#house of a thousand doors: poems

[mournfulroses]

Meena Alexander, from a poem titled "Consider This Leaf," featured in House of a Thousand Doors: Poems & Prose Pieces

[humansofnewyork]

(3/54) “It’s been forty-three years since I’ve seen my home. All I have left is a jar of soil. It’s good soil. Nahavand is a city of gardens. A guidebook once called it ‘a piece of heaven, fallen to earth.’ The peaks are so high that they’re capped with snow. A spring gushes from the mountain, and flows into a river. It spreads through the valley like veins. We lived in the deepest part of the valley, the most fertile part. Our father owned thousands of acres of farmland. When we were children he gave us each a small plot of land to plant a garden. None of the other children had the discipline. They’d rather play games. But I planted my seeds in careful rows. I hauled water from a nearby well. I pulled every weed the moment it appeared. As the poets say: ‘If you cannot tend a garden, you cannot tend a country.’ My garden was the best; it was plain for all to see. The discipline came from my mother. She was very devout. She prayed five times a day. Never spoke a bad word, never told a lie. My father was a Muslim too, but he drank liquor and played cards. He’d wash his mouth with water before he prayed. The Koran was in his library. But so were the books of The Persian Mystics: the poets who spent one thousand years softening Islam, painting it with colors, making it Iranian. Back then it was a big deal to own even a single book, but my father had a deal with a local bookseller. Whenever a new book arrived in our province, it came straight to our house. I’ll never forget the morning I heard the knock on the door. It was the bookseller, and in his hands was a brand-new copy of Shahnameh. The Book of Kings. It’s one of the longest poems ever written: 50,000 verses. The entire story of our people. And it’s all the work of a single man: Abolqasem Ferdowsi. Shahnameh is a book of battles. It’s a book of kings and queens and dragons and demons. It’s a book of champions called to save Iran from the armies of darkness. Many of the stories I knew by heart. Everyone in Iran knew a few. But I’d never seen them all in one place before, and in a beautiful, leather-bound edition. The book never made it to my father’s library. I brought it straight to my room.” 

چهل‌وسه سال از هنگامی که از میهنم دور افتاده‌ام می‌گذرد. آنچه برای من باقی‌ مانده، شیشه‌ای‌ست پر از خاک. خاک خوبی‌ست. خاک نهاوند، خاک ایران. نهاوند شهر باغ‌هاست. زمانی کتاب ایران‌گردی را خواندم که آن را "تکه‌ای از بهشت بر زمین افتاده" نامیده بود. بر قله‌های بلندش برف همیشگی پیداست. چشمه‌ای که از دل کوه می‌جوشد، رودی می‌شود. چون رگ‌های تن در سراسر دره ‌پخش می‌شود. ما در ژرف‌ترین بخش دره زندگی می‌کردیم. حاصل‌خیزترین بخش آن. پدرم از زمین‌داران بود. او در کودکی من، به هر یک از فرزندانش پاره زمینی در باغ خانه داد تا باغچه‌ای درست کنیم. بچه‌های دیگر چندان علاقه‌ای به این کار نداشتند. آنها بازی را بیشتر دوست داشتند. ولی من دانه‌هایم را به هنگام با دقت می‌کاشتم. آب را از حوض یا چاه نزدیک می‌آوردم. گیاهان هرزه را بی‌درنگ وجین می‌کردم. همانگونه که می‌گویند: «اگر نتوانید از باغچه‌تان نگهداری کنید، از میهن‌تان نیز نمی‌توانید.» باغچه‌ی من بهترین بود؛ زیبایی‌اش بر همگان آشکار. این نظم را از مادرم آموخته بودم. مادرم بسیار پرهیزکار بود. روزی چند بار نماز می‌خواند، هرگز واژه‌ی بدی بر زبان نمی‌راند، هیچگاه دروغ نمی‌گفت. پدرم نیز مسلمان بود، ولی در جوانی گاهی نوشابه‌ی الکلی هم می‌نوشید و ورق‌بازی هم می‌کرد. پیش از نماز دهانش را آب می‌کشید. در کتابخانه‌اش قرآن و کتاب‌هایی از عارفان ایرانی داشت. شاعرانی که در درازای هزار سال اسلام را نرم و ملایم کرده بودند، به آن رنگ و بو بخشیده بودند، ایرانی کرده بودند. در آن زمان که داشتن کتاب کار آسان و عادی نبود، پدرم با کتاب‌فروش محلی قراردادی داشت. او هر بار کتاب جدیدی به دستش می‌رسید، باید یکراست نسخه‌ای به خانه‌ی ما بفرستد. هیچ‌گاه آن بامدادی را که صدای کوبیدن در را شنیدم، فراموش نخواهم کرد. کتاب‌فروش آمده بود و در دستانش کتاب شاهنامه‌ی جدیدی بود. نامه‌ی شاهان. یکی از بلندترین شعرهایی که تا کنون سروده شده است، بیش از پنجاه‌ هزار بیت شعر. همه‌ی داستان‌های مردمان‌مان. همه‌ی ایران در شعری یگانه. و همه‌شان سروده‌ی یک شاعر: ابوالقاسم فردوسی. شاهنامه کتاب نبردهاست. کتاب شاهان و شهبانوان، اژدهایان و اهریمن‌هاست. کتاب پهلوانانی‌ست که ایران را در برابر نیروهای اهریمنی پاس می‌دارند. بیشتر داستان‌ها را از بر بودم. هر ایرانی داستانی از شاهنامه می‌‌دانست. ولی من هیچگاه همه‌ی داستان‌های شاهنامه را یکجا در جلدی چرمی و زیبا ندیده بودم. آن کتاب هرگز به کتابخانه‌ی پدرم راه نیافت. آن را یکراست به اتاقم بردم

