shouts 'Green Light,' stop when 'it' shouts 'Red Light.' If your movement is detected afterward, you will be eliminated," the voice stated, its tone maintaining a mix of childlike playfulness and the harsh reality of the consequences they faced.

The voice continued, outlining the rules of the game with a matter-of-fact tone.

"Those players who cross the finish line without being eliminated within the five-minute playtime will pass this round," it explained. There was a pause, a dramatic moment of anticipation, before the voice concluded, "With that, let the game begin." As the words echoed in the air, the players braced themselves, the tension palpable.

The doll, with its childlike voice, issued the first command.

"Green light," it declared, its voice a mix of innocence and underlying menace. With those words, the game officially commenced. As the game began, a few players eagerly surged forward, attempting to make progress toward the finish line.

In an instant, the tension heightened as the voice announced, "Red light." The players, who had been moving forward, came to an abrupt stop, frozen in their tracks, their bodies gitty with anticipation.

You couldn't help but tense up at the sudden sound of a gunshot, the gunshot breaking the tense silence, causing your body to flinch involuntarily.

The voice, cold and unforgiving, announced the first casualty of the game. "Player 324. Eliminated."

The players, engrossed in the game, had yet to fully comprehend the true nature and danger of the situation. Despite the gunshot, most of them were still caught up in the excitement of the competition, their attention focused on the doll and the race to the finish line. The reality of the violence and life-or-death stakes hadn't fully sunk in for many participants.

As one player finally looked down at his dying friend, the reality and gravity of the situation became undeniable. Fear shot through their eyes, and realization dawned on their face. The cheerful facade shattered as they faced the brutal truth of the game's nature, a truth that left them shaken to the core. It was a moment of sobering clarity, the illusion of a simple game evaporating before their very eyes.

The chaos unfolded as panicked players rushed to the entrance doors, desperately trying to flee. However, their efforts were futile as one by one, they were shot by the hidden snipers in the walls.

The voice echoed through the loudspeakers once again, repeating the rules of the game with a chilling precision.

The remaining players, shaken and terrified, listened intently as the rules were reiterated, their hearts pounding in their chests.

"You are allowed to move forward when 'it' shouts 'Green Light' and stop when 'it' shouts 'Red Light.' If your movement is detected afterward, you will be eliminated," the voice stated, its tone cold and methodical.

Your father, visibly engrossed in the spectacle, couldn't contain his excitement. "Amazing first choice," he chuckled, his voice filled with a mix of admiration and enthusiasm. "We simply can't do it yet. We need more players on sight. But this is amazing!" His words showcased the twisted nature of the games and the satisfaction the game makers derived from the chaos and bloodshed.

Your father turned his gaze to you, seeking your opinion on the unfolding events. "What do you think, (y/n)?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his tone, as though he was eager to gauge your reaction to the unfolding spectacle.

Your words came out in a matter-of-fact tone, the practical aspect of the situation evident in your response.

"It's the best choice for the first game," you stated, a sense of realism lacing your words. "It gets rid of the mass amount of players and shows them the outcome if they don't listen. It's practical." Your father seemed pleased with your assessment, a subtle nod indicating his agreement and approval of your observation.

The Frontman, listening to your words, couldn't help but feel a sense of admiration for your practicality and realistic approach. He appreciated the way you had analyzed the situation and made a rational observation. In a world where brutal violence was the norm, your sensible view stood out, and he respected it quietly.

The game continued, the voice's cold instructions echoing through the field as players met their fate. Each round of "Red Light" brought a new wave of eliminations, the remaining players trembling in fear and uncertainty. The game was a deadly, ruthless spectacle, leaving the players in a state of constant tension and anxiety.

Your attention was drawn to the small figurine band that came to life, playing a gentle tune. As "Fly Me to the Moon" filled the room, you turned to the Frontman, a surprised smile gracing your face.

The Frontman's gesture took you by surprise, his action a mix of playfulness and unexpected charm amidst the cold, violent world of the games.

Despite the tense atmosphere, the Frontman's decision to play "Fly Me to the Moon" softened the mood slightly. As the song played, you crossed your legs, your voice carrying a slight tone of contentment.

"I like this song," you remarked, a small, appreciative smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

The Frontman's eyes flickered, his gaze briefly meeting yours, as he acknowledged your comment. There was a subtle sense of understanding in his gaze, a glimpse of a shared appreciation for the song that created a brief moment of connection between you two.

The moment of connection and shared appreciation between you and the Frontman provided a sliver of hope that this trip could indeed become more enjoyable than you had initially anticipated. The games were still unfolding, and the tension in the room lingered, but there was a hint of warmth in the air.

[kumkaniudaku]

White Lies

Summary: Terry and Patrice work together to a little white lie.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 4,521

Warnings: Mentions of Pregnancy

Recommended Reading: Caught, Me and Your Mama

MASTERLIST

Something was…off. 

From the moment Patrice and Terry stepped into Marvin and Diedra's freshly renovated two-story home, which was primped and primed with all the luxury finishes one could ask for, Patrice could sense that their carefully crafted plan was in jeopardy. 

Terry's father was far too cheery. Diedra was always high energy, often smiling and hugging to celebrate a cloudless sky or the fresh sprouts of garlic cloves in her window sill garden, but Marvin was more even-keeled. In her teenage years, Patrice often questioned whether he liked her because of the lack of meaningful communication with her until she became a legal Richmond when he acknowledged her as something other than "the Ellis girl" at their wedding reception. In reality, Marvin carried immense respect for his daughter-in-love and regularly sang her praises in private despite carrying an exterior that felt more like casual indifference than familial affection. 

That's how Patrice knew their surprise announcement had been compromised. When Marvin greeted her with a hug so tight around her shoulders that she felt the bone pop from the pressure, her intuition perked up, sending red alerts to every corner of her brain. Still, Patrice kept quiet. No need to throw accusations when she couldn't prove her suspicion. 

Terry knew something was up when Rosalyn called him out of the blue to reiterate that she was excited to see them for dinner an hour before they arrived to share a feast from their collective favorite local soul food spot. Rosalyn rarely called him. If she needed to speak to Terry, she called Patrice and relayed a message through her daughter. If the situation was urgent, she'd send a text as a last-ditch effort. While he loved his mother-in-law dearly, finding himself in a 15-minute conversation about the weather felt strange. He hung up with the nagging feeling she knew more than what she was letting on. But he buried the thought to keep Patrice stress-free and excited about revealing their news to the grandparents-to-be. 

In the dining room, with an Aretha Franklin CD playing softly from Marvin's old standing radio system, the Ellis-Richmond clan conversed around a decorated maplewood dining table featuring all of their favorite Sunday dinner staples. They passed around Diedra's expensive glass bowls full of potato salad and pristine china platters of baked chicken between discussions of matters equally important and frivolous in nature. How was your vacation? Did you hear what so-and-so said about such-and-such? Your cousin is having a baby. Isn't that great?

That revelation made Terry pause as he spooned collard greens into his mouth. He chewed quickly to expedite a response to his mother. "Sure. Gerald has had a lot of kids, though, Mama. Ain't this number five?" 

Five that they knew of at least. 

"I know," Diedra sang after a sip of lemonade, a smile fighting its way past the neutral expression she'd been trying and miserably failing to maintain. "But a baby is a blessing every time. Especially when you're a grandparent getting to love on all those little ones. Sheila calls just to brag about them babies every weekend." 

Patrice rolled her eyes internally when Rosalyn added her two cents as if she didn't already know how her daughter felt about having a child one day. 

The older woman adjusted her black-rimmed glasses on her nose and hummed to signal her agreeance. "You know you get to treat your grandbabies different. Get 'em all hyped up on sugar and toys so they can go back home and be out of your hair until next time." 

"That's exactly what I plan on doin'," Leon laughed, the sound booming throughout the room. "Have fun with Pop-Pop, then go right on back to your mama 'nem." 

Terry tried to ease the annoyance emanating from Patrice's bouncing leg with a short chuckle and a soothing rub on her denim-covered knee under the table until she slowed to a halt. "If this is y'all's way of asking when we'll have children, I feel like I gotta remind everybody we just got married. Can't we enjoy some time alone for a little while? We haven't really dated, you know." 

"And I have shared my very detailed five year plan for us, which does not include trying for a baby until year three. Please, let's not rush my well-thought-out process, people!" 

Part of what Patrice said was true. Her laptop had a detailed five-year plan tucked neatly inside a folder labeled "Crack In Case I Marry That Man." She shared it with her mother a few weeks before Terry's surprise proposal, and there was a multi-page section on when and how they'd prep for parenthood after exactly three years of marriage. It was all there in 12-point Times New Roman and adequately disseminated to all interested parties to reference when the timeline called for them to reconvene. 

The lie was that they were still following said plan to the letter. 

Their parents exchanged knowing looks they assumed their children wouldn't understand. Terry and Patrice let them live in their bubble without calling attention to the many side eyes and allusions to pregnancy by frequently changing the subject but always ending right back at the starting line. 

Forks scraping against bright white porcelain signaled the end of their main course, just as an attempt to steer the conversation toward sports proved successful. 

Marvin waived his arms in a spirited attempt to direct Terry and Leon's attention toward an invisible clipboard of surefire inbounds plays for the Charlotte Hornets after another regular season loss. "See, this is why they didn't win the other day. The damn coach don't know what he doin'," he rambled without interruption. "Why the hell is Bridges inboundin' the ball with five seconds left? He oughta be in the paint waiting for the lob!" 

"Probably a decoy, Pop. Get 'em to inbound, then he cuts to the basket. They just botched the play because they're a bad team. Which you know. I'm not sure why you keep devoting your time to them." 

Marvin scoffed, miffed by the insinuation that his perpetually bottom-of-the-barrel team was ill-equipped to win. "Boy, I used to take you to Hornets games all the time." 

"I know. And they were bad then. Why do you think the tickets were so cheap," Terry laughed.

Terry's father shooed him away with a grin that slowly turned into a laugh, joining the small chorus around the room. "Yeah, well, at least they're exciting and bad this go 'round," Marvin countered before leaning back in his chair, full from the feast. "Better to watch LaMelo Ball get 50 in a blowout than sit through 48 minutes of Keith Bogans." 

"Hey, now. I had a Keith Bogans jersey!" 

"Because it was cheap," Marvin winked. 

More laughter filled the room, easily replacing the awkward tension marring their earlier interactions. Dinner was supposed to be fun and light-hearted to usher in big news for the year ahead. If conversations about the bleak future of their shared NBA team could offer a distraction, Terry and Patrice would watch every 40-point loss with glee.

Patrice cleaned the corners of her mouth and tossed her napkin on top of her clean plate in surrender to the indulgent meal. "I think some of my students are gonna sing Lift Every Voice at a game during Black History Month. We could go as a family. It'd be our first little mixed outing."

"You sure you'll feel up to it?" 

Chatter stopped. Terry swore he heard Aretha gasp before the final track faded into silence. The air in the room felt stagnant as if it were also holding its breath in anticipation of the fallout. Patrice blinked twice as her head tilted to one side in the confused look she sported right before she picked her victim apart for answers. It was the calm before an ugly storm.

Rosalyn wished she could've put the words back in her mouth and swallowed them whole so they'd never come forth again. The question was meant for her internal dialogue and a side conversation with her good friend and gossip partner, not the group discussion. 

She waited with the rest of the crew, breath drawn into tight lungs, praying that her daughter hadn't caught her innuendo. 

Patrice smiled a tight-lipped smile, the expression looking more like a grimace than an indicator of true happiness. "Why wouldn't I be up to it?" 

"Somethin' goin' on that day, Mrs. Ros?" When Terry said his vows, the part left in the margins was the commitment to join his wife in conflict, even if his parents were on the other side. They'd sort through the details later. And, honestly, he enjoyed a sprinkling of mess every once in a while.

Rosalyn released a cool titter to erase the lines creasing her forehead in worry. "I figured it'd be in the middle of the week. You know how P gets about her babies." Another slip to make Patrice's ears perk in curiosity. Leon wiped a large palm across his face to muffle a quiet groan. Diedra pretended to pick at sweet potatoes she had no intention to eat. Marvin nearly choked on a heavy gulp of water he didn't need. Rosalyn tripped over her words to clear up her mistake again. "She loves her students! Whew, is it warm in here, or am I having one of my personal summers?" 

"It is a little warm. Must be that oven," Diedra rushed to confirm. "Mo, can you turn the oven off? I'm sure the cobbler is done by now." 

"Leon and Ros, y'all ain't had my peach cobbler yet. Make sure you loosen up your belts and make some room by the time I get back." Marvin's deep baritone reverberating in uneasy laughter did little to lighten the mood. Everyone was in deep shit. 

An unholy mishmash of utensils clanging and plates stacking interrupted Leon's response as Patrice scrambled to collect dishes before Marvin could push away from the table. "We'll grab it!" she blurted while tugging Terry to his feet hard enough to make him force down a cube of ice he wasn't ready to swallow. "Come on, TJ. I need your help." 

"Shit," Terry hissed, rubbing his aching throat. "I'm comin', girl. Slow down."

Curses and grumbles about being far too rough with a pinch to the underside of his upper arm followed Terry and Patrice out of the dining room and into the sweltering kitchen across the narrow hallway. 

Patrice chucked spoons and forks into the dirty side of Dee Dee's farmhouse sink before reaching the counter and gripping for dear life with both hands, her arms shaking in rapidly rising fury.

"Rinse the dishes with me and turn your back," Patrice instructed the moment they were safely out of earshot. She waited impatiently for Terry to drag his feet toward the kitchen sink, already exhausted and ready to rip the bandaid off the whole ordeal if it meant he could get back home enough time to fall asleep on the couch with Troy Aikman commentating in the background. 

He sighed like he'd worked a full day's shift and reluctantly placed one of his mother's fancy ramekins under a steady stream of warm water. 

After Terry's long, lip-flapping huff, he and Patrice spoke at the same time. "They know." 

The pressing, the slips of the tongue, the looks across the table like there was a joke Terry and Patrice weren't in on – they knew. But when? And for how long? 

"Did you tell your sisters?" 

"No, I didn't tell my sisters. I know how to keep a secret." Terry answered, taking exception to the insinuation that he would be the one to blab despite their ironclad pact. 

Patrice kissed her teeth. "Oh, whatever. I asked you not to tell Robert Mitchell what I said about the senior formal, and not only did you tell, you punched him in the mouth!" 

"I did not tell him what you said. I punched him in the mouth first, then went to class. No words were exchanged." 

"You are a liar, Terrence James, but that is not the point." Patrice whisper-yelled as laughter swelled from the other room. "Think. Have your parents said anything weird since we got back?" 

Terry directed his eyes to the ceiling to rewind through the previous two weeks but came up empty save for an insignificant conversation the morning they got in from D.C. "My mom did ask if you felt okay. Something about not being able to smell like you used to." 

"I never told her that. The only person who knew I was having trouble with certain smells was –" 

"Your mom. When she called on Christmas Eve." 

Like the missing piece to a puzzle, an innocuous conversation unlocked the key to their Scooby-Doo mystery. The mention of cinnamon and its all-out assault on Patrice's senses must've been the first domino to fall. That's why her mother rushed off the phone when they'd typically spend no less than an additional 15 minutes pretending to hang up while sparking insignificant nuggets of conversation until someone broke the seal. That's why Terry received a call from his mother asking if Patrice was feeling sick. And that's why, despite supposedly being entirely in the dark about the reason for their first-ever Sunday dinner as a family, none of the older adults in the room could stop themselves from talking about babies and parenting. 

As the realization that their surprise was ruined long before it could take shape, fresh, hot tears began to cascade down Patrice's cheeks. Terry sprang into action, shutting off the water to softly catch the evidence of his wife's inner turmoil on his index finger's knuckle. "It's alright, baby. Come here." 

Faint cries joined shaking shoulders as Terry pulled Patrice into his chest by her elbow before peppering kisses at her crown. Her arms encircled his waist, squeezing tight while he ran his hands up and down the back of her oversized sweatshirt to soothe her second emotional outburst of the day. "Talk to me. What's the matter?" 

"It's all fucked up," Patrice heaved before muffling a short sob against Terry's body. "I want to go home. Fuck today! I don't care anymore!"

Assuming the role of reliable comforter didn't deter Terry from smiling down at Patrice with a plan that made his eyes twinkle like an excited child. "That's no fun, sailor," he cooed into her hairline before a quick kiss. "I planned to make this worthwhile, and I need those acting skills I love so much." 

"What's the plan?" Patrice sniffed as she looked up at her knight in shining armor to wait for his day-saving plan.

"Terrence James is a liar, remember?" Embers of mischief animated thick eyebrows wiggling on Terry's forehead, leaving Patrice silently begging for more context. He kissed her nose and held his lips in place to keep their plan confined to their bubble of solitude. "We're gonna lie, and I need you to follow my lead."

"You have to tell me something! Don't leave me in the dark."

Clamoring in the other room snapped their attention toward their parents, who were still waiting for the sweet treat they'd been promised. 

"What's goin' on in there?" 

"My sugar dropping, now! Stop all that kissin' and bring the cobbler before I pass out." 

"And make sure you wash your hands!" 

Minutes were dwindling into precious seconds, which required more spooning cold ice cream on top of warm dessert neatly packed into bowls for a room full of antsy elders. 

Terry quickly started an assembly line, with Patrice falling in line but still pressing for answers. He carefully pulled vanilla ice cream from the ice box, procured his Mama's good scoop, and hummed while he worked like the world around him hadn't capsized into chaos. That didn't stop Patrice from pestering him incessantly until he turned to briefly kiss her forehead in the process of preparing worthwhile servings. 

"Have I ever steered you wrong?" When she opened her mouth for a rebuttal, Terry cut her off with a rough finger on her pouty lips. "Don't answer that. What I'm saying is trust me. I got the three of us at all times. What I need from you, gorgeous, is to give me that winning smile, put some sweetness in your voice, and…" Terry held his final word as he plopped hefty round dollops of sweet vanilla ice cream onto three servings of cobbler then carefully balanced them on a serving tray with the needed utensils. "Follow my lead." 

"How will I know what to say, Terry?" 

Terry tapped her nose and gently pushed her toward the room's threshold before gathering three additional bowls in his hands. He winked as he walked past her. "Takes a liar to know a liar. Come on."

Patrice didn't refer to her truth stretching as lying. She preferred to view it as world-building, taking a page from her lesson plans to explore weaving exciting narratives together for entertainment's sake. And, sure, she was the only one who would derive any pleasure from falling into her elaborate storytelling, but so what? Plus, that part of her life was long gone. She was rusty, unprepared, and dreaded having to be the supporting actress to a leading man she hadn't seen in action since they were teenagers. 

A deep exhale helped Patrice's still racing thoughts and put on a believably happy face in enough time to shuffle behind Terry into the dining room. 

"Who wants cobbler?" Her chirping sounded too eager for someone who was shaking from rage moments earlier, but she was committed to the bit. It was too late to turn back. 

Various answers in the affirmative provided enough of a distraction for Terry to shoot Patrice a warning look. Calm down. His eyes said it all, and Patrice didn't need a second eyebrow raise to get the memo. 