[dearthmahmoud]

Write down! I am an Arab And my identity card number is fifty thousand I have eight children And the ninth will come after a summer Will you be angry? Write down! I am an Arab Employed with fellow workers at a quarry I have eight children I get them bread Garments and books from the rocks... I do not supplicate charity at your doors Nor do I belittle myself at the footsteps of your chamber So will you be angry? Write down! I am an Arab I have a name without a title Patient in a country Where people are enraged My roots Were entrenched before the birth of time And before the opening of the eras Before the pines, and the olive trees And before the grass grew My father ... descends from the family of the plough Not from a privileged class And my grandfather ... was a farmer Neither well-bred, nor well-born! Teaches me the pride of the sun Before teaching me how to read And my house is like a watchman's hut Made of branches and cane Are you satisfied with my status? I have a name without a title! Write down! I am an Arab You have stolen the orchards of my ancestors And the land which I cultivated Along with my children And you left nothing for us Except for these rocks ... So will the State take them As it has been said?! Therefore! Write down on the top of the first page: I do not hate people Nor do I encroach But if I become hungry The usurper's flesh will be my food Beware ... Beware ... Of my hunger And my anger!

"Identity Card", Mahmoud Darwish

(This poem became a protest song and placed Darwish under house arrest)

[theaceace]

I'm still thinking about this and people seem to like it so here's some more thoughts, also this is getting its own post now as a follow up to this

Dream is the prince of stories and so he knows already how this story is going to end. How it always ends.

He was there, after all, the first time it was lived, the first time it was told, and heard, and sung, and wept over, and dreamt of. And not only that, but he knows every variation - and there have been so many of them over the years. So many twists and turns that have been dreamt of - so many of them by over a thousand people, until all of them were as true as each other from the beginning to the end. The stories are contradictory, but that doesn't matter. They can all be true nonetheless, and not even Dream knows now which was the original.

(He could know. It would be so easy to know. It must be there within the library - within him - gathering dust. He didn't look, even when he could. He chose not to)

There are worlds in which Orpheus looks back in doubt, in which he is afraid that he has been tricked and his love is still deep in Hades. There are versions that have him unable to bear Eurydice's cries, her wails of anguish, and he turns to comfort her even knowing that it will be their doom. There are tales that have him reach the living world, and in his exultation turn to help Eurydice a moment too soon. There are poems in which he looks back believing he is saving them, and songs in which he knows he is dooming them.

Dream wonders, as he follows silently behind Hob, which version this shall be. Just when his old, old friend will succumb to the tale, as he inevitably must. Will they make it as far as the door - will Dream be afforded a glimpse of sunlight, after a century of the dark? Will he see beyond Hob, for that single moment as he turns in the doorway, see out to the Waking, or to his own realm?

Or will Hob surrender before then? He has made it much further than so many of the others, his back straight and his steps sure. He had marched so confidently from the basement that Dream might have been able to overlook the way his hands trembled. The Dreaming will not make it easy - and Dream has not the power to control it while he is still bound within the narrative. The path through the house is clear, but it is long and circuitous - far more so than its Waking counterpart. Hob does not falter at each twist and turn, but Dream knows there will be other tricks and traps.