They took their seats side by side, allowing their parents a few moments of unwitting happiness before Terry began his charade. 

"So…we have some news. We thought about calling on New Year's Eve but figured this was something better shared in person." Like children anticipating the arrival of Santa Claus by Christmas morning, Terry and Patrice's parents practically jumped from their seats to hear what they already knew. Chairs scraped against the polished hardwood to get closer to the table. Eating stopped. Bodies leaned forward in suspense. Terry had their attention in the palm of his hand left hand while he placed the palm of his right hand on Patrice's thigh to keep up the facade. 

"We're…moving." 

The words didn't quite register to anyone but Patrice as she sat there fighting to keep her eyes from squinting in uncontrollable laughter. Moving? Of all things, moving was Terry's grand plan to catch their parents off guard. But, as she watched the light of expectation slowly turn into confusion, she made a mental note to give her man his props. He'd successfully thrown a cartoonishly large wrench into their assumptions. 

Diedra cleared her throat and smoothed a hand over her auburn pixie cut. "I'm sorry, James, can you say that again? You two are –" 

"Moving," Terry reiterated plainly. "When we were in DC, we talked about finally getting out of here and startin' somewhere fresh, right, baby?" 

Patrice chimed in. "I disagreed with Terrence at first, but he convinced me. How amazing would it be to explore a new city together? And the DMV is perfect. There's government work for him…" 

"And teaching work for P. We'd live in the suburbs, so y'all wouldn't have to deal with the city noise when you visit. It's perfect." 

If they were ever asked to rate their improv for the afternoon, both Terry and Patrice would mark their performance at a solid seven and a half. There was room for improvement, but, dammit, they were a worthwhile team. Terry gave Patrice an appreciative squeeze, and she expertly played the role of sweet, innocent wife by wrapping her arms around his bicep while they waited for the shock on Rosalyn's face to transition into the only version of happiness she could muster. 

Patrice watched her mother's lips purse in a tight smile until she found enough wherewithal to respond kindly. "That's great, but what's so wrong with Fayetville? Don't you two want to be around your Mama and daddy?" 

"Exactly," Marvin chimed in. "Why now? What's there that you can't get here?" 

Perfect. Terry couldn't have concocted a more perfect scheme if he was given weeks to prepare. The spontaneity of it all made for air so thick that he could've cut into it and served a slice alongside his daddy's famous cobbler. 

Terry looked over at Patrice to defer, preferring to let her flex her strongest muscle. She seamlessly took on both questions without faltering. "New opportunities," Patrice exclaimed as if the answer was as clear as a summer day. "Fayetteville has been good to us, but imagine how we'll grow together in a new city. We love y'all dearly, but it's time for us to spread our wings as a couple. You understand, right, Daddy?" 

"Not really, baby girl." Leon shook his head in silent disbelief as he wrung his hands together. "Can't say I'm ready for you to leave yet. Feels like I just got you back from A&T, and here you are all grown up and trying to leave again." 

Crestfallen silence blanketed the room. In all her years, Patrice had only seen her father look so forlorn one other time. They'd just finished unpacking her freshman dorm. Once the sobering realization that he was leaving his only daughter behind to tackle new horizons, sadness overtook him faster than he could wish it away. Patrice could see him reliving that afternoon and so many more as he pushed bits of crust and peach chunks around in his bowl for a distraction.

"We'll miss y'all," Terry answered, still holding on to the lie for a few moments longer, hoping his mother would cave to set up their grand finale. Diedra tried to remain cheerful in the face of heartbreaking news. 

She clasped her hands together and smiled wide. "Well, I think that is incredible news! You know, I have a realtor friend out there who is still selling houses. Let me go in my purse and grab her card. We'll get you two set up with a down payment, make sure we coordinate a moving plan and tour with you to make sure you're getting the best available, and oh, it'll be wonderful! Let me go and grab my purse!" 

Mission accomplished. DeeDee had cracked like an egg, still trying to contain the runny yolk of suppressed feelings while the remains ran through her fingers and made a mess. 

"Mama," Terry called out. The show was over. Curtail closed. Time for the big reveal. When Diedra didn't stop rambling, Terry dialed up the volume. "Mom!" Dee Dee stopped in her tracks. Terry released an easy chuckle. "Sit down. We have one more thing to tell you." 

"Oh, hell. No more bad news, boy. It better be something worth hearing." 

Marvin's exasperation drew stilted laughter from Terry, and then Patrice, who joined him with her eyes closed and tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. A shared, all-out cackle they couldn't contain any longer helped further confuse the four sets of eyes looking back at them. 

Patrice tried to calm down with a deep breath, but a look at Terry's smiling face sent her back to the top of her guffaw. "Oh my goodness! I can't breathe. Baby, help!" 

"I can't stop until you stop!" They tried again several times over, waiting for the other to calm down until they could force the truth out between giggles. Terry wiped at his waterline, then chuckled through an answer. "We're not moving, y'all. It's all a joke." 

Rosalyn blinked back her bewilderment. "I don't get it." 

"That's not the news. We had to get y'all back for thinking you could know that we're our business before we knew our business and then laugh without us. How rude!" 

"So it's true," Diedra questioned, eye beginning to buck with newfound hope. "Are you…"

Patrice nodded and leaned into an already beaming Terry. "It is. You're gonna be a grandma alongside that lady over there," she confirmed, pointing at Rosalyn. 

"And y'all are going to be granddads. Or Pop-Pops. Whichever you prefer." 

Terry's additional barely registered over the sounds of hands slapping together in excited hi-fives and high-pitched squeals full of the kind of love only a baby boomer with dreams of cradling children born from their children could exude. 

Leon raised his hands to give the Lord a high-spirited thanks once he saw Patrice's grainy sonogram, which made the news all the more real. A grandchild was on the way, and not from his knucklehead of a son like he'd imagined—not yet. 

Marvin rushed in and out of the room, returning with a black and Carolina blue onesie filling once empty hands. Terry looked on in shock. Where had his father been hiding that? 

Rosalyn and Diedra immediately jumped into visions of floral arrangements for a garden party baby shower and talked about how their children could avoid childcare costs with both nearing retirement. 

The youngest Richmond couple found themselves ushered out of chairs and forced into a group hug, surrounded by unconditional love and bubbling excitement to meet a person still developing lungs. 

Patrice struggled to speak against their embrace. "I take it y'all are excited." 

"Over the moon, little girl." Rosalyn gushed. "The babies are havin' a baby. You're all grown up! Congratulations!" 

Terry used a little wiggle room to return his mother-in-law's excitement with a rub against her arm. "Thank you, Ms. Ros. We appreciate y'a– ouch! Mom! Let go!" 

With her pointer finger and thumb, Diedra tugged and twisted a new spot on Terry's inner arm as punishment for his earlier antics. She let go with another harsh pull before smacking his arm for good measure. "You might be grown, but not that grown. Don't play with me, boy!" 

"And don't think I forgot about you, Patrice Nicole!" 

"Sorry, Mama. It was Terry's idea!" 

Though things were changing, some remained the same. No matter how much Terry and Patrice grew and prepared to take on the responsibility of ushering their own child through the world, Terry and Patrice would never escape their parent's love or discipline.

———————————

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[sleepymarimo]

𝕚𝕥'𝕤 𝕒 𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕔𝕙!

summary: just a small list of qualities & traits which may be ideal for these op men when it comes to choosing a partner pairing(s): luffy x reader, zoro x reader, sanji x reader notes: based off my personal opinion of the monster trio and what we've seen from them! i also tried to utilize their alleged mbti and enneagram types. i totally didn't get butthurt while writing this (cries)

luffy

adaptability. luffy marches to the beat of his own drum. a dinner date might quickly turn into infiltrating an underground criminal organization. its just how he is! having a partner that can roll with the punches, maybe even enjoy it, without feeling neglected, is ideal

he doesn't like the predictable and will take any opportunity to spice things up. someone who panics when plans go off track, who finds comfort in having routine, may not be the best match for him

commitment. someone who is flaky and can't keep their promises is a big red flag for him. he craves connection and loyalty. despite his childlike enthusiasm, his feelings run deep. his pain isn't something he openly shares, as he opts to express himself happily, but he will open up his his soul to you if he knows you'll be there, no matter what

following the first point of adaptability, know that luffy will show up for you regardless of the situation. a date or outing or fight might not go as planned, but he won't leave you hanging he will want to take on your big emotions too. he loves feeling, he loves knowing your feelings and understanding you. while he might not necessarily agree with all perspectives, he can see where people come from. be open with him, don't hide

creativity. this captain hates boredom and routine. he does things his own way and enjoys thinking outside the box. his partner would likely be the same way. a big imagination and a lot of enthusiasm draws luffy in. if you constantly shut down ideas without offering any of your own, it frustrates him

he would love doing things like arts and crafts with a partner. anything hands on will catch his attention! loves talking about the future. goes back to the point regarding commitment. he doesn't care if the ideas you offer are crazy or unrealistic, as long as you have him in mind for what's to come, he's all in luffy attracts people, its just how he is. to keep him actively interested, he needs excitement. if the two of you are cuddling and you're looking too cozy, he might have to start a tickle fight

vocal and affectionate. luffy feeds off the energy around him and gets satisfaction from others. he loves seeing his nakama happy and the same goes for his partner. it could be as small as a smile or as grand as tackling him to the ground- let him know, verbally and through action, that he's doing well and making you happy!

words of affirmation and quality time! he'll never get tired of hearing you talk and very much prefers it over silence. even if it's the most obscure and obtuse topic, he doesn't care as long as it comes out of your mouth a partner who is easily embarrassed by pda may not be the best match for him. luffy has no shame and will not hesitate to pull you to his side and drag you off towards whatever adventure he has planned. he'll be confused and maybe even slightly offended if you push him off

patient. luffy is not the most easy person to deal with at times. along with being patient, he would love a partner who revels in the attention he gives and can also reciprocate it without getting too overwhelmed.

however, sometimes, you want your own space and time to do things. luffy might take this as a personal hit to himself, since he's much more receptive to the criticism of his partner. this is why he would also do well with someone who is...

gentle and constructive. don't snap at the man or suddenly grow distant! if he truly loves you and is in deep, he'll be hurt and might even force himself deal with an issue in a bid to 'solve' the conflict. taking the time to explain things to him while giving him a healthy dose of affection will work wonders

will very much ask what he did wrong if you ever say you want time away from him. his extroversion makes him able to be in the company of others for extended periods of time without needing to take time for himself a partner with emotional awareness would be great for him. he feels a lot, and he feels it very strongly, so having someone who can read him is great!

likes unique features! freckles, scars, killer eyeliner... luffy is drawn to people who look interesting. before he really gets to know you, he'll probably associate you with whatever he finds most captivating about you!

zoro

independent. this man values his ambitions. having a partner with a full and functional life, outside of the relationship, is something he would admire and respect. he sees a relationships as a union between two individuals, very much egalitarian. he's loyal and passionate to the core, would do most anything for his partner, but he also expects the same in return. all or nothing.

you recognizing him as a being, as an individual, really makes him comfortable. codependency and clinginess, too many expectations will have him retreating talks of marriage and future endeavours might also be touchy. as much as he craves stability in a long term partnership, he also values his freedom and being unconstrained by expectations. don’t set marriage dates or make a ‘plan’ for the relationship. he loves you, but he truthfully doesn't know what the future holds. all he knows is that he wants you now. the act of choosing you in the first place shows that he has you in mind for the future- he won’t get into a relationship for fun or for the sake of keeping his bed warm. he takes it more seriously than you think!!

private. you're a team, a unit. if something comes up, talk to him first. he gets needing to consult with friends for outside perspective, that's understandable, and he might even do the same. but giving your friends the hot gossip, spilling details about your relationship- it ticks him off

does not necessarily mean he prefers a quiet partner! he enjoys listening to his partner and participating in engaging conversations about obscure topics. does not care much for drama can be quite empathetic, but you have to let him know how you're feeling. he won't figure it out on his own, but once he understands where you’re coming from he becomes a lot more reasonable.

respectful. his pride is important to him. he doesn't like embarrassing himself or being embarrassed. he enjoys your teasing and affection in private, but in public prefers to hold himself to a certain standard

if you ignore these boundaries, maybe embarrass him for the sake of a good laugh, he gets a bit irritated, even if it is only for lighthearted fun preferring to do things alone, zoro knows he's starting to fall for someone when he lets someone join him for the smallest of things. could be polishing swords in silence or sharing some sake- the fact that he wants you around, even if he isn't too outwardly expressive of it, is meaningful. respect and cherish the time he gives you, don't complain of boredom or head off to do something with someone else loves you and adores you, but will not put you on a pedestal. will point out hypocrisies and double standards. don't take this point the wrong way, because once he's committed, he's committed, and won't let the relationship go that easily, but he respects himself he expects you to call him out if he ever treads over your boundaries as well

understanding & perceptive. this man very much does things how he wants, when he wants. not to say that he's inconsiderate, not at all, but sometimes things come up that simply demand his attention. if he's on his way to meet up with you and sees some marines unjustly terrorizing civilians, he won't think twice. know that in his heart, he'd never intentionally do anything to hurt you

if he chooses you, he expects you to have trust in him and his intentions. having a partner that can read between the lines and see the magnitude of his actions is something he appreciates he won't outright ask for much of his partner, so, ideally, they should be perceptive enough to give him what he needs. show him and tell him that you appreciate what he does acts of service and physical touch!

realistic, or perhaps even idealistic. he admires those with lofty goals and ambitions, those who are aware that what they seek won't just be handed to them on a silver platter

relationship-wise, zoro would appreciate a partner who is aware of the facts…without getting butthurt yes, sometimes he wants time alone, even from you. no, it doesn't mean that he doesn't love you. yes, he'll protect you with all his heart and soul, but you can't expect him to hold your hand on every island you stop on. you're pirates- this won't be a sappy love story

supportive. a partner who shows interest in his craft will get his attention. you don't have to be an expert on the ways of the blade, but asking him questions and allowing him a chance to engage in something he's passionate about will draw him out of his shell

asking about swordsmanship is probably what drew him to you in the first place. he won't bother with conversation if its not something he's interested in, so its a good way to get his attention! similarly, if he's genuinely in love, he would go the extra mile to learn about his partner's interests and passions. he is an intense lover

zoro is a bit indifferent when it comes to physical preferences. he's very much drawn towards character above all else. however, in my opinion, due to his friendship with kuina, he does tend to have a soft spot for those with darker hair and eyes, maybe even someone taller than him

sanji

generosity. sanji is a giver and is not afraid to show it. it's a double edged sword. he's shown that he is willing to sell himself short, willing to put himself down if its for the sake of others. while he enjoys giving, revels in it, he desperately craves someone who can coddle and spoil him rotten

ideal partner would not be embarrassed of him or push him away. he's a sensitive soul, afraid of abandonment from the one he loves most. accepting his love with a smile and returning it with equal or greater fervor would send him over the moon partner does not necessarily have to be super bubbly or extroverted to check this point! if sanji loves you, he knows you. a quiet partner who gives him a smile and squeezes his hand can be just as reassuring as an extroverted partner pulling him into a hug

emotional depth. this man would merge his very soul with yours if it were possible. sees partnership as a bond that will transcend all else and won't accept anything less. allowing him to explore you, all of you, will not only make him feel trusted, but truly connected to you

seconding this, a partner who can be open with him would be ideal. if you close yourself off, hesitate to divulge information, he might feel that he is doing something wrong. he understands needing time to process emotions, so if that's what you want, then at least make him aware of that he will be just as open. you're his safe space, his haven

committed and idealistic. this is a man who loves to talk about the future. marriage, kids, how your kitchen will look like… it warms his heart and makes him feel secure. it lets him know, even if some of the ideas are outlandish, that you have him in mind for the long run

partners that find discussing such commitments to be nerve racking, may make this cook a little panicky. you might not doubt him, but he would wonder why you felt the need to avoid the topic. did you not see him as someone you could be with in the future? talk with him, dream big with him

organized and orderly. he recognizes the effort it takes to formulate a plan and execute it, especially when it comes to dates and gifts. in the moment, spontaneous outings are meaningful, but don't hold as much weight as something which requires effort and is tailored to his partners wants and needs. he's a planner and likes when things fall into place

also ties to previous point about commitment. he finds comfort in planning a future with you and discussing your desires

compassionate. ties back to first point relating to generosity. sanji will very much push aside his own wants as long as you're happy. having a partner who can get him to speak up for himself, and actually listen, would be a dream come true. when he treats you and spoils you, he expects nothing in return. its just how he is. reciprocating and giving him his own spot in the limelight will heal him in ways he didn't even know he needed

unlike the marimo, sanji will put you on a pedestal. he thinks you're an angel, incapable of wrong. sanji needs a compassionate partner who recognizes this and gently reminds him that it takes two to form a partnership, and that he is just as worthy of love sanji does not do well being criticized by his partner. lack of reciprocation and a general disinterest in him will turn him away

reliability. he'll be in your corner, always. in a pirate world where everything is tumultuous and unpredictable, he finds solace in knowing that his partner is waiting for him. you being there for him, regardless of the situation, makes him even more eager to please you and show you that he's worthy of your affections. the simple act of showing up means more to him than most

sanji has been known to indulge in the finer things. aesthetics and looks are what catch his attention and he floods most any pretty thing with affection. however, its that emotional connection and depth, authenticity and passion, which ultimately keep him hooked

disclaimer: don't worry if you lack any of these traits- any relationship can work! these things work in mysterious ways... as long as there's proper communication and love, i'm sure any of these one piece men would adore being with you ૮ • ﻌ - ა

[beegomess]

Your marriage with them || Slytherin Boys

Summary: This time, the title describes it well… Warnings: None.

Requests are open!

Blaise Zabini

It was on a sunny afternoon, at one of the idyllic country estates of the Zabini family, that your wedding with Blaise came to life. The setting, though unpretentious, exuded a serene elegance. The estate was situated on a vast property, surrounded by green fields stretching as far as the eye could see. The ceremony took place outdoors, under a clear blue sky, with subtle decor that appeared natural and unpretentious, yet it was evident that every detail had been carefully chosen.

The altar was a simple structure, adorned with white and green flowers that blended perfectly with the surroundings. The chairs, arranged in elegant lines, were dressed in soft-toned linen fabrics, creating a pleasant contrast with the green field backdrop. The sound of birds singing and the gentle breeze completed the tranquil and intimate atmosphere of the event.

The guests, many of whom were close friends and family, appreciated the sophisticated simplicity of the setting. The reception featured an outdoor dinner with refined dishes served informally, allowing everyone to feel at ease. The day concluded with a sunset celebration, marked by lively conversations and laughter, in an environment where elegance met natural beauty.

Draco Malfoy

The wedding with Draco was a spectacle of grandeur and tradition, reflecting the prestige and magnitude of the families involved. The ceremony took place in a splendidly decorated church, whose interior was an imposing example of classical architecture. The environment was filled with luxury and refinement: crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, casting a soft light over the meticulously crafted details.