(Hob hears voices calling from the other room. He hears Eleanor, hears Robyn, hears the voices of all those he has loved and lost in his long life. They cry out to him, beg him to bring them back too, ask him why he didn't ask the Dream Lord for them to be returned to life. You could have asked for anything - why didn't you ask for me?

Because you're gone. Because I loved you and lost you and mourned you and still I chose to live without you! He doesn't call back. Because my friend is the only person I have never had to lose or leave behind! The voices stop eventually, and the house is silent once more but for a single set of footsteps)

(Once, he hears Dream's voice, begging him to turn and look, please, won't Hob look at him? And Hob only scoffs, because even bound naked and caged for over a century, his friend had not begged for Hob's help. He can't imagine his arrogant old stranger ever begging for anything at all. And so, the house falls silent)

Dream had never thought overmuch about the path Eurydice walked as she followed his son from the depths of Hades. Had she wanted to leave that place, as Dream does? Had she felt some piece of herself returning with each dogged step, or had she followed because the gods willed it, and so she obeyed? She had dreamt often of Orpheus, of their life together - she must have loved him then, while she still lived. Had she loved him then, when he came to fetch her, though she was but a cold shade of herself? (She must have, she must have, she must have, Dream thinks, staring at Hob's back. How could she not, when he was the first warmth she had known in that place?)

Had she known? As they climbed, and she stared at her lover (Dream's son) had she known then that it was futile? Had it mattered to her, or had she been content knowing that Orpheus loved her enough to defy the underworld? Had she watched his back as they walked, and known that the next time she saw his face would be the last? She must have forgiven him, of that Dream is sure. She must have understood.

(Dream has already forgiven Hob for his failure. He knows not when it will come, only that it must, and he isn't angry. This story is as much a part of him as any other - how could he resent Hob for playing his part in it so beautifully?)

Dream has never regretted, before, his reticence when Eurydice still lived. He thinks of his son and the mortal girl he had loved, staring at his dear friend's back, and is unsurprised to find himself crying.

Once, as they draw close to the end, he sees Alexander Burgess watching them from behind a half-closed door. He doesn't know if Hob sees him, doesn't know if his steps are unfaltering through sheer force of will. Alexander watches, his facade flickering between that of an old man, the timid thing that had shot Jessamy at the heart of Dream's prison, and the quaking child that had first followed his father through to the basement of the Dreaming house. Dream cannot harm him, of course. As a young man he had asked for safety, and so safety he would have until he left this place, after spending years glancing back like a hunted animal. Even if there should come a time that Dream is freed, he will not break that vow, and Alex will remain as trapped by his cowardice as he ever was.

But - oh. There it is. The door - he had been distracted, and by the time he looks forward again, they have reached it. Hob reaches for the handle, and still he hasn't looked back. He pulls the door open, and still he hasn't looked back. He steps out, into weak morning sunlight, and still he hasn't looked back. He stands, unmoving apart from the way his clenched fists shake, and still he hasn't looked back.

Dream stands, frozen, in the shadows of the doorway, staring out over the threshold. At the light, at the freedom, so very close. A few steps, nothing more. He doesn't understand - this is never how the story goes. All the dreamers that tried to bend it to their will (the idiots that had given it a happy ending) and inevitably it had returned to its true form, over and over. This isn't... He doesn't...

His throat works, his jaw moves, his voice is thick.

"Hob?" He doesn't understand, he doesn't -

And Hob -

End title

[farsi-calligraphy]

This poem by the Persian Sufi Poet Abū Saʿīd Abū'l-Khayr or Abusa'id Abolkhayr

(Persian: ابوسعید ابوالخیر)  (December 7, 967 - January 12, 1049)

is inscribed on the tomb of Jalāl al-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī

and is often incorrectly attributed to him.

باز‌ آ باز‌ آ، هر آن چه هستی باز‌ آ

گر کافر و گبر و بت‌پرستی باز‌ آ

این درگهِ ما، درگهِ نومیدی نیست

صد بار اگر توبه شکستی باز‌ آ

___________

Transliteration:

bāz ā bāz ā, har ān keh hastee bāz ā

gar kāfer o gabr o bot parastee bāz ā

een dargeh-ye mā, dargeh-ye nomeedee neest

sad bār agar tobeh shekastee bāz-ā

___________

I provide three translations. The first, by Barks, is the most famous rendering into English. Barks captures the simplicity of the sentiment. Gamart more accurately translates the verse. My own version is meant to be literal, rather than poetic. None of the English translations capture the repugnance that  the words infidel, heretic, pagan, unbeliever or idolater carry in the original. Please read the note for further insight into this poem.

___________

Translation by Coleman Barks:

Come, come, whoever you are.

Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving. It doesn't matter.

Ours is not a caravan of despair.

Come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times. Come, yet again, come, come.

___________

Translation by Sidi Ibrahim Gamart:

Come again, please, come again, Whoever you are. Religious, infidel, heretic or pagan. Even if you promised a hundred times And a hundred times you broke your promise, This door is not the door Of hopelessness and frustration. This door is open for everybody. Come, come as you are.

___________

My own more literal translation:

Come, come, whoever you are, come again

Be you faithless, unbeliever or idolater, come again

This doorway of ours, it is not the entry to despair

If you’ve broken your repentance a hundred times, come again.

___________

Notes:

bāz ā = come again; welcome (bāz  means both “again” and “open”; both meanings are relevant here)

kāfer = usually translated as infidel, the basic meaning of the word in Arabic (kufr) is someone who is ungrateful [for God’s blessings], or who has no faith; by extension, someone who does not believe in the tenants of Islam, who is a pagan, non-believer, or member of a non-Muslim religion. It is commonly used as a pejorative term.

gebr or gabr = the word originally referred to someone who was a Zoroastrian but came to have a pejorative meaning referring to any non-Muslim, or sometimes to any unbeliever The word continues to be used as a slur against Christians in some former areas of the Ottoman Empire.

Bot parasti = idol worshiper (again, a pejorative term)

All three of the phrases used have the sting of extremely insulting, pejorative terms. All three place the person being referred to as the most outcast or outside categories in Islamic society. To say they are welcome is to go against all expectations.

* Note that the word Dargah has many meanings, several of which are indicated directly in this line: portal, door, threshold, the site of the saint’s tomb. The royal court (dargah) was also where the king dispensed legal rulings and justice, which also plays into the poem: no matter how many transgressions you have made, this is not the place for having no hope. Baz A, means, come, come again, welcome.

* درگاه (درگهِ) dargāh (dar=door; gāh or gah=place): Portal, door; location of the door [into a house or building]; threshold; a royal court, a palace; a mosque; shrine or tomb (of some reputed saint}; place of pilgrimage.

** nomidi: no hope (na=no; omid=hope)

tobeh (Arabic “tawbeh”) = repentance. In Islam repentance is an individual matter between an individual and the Divine. By using this word the poet transfers the point of view from society’s vantage point (someone who is outside the fold of society), to the personal (what is my relationship to the Divine).

Persian (Farsi) Calligraphy by S J Thomas  www.palmstone.com

[materassassino]

Q or U, whoever you decide!

Thank you for this one! 🥺

Minific prompts

U - Coming Home

“Can you stop fidgeting?”

Joe blinks, jerked forcefully out of his reverie by Andy’s forceful hand on his knee. He hadn’t even realised it had been bouncing. He looks at her, and she groans.

“Not the eyes, Joe...”

“I’m sorry!” He isn’t. “I can’t help it!” That’s the truth.

A nervous energy is prickling just under his skin, lightning in his blood. He got the window seat on the train, so he’s been staring out at the miles going past, impatient to the point of near madness. It’s been a month. A whole month. How could anyone expect him to not start pacing the too-small cage of his own mind when his soul has been missing half of itself?

Separation has always made him twitchy, and wistful, and prone to morose sighing. Andy learnt this centuries ago, and still she insisted.

(He knows why. She wants time with them, with each of them alone, something sacred and only theirs. And he’s loved this, just him-and-Andy, like those centuries ago when they wandered across the entirety of North Africa while Nicky and Quynh went East. And Andy knows better than to think he hasn’t loved this, that he doesn’t want more of it. But, well… Nicky.)

He shrugs helplessly. Nicky is always present in his thoughts, in time with his heartbeat, even when Joe isn’t actively thinking of him.

She sighs.

“At least it’s not poetry,” she grumbles, sliding lower in her seat with folded arms and outstretched legs.

“The poetry is for him, where it isn’t wasted,” Joe says primly. She snorts at that, bumping her shoulder into his.