The altar, adorned with opulent floral arrangements in shades of white and gold, seemed like an extension of the church itself, harmonizing with the columns and walls embellished with marble details and gold frames. The main aisle was filled with guests, all dressed in their finest attire, giving the event a royal air. The sound of organ music filled the space, creating a solemn and majestic atmosphere.

The reception was equally grand, held in the main hall of the Malfoy family estate, distinguished by its refined decor and luxurious details. Guests enjoyed an exquisite banquet and danced to the music of a live orchestra. Every moment of the wedding was planned to emphasize the significance of the occasion and the connection between the families, creating a celebration that will be remembered as a milestone of elegance and prestige.

Lorenzo Berkshire

Your wedding with Lorenzo Berkshire took place in a serene field, immersed in the simplicity and natural beauty that characterize the Berkshire family aesthetic. The location was carefully chosen to offer a tranquil and elegant setting, with robust trees and blooming white flowers.

The ceremony was held outdoors, with a simple yet sophisticated altar, decorated with white and green floral arrangements that complemented the natural palette of the field. The chairs, arranged in a semicircle, were dressed with linen covers and ribbons in neutral tones, blending with the surroundings. The blue sky and gentle sun created a pleasant and calm atmosphere for the celebration.

The reception followed the same refined simplicity, with an outdoor dinner served under elegantly decorated tents. The menu included light and sophisticated dishes prepared with fresh, high-quality ingredients. The overall atmosphere was one of relaxation and intimate celebration, with friends and family enjoying a natural and elegant setting where the beauty of the field complemented the discreet sophistication of the occasion.

Mattheo Riddle

The wedding with Mattheo had to be conducted quickly and practically, reflecting the urgency with which both of you wanted to seal the union. The ceremony took place in a small and cozy garden at the back of one of his family's houses. The decor, done in a hurry, was simple but had a touch of homey charm.

The space was decorated with field flowers and candles, creating an intimate and warm environment. The ceremony area was improvised with an arch of white and green flowers, giving the place a fresh look. Simple wooden chairs were arranged around the makeshift altar, where the vows were exchanged.

The few friends present shared a simple feast, with homemade food and drinks. The celebration was marked by a sense of urgency and love, with everyone present understanding the importance and intensity of the moment. The simplicity of the event reflected Mattheo's and your desire to unite quickly, and even in its simplicity, the love and dedication were clearly present.

Theodore Nott

The wedding took place at the end of a golden afternoon, in a seaside garden belonging to a majestic house on the coast. The setting was breathtaking, with the deep blue sea shimmering under the soft light of the setting sun.

The garden was adorned with natural and refined decor, with white flowers and green arrangements that enhanced the beauty of the environment. The chairs were arranged in a semicircle configuration, offering panoramic views of the sea and the sunset-lit horizon. The altar, simple yet elegant, was framed by a curtain of flowers and leaves, matching the garden’s color palette.

The ceremony was enveloped in a warm glow, as the last rays of sun reflected on the sea, creating a magical and romantic atmosphere. The reception continued outdoors, with a sophisticated dinner served under a large tree, where guests enjoyed the spectacular view and relaxed ambiance. The combination of the natural setting with elegant details created a dreamlike scene, capturing the essence of love and glamour.

Tom Riddle

The wedding with Tom was an urgent and symbolic celebration, held in the Chamber of Secrets, a location that, despite its dark and mysterious character, became the backdrop for a deeply personal and significant moment. The ceremony had to be conducted quickly due to the need to remain hidden, but Tom insisted that all the elements he wanted be present.

The Chamber was temporarily transformed with simple but effective decor. Magical torches cast a soft light on the stone walls, and a series of white candles were placed around the makeshift altar. Discreet floral arrangements, consisting of white lilies and dark flowers, were positioned at strategic points, providing an elegant contrast to the somber environment.

The few carefully selected guests were present to witness the union, marked by sincere vows and a sense of urgency. The ceremony was brief and intense, reflecting both the gravity of the situation and Tom’s deep desire to seal the union as quickly as possible. Despite the improvised decor and unusual setting, the moment was filled with significance, with Tom ensuring that every detail reflected his commitment and desire to build a future together, regardless of the circumstances.

_______________________________

masterlist

I loved writing this, and I hope you enjoyed it too!!

xoxo, bee🫶🏼✨

[boundwithpurple]

as i've said reading both a little life and the lesser bohemians in the last six months has made me think a lot about revelations of csa as a formal or structural problem. basically, unless you are writing about a child being abused, if you are writing about an adult, you are going to have to decide when and how a moment of past violation will be made clear to your reader. it's problematic to refer to it as a "revelation" in some ways - there are implications of voyeurism, of shock and scandal, that are a really frustrating way to frame any part of a what is simply a history of someone's life, of things that happen to a person. but of course the same reason it feels like a revelation are the reasons it feels voyeuristic and shocking or scandalizing, which are why it is abuse, and are in turn why abuse's effects are so devastating: it is out of the run of common life and can't be incorporated for powerful cultural reasons. and then, through culture - fiction - one is trying to incorporate it, and depict it's incorporation in a life. which poses unique challenges on a craft level!

a little life is now so firmly fixed in the popular consciousness as A Trauma Novel it's easy to forget how far into the book the explicit recollections of jude's past begin. looking through i think it is on pg. 163 of 819 in my copy where we begin the first flashbacks to jude's childhood, and it's a bit further before the sexual abuse is recounted. because even as a child, he has a history that precedes it, surrounds it. if the air of revelation can feel tawdry, presenting this as the first thing you learn about someone, as the most essential thing that dictates how you see them in every single way, which is what might happen if there was no "reveal" presents its own problems. we meet jude as a full person and then we get what violations have helped make him. and yet even thought we get other things first - his friendships, his intellect, his career - that past consumes them and obliterates them. this is A Trauma Novel. this is part of yanagihara's point - this is how it often feels to jude and how he experiences it and that is real - and also the pop culture reception is doing this to a rather offensive degree, colluding in an erasure the novel is about resisting, about the fight against and the beauties it bears, as much as it is about the tragedy of the victory of the past. the novel is pretty obsessively concerned with the demands of revelation. we get jude's past from within his own head, as relatively matter-of-fact biography, but also much of the tension of the novel is communicating it to others: how it will be communicated, what will happen if he does, what happens to his relationships when he doesn't or cannot. he tells willem his entire history in one continuous go, much as stephen does in the lesser bohemians, although unlike in that novel, the reader does not get to hear it. it is irreducibly private, sacred to that bond or that love. at least how it is communicated. we have all the information to imagine what is communicated. jude leaves harold a suicide note with a wrenchingly brief - 8 pages, when his recitation to willem in the closet took days! - account of his "hell" to forever haunt the person he's left behind with a belated and useless knowledge.

in the lesser bohemians you think this is a novel about a romance, and then halfway through it becomes a trauma novel, and then it continues as a trauma romcom. it’s earlier than halfway through when eily reveals to stephen she was molested as a child, but it's interesting how neatly this is incorporated back into the flow of the novel. perhaps because eily is the narrator? it's certainly not insignificant - it reframes a lot of what is going on within the sexual dynamic and how eily is trying to navigate her adult sexual relationship - but it is enfoldable. when stephen reveals his life story to eily, including being abused and raped by his mother as a child, the novel grinds to a halt for it. it literally slows down to happen in real time: he's narrating it to her, we are getting a direct transcription of his speech and her responses. it happens over the course of one night, and comprises about 70 pages in my copy. it is harder to digest, it becomes what the novel is about (or clarifies what it is about, reveals what it is about and how those few mentions of eily's past were, in fact, largely the secret point). but it only comes through dialogue, through an encounter with another's life. it is still enfoldable, because eily very consciously does so. this the moving beauty of it, how eily both considers this night the one she falls in love with him irrevocably because of the gift of getting his whole life. she hears "last night's rendered hell" and wakes up to buy him a birthday cake, and proposes they go drink bears and read in the park. she makes it part of him through making it part of her, her falling in love, and them. and this is very powerful: the fear that kept him from disclosure is that no one could ever metabolize something like that.

i love all this stuff. and it's especially compelling to me because it is something i had to grapple with a couple years ago, although as usual when i'm writing...it was less conscious. like i was thinking about all this stuff, but not in a way i could really have communicated. and so now it's fun to go back and do that and think about what i was working through in the act of writing which i can only now analyze. which is what i am going to do now. cw for what you can imagine from the above.

in writing my daemon targaryen csa survivor headcanon manifesto/daemyra ageplay epic... well i only set out to write the second half and then decided to commit and combine it with the former while writing chapter 4. that aspect was in my mind the whole time, but i wasn't going to make it explicit. i was going to remain allusive. stories that are deliberately so can have their own value and be doing their own work, but it was mostly because i was nervous about writing and posting something like this for a lot of reasons. but then i did. but then the question is: how to reveal this backstory that i have decided on being a key explainer for why this character is the way he is? to the reader, and to others, so the engine of fanfic generally and my fanfic (relationships between characters) can make of it a story, make it what the story is about, and allow it to braid with the other pieces at work, to incorporate it as life lived which can be rendered? etc.

my answer...was sex.

in hotd 1.01, daemon has some trouble performing with his sex worker girlfriend/concubine mysaria, and she offers him a "maiden? perhaps one with silver hair?" viewers who have been conscious for the last 20 minutes of show will remember that he was just having a very flirtatious and charged interaction with a maiden with silver hair earlier that morning: his niece. woah! viewers (like me) who also have the context of the wider universe will also remember that this guy is from the family that practices incest marriage and his parents and grandparents were both full siblings. he has silver hair, and he has clearly previously asked his (dark haired) lover for, or she has offered to provide, this erotic request which is centered around him fucking a girl who looks like she could be related to him. the implications are clear and intriguing: he is sublimating a desire to fuck a specific blood relation, and/or pursuing a desire for incestuous sex deeply ingrained by the values of his upbringing that cannot be satisfied in reality because there are no appropriate sexual partners (he had no sister; rhaenyra is his brother's virgin daughter and he would, at the very least at this specific point in time, not violate his relationship with his brother by transgressing his patriarchal prerogatives).

so this is where fanfiction is fun. you have this elliptic yet extremely evocative illustration of this man's sexual hangups! and if you are me it combines with other speculations about his inner workings derived from other relationships - say, that relationship with his brother, his relationship with that niece, and how the relationship with the latter is structuring the former and what deprivations and desires it hopes to satisfy. i've talked about that in great detail. my point is: 1. this guy seems molested to me 2. that is the case because of his interactions with various characters, and the facts of his biography, and the way he behaves in response to various situations 3. if that is so, that is affecting everything else about him and because i am the kind of person that was like "he seems molested to me" this is obviously interesting for me to explore. and then i have like this one moment in the show, and other moments, to build all this off of. so of course when it comes to the fic itself, this is where i make it clear. i recast that interaction (which all viewers, regardless of their take on daemon, saw) in light of my own read. the revelation is double: it's both happening within this fic, and it is happening re: the source material.

i have talked about this before. it's fun on the level of fandom. daemon is a guy for whom, unless you are me and my three close personal friends, this website displays basically zero sympathy. i have talked about this. a lot. the same users who can write meta about the damage of institutionalized incestuous marriage practices will exceptionalize him as a sinister pedophile who alone has not been affected negatively by being raised to think of close blood relations as the ideal sexual and romantic partner. where rhaenyra being raised to, on some level, view daemon as who she is destined for, is treated as sad, the fact that but for an accident of birth daemon would have been raised to believe the same thing about him in relation to his brother and the fact he was born a prince and his brother (also raised to think this re: daemon) cannot marry him as a central wound in that relationship is mostly viewed as funny. haha, he wants to marry his brother soooo bad. isn't it pathetic how he's sad he can't? none of daemon's behavior - flirting with his teenage niece, antagonizing the brother whose love he's desperate for, acting out violently while fulfilling the only role of sword arm that is allowed him within the family structure and the only one which earns his place in it - is ever tacked onto history: a complete person who does things, even horrible things, for perfectly comprehensible reasons.

there is another level, where "incest" is "problematic" in the fandom in a way that is, frankly, stolen valor from why incest is actually bad irl, which is that it is basically always the rape of children. it's bad, mostly because it's icky, but if you asked the people who do claim incestuous marriage is a bad idea, you would not get most of them landing on the real answer: because of the specific ways it might enable the rape of children. that is the thing that drives the disgust at incest in the series with its potent charge, and is also eerily erased and unspeakable. daemon doesn't actually physically sexually abuse rhaenyra as a child in canon, and even when talking about "grooming" no one makes the accusation he does, because it is not textually sustainable. there is actual harm (in the way that relationship is inescapably eroticized when she's an adolescent even without physical contact in a damaging way that can qualify as abuse in its own right, the use he tries to make of rhaenyra's sexuality for revenge on his brother according to misogynistic scripts of violated chastity, the fact that the family's marriage practices mean the second level of his gambit in 1.04 - to acquire her as his wife - leads to him feel he does not have to apprise her of what is going on or ask her opinion about it because she's his by right) but it is often not exactly what is being talked about. so i wanted to actually write about a child being raped within the targaryen family and how that would be experienced with their marriage practices in a way that restores the specificity of incestuous csa without it being used as a lazy rhetorical shorthand.

anyway. this leads to chapter 7. i have already done a dvd commentary of this one but now i'm doing a different version both broader and tighter in focus.

The girl is taller than Rhaenyra by several inches, and is not, Daemon thinks, of true Valyrian stock: few of them in King’s Landing actually are. But the Andals had brought their fair hair with them to Westeros and sometimes it could be this white-blonde that was close enough.

He nods at the proprietress of this pleasure house. She will do. The madam gives the girl a sharp look as she leaves them alone in the room that she does not see as she stares down at her slippered feet.

Daemon sits down on the couch and gazes at her. She seems to tremble before him as if in a haze of heat, as if all the silver-haired enough girls that preceded her overlay her uneasily, distort her edges—some taller, some shorter, some wider, some thinner—and under them, the bulge and seep of imagined forms.

“Come here,” he says quietly.

She crosses the room to kneel before him. He unties the knot on the thin strap that loops around her neck and is the only thing holding her shift to her body. Her breasts are heavy, the nipples prominent, thick. He thinks she might have nursed a child, and recently.

anyway, this means that this is all is going to lead to daemon having sex with a silver haired maiden in a brothel, and the revelation is about recoding that - simply by considering it from within him, an interior experience. there's an easy way to scoff here: a man's interiority as valuable thing we need to hear? well, i'm not saying it's valuable because it's fic, but i do think actually that can tell us a lot about the specificities of misogyny and the multisourced flow of harms that lead to its enactment (men act in certain ways because of the culture they have been raised in and the marks it leaves on them; they act in turn to leave the mark of their constitution as masculine agents on others). (this is not even my precise view of daemon, but you can't help but think about hostile audiences). "ew, gross, he wants to fuck his niece so his girlfriend is offering him this silver haired girl..." leads to broad conclusions (he's entitled to women's bodies, maybe slightly more dialed in on the bodies of women in his family). asking what he is feeling when he is doing it and what histories it’s connected to simply leads to a more textured and focused view of that same entitlement, which i think is both more interesting (this is fiction and should be interesting) and maybe with more useful broader application (as a general rule, working from the specific to the general while always not reducing the specific to the general is just more intellectually compelling).

His specifications are, after all, demanding. They cannot be too young nor too old. They must have hair of this rare shade. Though many have claimed their virginity, he thinks the real article must have similarly been rare. Although attempting to determine not only the usual, if the moans are the familiar flattering performance or real, but if they were the realest real, the real that is newness, prior to knowledge, contains its own interest, it doesn't really matter. The wine helps turn her outlines and those of the room around them soft as candle wax, but that too is not necessary. It is as natural as breathing to make this girl someone else, this room somewhere, sometime else. He strokes her hair, her cheek. One blue dart of her eye up at him and its gleam is not shy, not meek, but knowing, and that is why it’s cast down: she’s no actress and it would break the illusion—a look that knows things.

The request he made tonight is well-known in the Street of Silk, and perhaps an odd one: She must have silvery hair. She does not have to be a virgin, but I should be able to pretend she is one.

“Lie down on the bed. Under the sheet,” he orders.

He sips his wine for a moment while she complies. He thinks of the other girls used rooms like this, girls like her, to conjure.

"specifications" haha! the specifics of this girl he is paying for sex - the body that has just born a child - disappear underneath daemon's. his specifics destroy hers. she won't get a name, and daemon won't really think about that, and the flow catches us up to propel us along the specifics of daemon's specifications, the specific history that led to mysaria making that offer in the pilot, and back to the history that led him further back to ask for it. what revelation this builds to is encoded within sexual bodies and the sex he has with them, and is enabled by a gendered economic structure and daemon’s place in it and how it is used to meet various emotional and sexual needs. there are reasons driving those needs, and they matter, and to what it means to the life of this anonymous girl of queasily imprecise age they also don't matter at all.

The first girl like her had been delighted. Her silver hair owed to a Lysene mother and it meant she had found a profitable niche in the capital: men who wanted to pretend to fuck their sisters and to do it needed to pretend they were Targaryens. Yes, he supposes it was amusing—Daemon had no qualms about fucking a sister to circumvent; it was merely the sister herself he lacked, and so the initial act of conjuring had been the most challenging: a girl who didn’t exist.

Daemon stands up and walks over to the bed to stare down at her. The darling has done perfectly, just as he imagined. She lies on her back, coverlet to her chin, hands chastely clasped at her throat. Her eyes look at him with that knowingness, the knowingness that allows her to know he wants her not to know and has her looking away: it apes modesty nicely enough, even if it is only because she cannot fill them with an innocence that has been lost.

This is not how his real bedding with his real sister would have gone, how his parents’ had gone. The hands of the ladies plucking his clothes from him, the men freeing her from her outer garments until they were thrown together on the raft of the marriage bed, naked as they might once have been in the womb together, in the bath as children, before their paths diverged, he to the training yard and she to her septa—at least until, like his mother, she escaped her clutches to dog his heels, bang him about the shins with her wooden sword until he noticed her, till like his father he decided he couldn’t wait till supper and he must dart into the girls’ schoolroom on his way to his history lesson with the maester to pull her hair, slip a secreted bug down her shirt so she ran after him shrieking, laughing.

One night when he was six-and-ten he had his own mock wedding in a brothel a few doors down from this one with that first girl that had said, low, thrilled, sweetly nervous, You’re my brother, oh, yes, sweet brother; right before his true wedding (I'm not your sister, I suppose that’s the problem), the whores placing crowns of flowers on their brows, grabbing them, tugging at them, passing them from hand to hand into a room and tearing their clothes from them, a noisy, raucous, joyous bedding, Daemon’s mouth so plum-red from the wine it left faint imprints on her breasts, her lips so plum-red they left marks on his cheek that, when he slipped into the keep early that morning to wash and dress and depart for Runestone, had made his grandmother sigh with relief as she used a spit-damp thumb to rub them out.

They had laughed under the blankets together, not all of the revelers trooping out to leave them alone, for there was money to be had, in making people pay to watch a Targaryen prince fuck his sister. But the uproar had faded to a hush there in their mingling breath, her warm and by then familiar body. Daemon had felt new with her. They would know nothing together.

Nice to think. Aemon and Baelon, best of brothers, close in age, had gone together to the city, picked up knowledge to please their brides and how well Alyssa had been pleased, how loudly she had let all know it, how smug she had been, how well-satisfied.

Nude, although her eyes go to the blood of that Reachman cunt which still stains his knuckles, he peels back the sheet to reveal this girl’s body, known before knowing, known then unknown, made new. A revelation to caress her hip, shyly, shy himself, not wishing to frighten her, to slide his hand between her legs very softly—

Of course to imagine marrying this sister Daemon has to commit the sin of vanishing his brother, for if his brother existed, he would have their sister, but that was better than the other sin, also indulged in, of dreaming up a sister just for Viserys.

the relation of specific to general is all over this passage is key. daemon provides specifications so he can get a canvas on which to paint a fantasy of something unfixed (a sister that does not even exist, vague, shadowy) but this in turn comes from something specific (he has been sold the worldview that incest marriage is the ideal way to conduct his sexual and romantic life) to the even more specific (this might be ideology, but ideology is also incorporated and made personal; he grew up with the story of his very-in-love sibling parents and the father devastated by his sister-wife's loss) to the even more specific (he has a brother, he should have been his brother's sister, this has structured their entire relationship). something there with specificity for me always...

in the book, daemon has a fetish for virgins. this is alluded to in the show (with the maiden with silver hair) and then made a bit stranger with how his deflowering plot for rhaenyra actually plays out. the virgin fetish is baked in for westerosi patriarchy, but that estrangement (daemon's flinch from actually taking rhaenyra's virginity) made me think about how innocence can sexually obsess from the other side, as it were. someone might roll there eyes: oh, so i should care he's fucking teenagers because he was abused? and like, not at all: that is the question i am leaving unanswered. i do think many who victimize were victimized themselves, that the corrosive ways this is processed sexually often have more complex and far sadder sources than an emotionless patriarch who dominates from pure selfish malice, and yet, well, what does that matter to this girl or anyone else? how much? to what end do we think about it? (stephen’s narrative in the lesser bohemians is provocatively split basically halfway between what was done to him by a woman and the very bad - if not abusive - ways he has treated women in turn). it changes his relationship with rhaenyra, but the class structure of his society means he does not - canonically or in this fic - show the same hesitation due to age and vulnerability for any unnamed "maiden."

Tentative fingers between her delicate folds. His sister’s cunt, maybe his very first cunt. If he’d had a sister, what allure could the Street of Silk hold for him? Maybe as children they would have explored like this—he puts the girl’s hand on his cock, guides her in slowly stroking it to hardness, her first cock, that strange soft flesh absurd and alive in the palm, twitching as it thickens with blood—bolder, unashamed. That’s what he had imagined the wedding night before his wedding, with this endlessly adaptable illusory sister, who also sometimes maybe, curious, bold, hungry, kept ghostly pace beside him as he descended into the city, as they discovered everything together.

He rolls them over so he’s on top of the girl, kissing her with his eyes closed. Hard and aching but patient, he’d prepare her, lovingly, worshipfully, just like this, slipping a finger inside her, nervous himself with responsibility, he’d done this before in his fumblings with his whores, but this was new, this was his sister, and then somewhere after his marriage with girls in the Vale, Aemma’s home she’d left and Daemon had been sent to in exchange, the girl beneath him had no longer been his sister but his cousin, no matter her coloring, with the smell of stone and pine everywhere in the mist, as he’d imagined that other sister existed, Viserys’ sister, he’d marry her and so Daemon could marry Aemma, the cousin a year younger than him and it would all be different, that night wouldn't have happened, the one where Daemon had been shaken awake and he’d been awake instantly, like always, body on alert, but it had just been Aemma with blood on her nightgown, crawling into bed with him, and he hadn’t known and hadn’t asked whether it was her first blood or whether it was the blood that would inevitably follow that one, that Viserys, with no ceremony and no warning because they’d already been wed two years by that time, would exact, but either way, whether it was anticipation or aftermath that left Aemma’s small face stricken, Daemon had lifted his sheet and she’d crawled in and they lay there in the dark, he and his good-sister who he could make laugh even then, even though he'd felt sick, with relief, because it would stop for him now, he knew it somehow, or jealousy, because it would stop for him, and this, the relief, the shame at the relief, the jealousy, the shame at the jealousy, had chased him as a few months later Viserys beamingly announced Daemon would soon have a nephew or niece, and when that nephew died in the cradle, when Rhaenyra was born and Daemon hadn't said it to his brother or his grandmother, he'd said it to her, Aemma, Betroth her to me, I'll take good care of her, I promise, and it had been a promise regardless of the fact he was married to Rhea instead, he’s tried to keep it, he's tried, and the relief and jealousy and the shame had chased him to the Vale, where he’d left every single one of Aemma’s letters unanswered.

what i like is that the revelation that is this chapter's reason for existing - daemon was sexually abused by his brother as a child - only appears directly in like 4 paragraphs tops. (it's 7k, for scale). and that's generous, two are more implied, and it's this paragraph and the very final one that make it explicit. and yet they work as master keys for the rest, they should soak through it, inundate it.

i pull a trick i pull constantly because it's my favorite. technically this entire chapter takes place over the course of 20 minutes, generously. it's entirely daemon fucking this girl. and yet you get these long paragraphs with looping run on sentences out of it, out of a simple physical sexual act (fingering her, here) as everything in daemon is connected to and hooked on that sexual act, which literally speaks. (and reminds the reader, hopefully, of what remains silent, ie, the other person in this sex scene who says...well, one word at the end, we'll get there). i do this in for example this chapter of a magicians fic, which is, technically, entirely quentin coldwater masturbating after being swapped into eliot's body. and yet everything can be revealed by that hand on that dick doing those motions!!! everything in his life!!! because it goes on for 15k.

His thumb at her clit makes her sigh, her hips cant wider, the tightness at her cunt ease enough he can work a second finger into her. Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra. He didn’t think of her much then, in his first year in the Vale. He’d left King’s Landing before she was even a month old, for his brother had said to his plea only She will marry her own brother, she will marry my son, yes, Viserys had all he needed, wife, children, brother could be dispensed with, and it would be good, he’d been a bit embarrassed by his outburst because of course, Rhaenyra would have a little brother and she would marry him just as it ought to be. Daemon had come back home for her first name day even though he knew himself it would make everything worse, because he knew he would return to Runestone when ordered, but he showed up in time for her birthday—that morning he’d left for his wedding, Aemma had come to him with her daughter in her arms and told him it would be well, he was going to her home, the one she missed in this crowded hot stinking city, that high pure air as if the mountains themselves breathed and you walked in their chill exhalations, a sweet constant breath that made all colors sharper, deeper, the green of it, the blue of the air, and Caraxes would like it, there were elk to hunt and shadow cats to battle and Daemon, sullen, scuffing his boot in the dirt of the yard before he got on his horse to make his way to the Dragonpit, had just said, She won’t know me when we meet next, I’ll be a stranger, that’s what he would be, a strange man walking in, the uncle sent away, and Aemma said oh Cousin, she will know you, and she was a year younger than he, five-and-ten, and yet she made him feel like a boy, a silly churlish boy—and she had, he walked into the family chambers and everyone was shocked, dismayed, none of them had been at his fucking wedding but they’d heard all about it, dragged drunk in front of the septon, they’d heard reports of he and his wife’s mutual hatred, they might not know the full extent of his failure to do as they wished and become a man, an adult, but he still felt they could smell it on him along with the scents of dragon and leather and the icy upper reaches of the air, and then the silence was broken by Rhaenyra crowing in delight and reaching out her fat little hands toward him.

Enchantment. His outburst on the day of her birth, perhaps that might be dismissed as merely some ancestral yearning. Here was a Targaryen girl, a Valyrian princess. Not a sister or a cousin but a niece. Now, at one, a beautiful baby, particular, specific, special. Rhaenyra. Her eyes lit up with delight when he parted his hands to reveal his momentarily hidden face. The stubborn grip of her little fingers around his thumb. Her wails and shrieks of displeasure, her tiny perfect face with its petal-soft cheeks and peony lips twisted up in a demented entitlement when she was denied anything—denied Daemon. Even when he simply left the room. You’re a novelty, Viserys said then. His brother sighed in exasperation when Daemon taught her the words to everything in the room, recast the everyday things in this language that came from some elsewhere. Qurdon. Jimy. What’s the word for mother in Valyrian, cousin? Muña, that’s your muña, Rhaenyra. Viserys protested, You don’t need to teach her that yet, she hasn’t even learned Common, she only babbles. Kepus, Daemon said, pointing to himself, naming himself to her. Kepus, Nyra. Her first word—uncle and father in one, plausible deniability, save for the fact she was in Daemon’s arms, she said it smiling into his face. Viserys had hated it. She’d taken her first steps toward him, her mother’s hands hovering anxiously at her back, laughing with self-satisfaction as she toddled in his direction, before falling forward on her knees catching herself on her own palms, but she’d only laughed harder, their brave, brave girl. And Viserys said for the first time, Past time to return to your wife, Daemon, and he’d gone.

this is nasty work i'm so proud of and pleased with. he's fucking this girl and it shifts seamlessly into him thinking about rhaenyra as a baby. it should feel deeply uncomfortable, but it presents daemon's very particular mental landscape, where all these things - sex, incestuous sex, his infant niece, tenderness for a loved child - have become hopelessly snarled. i want to just consider that with compassion, its horror and its sadness, and the flickering and compromised hope of daemon's struggle to not damage in quite the same way he was damaged, not as much, how you get at a sense of your own violations and how you could perpetuate it when you have no framework for condemnation or even really identifying what has happened. the fantasy, the romantic vein here, is the idea that, sometimes, this awareness of vulnerability can make people act a different way, make different choices.

this is always what i think of as the tough sell of this fic, although i believe it's actually totally justified by canon. daemon makes a plot to deflower his niece as revenge and as means to domination, and is very close to success, and at the last moment can't go through with it. this is a moment that really matters to me, and this fic is sort of a thought experiment, as the best canon divergences are. in chapter 1, daemon gets an experience and demonstration of rhaenyra's deep vulnerability to him that he doesn't get in canon. which leads directly to successive displays of that vulnerability. and it gives him an awareness that only comes too late in canon.

The girls remained Aemma for longer, as he returned to the Vale and fled the Vale, spent nearly a year just he and Caraxes wandering Essos. Endless silver-haired lilac-eyed beauties, courtesy of his forebears and their conquests. Even on that immense continent bursting with unknown wonders and the Freehold’s mighty echoes, he found himself drawn to the still hot Targaryen point, the living ghost.

Saera in Volantis. He had been very young when she went away, that’s how it was phrased, she went away, and his memories of her were unindividuated, one of a mass of aunts who one by one died. She was known to him through a silence that delineated intriguing edges, the princess who became a whore. Daemon, eight-and-ten on her doorstep. She was unashamed, scornful, but wryly curious, willing to entertain him for a while. She enjoyed his acid portraits of her parents as desiccated relics, of Viserys as her father’s heir, Daemon’s assessment of his unsuitability. She was not particularly impressed with him, and did not appear to experience any yearning, any loneliness, here so far from her family, her sons a few years younger than Daemon and although she was instantly known to him, in his bones, known to him as a Targaryen, and although her sons were very like her, little evidence of of their three different fathers in them, in some way in a formula he couldn’t figure they were not Targaryen.

Daemon gave himself away eventually. The brittle mask cracked, one night up late before the hearth in her bedroom, the elegant sound of her orderly house, tinkling laughter of sophisticates and the strumming of lyres, murmuring up through the floor, when he asked why she never answered her mother’s letters, thinking of his grandmother’s frozen grief whenever Saera’s name was mentioned, the longing for the only daughter left to her, and his aunt said evenly: She thinks she wants me to respond, but if I sent her a letter, just a normal letter describing any normal day—she’d rather I were dead. I do her a kindness, not letting her realize she’d rather I were dead. If I hadn’t escaped the motherhouse, the beatings, the cold baths, the shit food, my pussy shriveling up and turning to dust from lack of use, I would have slit my wrists and she would have preferred that and this way she never has to know, and Daemon had nothing to say to that, because were not Alyssa’s spirit and Daella’s sweetness and Gael’s gentleness ever dwelled upon, and was not Saera’s childhood too a silence containing as it did the willful spoiled child who would become the girl who laughed in her father’s face and declared she’d have as many husbands as Maegor had wives, the girl who stood dry-eyed and unrepentant as her father slew her lover, the girl who spread her legs in a Lysene pleasure garden and offered up not only her own body but the body of a Targaryen princess, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms’ defiled, defiant blood open to all, cobblers grown rich as princes off courtesans and their taste for fine leather sandals beggaring themselves and grizzled old Braavosi sailors with their life savings withdrawn from the Iron Bank and Dothraki horselords willing to pay the entire population of a Lazareen village in slaves for just a night, the girl who’d survived.

She hadn’t been pleased when he showed up unannounced. She’d known him instantly when he was shown into her receiving room. Not Daemon, individually, but known him for a Targaryen. Her face went very red, then very white. She’d grumbled about the audacity of him asking her to stay, snapped she should put him to work for his bread and board, but she’d let him, she was wealthy enough, money of her own, money she’d earned in a vault with her name on it, that feeding a wayward nephew posed no trouble at all and provided its own satisfaction—Saera Targaryen wasn’t dead in a gutter, no ser, here she is feeding Baelon’s boy delicacies in her garden. He had the run of her beautiful house, of the city, and he continued as he had in Lys and Myr and Braavos, all the metallic girls and burnished boys, but mostly he shadowed her like a pathetic puppy, that’s what she called him, Oh, puppy. She wondered if his family—not theirs—knew where he was, if they wanted him back, if they’d send someone after him. I’m quite extraneous, he said. They were irate with him, he could tell in their letters, but also seemed wearily resigned, it was no more than they’d expected. They were not frantic. They knew he’d return, as he knew it. The second son of a second son. It’s nothing to the fifth daughter of a second son, Saera had said dubiously, but didn’t ask again.

His aunt was not as he expected. She’d been preserved in his mind as that crafty, unlovable child and although it was true her tongue was still sharp and she never rose earlier than noon and she moved through the world with what would have been sheer headstrong will if she had not already had done with all that, if she had not arranged her world so it flowed around her like silk, she was a woman, knowledgeable, witty, contented; she knew everything that happened in the city and everyone, spoke lively, flawless Volatene—Daemon struggled with only his antiquated High Valyrian—haggled hard with tradesmen, firmly but humorously reprimanded one of her girls for borrowing another’s gown without asking and ruining it, talked to her sons’ tutor about their progress, saw her most recent lover into her room for the night and filled the hall with her cries: any normal day—she’d rather I were dead.

Of course he kissed her. Despite the almost absent-minded condescension of Saera’s attitude toward him—she did not seem to spare him much thought, and when she did it was laced through with scornful amusement—there was also an odd nervousness. She left rooms he entered too quickly. She would visibly start when rounding a corner and coming upon him. Sometimes he would look up and catch her watching him, baffled, irritated, ravenous. Of course the only way it could happen was Daemon creeping into her chamber very late at night and crawling into her bed like the cringing puppy he was, scaring her half to death for a moment before she cursed him in annoyance. Surging forward, clumsy lips on hers. He expected her scathing laughter, for her to efficiently put him in his place and send him on his way chastised for his presumption. Instead she gasped, pressed herself to him, and then their hands on each other were frantic, fumbling at their garments until he could inelegantly breach her, rut into her with his head buried in her breasts, shivering, her hands wound in his long hair and high keening noises in the back of her throat that could have nothing to do with his brutal, ineffective thrusts. After, she pushed him off roughly, stroked his hair off his face with a harsh hand, his cheeks slick with what he hoped she assumed was sweat, and said cruelly, Oh, puppy, what have they done to you?

As a lover, he expected her to be assured, confident. That was what he craved, perhaps. To be the one who knew nothing. That came, eventually. Saera bestowed upon him an extremely thorough education indeed, in time. But first it was sweet, giggly, desperate. The practiced lover made new. She said after they fucked the second time that first night, You took the one virginity I had left to give, and the oddest, the most perverse: I’ve never fucked a Targaryen. She was fouled by her survival, the unclean—the whore—but somehow with Daemon it sloughed off her. The closest thing to a Targaryen wedding night they’d ever have: one night his cock refused to rise and she’d fucked him instead, on his back, his hair flowing in a maidenly shield over his chest, pinkening under her attention and none of it was new, all of it had been done before—he’d fucked and been fucked and fucked her specifically, and yet his eyes were wide, wet, he’d shuddered as she gentled him with her hands like you would breaking a colt to the bit, pulling his hair, she’d been fascinated with it, said, There, that’s it, as he opened to her and he wasn’t going to come, he wasn’t hard, and yet something similar to orgasm squirmed through him, something he resisted as too overwhelming, too much, until it tore from him, a great, blubbering, snotty sob, and yes, when he’d cradled his motherless girl in his arms four years ago he had known why she jerked and thrashed against it, why once it started she couldn’t stop, relieved, agonized, it scraped his insides so clean and raw it burned, Oh, puppy, and he’d hated it, adored it—how his aunt looked at him like she couldn’t remember ever being that fucking young, and he was crying too hard for words but his head shook as it came and came, he wanted to say no, you don’t understand, I’ve never been that young, the young that’s in your pitying eyes and soft hands, never, never.

She said You could stay, you know, start a mercenary company, hire yourself and your beast out to any of the Free Cities, and she knew it was never even a possibility, just as he knew it was never a possibility when he said Marry me, I’ll take you to the Dragonmont and get you a beast of your own for a dowry, and she would not even let Daemon convince her to let him take her for a flight on Caraxes, but he wouldn't let up, wouldn't leave her without it and finally she gave in, and she’d been nervous, her egg never hatched, she had never been around dragons, odd to think, perhaps she had been frightened even when she made her mad foiled dash to the Dragonpit to flee the trap they’d laid for her, but she gave a whoop of delight when the old wyrm thrust them aloft and Daemon had grinned the entire time, her arms tight around his middle, wind scouring his face, but when they landed again, his aunt was the one weeping.

the fic sort of puts daemon into dialogue with various targaryen women. what i like about the saera section in light of this formal problem is that what happens here is important, and opaque, because we do not get saera's disclosure that can bring it into focus. she has one to make, and it lurks around the edges, but like aemma's silent climbing into daemon's bed and what they don't say, it is not transmitted into language. daemon thinks about the sex they have while having sex with another girl that reminds him of saera, who is living a version of saera's life, far closer to saera than daemon, and yet no speaking is happening here either. and he's having this sex with this girl because he cannot speak to rhaenyra either. the women structure the revelation - the "maiden" - the sister she stands in for - aemma - saera - and then it's like - (rhaenyra) - as rhaenyra is through all of it and all of the others. this is the only way this specific revelation can be made or communicated. interestingly viserys himself is not super directly present…the demands of daemon as a character dictated that in this moment the perpetrator as individual be somewhat diffuse, present in a subtler form.

the last moment where daemon tries to do something kind and does something cruel, where saera weeps, and where we leave her for now.