--

It is night by the time they arrive at their destination, the small country station almost completely black. They’re the only ones who get off there, stumbling tiredly off the train and into the dark. A car’s headlights turn on.

“Hey!” Nile calls from the window, waving. Joe brightens at seeing her, but his heart sinks when he realises she’s alone. He tries not to pout as he heaves his bag into the boot and settles in the back seat. He’s not sure he manages, but it’s dark enough that Nile probably doesn’t notice. It’s not her fault, anyway, it’s entirely his.

“Have fun without us?” Andy asks.

“He cheats at rummy,” Nile replies, sounding completely and utterly betrayed, making Joe burst out laughing.

The drive back to the safehouse is long and, to Joe, incredibly slow. Time is molasses now, his destination so close and yet so stubbornly out of reach. The road is narrow and packed in on either side by dense forest, so whenever they encounter another vehicle it’s a stalemate as they stare each other down, daring the other to back up.

Joe drums his fingers on his knee, toe tapping, as a bus stands its ground and waits, like it has all the time in the world, for Nile to ease into the sliver of grass on the side. They nearly lose a wing mirror to a tree trunk.

Finally they make their turning, and relief settles on Joe like sunlight. The light in the kitchen is on, and Joe sees his silhouette move from one window to another.

He’s out of the car before Nile’s even pulled the handbrake. He grabs both their bags, because he’ll never hear the end of it if he doesn’t, and keeps his eyes on the front door. It opens as he reaches it.

Oh, light of his life! A thousand poems couldn’t describe the vision before him! It is as if the shadows are lifted from his sight!

He dumps the bags on the doorstep and draws Nicky into his arms, burying his face in his neck.

“Halabik,” Nicky says, just the tiniest hint of reproach for not even getting inside the damn house, but Joe doesn’t care. He makes a plaintive noise against Nicky’s warm skin, breathing in deep, and beneath the smell of cooking and his cheap-ass three-in-one bodywash is that scent that is purely, perfectly Nicky. The scent of home.

Nicky pushes him away gently, earning himself another noise like a small woodland creature being oppressed, but it’s simply to plant both his hands on the sides of Joe’s head and pull him into a kiss. Joe melts into it, melts into the taste of Nicky and the warmth of his lips and body, and he is so ready to simply drag this man into bed and wrap himself in him in any and all ways possible.

“Let us in, you fools!” Andy barks, planting a boot on Joe’s ass – not hard, but a nudge.

They roll with it, breaking the kiss with a laugh, but refuse to part as Nicky drags Joe backwards into the house. Nile is the one to lug Joe’s bag in.

“It’s only been a month!” she says, shaking her head.

“We’re woefully co-dependent,” Joe says, making Nicky chuckle.

“There’s dinner,” Nicky says. “We were waiting for you two.”

Joe can’t resist planting another kiss on him, and a nuzzle for good measure. He can smell it, fragrant and mouth-watering, the kamounia Nicky always makes for a homecoming, regardless of where they are and what the weather is. Beef, most likely, out here, but Joe wouldn’t complain whatever it was.

It is late, but the good food and the bottle of wine ease the exhaustion from the sharp tension of travel to the mellow, warm bonelessness of coming home. Nicky hooks his ankle around Joe’s, smiles that soft, beautiful smile, and Joe lets it wash over him, lets the relief flow through him. He knows his bed won’t be agonisingly empty tonight, and his dreams will settle.

He leans into Nicky, pressing their shoulders together, and sighs in contentment.

[apoemaday]

Ars Poetica?

by Czeslaw Milosz tr. Czeslaw Milosz and Lillian Vallee

I have always aspired to a more spacious form that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose and would let us understand each other without exposing the author or reader to sublime agonies.

In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent: a thing is brought forth which we didn’t know we had in us, so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out and stood in the light, lashing his tail.

That’s why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion, though its an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel. It’s hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from, when so often they’re put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.

What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons, who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues, and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand, work at changing his destiny for their convenience?

It’s true that what is morbid is highly valued today, and so you may think that I am only joking or that I’ve devised just one more means of praising Art with the help of irony.

There was a time when only wise books were read helping us to bear our pain and misery. This, after all, is not quite the same as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.

And yet the world is different from what it seems to be and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings. People therefore preserve silent integrity thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.

The purpose of poetry is to remind us how difficult it is to remain just one person, for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors, and invisible guests come in and out at will.

What I’m saying here is not, I agree, poetry, as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly, under unbearable duress and only with the hope that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.

[exitwound]

whats your new year resolutions?

pre dawn yoga. eating enough. walks that are only ever longer. cigarettes like birthday cakes more often than my birthday. a lingering mental afterimage of glittering black shower curtain. sativa edibles in the shape of soap bottles, nail clippers, sundresses, lightbulb filament, grey lilies, cardboard boxes. no, that was 2021, 2022, 2023. in the shape of candle wicks, white lilies, cardboard in ash form, house full of smoke, sky, sky, sky, spacebars, developing an obsession with into scrap fabric abstract sewing arts without knowing why. no, no, no, that was still the last three years. no no no. all new images. listening to a heartbeat underwater until it’s too loud to stand. and asking whose heart is it. laying down in the netted hammock of the nervous system but never unravelling the thread tied to your pinky promising finger lest it snap like an adult tooth tied to the door and drop you down into the—. the door closed, the open window spinning around a dolls decapitated head in the music box. leaving open the eye in the head of the open and not looking straight at it. turning your back to the red sky right before it goes black and going home not looking back. inserting new calcium pearl-starters and mistakes made like pearls. one wrong turn, all wrong turns. hundreds, thousands, trillions, dozens of poems.

[houseofhyde]

Hello there amazing writer 🙋🏻‍♀️! I hope you are feeling well and are finding the fandom pleasant 🤗.

I thought I'd share an idea that's been festering in my head if you'd like to give it a try (but first allow me to commend your sharply pellucid guidelines for requesting, you have seriously inspired me to refine my own 🥂)

I was thinking of something where Daemon has been chasing a noblewoman, interest kindled by her prideful rejection to become his latest muse; then one night she goes to his chamber, dejected and teary, indignantly asking for company. Then something like the beach scene from Drfitmark where he's far gentler than he thought he would be.

Thank you for hearing me out, have a lovely day 💐

but only for tonight.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader. synopsis. to most, the rogue prince is an untamable beast, with the fury of a thousand men and mind more stubborn than a mule. to you, he's a nuisance in expensive clothing, prone to run away with his tail tucked between his legs each time you reassure him you're still not interested in entertaining his company. till disaster strikes and the only corner of the keep your legs seem to carry you is his chamber doors. warnings. young!daemon (early 20s), enemies to lovers to strangers, kinda softer than usual daemon (he's young and not completely cynical yet), smut (porn with plot, p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, daemon lowkey has a praise kink, dubcon bc daemon is high on life aka the milk of the poppy). word count. 13.1k (this was only meant to be 5k max 🧍‍♂️) hyde's input. thank you so much to @nyctophilic0vitnir for your kind words, your request, and, most importantly, your patience <3 this took me far too long to write and i hope the wait was worth it for you. it pains me to age daemon down (as, personally, i'm a toxic bitch that loves to see daemon be notably older than the reader, since i feel it adds that extra layer of questionable morality to his character and his actions) but it was the only way i felt i could stay true to my personal characterisation of him whilst sticking to the original request. since i view daemon as someone hardened by things in life that only come with age (which, in turn, affects his approach to love/courting), it only felt believable to me that he'd chase after someone in his younger days. obviously not everyone has to agree since, again, this is my personal characterisation of him! i'm rambling so i'll shut up now, enjoy! read on ao3 !

between the blinding shine of the sun and the hateful looks from the ladies seated all around you, you’re shocked to the core that you’ve yet to melt away into nothingness.

the scene is as follows: an arena surrounded by crowds filled with cheering lords and fawning ladies, dressed in their finest of robes and garbs, and with their mouths opened to yell out each time sticks collide or a rider is thrown from his horse; within the arena stand two horses- one so white it offends the eyes and the other blacker than a night’s sky- and, upon their saddles, two men. the first is a man of honour, regal of house and true of heart. he sits like royalty and smiles like a dashing knight, urging his mount towards the stands, no doubt awaiting the gift of the flowered wreath you’d kept yourself awake into the small hours to make. the other man? a fool made of over-the-top armor, a glistening of dark metals and a feathered helmet that, combined with the smug look he sports, has the same effect as simply writing cunt across his forehead.

it is, to your own displeasure, that the second man is who holds his lance out to you first.