Daemon returns. Not to the Vale, but home. Viserys seemed pleased, Aemma was pleased. He wasn’t where everyone would like him to be but he was home, he’d come back. And there was Rhaenyra, aged three, beloved terror, adored tyrant, Rhaenyra with her imperious demands and her volcanic tantrums. She was a biter and everyone despaired of it, she bit Hightower’s daughter black-and-blue when they fought. The first time she bit Daemon he responded without thinking; the slick little teeth marks throbbing on his shoulder, he’d leaned over and bit the chubby flesh of her arm and told her that was how it felt, how did she like it? She did not cry with betrayal at this revelation her uncle had been the one to deliver, that someone could deliberately hurt her. She did not run screaming to her parents at the lesson Daemon was the one to provide: the flesh of others feels. It can hurt. You can hurt it. And sometimes they’ll let you. She looked at him in wonderment and, unlessoned, bit down again in the same spot, harder, eyes glittering up at him evilly, until she drew blood. It was reported widely among those who obsessively monitored the little princess’ health and habits that she had stopped her biting, all of a sudden, just like that.

A darling, a pet, a demonic little imp by turns. Her parents doted and despaired. They loved her and so she must be guided, she must be shaped, made to turn out right. His grandparents died and yet the Red Keep was haunted still by their failure to master their daughters. Rhaenyra might transform one day before their eyes into the monster of Saera, that fearfully untutored creature. Rhaenyra was spanked for ruining her dresses and interrupting adults at dinner. Aemma delivered the punishments: she couldn’t bear to have anyone else touch her girl and she cried afterwards. It was what Viserys wanted, even if he did not deal it out himself and gave way easily to tears and pleas, and so did Aemma, even if it fell by the wayside for long stretches because Viserys simply did not attend, until Rhaenyra seemed almost to crave it as a mark of attention. This petted, charmed, overlooked child. Daemon had no role in restraint or comfort. His only task, fulfilled by simply breathing, was to delight.

He gave her a dagger when she was five and taught her the basics of using it, told her to keep it under her pillow and stab anyone who disturbed her sleep—Assassins, she whispered with relish and he’d just agreed, Yes, assassins—anyone at all, don’t worry about who it is, stab first and ask questions later, because that was simply how Daemon felt about it at twenty-one and how he feels about it at thirty-four and at any age: fuck her nurse or her little friend or her parents or her uncle as long as she was preserved, safe. What if it’s you? Rhaenyra giggled and Daemon replied, too intensely, Even if it’s me, and her eyes filled with tears, she became extremely upset at even the thought: I don’t want to stab you! she wailed and that was exactly the issue, wasn’t it, as a prince he’d always had a knife and never even thought about using it either, but before he could say fine, don’t stab me, die if you want, she’d worked herself up, nearly hyperventilating, But what if I come to YOUR room at night, will you stab ME, uncle, stab me to DEATH, because you think I’m an ASSASSIN, me your NIECE, and Daemon had said No, I’ll know it’s you, even asleep, even with my eyes closed I’d know and that calmed her right down, I will too, she said, soothed, I’d know, I’d know IMMEDIATELY, uncle, and so it proved useless for protection and anyway her septa found it and Viserys had it taken away lest she hurt herself.

The pearled maidens remained Aemma as he indulged in fancies that he was Rhaenyra’s father. He would not be allowed to marry her, he knew. He was marked, tainted. But if he were her father—if, yes, he thought it—if Viserys died and he became king, well, then he could do whatever he liked but when Rhaenyra was that small mostly he dreamed of marrying his brother’s widow—those hours in Aemma’s chambers, watching with rapt fascination as Rhaenyra’s Valyrian vocabulary became sentences, as she showed off the cartwheels she had learned from a troupe of gymnasts at a feast, Brother we need to get you some business to attend to, too much time with women—for then Rhaenyra’s life would be his to direct, it wouldn’t be any good for her, he’d never lay a hand on her, she’d be allowed to become just like him, and Aemma would be free, in his mind discarded everything but the fact that she would know pleasure in his bed if she wished to share it, Saera had ensured that much. He fucked these girls and they were Aemma but the sweet clench of their cunts were the molten afternoons, Aemma’s laughter as Rhaenyra whirled before them in a crown he’d made for her from paper, pronouncing, I’m Visenya!

Viserys, You spoil her, you indulge her, you fill her head with fancies, of course she prefers you. Why be her father when he could be her uncle? Spoiled, yes. He spoiled her, would spoil her. He spoils this whore’s cunt with his fingers and it responds gratefully and it opens, as he would spoil Rhaenyra’s cunt until it accepts him, pines for him, until when he notches the head of his cock to her entrance she sighs apart for him as this girl does, because around the time Rhaenyra was seven, eight, the girls transformed again, his niece’s future husband began to be discussed. There would be a son, yes, Viserys still believed that, but his eldest daughter would not be his queen, it was not fair to ask her to wait for him to grow up to be a wife and mother. It drove Daemon mad. If only it was him. He did not trust a Lannister or a Tyrell or a Baratheon slavering at the mouth at the whiff of her first moonblood. If only he was allowed Rhaenyra. He would take care of her, love her as an uncle, and then, when the time came, as a husband. The girl is tight around him, and if she was really Rhaenyra, as he started to imagine then, a forecasted and denied future, his niece, his bride beneath him when it was time, when she was ready, she would be tighter than this, and yes, it would hurt—he’d never lie to Rhaenyra, he would say I know darling, I know it hurts, it always hurts at first, it had hurt the first time, horribly, pain, his flesh could feel, blood on his sheets, but you could bear it, and eventually it would hurt less, he’d make sure it hurt less. Eventually he would make it feel good, the body adjusts, reshapes itself for pleasure, yes, like that—a noise drops from this whore’s mouth at the steady pressure of Daemon’s thumb on her clit, easing her into accommodating him, even against her will, Daemon doesn't delude himself, it’s not him, he just knows how to attend to her body as an instrument to draw forth cries to flatter him, even if she'd maybe really rather prefer to have it done with, for him to fuck into her and come quickly so he would leave and she could be alone, sleep, dream, but he needs to know the sounds Rhaenyra would make as he banished the hurt he'd made, because it was he who hurt her, and wasn't that better, and it wouldn't be for long.

His hips snap into the girl harder, faster. She whimpers. Daemon wraps her hair around his fist so her rippling throat is bared to him. “My prince—” she moans and he grunts, “No, no, lēkia, kepa,”;“Lēkia, kepa,” clumsy, grating on the ear, the sweetest thing, his sister, his niece, made for him, it wouldn’t matter, what would it have mattered, he could have fucked Rhaenyra any time, his girl, his darling, his dragon, his queen, and she would have let him, Brother, one day I will be your king, and if you were my sister…“Call me—call me my king, say it, yes, my king—” and with a muffled gasp of shock she so crowns him.

the only way daemon can articulate a desire to not harm rhaenyra is through the structure of the patriarchal incest marriage that is the thing that has caused all this! it coheres. what a devastating core. the girl speaks, and it's something daemon told her to say, and daemon commits the transgression he commits in show (an heir for a day, etc) and it’s hard to understand how he is not set up or fated to commit it. daemon is puppeting her, because he has been puppeted (cue tyrion's line about playing out scripts dictated by our ancestors).

He stumbles to the Red Keep shortly after, sky still dark as pitch. That early dawn coming back to the keep after the only successful wedding night he’d ever have, Daemon had gone to Viserys’ room by the hidden passageways he’d spent hours mapping as a boy, all the secret arteries that let you enter rooms like an assassin, he’d entered by one of these—he’d had to, the Kingsguard on duty wouldn’t have let him in without asking the king’s permission like he had that first time, Daemon seven or eight, after mother died and the only stable thing in the world was his big brother, Westerling had let him in them, some sympathy for the sniveling little prince, it had been very late or very early and Viserys had just gone to bed and he’d reeked of wine and sex although Daemon didn’t know that quite yet, I’ve come back from the Street of Silk, do you know what that is, it’s where the whores are, I will be married someday soon but until then young men have appetites, it’s filthy there, I’ve been through every brothel, I’m sick of it, diseased women who take the cocks of ten men in a night, I wish I didn’t have to go there, night after night Daemon had returned, missing his mother and his father too, who had almost died with her, Rhaenyra was right, he’d felt it too then even if he hadn’t had the words, they were all dead, and Viserys had said eventually, If you were my sister we would be married someday, do you know what it is married people do?—and if you traced those shadowed veins and knew where to put your eye to a very small hole in the wall and did so on the morning he’d left for the Vale you would have seen Daemon Targaryen creeping to his brother’s bed like a beat dog, his brother alone in his bed, his wife allowed to rest so soon after the birth, you would see the future King of the Seven Kingdoms startle awake, try to push his brother away with a noise of disgust, You smell like a winesink, you smell like your whores, and Daemon still drunk, weeping, had pressed his plum-red lips to his brother’s neck, his cheek, his mouth, sickened, desperate, and begged, If I was your sister we would be married, I would never be sent away, don’t send me away, and Viserys stiff and unable to dislodge him had been forced to permit Daemon for a moment to lay his head on his brother’s chest: yes, that’s when grandmother and Otto had come into the room, looking for him, and Viserys had said Go, you must get ready, and Alysanne had said Listen to your brother now Daemon, tired, very very tired, and he’d followed her and in the hall hearing Otto say to Viserys behind him It’s for the best, past time, and that’s when she’d rubbed his cheek clean and raw and looked relieved as she said You are leaving, and I know you are bitter now, but it’s good, it is good to get away from this place, these memories, it’s why I prefer Dragonstone, there is too much here, one day you will thank me, you can get away from this, you can have a wife and family of your own, you can make better memories, and in that moment he’d realized that she knew everything, she had known all along, but that he was the one who must leave, for their peace, no more carousing with his filthy whores, no more being scraped off the streets by the City Watch and carted to the Keep, he would be married, he would have children, he would be fine.

and it all comes together, but it's the last paragraph. it is inevitable, because forecasted by what precedes it, and yet it is the only thing that makes the preceding make sense. this is how it should feel to me, this is how it feels, and the structure communicates how it feels and is how it feels, and yet the structure is a product of the forces that dictate how it feels, which is quite bad...or something. the silver haired girls are an endless hall of mirrors and at the end is the reflection of the girl daemon was not, the ghostly girl around which the entirety of the targaryen family structure obsessively circles, which daemon was himself substituted for.

[iraot]

Word Count: 8,119 Pairing: Sylus/Xavier Warning: massage w/happy ending, full body massage, dub con, hand jobs, fingering, oral, p in a sex, fluff? mxm shipping,

A/N: please read at your own discretion! :3 I had a lot of fun writing this, and its been finished for a while so I figured why not post it today. Comment & Reblog please! AO3

“Xavier, you need to go.”

Logan leaned forward, slamming his empty glass onto the bar with a flourish, his grin practically splitting his face. His enthusiasm was bordering on obnoxious, but Xavier had long since learned that when Logan got like this, there was no stopping him.

“Need?” Xavier echoed, unimpressed, swirling the amber liquid in his own glass. “It’s just a massage.”

Logan scoffed, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

Xavier arched a brow, waiting.

“It’s not just a massage, man,” Logan continued, shifting to rest an elbow on the counter, his voice dropping like he was letting Xavier in on some kind of exclusive secret. “This place—it’s different. The guy who runs it? Sylus? He’s a fucking expert.”

“You say that like you got a religious experience out of it.”

Logan pointed at him, dead serious. “I did.”

Xavier snorted. “Right. So what, this guy breaks your spine and puts it back together?”

“Something like that,” Logan murmured, taking another sip of his drink. “Listen, you’ve been wound up for weeks, and it’s honestly painful to watch. Just go, drop my name at the front, and let Sylus take care of the rest.”

Something about the way he said it made Xavier pause.

There was something unspoken there. Something… off. Logan wasn’t usually this insistent unless he knew something Xavier didn’t.

And yet—his back was killing him.

“…Fine,” Xavier exhaled, rubbing his temples. “I’ll check it out.”

Logan grinned, clapping him on the back. “Good choice, you can thank me later.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Logan just smirked and ordered another drink.

Elysium didn’t look like any massage parlor Xavier had been to before.

No over-lit lobby. No lineup of tacky faux-spa posters with generic slogans about “relaxation” and “healing energy.” Just a sleek black door with a single brass nameplate and dim, golden lights glowing from inside.

When he stepped in, the scent hit him first—something warm and spiced, like sandalwood and embers curling in the air. The reception area was small, minimalist, but not in an unwelcoming way. The kind of place that exuded exclusivity without needing to try.

The woman at the front desk barely looked up when she spoke. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Uh… Logan sent me?” Xavier said, the words feeling clunky in his mouth.

That got her attention. She studied him now, sharp-eyed, like she was measuring him. “Wait here.” With that, she disappeared into the back, leaving Xavier standing there in the low-lit quiet, the subtle hum of music threading through the air.

Something about the whole place felt… deliberate. Like everything from the lighting to the air temperature had been carefully crafted to put you into a certain headspace.

A door opened and Sylus stepped out. Xavier had imagined… well, something else. Some older, quiet therapist? Some monk-like figure radiating serenity?

He had not expected this.

Sylus was tall. Broad-shouldered, his build muscular but refined, like he’d been sculpted from something hard and unyielding. His white hair was tousled in a way that looked both careless and intentional, framing sharp, impossibly symmetrical features. But it was his eyes that pinned Xavier in place—deep red, almost glowing under the ambient lighting.

He wore a loose, black silk robe, open enough to reveal the hard planes of his chest, the curve of his collarbone, the thick, dark chain that sat heavy around his throat.

Xavier had the sudden, unwelcome realization that he was staring.

“Sylus,” the woman murmured in greeting before gesturing to Xavier. “Logan’s friend.”

Sylus’ gaze dragged over him in a slow, unhurried sweep, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Xavier thought he wasn’t going to say anything.

“So this is what Logan’s been sending me.”

The way he said it—smooth, low, vaguely amused—sent a sharp pulse of heat down Xavier’s spine.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. He, uh… he said you were good.”

Sylus’ lips twitched, but he didn’t quite smile. “Did he tell you what kind of massage I specialize in?”

Xavier hesitated. “…Deep tissue?”

Sylus let out a soft hum, the amusement coming off him in waves then stepping forward.

Xavier didn’t move. The scent of him was overwhelming up close—something dark and expensive, threaded with the same spice that lingered in the air. But under that, something more raw. Something dangerous.

“Something like that,” Sylus murmured.

Xavier swallowed. “Room three,” Sylus continued, stepping past him. “Strip down to your comfort level. I’ll be there soon.”

His comfort level, he felt like that was vague considering how most massages worked but he wasn’t going to back out now, not with how Sylus was looking at him.

The room was warm.

Not stifling, not humid—just the perfect balance of heat against his bare skin, enough to loosen the tension in his shoulders even before the massage had begun.

Xavier exhaled slowly, adjusting against the table. He was used to this. He’d been to enough spas, enough professional therapists, to know the routine: strip down, drape the towel over himself, lay face-down, and wait.

But something about this felt different.

Maybe it was the lighting—low, golden, humming at the edges of the room. Maybe it was the scent—something richer than the usual lavender oils and eucalyptus mists he was used to. There was sandalwood, yes, but layered beneath it was something darker. Muskier.

It curled into his lungs, settled into his skin. The door opened.

Xavier barely lifted his head, but he heard it—the quiet click of the latch, the shift of air as someone stepped inside.

Sylus. Even without looking, Xavier felt the presence.

The quiet way he moved, deliberate and soundless, like he belonged in this space in a way that went beyond mere occupation.

There was a soft scrape as Sylus set something down—a box, maybe. Then another sound—the rasp of a match striking.

A glow flickered.

Candlelight.

Xavier turned his head slightly, just enough to see from the corner of his eye, Sylus moving through the room, lighting candles one by one. Their soft, wavering light painted him in gold and shadow, flickering over the sculpted lines of his bare chest, catching the metal of his chain as he finally reached the last one.

Then darkness. The overhead lights cut out.

Only the candles remained.

The atmosphere shifted—thicker, heavier, like the walls had moved closer, pressing the space into something more intimate. Xavier swallowed.

Sylus moved again, this time toward the table, his voice smooth and low.

“Ground rules.” The way he said it wasn’t a question.

“You say stop, we stop. If you need me to lighten up, say so.” He paused. “If you want it harder… say so.”

Xavier’s breath caught for half a second.

Sylus let the silence stretch. Then, Xavier nodded against the padded surface. “Got it.”

Sylus hummed, a satisfied sound. Then, a shift of movement—soft fabric rustling, the unmistakable pop of a bottle cap. The scent of oil thickened in the air, warm and spiced.

The first touch. Hot. Firm.

Sylus’ hands pressed into his shoulders, slow and deliberate, fingers spreading over his skin, palms dragging down in a long, unhurried stroke.

Xavier clenched his jaw, exhaling through his nose. He’d expected pressure. Expected force. He hadn’t expected the way Sylus’ hands seemed to map him, tracing over muscle like he was learning him, piece by piece.

There was strength there, unmistakable strength, but it was controlled—an expert application of pressure, working deep enough to make Xavier’s body twitch under the touch.

“You hold a lot here,” Sylus murmured, thumbs digging into the knot at the base of his neck.

Xavier made a small sound of acknowledgment.

A smirk tugged at Sylus’ lips. “That bad?”

Xavier exhaled sharply. “Just… tight.”

Sylus pressed in harder. Xavier groaned.Low. Unintentional. Sylus didn’t stop and he didn’t ease up.

He kept going, working methodically, dragging his thumbs down along the ridges of Xavier’s spine, smoothing over his lower back before kneading firmly into his sides.

Xavier’s fingers curled against the padded surface.

It was intense.

Not just the pressure, but the sheer awareness of it. The heat of Sylus’ hands, the slow drag of oil over skin, the shift of his weight as he moved around the table.

The candlelight flickered, scent of spice thickened, and when Sylus’ voice came again—low, amused—it sent a slow curl of heat through Xavier’s stomach.

“Good?”

Xavier swallowed. “…Yeah.”

Sylus hummed again.

Then he leaned in, his breath just barely ghosting over Xavier’s ear. “Tell me if you want more.”

And God help him, he might.

The warmth of the room had been a promise, a prelude to relaxation, but now, it felt like a furnace, the air thick with the weight of unspoken desires. Xavier’s breath hitched, the rhythm erratic against the padded table. The scent of sandalwood and spice, once comforting, now swirled around him like a dizzying vortex, each molecule a tiny, potent aphrodisiac.

Sylus’ words, “You’re tense here, too,” echoed in his mind, a blatant understatement. Every muscle in Xavier’s body had coiled tight, bracing against the unexpected, the forbidden. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence, a sound so loud he was certain Sylus could hear it.