“well,” that cocky tone of voice grates you, like the screech of a crying babe, and you fight back the urge to cover your ears, if only by reminding yourself of how his crown-bearing brother is watching from his own seat amongst the crowd. “get on with it.”

“oh, my!” the women in your vicinity swoon, as if the man has just recited a poem of utmost beauty and grace in your direction.

seemingly foolish? most definitely.

but, truly foolish? not one bit, each of them strategic in their behaviour towards the unwed prince, hopeful that someday, should they work hard enough, they’ll be on the receiving end both of his affection and wealth.

you can not mock them- wholeheartedly, at least- for you would be behaving the very same were he any other prince.

“lady cantebury, if you’ll excuse me, i suddenly feel my lunch coming back up.” though you address the woman to the left of you- who, quite frankly, you’ve been ignoring for the better half of the tournament- your words and feigned smile are directed to the man of your ire.

“yes, excuse her, lady cantebitchy,” despite the prince- purposefully, you assume- misspeaking her name, she seems a little too excited that he’s taken notice of her to care. “it takes those northerners a while to adjust to eating something other than half-frozen crops. three moons south and my lady has yet to get used to it.”

“your lady?” you scoff, and quickly scowl, cursing yourself for giving him what he wants: your attention. too late now, you challenge him and lean forward against the railings. “is she with us now, this lady of yours? i should like to pay my respects to her no-doubt deceased sanity.”

“it pains me deeply when you speak so dully of yourself, my lady.” the gaul of this man! to speak such words, to mimic affectionate sentiments and pains in his heart through the clutching of his chest!

and, to make matters worse, to put on this act before the very man you’ve been courting!

the tyrell boy is smiling when your eyes finds his own, but the grip he has on the reigns of the white horse speaks true to the anger that hides beneath the petal-covered surface. you return his smile, and ignore whatever the prince mutters under his breath (something adjacent to greeting that priss of a man, with words more foul and tone heavy on the disgust).

aiming to beckon over the man who should truly receive the gift of your favour, a faint tug on the skirts of your summer’s gown derail your line of thoughts. first, you look to your left, accusing eyes looking upon lady canteburry as if to say she was the one to call for your attention. another tug has your head darting to the right, and there you see her.

the princess is small, in age and height and all else, but she makes up for what she lacks with her overgrown personality and swollen confidence. she’s merely a girl of six, yet she stands as tall as her stature allows, head tilted up to look you in the eye.

“my uncle,” little rhaenyra’s words echo for all to hear, silencing even the most brutishly rude lords as all stand to listen to her sweet voice. “he wants your favour. i think he’s just nervous and forgot to ask for it.”

the last of her words are whispered, loud enough for several women and the prince himself to hear. you shoot him a look as you both scoff over a laugh, him with indiganance and you with disbelief.

blessed be the hearts of children, too pure to know the wrongs of man.

“is that so, princess?” the girl’s nose wrinkles, a sign of her distaste towards hearing you address her by title (“i can not call you ‘nyra in public, sweet child.” you’d told her many a times, hands brushing over her pale hair or accompanying her through strolls in the gardens or helping her escape the boring hours of needle work. “you are a princess, and as one of your ladies it is my duty to address you as such.”)

the girl nods and you spy the way her hair is slowly slipping out of its braid. the actions serves as a reminder, to not just yourself but the gathered crowd of women, of the unfair yet captivating traits of the dragon-riders. fair hair, lilac eyes, unblemished skin.

he wears them differently to the rest of his house.

“listen to the child,” he speaks as if on queue, in tune with your thoughts. “she’s wiser than most her age.”

“unlike you.” you believe yourself to mutter beneath your breath.

the stifled laughter of the queen herself, aemma targaryen, tells you otherwise.

“ao jorrāelagon naejot sagon tolī sȳz, kepus!” you need to be more kind, uncle! another part of the targaryen culture you’ve grown to envy as much as you distaste: their ancestral tongue. which the princess has been improving upon with each passing day since your arrival at the capital, adding yet another person to your list of targaryens who insist on speaking it around you, with no regard to the fact you have no clue of what words they speak. if anything, the prince seems to enjoy it when you storm off, antagonised to the point of despair by his incomprehensible ramblings in his mother tongue. “iā hembar jēda kesan daor tepagon se dohaeragon ao jaelagon naejot gain se riña’s prūmia lēda.” or next time i will not give the help you wish to gain the lady’s heart with.

whatever she says, it’s enough to irritate the prince, if the roll of his eyes are anything go by.