Then came the shift. The subtle rustle of fabric as Sylus adjusted his position, the almost imperceptible pause, a breath held in anticipation. The towel, once a shield of modesty, was now a barrier, a layer of fabric that felt suffocating, unnecessary. And then, the cool air washed over his skin as Sylus lifted it, exposing him, vulnerable and raw, to the crimson gaze of the man standing over him.

The contact was electric. A slow, deliberate exploration as Sylus’ hand settled on his ass, the weight of it grounding, possessive. Not a clinical touch, not a therapist’s rote maneuver, but a deliberate claim, a silent declaration of intent. The muscles beneath his skin throbbed in response, tightening, loosening, yearning. He felt exposed, dissected, and yet, paradoxically, more alive than he had in years.

This was no longer a massage. This was something else entirely. A dance on the edge of propriety, a dangerous seduction woven with skilled hands and unspoken desires.

Sylus’ fingers began to knead, slow and deliberate, finding the knots of tension, working them with an expert touch. He felt the warmth of Sylus' hand spread over him, igniting his skin as if he was made of paper. It was agonizingly intimate, a violation of the unspoken rules of engagement, and yet, Xavier found himself powerless to stop it.

Then came the moment that shattered all pretense. The almost imperceptible slide of Sylus' hand, a feather-light caress that sent a shiver through his entire body. Down, down, down, towards the sensitive cleft, the hidden crevice where pleasure and pain intertwined.

His breath caught in his throat, a strangled sound lost in the stillness of the room. He knew, with a certainty that pulsed in his veins, that what was coming next would irrevocably change everything. He was on the precipice, teetering on the edge of a choice that would either send him spiraling into the depths of shame or soaring into the heights of ecstatic surrender.

Sylus’ oiled hand slipped between the cheeks of his ass, a slick, intimate glide that felt both shockingly invasive and undeniably pleasurable. Every nerve ending screamed, his body a symphony of anticipation. He wanted to pull away, to regain control, but the desire, the pure, raw, animalistic need, was too strong.

A stroke down the center. Slow. Deliberate. Teasing. Torturous.

It was very obvious this was not part of the massage.

The realization hit him like a physical blow, and yet, he remained motionless, paralyzed by a mixture of fear and exhilaration. This wasn’t healing, this wasn’t therapy, this was something primal, something dangerous, something that threatened to unravel everything he thought he knew about himself.

Sylus’ fingers stroked over his hole gently, a soft, knowing pressure that sent waves of heat radiating through his body. He imagined the dark gleam in Sylus' eyes, the knowing smirk playing on his lips, the subtle challenge in his expression. He was being watched, assessed, judged, and yet, he felt no shame. Only a burning, desperate need.

"Relax," Sylus murmured, his voice a low, silken command that resonated through the room, through his very soul. It was an instruction, an invitation, a dare.

A squeeze of more oil. The sensation was exquisite, bordering on unbearable. The slickness, the heat, the intimacy, all amplified by the flickering candlelight and the intoxicating scent of spice.

And then—

A finger.

Hesitantly, tentatively, Sylus’ finger hovered over his entrance, a silent question hanging in the air. His pulse throbbed with anticipation, fear mixed with desire, his emotions raw and primal. He wanted to scream, to push him away, to beg him to stop. He also wanted to beg him for more.

Sliding in slowly.

Deliberate.

Testing.

Xavier gasped, the sound a raw, involuntary expulsion of breath that tore through the quiet of the room. He squeezed his eyes shut, his knuckles white against the padded table. He was at the point of no return.

He didn’t say stop.

The finger eased in further, stretching him open. The sensation was intense, overwhelming, a mixture of exquisite pleasure and agonizing discomfort. He felt exposed, vulnerable, completely at Sylus’ mercy.

The initial shock of invasion morphed into a dizzying, almost unbearable pleasure. Sylus' single finger moved within him, a slow, deliberate rhythm that seemed to resonate through every nerve ending in his body. Xavier bit down on the padded table, fighting to maintain control, to hold onto the last vestiges of his composure. He was teetering on the edge, and the slightest push would send him spiraling into a vortex of raw, unadulterated sensation.

But Sylus wasn't finished.

The warmth of Sylus' other hand ghosted over his skin, a feather-light caress that sent shivers dancing across his lower back. Xavier's breath hitched in his throat, anticipation coiling within him like a tightly wound spring. He braced himself, waiting for the inevitable, the next boundary to be crossed, the next layer of his defenses to be stripped away.

Then, the touch.

A slow, deliberate stroke that traced the seam of his balls, a delicate exploration that made him arch his back against the table. The sensation was exquisite, bordering on agonizing, a teasing caress that ignited a fire in his loins. Sylus lingered there, his fingertips dancing over the delicate skin, mapping the landscape of his desire.

Then, with a sudden, knowing pressure, Sylus found it.

His prostate.

Xavier gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound that ripped through the quiet of the room. He'd never experienced anything like this before. The sensation was alien, overwhelming, a direct line to the core of his being.

Sylus hummed in amusement, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver down Xavier's spine. He knew exactly what he was doing. He knew exactly how to push him, to prod him, to bring him to the brink of surrender.

He began to stroke, slow and deliberate, applying just enough pressure to elicit a response, to draw out the pleasure. Small, involuntary moans escaped Xavier's lips, sounds he hadn't even realized he was capable of making.

The world narrowed, the only reality Sylus' skilled fingers, the rhythmic pressure, the overwhelming sensations that threatened to consume him. His body pulsed with heat, his muscles clenched and released, and he felt himself losing control, surrendering to the overwhelming tide of desire.

"Let me massage your front now," Sylus murmured, his voice a low, silken caress that brushed against Xavier's ear. The words were a promise, a threat, an invitation to cross the final threshold.

The charged proposition that sparked a firestorm of anticipation within Xavier. His body responded instantly, a visceral reaction that left him trembling. He knew what Sylus was suggesting, knew the direction this was headed, and he found himself utterly unable to resist.

With a surge of adrenaline, he rolled over, the rough fabric of the towel scraping against his overheated skin. He felt exposed, vulnerable, laid bare under Sylus's intense gaze. The movement, though clumsy and rushed, revealed the undeniable truth of his arousal.

Painfully hard, his cock strained against the confines of the towel, a throbbing, insistent presence that demanded attention. He could feel the blood rushing to his face, his cheeks burning with a blush that spread down his neck and across his chest. He felt hotter than he'd ever felt in his life, the heat fueled by a potent mixture of desire, shame, and anticipation.

His eyes met Sylus's, and he saw there a flicker of amusement, a knowing smirk that both thrilled and terrified him. He was being watched, scrutinized, and enjoyed. He was a canvas upon which Sylus was about to paint his masterpiece of pleasure.

Sylus moved away, a brief retreat that only served to heighten the tension in the room. The sound of water running, the soft clink of soap against ceramic, the brief pause as Sylus dried his hands, each action a deliberate tease, a slow burn that threatened to consume Xavier entirely.

Then, Sylus returned, his presence radiating a palpable sense of control and confidence. Xavier watched, mesmerized, as Sylus picked up the bottle of oil, the dark liquid glinting in the flickering candlelight. He knew what was coming, knew the pleasure that awaited him, and yet, he found himself holding his breath, clinging to the edge of anticipation.

The first touch was exquisite. Cool oil slicking against his skin, the gentle pressure of Sylus' hands as he began to work his shoulders and neck, easing the knots of tension that had plagued him for weeks. It was a masterful touch, both soothing and arousing, a prelude to the storm that was about to break.

Sylus' hands roamed lower, slow and deliberate, his touch a study in patience. His fingertips traced the defined ridges of Xavier’s chest, skimming over the taut skin before finding his nipples. A teasing graze, a feather-light touch—then a firmer pinch. Xavier sucked in a breath, his body jolting, the sensation like a live wire shooting straight to his core.

He watched Sylus watch him. Those red eyes, smoldering and unrelenting, drank in every reaction, every quiver, every hitched breath. There was no hiding here, no pretense. Sylus was peeling him open layer by layer, unearthing the hunger buried beneath years of restraint. It was maddening, humiliating, exhilarating.

The weight of Sylus’ gaze alone felt like a physical force, pressing him down, pinning him to the table more effectively than any restraint. Xavier swallowed hard. The air in the room had thickened, the candlelight casting flickering shadows that seemed to sway with the thrum of his pulse. It was a liminal space, a moment stretched impossibly thin between resistance and surrender.

And then—

"Would you like to continue?"

A deceptively simple question. Spoken with that same amused lilt, that infuriating confidence, as if Sylus already knew the answer. As if Xavier’s trembling form, the way his thighs tensed and his cock twitched against the towel, hadn’t already given him away.

The words hung between them, a tantalizing precipice, a door cracked open just enough to show the abyss waiting beyond. A choice, a test, a moment that would define the night—perhaps more than just the night.

Xavier's breath came unsteady. His mind clawed for reason, for self-preservation, but his body… his body had already surrendered. The aching weight between his legs, the molten heat pooling low in his belly, the undeniable way his muscles clenched in anticipation—all of it betrayed the truth.

To say no would be a lie. A pathetic, flimsy lie.

He wet his lips, throat dry, voice barely more than a whisper. Shaky. Almost pleading.

"Yes."

One syllable. A breaking dam. A submission years in the making.

Sylus exhaled, a slow, satisfied sound, his lips curving into something darkly pleased. The victory was his, as if it had ever been in question. And Xavier—Xavier could only brace himself for what came next.

Sylus' hands roamed lower, kneading deep into the muscle of Xavier’s hips, his touch unhurried, methodical. Every press of his fingers unraveled something in him, coaxing away the lingering resistance, working tension from bone and sinew as if sculpting him anew. But there was nothing clinical about it. Every stroke, every shift of pressure felt intentional, a slow, merciless unraveling.

Then—

A flick of the wrist. A deliberate, practiced movement.

The towel was gone.

Cool air met fevered skin, and Xavier's breath stuttered, his body betraying him in an instant. His cock, flushed and aching, stood exposed, an undeniable testament to just how deeply he was under Sylus' spell.

Heat flared up his neck, scorching through his veins, but he couldn’t bring himself to look. Couldn’t bear to see what expression Sylus wore, whether it was amusement, pity, or worst of all—satisfaction.

"It's normal," Sylus murmured, his voice deceptively soft, a whisper of smoke curling through the dimly lit room. "Happens more than you think… even without the extras."

The words should have soothed him, should have grounded him, but they only made the humiliation sharper. He wanted to believe them, wanted to pretend this was just a response, just biology—but there was nothing passive about what was happening. His body had answered a question he hadn’t even been ready to ask.

And Sylus knew it.

His hands hovered just close enough to tease, brushing the sharp dips of Xavier’s hip bones, tracing the contours of his lower abdomen. Never touching where Xavier needed it most, never offering that final, torturous relief. Every careful, calculated movement left him trembling, left his cock twitching, desperate for attention.

A low, involuntary groan escaped him, mortifying in its rawness.

Sylus hummed, pleased.

He moved to the foot of the table, his presence shifting but never lessening, the heat of him still lingering over Xavier’s bare skin. Then came the next assault—a slow glide of fingers down his calves, thumbs pressing into the arches of his feet, drawing pleasure from places he’d never considered.

He almost sighed from the unexpected relief—until—

A single drop of oil.

Cold.

Directly onto the aching tip of his cock.

Xavier gasped, his back arching instinctively, the contrast between the cool slickness and the molten heat of his arousal so sharp it sent a violent shudder through him.

"So responsive," Sylus mused, his voice dipping into something richer, something dark and knowing.

Xavier didn’t have to look to know Sylus was watching him. Studying him.

Enjoying this.

The weight of his gaze was a force all its own, pinning him down, stripping him bare in ways that had nothing to do with nudity.

And then—

Hands.

Slick with warmed oil now, gliding over his thighs, working the tension from trembling muscles. Slowly, inexorably, inching higher, teasing with the promise of contact. Not giving it. Not yet.

The anticipation thickened, pressing down like a heavy hand to his chest, crushing the breath from his lungs. His world narrowed—reduced to Sylus’ touch, the scent of spice curling through the air, and the relentless, burning ache between his legs.

He was right there.

Teetering.

And Sylus wasn’t done with him yet.

And then—finally—the touch he had been aching for.

Sylus’ hands moved lower, gliding effortlessly over Xavier’s thighs, fingertips skimming just close enough to make him tremble. Teasing. Toying. Never quite giving him what he needed.

A shudder wracked through Xavier, his muscles twitching under the weight of his longing, his body betraying him with every involuntary movement. The tension coiled in his gut had been building, tightening, straining toward a release that still lingered maddeningly out of reach.

Then, at last, the first indulgence.

A slow, circling touch. Sylus' fingers ghosted over his balls, a feather-light caress that sent sharp jolts of sensation rippling through him. Then firmer, kneading, massaging, testing his sensitivity with cruel precision. Xavier groaned, low and unrestrained, the sound cracking in the thickened air.

But Sylus wasn’t finished with his torment.

He traced his fingers up, dragging a single, deliberate touch along the underside of Xavier’s shaft. Barely there. Just a whisper of contact, a cruel tease that sent Xavier’s breath stuttering, his hips twitching upward, seeking more.

It didn’t come.

Instead, Sylus’ hand hovered just above him, the absence of touch worse than any contact.

"How do you usually like it?" Sylus murmured, his voice honeyed silk, heavy with knowing amusement. "Like this?"

Xavier’s throat tightened, his breath catching in his chest. The shame and the need warred inside him, warring, tearing at the edges of his resolve.

Did he answer? Could he answer?

His body, impatient, desperate, spoke for him.

Sylus found the tip, circling the slick, sensitive head with a touch so light it was maddening. Xavier gasped sharply, his back arching involuntarily, his body convulsing at the overwhelming pleasure.

Too much.

Not enough.

Then, without warning, Sylus took control.

A firm grip, both hands wrapping around his shaft with purpose, with intent. Possessive. Knowing. He began to stroke, slow and methodical, his thumbs dragging along the underside with just the right amount of pressure.

Xavier came undone.

His mind scattered, thoughts dissolving into pure sensation. The world outside this moment ceased to exist. He was reduced to nothing but pleasure, a desperate, pulsing need wrapped around Sylus’ fingers.

He couldn’t stop himself—his hips bucked upward, seeking more, chasing the inevitable.

A sharp press of a hand against his stomach.

A low, disapproving "tsk."

"Let me do all the work, puppy," Sylus murmured. The endearment dripped with condescension, with dominance, with control.

Xavier groaned, the words sending a fresh pulse of arousal through him.

He wasn’t in charge. He wasn’t allowed to rush this.

He was Sylus' to play with.

The heat in him deepened, consuming, suffocating, a fire licking through his veins. Sylus stroked him at a maddening pace—slow, torturous, deliberate. Just enough to keep him teetering, just enough to keep him suffering.

Not enough to let him fall.

The candlelight flickered, casting long, wicked shadows against the walls. The room smelled of spice, of oil, of sweat, of something more primal—something raw and undeniable.

Xavier’s breath came in ragged gasps, his body feverish, his skin damp, his limbs trembling. He whimpered—he couldn’t help it, couldn’t hold back the helpless, pleading sounds spilling from his throat.

Sylus only hummed, pleased.

His grip never wavered, never faltered.

He was a sculptor at work, shaping Xavier’s pleasure with skilled hands, bending him, molding him into something pliant, something desperate, something completely his.

And he wasn’t anywhere close to done.

Sylus decided, in that moment, that Xavier was his.

Not just in the way bodies collided in the dark, not in the fleeting, nameless exchanges of pleasure—this was deeper. This was possession. Xavier would be molded, shaped, broken apart and rebuilt under his hands until there was nothing left of the man he had been, only the creature Sylus had crafted in his image.

And the first step was to push him past pleasure, past sanity—until his body knew, without question, to whom it belonged.

Sylus’ hands moved with practiced ease, each touch a note in a carefully composed symphony, playing Xavier like an instrument meant only for his hands. He mapped every ridge, every hollow, every sensitive place with meticulous precision, marking him through sensation alone.

He could feel the trembling tension in Xavier’s muscles, the way his body betrayed him with every instinctual twitch, every needy shudder. His testicles drew up tight, a telltale warning, his cock leaking desperation against Sylus’ fingers. He was right there—teetering, vulnerable, ready to fall.

Sylus wouldn’t let him.

Not yet.

A slow, cruel squeeze at the base of his cock. Firm. Unrelenting. A command made flesh.

Xavier gasped—a broken sound, half-plea, half-protest—his body jolting, his orgasm snatched from him in an instant. His back arched, every muscle tensing, caught in the agony of denied release. The sound he made was exquisite, a whimper trapped somewhere between frustration and surrender.

Sylus only smirked.

He resumed his touch, his strokes maddeningly slow, teasing the oversensitive flesh, dragging Xavier right back to that unbearable precipice. Over and over. Until he was nothing but a writhing, panting, pleading mess beneath him.

“That’s it,” Sylus murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction, each syllable curling around Xavier’s spine like silk and steel. “Just like that.”

Then—finally—he descended.

A breath, hot and damp against Xavier’s skin. The barest ghost of lips teasing the tip.

Then—

Wet heat.

Xavier choked on a gasp, his body convulsing as Sylus took him in, lips sealing tight around the swollen head of his cock. The suction was perfect—slow, deep, excruciatingly controlled.

His tongue flicked, tracing the sensitive ridge, a wicked tease, a promise of everything still to come.

Sylus closed his eyes, savoring the way Xavier trembled beneath him.

He wasn’t just pleasuring him.

He was consuming him.

Sylus let his gaze rake over Xavier’s trembling form, half-lidded eyes drinking in the desperate, wrecked state he had reduced him to. A bead of sweat traced a path down Xavier’s temple, his breath hitching in uneven, pleading gasps. His fingers curled into the padded table as though it were the only thing tethering him to reality, his knuckles stark white against the leather.

He was beautiful like this. Unraveled. Struggling.

Sylus let out a low, satisfied hum. He could feel Xavier fighting it—the way his body tensed, the way his muscles quivered, caught between restraint and raw, primal need. The way he wanted to break and yet refused to, clinging to the last shreds of control.

But Sylus had no intention of letting him keep it.

He reached out, pressing two fingers under Xavier’s chin, tilting his face up. His lips hovered just above Xavier’s, the breath between them thick with the musk of arousal, with the heat of something dangerous. He didn’t kiss him—not yet. No, he simply let Xavier suffer in that aching anticipation, in that endless, torturous limbo.

Xavier shuddered.

Sylus smiled.

“You’re holding back,” he murmured, his voice a dark, velvet promise. His fingers traced over the sharp line of Xavier’s jaw, nails scratching just enough to send a ripple of goosebumps over his fevered skin. “I can feel it. The way you ache. The way you need.” He let the words sink in, savoring the way Xavier’s breath hitched, the way his lips parted slightly in some unspoken, helpless response.

Then, suddenly—Sylus pulled away.

Xavier let out a strangled sound, his entire body tensing at the loss of contact. It was cruel, deliciously so. The way he was left hanging there, teetering at the edge of something vast and consuming, with no way to fall.

Sylus chuckled, dark amusement curling at the edges of his voice. “You poor thing,” he purred, eyes glowing like embers in the dim candlelight. “You really thought I was going to let you have it that easily?”

Xavier made a sound between a gasp and a growl, something raw and needy, something he probably hadn’t meant to let slip. Sylus soaked it in, felt it like fire licking over his skin.

His hand ghosted down Xavier’s chest, slow, dragging. Teasing.

“Beg for it,” he whispered, his breath just barely brushing against Xavier’s lips. “Say you want it. Say you need it.”

Xavier clenched his jaw. His pride was still intact—barely—but Sylus knew how this went. He had danced this dance before. He knew every step, every trembling hesitation, every inch of resistance before it snapped like brittle glass.

And Xavier was already cracking.

Sylus leaned in again, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “If you don’t, I’ll leave you like this,” he warned, voice drenched in honeyed cruelty. “I’ll leave you aching, desperate, untouched.” A pause. A smirk. “Maybe I’ll make you watch while I get myself off instead.”

That did it.

Xavier’s breath hitched so sharply it was almost painful. His entire body went taut, every muscle trembling under the strain. He was seconds from breaking.

And then—he did.

“…Please,” Xavier choked out, his voice nothing more than a rasp, a hushed confession of surrender. His nails dug into the leather, his body pressing closer, his hips betraying him with a slow, instinctual roll that sent a jolt of heat straight to Sylus’ core.

Sylus exhaled sharply, eyes darkening with triumph.

“There’s my good boy,” he purred, before finally—finally—claiming Xavier’s mouth with a kiss that was all heat and hunger and ruined submission

“Yes,” Xavier gasped, the word nothing more than a breathy, broken rasp, thick with need, with surrender.

Sylus' lips curled into something dark, something victorious. He had him now—completely, irrevocably. Every inch of Xavier was his to use, to mold, to ruin.

He pulled away, slow and deliberate, letting the absence of his touch linger like an ache before rising from the table, his movements effortless, commanding. The room seemed smaller under his presence, his dominance an unspoken force that wrapped around Xavier’s helpless form. He strode to the couch, retrieving a pillow, then returned, pressing it under Xavier’s hips, tilting him up—exposing, displaying. His bare skin gleamed in the low candlelight, muscles trembling with the weight of his own anticipation.

Sylus dipped his fingers into the oil, watching it slip between them, thick and slick, glistening like temptation itself. He smoothed it over Xavier’s skin, dragging the heat of his palms down the curve of his ass, spreading, kneading, teasing—claiming. His thumbs parted him, revealing that tight, clenching hole, twitching in anticipation.

He poured the oil directly onto it, watching as the warm liquid pooled in the delicate folds, making him shine, making him ready. The first press of Sylus’ finger had Xavier tensing, a sharp intake of breath breaking the silence. He pushed, just enough to feel the muscles resist before they slowly, so obediently, gave way.

“Tell me how it feels, puppy,” Sylus murmured, his voice a deep, satisfied purr—dangerous, possessive.

Xavier shuddered, words spilling from his lips in a breathless, incoherent rush. Heat. Pressure. Stretching. The unbearable emptiness, the delicious intrusion. His body trembled, caught between wanting more and wanting to break under it.

Then Sylus found it—that spot buried deep, that bundle of nerves that sent Xavier lurching forward with a strangled cry. His thighs trembled, his cock jerked against the table, drooling, aching.

Sylus smirked. He gripped Xavier’s cock at the base, tightening his fingers just enough to stop the inevitable.

“You don’t cum until I’m inside you,” he growled, his breath hot against the nape of Xavier’s neck. “Then, you can cum as many times as you want.”

It was a promise and a punishment. Xavier whimpered, his body betraying him, his hips rolling back against Sylus’ fingers, desperate for more, desperate for everything.

Sylus chuckled, scissoring his fingers inside him, stretching him wider, deeper. He squeezed Xavier’s cock again, controlling his pleasure, controlling everything.

And Xavier knew—there was no escape. There was only surrender.

Xavier was unraveling beneath him. His body strained, desperate and exposed, muscles trembling under the relentless onslaught of pleasure denied. His breath hitched in sharp, uneven gasps, his lips parted in helpless, broken whimpers. His cock twitched, glistening, leaking onto the polished wood beneath him, so achingly close, so cruelly untouched. His eyes—half-lidded, glazed with lust and frustration—spoke everything he couldn’t form into words: please, please, please.

Sylus drank it in like the finest indulgence. This was what he lived for—this exquisite torment, this beautiful ruin. Xavier, wrecked and writhing, held on the edge like a marionette on invisible strings, every movement dictated by Sylus’ whims. He had turned him into this—this desperate, pleading thing, caught between the agony of need and the ecstasy of surrender. And he wasn’t done yet.

Five minutes. Maybe more. It hardly mattered—time stretched, warped, turned into nothing but the cycle of pleasure and denial. Sylus kept him on the precipice, toying with him, teasing him, pushing him right to the brink before yanking him back. A slick hand ghosting over Xavier’s cock—just enough pressure to make him keen, then gone. Fingers curling inside him, stroking, spreading—then retreating, leaving him empty and shaking.

Xavier was begging now. His voice cracked, a thin, broken plea, hips rutting against nothing, seeking friction, chasing a release that was never granted.

Sylus smirked. Perfect.

Finally, finally, he released his grip. He watched with satisfaction as the blood surged back into Xavier’s cock, making him pulse, throb, almost painful in its need. Xavier gasped, his whole body jerking as sensation flooded through him all at once, overwhelming, devastating.

Sylus pulled away, standing, peeling off his clothes with slow, deliberate movements. He let Xavier watch—let him see the way candlelight played over the hard lines of his body, the ridges of muscle, the thick, heavy length that hung between his legs, already slick at the tip.

Xavier whimpered, his gaze locked, his lips parted as if he might beg again, as if he might say anything to get what he so clearly wanted.

Sylus climbed back onto the table, straddling Xavier’s trembling hips, his weight pressing him down, making escape an impossibility—not that Xavier would ever try.

He reached for the lube, uncapping it with a soft click, and squeezed a generous amount into his palm. The slick, cool liquid coated his fingers, dripped down his length, gleaming in the dim light.

He leaned in, voice a low, predatory purr.

“Now… let’s see how well you can take me.”

Sylus hovered over him, his breath fanning against Xavier’s lips, the moment stretching between them—taut, electric, inevitable. Then, at last, he closed the distance, claiming his mouth in a kiss that was both gentle and devastating, his tongue sweeping in, teasing, coaxing, owning. Xavier whimpered against him, melting, yielding, his body already responding before Sylus had even pushed inside.

When Sylus pulled away, his gaze locked onto Xavier’s, searing him down to his very core. “Relax for me, puppy,” he murmured, his voice a dark promise. “Let me in.”

The head of his cock pressed against Xavier’s entrance, slick and unrelenting, nudging against the tight ring of muscle. Resistance. Anticipation. Xavier sucked in a sharp breath, his body tensing, but Sylus didn’t force it. He let Xavier feel it first—the pressure, the stretch, the inevitability of what was about to happen.

“Breathe,” Sylus coaxed, rubbing slow circles into his hip, his patience a calculated cruelty.

Xavier exhaled shakily, forcing himself to relax, and that was all Sylus needed. He pushed in, slow, deliberate, inch by inch, his cock sinking into the unbearable heat. A groan tore from his throat—tight, so fucking tight, the squeeze around him nearly enough to undo him right then and there.

Xavier’s fingers dug into the table, his forehead pressing into the padding, his breath coming in ragged gasps. It was too much, not enough, an intoxicating contradiction that sent fire coursing through his veins. He forced his body to surrender, to open for Sylus, letting him push deeper, stretch him wider, claim every inch.

“Good boy,” Sylus rasped, his voice thick with pleasure and something darker, something possessive. “You feel that? How perfect you are wrapped around me?”

Xavier moaned in response, his body trembling beneath him. He felt it, all of it—the fullness, the pressure, the way Sylus filled him completely, relentlessly. The pain had already begun to melt into something else, something deeper, something filthy and consuming.

Sylus rocked into him, testing, drawing out before sinking back in, working him open with a slow, unyielding rhythm. His hands were everywhere—gripping Xavier’s hips, stroking his back, sliding up to tangle in his hair, keeping him exactly where he wanted him. He watched, drank in every reaction—the flutter of lashes, the arch of his back, the soft, breathless sounds that slipped from his lips like confessions.

And then Xavier gave in. His body stopped fighting, stopped resisting, and instead welcomed him—hips tilting, legs lifting, wrapping around Sylus’ waist, pulling him in deeper.

Something dark and triumphant unfurled in Sylus’ chest.

“That’s it,” he growled, rewarding him with a deep, brutal thrust.

Xavier choked on a moan, his fingers curling helplessly against the table, his body arching to meet every push, every claiming stroke.

Sylus’ pace quickened, his control slipping as pleasure coiled hot and tight in his gut. He drove into him with purpose, with hunger, with possession, every thrust a declaration—you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re fucking mine.

Xavier shattered beneath him, a moaning, writhing mess, and Sylus had never seen anything so fucking beautiful.

The world dissolved into sensation—blistering, relentless, all-consuming. Each thrust forced Xavier open, stretched him to his limits, seared through his nerves like a white-hot brand. Sylus moved with a merciless precision, his pace growing rougher, more insistent, his body a force of nature, driving into him again and again. The pressure, the friction, the unbearable fullness had Xavier spiraling, his breath stuttering, his mind unraveling under the relentless assault.

The sound of their bodies meeting filled the air—wet, obscene, primal. Skin against skin, the slick slide of oil and sweat, the rhythmic slap that punctuated every thrust, a visceral reminder of what was happening, of what Xavier was allowing, of what Sylus was taking.

And then—fingers wrapping around his cock. A firm, unyielding grip. The practiced stroke of a man who knew exactly how to ruin him, exactly how to wind him tighter, exactly how to keep him teetering on the very edge of madness. Electricity shot through Xavier’s limbs, his back arching, his thighs trembling violently. It was too much—too much sensation, too much pleasure, his body caught in the throes of something he couldn’t stop, couldn’t control, couldn’t even think through.

Sylus kissed him then—hard, claiming, their mouths crashing together in a messy tangle of tongues and desperate, gasping breaths. It was an invasion, a taking, a branding of lips and teeth and heat, and Xavier gave in, moaning into his mouth, whimpering as Sylus devoured him, as if eating the very sounds of his surrender.

The tension inside him coiled impossibly tight, his muscles locking up, his breath catching in a strangled cry. The first wave hit like a thunderclap—his cock jerking violently, his entire body seizing as pleasure ripped through him.

And then he broke.

Xavier came hard, his release spilling between them, painting their bodies in thick, hot ropes, marking Sylus’ chest, his stomach, his throat. His moans were raw, desperate, unfiltered—sounds of a man completely undone, completely owned. His nails raked down Sylus’ arms, his entire body trembling, wrung dry, helpless.

But Sylus wasn’t done.

Something feral flickered in his crimson eyes, something dark and possessive, something that made Xavier shudder beneath him, made him feel like prey beneath a beast that had yet to finish its meal.

Sylus shifted, his movements sharp and ruthless, pushing Xavier’s legs up, folding him in half, exposing him completely, making escape impossible—not that Xavier would even try. The angle was deeper now, punishing, brutal, perfect.

And then he fucked him.

Hard. Deep. Unrelenting.

Every stroke was a forceful claim, every thrust a reminder—you are mine, you are mine, you are mine. Xavier could do nothing but take it, mouth parted in soundless gasps, fingers scrabbling at the table, his body wrecked, twitching with aftershocks even as Sylus continued to use him.

Sylus was close. Xavier could feel it in the way his thrusts grew sharper, in the way his muscles tensed, in the way his fingers dug bruises into his thighs. And then—he paused, hovering right at the precipice, his breath ragged, his cock pulsing deep inside him.

His voice was a growl, dark and undeniable.

“Who do you belong to, puppy?”

Xavier’s whole body tensed. The words—the demand—sent another shudder through him, another jolt of pleasure spiking through his oversensitive nerves.

He needed to say it. He needed to give it.

His lips parted, and his voice, hoarse and broken, spilled into the room.

Xavier’s voice cracked, barely more than a whisper—soft, broken, a single syllable of surrender. But it was enough. More than enough.

A guttural sound tore from Sylus’ throat, a deep, primal growl of triumph. He snapped his hips forward one final time, burying himself as deep as Xavier’s body would allow, pushing past resistance, past limits, until there was nowhere left for him to go. His muscles locked, his breath shuddering, his entire body tightening like a bowstring stretched to the edge of breaking—

And then he let go.

Pleasure crashed over him, a violent, unrelenting tide. His cock pulsed inside Xavier, thick ropes of heat filling him, marking him, sealing something unspoken but absolute. His grip was bruising, his body shaking, his breath a ragged snarl as he pressed his forehead against Xavier’s damp skin, owning him with every last pulse of release.

He didn’t pull out. Not yet. Instead, he lingered, buried to the hilt, holding Xavier still—trapping him in the moment, making sure he felt every last shudder, every lingering aftershock. His breath was hot against Xavier’s ear, and when he finally spoke, it was a low, possessive rasp:

“You’re mine now.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Their chests rose and fell in a matched rhythm, the only sound in the room the quiet remnants of their shared destruction. The air was thick, heavy with sweat and sex, the scent of surrender woven into the very fabric of the space around them. Xavier’s body was spent, muscles trembling from overuse, from the sheer force of what had just been taken from him. But Sylus stayed, his weight pressing down, a solid, unshakable presence that tethered him to reality.

Time blurred. The edges of the world softened, the golden flicker of candlelight painting everything in slow-moving shadow.

Then—finally—Sylus moved. He shifted just enough to lift himself on one elbow, his crimson eyes locking onto Xavier’s, the sharp edges of his dominance tempered now, but not gone.

He reached up, fingers threading through sweat-dampened hair, his touch achingly slow, almost reverent. His lips ghosted over Xavier’s, a stark contrast to the bruising force from before. This kiss was different—not demanding, not claiming, but… sealing. A quiet, wordless promise.

“Are you alright?” Sylus murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent another shiver down Xavier’s spine.

Xavier swallowed hard, throat too tight to form words. He nodded.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Sylus’ lips, but it was fleeting. His expression darkened—not with anger, but with something heavier. Something unchangeable.

He propped himself up further, gaze never leaving Xavier’s. “We need to talk.”

A spike of something sharp, something dangerously close to fear, curled in Xavier’s gut.

Sylus wasn’t asking.

“What happened here…” Sylus’ voice was low, deliberate, each syllable a weighted chain wrapping tighter around Xavier’s body. “…wasn’t just a massage.”

Xavier’s breath hitched.

“This was more.” A pause. “This is more.”

The words settled over him like a lock clicking into place.

Sylus’ eyes burned into him, unwavering, unyielding. “I’m serious, Xavier.” He leaned in, his fingers tightening around Xavier’s jaw, forcing him to look, to see, to understand. “You belong to me now. Do you understand that?”

A silence stretched between them, thick, suffocating. Xavier’s pulse hammered in his ears. He could deny it. He could fight—but it would be useless. The truth was already imprinted on his skin, buried in his bones.

“…Yes.”

Barely a whisper. But Sylus heard it.

A slow, wicked satisfaction unfurled across his face.

“Good,” he murmured, dragging his thumb over Xavier’s swollen bottom lip. “Because I’ll do that all over again just to prove a point.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper, breath hot against Xavier’s ear. “I want you to know that.”

Xavier shivered.

Then, in an instant, Sylus’ demeanor shifted. He rolled off the table, moving with the same effortless dominance that had just ruined Xavier completely. He grabbed a towel, warm and soft, and carefully, methodically, began to clean him. His hands were still firm, still his, but there was something else beneath them now—something gentler, something unexpected.

Xavier stared, dazed, unsure what to do with this—this contrast of cruelty and care, of ownership and… affection?

Sylus finished, tossing the towel aside, before meeting Xavier’s gaze once more.

“Come on.” He extended a hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” A smirk flickered across his lips, dark and knowing. “I’m taking you out for dinner.”

Xavier hesitated for only a second before taking his hand, letting Sylus pull him up—his body still trembling, still feeling every inch of what had just transpired.

Sylus studied him, crimson eyes gleaming, full of intent.

And Xavier knew, with a bone-deep certainty—

This was far from over. --- want to support me? give me a tip!

[theelfsongbard]

Jealous Astarion Drabbles

Cw: brief mention of breeding

Word count: 1235 words

Astarion glares daggers through the canvas of his tent in your general direction. He hated the way you made him feel weak and uneasy. Every reassurance, each offer extended to him to drink from you, the way your kindness weaves its way into little unnecessary niceties that you give your companions. He couldn’t understand why your actions threatened to make him fall for an illusion of trust. There must be a catch to all of this. There always is, he just hasn’t found it yet. You are an unexpected problem because despite his racing mind telling him otherwise, he can feel himself slipping into complacency around you. He finds himself enjoying your company beyond what is needed for a mere travelling companion and he *burns* with a feral desire that he doesn’t understand. He wants to claim you as his own, to fill you and be the only one who can know the whole of you inside and out. Every draw of blood that he takes is a battle to temper his own imaginations before he loses control of his carefully crafted facade.

He wants to act quickly and secure you to him as soon as possible, for he sees the lingering affection in the wizard’s eyes when you draw near. *Competition* is all that repeats in his mind like a resounding threat of a challenge. He doesn’t like Gale, and Gale doesn’t seem to like him, even if it’s not for the same reason. He chooses to believe it is though, only because it fuels his want for you, even in the unsteady waters of his burgeoning emotions.

For now though, he has more pressing urges to attend to and the straining in his trousers just will *not* do.

~~~

The days pass with ever increasing tension for Astarion. Despite the unusually sunny weather they were experiencing that he usually adored, Astarion was feeling absolutely wretched. Wretched and angry. And on top of that, his campmates thought he was jealous. He scoffed as he sat on the ground beside you and Gale, dressing his kill just as you instructed and taught him. Jealousy? It could not be further from the truth.

He was not jealous when he came back from his hunt with his prize only to find you dancing with Wyll. He was not jealous when he saw the way he pulled you close enough for your lips to brush and he was certainly not jealous when The Blade invited you to *practice his swordplay* later on. If he were being honest, Wyll was a man worthy of making anyone swoon, even Astarion. If only his moral compass were less of an impediment, he may have thrown himself at Wyll. But this was the hand he was dealt, and the Blade was threatening his little bid for protection from you. After all, how could he win his favour if he wasn't *The Favourite* in your eyes?

But the way Wyll’s eyes trailed after you as you sauntered over to assess his kill and the way he had put his hands around your waist just moments before made him want to rend the monster hunter to pieces and to announce to him that you were *his* territory. When you weren't looking, he made sure to send what he hoped was a frightening enough message to the warlock, baring his fangs for good measure.

Now, sandwiched between the idle conversation you shared with Gale, he couldn't see how his life could get any worse. His list of competitors was growing and given your warm reception to both, it would only be a matter of time before someone initiated a romantic relationship with you. Astarion was a seducer and had no idea what to do to romance someone. But clearly, it was time for him to start learning if he wanted to make things work. Either that, or it was high time that he started disposing of some of his less savoury companions. The sound of your laughter, genuine and untamed as Gale recounts his shenanigans with his cat is enough to convince him of it.

As his hands work mindlessly, his thoughts drift to something more fun. The smell of you sitting so close beside him sends a pang of familiarity down to his gut and at the same time fills him with arousal and passionate imagination. He thinks of how you might look stretched around his manhood, keening with pleasure as he thrusts into you, filling you full until you're overflowing, over and over until your mess becomes the proof to the entire camp that you are spoken for.

He imagines you below him and on top and all the delicious ways he might have you, wants to nuzzle into your breasts and drink from you as he loses himself in the pleasures of your flesh. And for the first time in an eternity, he even wants to lie with you, holding you close to him your back to his chest, keeping your safe and tucked against him for all eternity. Something stirs in him and he isn't sure if he likes it. This is too tender, too vulnerable and another weakness that he doesn't need.

He's only doing this for protection. Nothing more and nothing less. These are just part of his plans to seduce you, he’s only sorting out the details to make sure everything is perfect.

Mildly, he’s aware of the twitching in his trousers and the slight wetness dribbling from within. Excusing himself rapidly, he stalks off to the forest, away from prying eyes to indulge himself a little. All these thoughts are so distracting and it would do him no good if his campmates saw him in such an unbecoming state.

He needs to be alone for a little while. Yes, he just needs to clear his head because he doesn't need to be thinking about you when he has Cazador, a tadpole and his protection to contend with. But trying times call for trying measures and when he makes sure that he’s far away enough to not be heard or seen, he loosens the ties of his trousers just enough to slip himself free. Already, he knows that he’s going to need a trip down to the river to wash his undergarments, soaked with his arousal as it is. But he can't seem to find himself annoyed by his predicament.

Leaning against a tree, he closes his eyes, wrapping his hand around his length and stroking himself to the thought of you. Imagines you taking him in hand or into your mouth. But his hand is corpse cold, so void of the flush of life you have in you that it brings him back to reality with a growl of frustration. This is nothing compared to how you would feel around him.

And so with increasing vigour he rubs one out, alone and cold in the forest, watching as his seed dribbles and spurts out, landing in the dirt. Wasted. How he would love to stuff you full with it, right up to the brim, keeping it inside you until your belly starts to swell with the evidence of what he has done to you.

If only you knew what kind of effect you had on him. Maybe you would take pity and indulge him.

[ariays]

I find it frustrating when people claim that a show changes its script or endgame based solely on audience reception. For instance, the idea that the story was rewritten to favor Mooncovey just because of their popularity feels dismissive and is such a disservice to the writers and showrunners who are doing their job. It undermines the planning, intention, and creative direction laid out by the writers and showrunners. These stories often take months, if not years, to develop, and suggesting that major plot points are casually altered mid-way because of fan reactions does a real disservice to the craft and integrity of the creative team. It reduces their work to mere fan service rather than the result of thoughtful storytelling.

Personally, I don’t think Mooncovey is fanservice at all. Their dynamic has been simmering quietly in the background since season 1—subtle, yes, but consistent. Just because it wasn’t front and center from the beginning doesn’t mean it wasn’t being developed. The groundwork was there: in their interactions, the way they understood each other, the little moments that hinted at a deeper connection. It’s just that the story took its time unfolding, and now that it’s coming to the forefront, it feels earned—not sudden or forced. And frankly, they had the most natural transition from annoyance to reluctant friends to an actual friendship.

As for Minho, I understand why some viewers might have overlooked him in season 1, especially when compared to characters like Dae and Yuri, who had more elaborate setups from the start. But that doesn’t make him any less important. From his very first appearance, Minho played a meaningful role in Kitty’s journey, just as much as the others did. As the story unfolds, his character gradually develops in ways that feel intentional and organic, ultimately intertwining with Kitty’s arc in a way that brings things full circle.

If Minho and Kitty were never meant to be explored, then why was he given a classic K-drama setup? Why give them a meet-cute? Why create moments where they genuinely bond? Why have them bookend the season? Why craft a theme song specifically for their scenes? Every writing and directing choice is intentional. The same logic applies to the other characters and the roles they play in Kitty’s journey. To now claim the focus is shifting to Mooncovey solely because of fan demand undermines Minho’s significance in the story, given he’s just as important as the other characters or love interests in the story.

[aimeedaisies]

The Princess Royals Official Engagements in February 2025

01/02 As Patron of the Scottish Rugby Union, attended the Six Nations Rugby Match between Scotland and Italy at Murrayfield Stadium in Edinburgh.

04/02 As Patron of Transaid, opened the new offices of Arbuthnot Latham and Company Limited in London. 🏢

Her Royal Highness, As Patron of the Royal College of Occupational Therapists, visited Brent Occupational Therapy and Community Services at Brent Community Centre. 🩺

As Royal Fellow of the Royal Academy of Engineering, attended The Queen Elizabeth Prize for Engineering Winners’ Reception at the Science Museum. 🏆🏗️

Her Royal Highness, As Past Master of the Worshipful Company of Farmers, attended the Company’s Seventieth Anniversary Dinner at Drapers’ Hall in London. 🧑‍🌾🍽️

06/02 Visited Glenside Hospital Museum at Bristol County Asylum Church to mark its 40th anniversary. 🎂

Visited Southmead Hospital in Bristol. ❤️‍🩹

07/02 Visited Michael Dennett Boat Builders at Laleham Boatyard in Chertsey. 🛶🛠️

Visited D’Oyly Carte Island Restoration Project in Weybridge. 🏝️

Visited Specialist Group International in Dorking. 🏢

09/02 As Patron of the Scottish Rugby Union, attended the Six Nations Rugby Match between Scotland and Ireland at Murrayfield Stadium in Edinburgh. 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🇮🇪🏉

11/02 As Master of the Corporation of Trinity House, attended a Younger Brethren’s Dinner at Trinity House in London. ⚓️🍽️

Unofficial As Chair of the Board of Trustees of the Science Museum, Sir Tim visited Wroughton Science and Innovation Park 🧬🚗

12/02 As Patron of Catch22, visited Include Suffolk Schools Project in Ipswich. 🏫

As Court Member of the Fishmongers’ Company, attended the Court Winter Dinner at Fishmongers’ Hall in London. ❄️🍽️

13/02 As President of the Royal Yachting Association, attended a 150th Anniversary Luncheon at the Corporation of Trinity House in London. 🛥️

14/02 As President of the Riding for the Disabled Association, visited Helen Atkin Group at Buxton Riding School in Buxton. 🐎🏵️

Visited Nuclear Skills Academy in Derby. ☢️🎓

19/02 As Past Master of the Worshipful Company of Carmen, attended a Joint Services Awards Dinner at Plaisterers’ Hall in London. 🍽️

20/02 As Chancellor of the University of London, visited University College London East Campus. 🎓🦾

As Patron of Catch22, visited the Redthread Youth Violence Intervention Programme at St Mary’s Hospital in London. ⛓️

Alongside The King and Queen and the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester, held a Humanitarian Reception at Buckingham Palace. 🌍

As Royal Patron of WISE, attended the Annual WISE Awards Ceremony at the Institution of Engineering and Technology London. 👩‍💼🏆

24/02 As Vice Patron of the British Horse Society, visited the Stable Mates Plus (Wales) Programme at Lower Stockland Competition and Livery Centre in Cardiff. 🐴🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿

26/02 Visited flood damage on Newerne Street in Lydney. 🌊🫂

Visited Jones Food Company Limited’s Vertical Farm in Lydney. 🧑‍🌾

Visited Camphill Village Trust’s Taurus Crafts at the Old Park in Lydney. 🪡🧵

27/02 Unofficial Sir Tim attended a luncheon with the Duke of Kent, former President of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, at the Army and Navy Club, to commemorate His Royal Highness’s Presidency of the Commission. 🫡

Attended a “Table for the Nation” Dinner held by the Woodland Trust in Lincoln Cathedral. 🌲🍽️

28/02 Visited Hornsby Travel in Scunthorpe. ✈️

Visited Nunny’s Farm in Grimsby. 🚜🧑‍🌾

Total official engagements for Anne in January: 35

2025 total: 62

Total official engagements accompanied/ represented by Tim in January: 0

2025 total: 0

[gunsatthaphan]

Someone pointed out the similarity between STSD and Enchante’s failure, and I think it makes a lot of sense. Both series lacked side stories for their supporting characters. They focused too much on the main characters without developing the surrounding cast, which made the storylines feel flat and rushed. There wasn’t much depth or room to explore other perspectives, so the plot ended up feeling stuck and unengaging

Personally, I think Enchante was a lovely and cute story, but its execution was all over the place. As for STSD, it was a bold move for MO. Putting the nonsense writing and execution aside, I feel like GMM rushed into building a ship without giving the actors time to develop real chemistry. As soon as MO got a bit of attention after Last Twilight, they immediately pushed out a script for them—probably just to capitalize on the hype and make money. Maybe that’s why they’re taking more time now before officially announcing any new ship. Looks like they’ve learned their lesson

Lastly, yes—Mark Pakin was right. This industry is a game where you need both talent and luck. MGB didn’t have the best script—honestly, the editing was rough at the start too. But the team behind it truly gave their all when it came to promoting the series. They tapped into every platform available, doing everything they could to reach audiences. And to their credit, things improved—the editing got better after viewers spoke up, and the layered storytelling started to offer more depth and discussion points. All of that combined made a huge difference in how the series was ultimately received.

I don’t really see MO as a long-term ship. To me, Mark feels more like someone in the same lane as Neo—versatile, but probably not meant to be tied to just one on-screen partner. I still wish them all the best, though. Maybe things will click better in their next series.

hi anon!

(a few rants under the cut lol)

I haven't seen Enchanté so I can't say much about it but I can see how the situation might be similar to STGD. Setting up MO as a ship so shortly after Last Twilight might've felt a bit hasty but I think if the chemistry is right and they click - which they do - then it's not a bad thing at all. The real issue is the script. JittiRain stories are mostly simple but even if the plot isn't super elaborate, it takes effort to turn it into something good because crafting a good narrative out of the mere basics is just as difficult as putting a complex story to the screen. I'm guessing they went over their heads and underestimated the work it would take to perfect it, so the problem does not lie with markohm or their underdeveloped chemistry but with the screenplay and production.

And yes, Mark is 100% right about what he said about the industry and if there's one thing that's unfair about all of this it's the reception and success of series, especially when all they take into account is engagement on SM. People usually only care about the actors so if a show has a bad script but actors with pre-established fanbases, the show goes through the roof and no one give a shit about the script. if a show has an equally bad script and actors who are only medium-famous, it gets torn to piece. That being said there are TONS of gmmtv shows that are of the same or a similar quality as STGD but got good reviews merely because of the cast which is a double standard that's very frustrating.

On another note and while I'm going off lol, I find the culture of productions altering their shows while they're on air according to the viewer's feedback kinda problematic tbh and idk how often that actually happens, also for MGB, but I don't like it. I know the intentions are good but the fact that they need the audience's feedback to realize that their work is not sufficient is... weird? Maybe I'm the only one who feels that way. But it's time the people in charge sit down on their asses and treat every show like a serious project, craft a good script and hire qualified postproduction staff, however long that may take. it can't be that hard. And money can't be the problem here either. But that's a whole other can of worms.

About MarkOhm's future as a pair - I have great faith in them, stepping back from stgd, I see an excellent chemistry which, if utilized correctly, can undoubtedly keep up with the other pairs, if not even surpass them. They got a rough deal with their debut but I can see them in a lot more projects with different settings and different characters etc. so I really hope they get to shine next year, or maybe even make appearances in some upcoming shows this year. they deserve it.

xxx

[theroyalsims]

PRINCE ALISTAIR ARRIVES IN MORENSONG FOR STATE VISIT

Prince Alistair has landed in the beautiful tropical isles of Morensong.

Composed of over nine thousand islands, the Southeastern nation is home to magnificent and unimaginable flora and fauna - which is why the visit is such a meaningful one for The Prince, who has been working tirelessly to promote the protection of natural habitats for wildlife all around the globe.

His Royal Highness paid a vist to Morensong Presidential Palace, where he was welcomed by Morensong's President and First Lady. Prince Al posed with the First Couple wearing Morensong's traditional attire for men, a woven shirt crafted from pineapple fibers, and embroidered with motifs inspired by Morensong's national plant. (See top photo)

After the short reception at the Presidential Palace, Prince Al then headed to Morensong National Mangrove Park (MNMP) where he was given a tour of the flourishing mangrove nursery. The Park's focus is to ensure that despite the country's modernization, its bays and waterways remain protected by preserving mangrove trees, which not only prevent flooding and erosion, but also keep the fish and aquatic population healthy.

The Brindleton Environmental Council has teamed up with the MNMP, and will be welcoming scholars into Brindleton to conduct studies that will aid in the preservation and promotion of mangroves. His Royal Highness is the Royal Patron of the Brindleton Environmental Council.

This tour's off to a great start! Hope you have a fun time in the tropics, Your Royal Highness!

[cinesexual]

Click the link above to watch Los amantes astronautas AKA The Astronaut Lovers (Marco Berger, 2024) Argentina for free.

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From Perplexity:

"Los amantes astronautas" (2024): A Queer Exploration of Love and Masculinity

Marco Berger's Los amantes astronautas (The Astronaut Lovers) is a tender, introspective queer romance that continues the Argentine director's celebrated exploration of male intimacy and desire. Known for films like Plan B and The Blonde One, Berger once again crafts a story that lingers in the subtle, unspoken moments of connection between men, this time through the lens of a romantic comedy with a thoughtful, modern twist.

Plot Overview

The film follows Pedro (Javier Orán), who returns to Argentina from Spain for a vacation at his family home. There, he reconnects with Maxi (Lautaro Bettoni), a childhood friend. What begins as playful banter and flirtation escalates when Maxi, recently single, pretends Pedro is his boyfriend to make an ex-girlfriend jealous. This "fake relationship" trope sets the stage for a deeper exploration of their evolving dynamic, blurring the lines between pretense and genuine attraction[1][2][7].

Set against the backdrop of a languid summer by the sea, the narrative unfolds over three days filled with intimate conversations, lingering glances, and moments charged with sexual tension. Berger avoids grandiose drama, instead opting for a slow-burn approach that allows the characters' chemistry to shine[2][6].

Themes and Style

Berger uses Los amantes astronautas to delve into contemporary notions of sexuality and masculinity. The film challenges binary labels like "gay" or "straight," presenting Maxi as a curious and playful figure whose intentions remain ambiguous throughout much of the story. This fluidity reflects a broader cultural shift toward more nuanced understandings of sexual identity[2][7].

The title metaphor—referencing space exploration—adds a playful yet slightly overworked layer to their discussions about sex and relationships. The imagery of rockets and "milky ways" underscores both the humor and earnestness of their connection[2].

Visually, the film is stunning, with its coastal setting providing an open yet melancholic atmosphere that mirrors the emotional journey of its protagonists. Berger’s signature use of long takes and quiet moments creates an intimacy that draws viewers into Pedro and Maxi’s world[4][6].

Performances

The film hinges on the natural chemistry between its leads. Lautaro Bettoni delivers a breakout performance as Maxi, capturing both his mischievous charm and underlying vulnerability. Javier Orán complements him perfectly as Pedro, whose mix of amusement and longing adds depth to their interactions. Together, they create a dynamic that feels authentic and deeply engaging[3][5][6].

Critical Reception

Critics have praised Los amantes astronautas for its heartfelt writing, nuanced performances, and restrained direction. While some have noted its slow pace and occasional repetition, these qualities are consistent with Berger’s meditative style. The film has been described as one of his most accomplished works to date—a romantic comedy that balances humor with emotional resonance[3][4][5].

Relevance to Gay Cinema

Marco Berger has long been a significant voice in queer cinema, particularly in his portrayal of male relationships. Los amantes astronautas stands out as an evolution in his storytelling: it trades overt eroticism for emotional introspection while maintaining his hallmark focus on homoerotic tension. By updating tropes like the "straight boy crush" for a more fluid generation, the film resonates with contemporary queer audiences seeking stories that reflect their lived experiences[2][7].

In summary, Los amantes astronautas is not just another entry in Berger's filmography but a poignant addition to queer cinema at large—one that captures the complexities of love, desire, and identity with warmth and sincerity.

Citations: [1] https://cineuropa.org/en/film/463703/ [2] https://thequeerreview.com/2024/08/24/queer-screen-film-festival-2024-review-the-astronaut-lovers/ [3] https://www.imdb.com/es/title/tt22299436/ [4] https://www.imdb.com/title/tt22299436/reviews/ [5] https://algomasquecine.com/los-amantes-astronautas-review/ [6] https://www.imdb.com/title/tt22299436/ [7] https://www.frameline.org/films/frameline48/the-astronaut-lovers [8] https://www.micropsiacine.com/2024/10/estrenos-critica-de-los-amantes-astronautas-de-marco-berger/ [9] https://www.filmaffinity.com/es/film458315.html [10] https://www.latinolife.co.uk/articles/los-amantes-astronautas-astronaut-lovers-2024-argentine-marco-berger [11] https://www.screenhub.com.au/news/reviews/the-astronaut-lovers-film-review-horny-2656822/ [12] https://scrapsfromtheloft.com/movies/the-astronaut-lovers-reviews/ [13] https://mistermiyagi.es/es/pelicula/los-amantes-astronautas-esp/ [14] http://mistermiyagi.es/en/pelicula/los-amantes-astronautas-eng/ [15] https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Los_amantes_astronautas [16] https://www.filmaffinity.com/en/film458315.html [17] https://mubi.com/es/mx/films/the-astronaut-lovers [18] https://www.cultura.gob.es/en/cultura/areas/cine/mc/spanish-kaleidoscope/films/fall-24/the-astronaut-lovers.html [19] https://mubi.com/en/us/films/the-astronaut-lovers [20] https://www.thereviewshub.com/the-astronaut-lovers-bfi-flare-2025/ [21] https://www.filmaffinity.com/es/pro-reviews.php?movie-id=458315 [22] https://cuatrobastardosdotcom.wordpress.com/2024/11/01/review-los-amantes-astronautas/ [23] https://www.instagram.com/algomasquecine/p/DAcXqv0ugDW/ [24] https://www.filmaffinity.com/es/reviews2/1/458315.html [25] https://showsargentinos.com.ar/review-los-amantes-astronautas/amp/ [26] https://letterboxd.com/film/the-astronaut-lovers/ [27] https://www.imdb.com/es/title/tt22299436/reviews/ [28] https://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/the_astronaut_lovers [29] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=60h58ZGEsa4 [30] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hN7ZmG3a9wE

Answer from Perplexity: https://www.perplexity.ai/search/los-amantes-astronautas-aka-th-R05N0Y6dT5Ovcqu21NSgew?0=d&utm_source=copy_output