“lykemagon, riña, iā kesan daor nārhēdegon naejot ȳdragon hen aōha bantis zaldrīzes kipagon naejot aōha kepa.” silence, child, or i will not forget to speak of your nightly dragon rides to your father. you may not speak the language, but you’re fluent in context, and so there’s no doubt in your mind that the two are exchanging threats, each wearing that signature look of stubborn challenging you’re more than certain the king grew to despise the moment he realised he’d no longer just face it from his own brother, but his precious daughter too.

when the moment passes, the princess is facing you again, sticky hands plucking upwards to grab onto whatever part of you she can reach and guide you- shove you, if she were stronger than her age allows- closer to the knight in offensive armour.

“uncle, tell the lady what you desire.” the gods were cruel when they chose to favour men over women, tearing away the chance of this poised young girl of ever ruling upon the iron throne, for not even the strongest of men- nor the most foolish, either- would dare to speak to the rogue prince in such a demanding tone.

“to be drowning in whores and wine.” you’re too slow to cover rhaenyra’s ears from the man’s offensive wording.

you suppose she’s heard far worse.

“uncle!”

“fine, fine,” a clearing of a throat, a straightening of a spine and a lunge of a jousting stick in your direction. the horse he sits upon canters a few steps closer and releases the heavy sigh you wish you could. “my lady,” there’s a point to be made with how your eyes drift anywhere but his own as he speaks such blasphemy, a silent scream that you are most definitely, not under any circumstances nor at any point in time, his lady. you’re barely a tolerant of the man! “would you do me the honour of gifting me with your favour, so that i may wear it on the handle of my lance as i shove the other end up this pretty boy’s arse?”

there’s a cacophony of laughter, prompted only after the king himself fails to contain a burst of belly-born rumbles, and then the sweet interjection of ‘nyra once more, voice whiny in a way that reminds you you’ve been cursed with your moonsblood for longer than she’s been alive- even despite your supposed late blossoming!

“kepus! konir sagon daor skorkydoso īlon kȳvanon syt ao epagon zirȳla!” uncle! that is not how we planned for you to ask her!

the prince ignores his niece, eyes spying only upon you and your unimpressed, unmoving, unchanging facial expressions. the frowning lips, the pinched brows, the disdain in your eyes are all marks of something that would- should- send any other man running for the hills, in pursuit of some other lady.

in daemon, it is the pilar of his desire.

“are you going to make me wait all evening?” the teasing smirk and the raise of an eyebrow have become the prince’s signature look around you, from the moment you’d stumbled upon him, hands tangled up the skirts of a serving girl and lips stained in the bloodied red of southern wine. “because i must admit, while i’m not against performing in front of a crowd, i’d rather hoped our first evening together would be a little more intimate than this.”

you bite the insides of your cheek with a force you hope is strong enough to rid you of that grating feeling roused by none other than your greatest enemy: the prince.

by all means, you want to deny him, send him off to pester some other lady for her favour- of which you’re sure he’ll stumble upon an abudance of them who receive him more willingly than you. the crown of pointed thorns and decaying petals and twisted vines is one you’d intended to gift to the rose boy, not the dragon prince.

yet rhaenyra’s little hands and excited smile convinces you to go against your better judgement.

the crowd bursts back to life with cheers and applause as you drop your wreath down the expanse of his lance.

“cherish it, prince daemon,” you call over the crowd, voice drowning out in the masses yet reaching its intended, daemon’s eyes delighting with the attention you give him. “for i just forfeited my chance to be named queen of love and beauty.”

hours later, when the moon sits atop the sky and the king’s guests have had their fair share of feast and drink, you brush off yet another congratulations.

“to our queen of love and beauty!” they cheer, cups to the sky and smiles made of mockery. “our prince sure did pick a fine lady.”

to roll your eyes is your only hope to halt yourselves from chastising the garish men and their claims, a whole rant to throw at them off the cuff of how the only thing their prince has done is place a scarlet letter upon you and slice a dagger through the already fragile relationship you’ve spent your recent days crafting with the stone-faced lady tyrell, who’s spent the past hours staring you down from across the hall and whispering every so often to her husband.

the hand in your own- smaller and distinctly sticky in a way only a child’s hand ever seems to be- tugs and squeezes you along, venturing deeper into the pit of dancing bods, the tuffs of blonde and the poofs of red the only part of the princess you manage to make out as she guides you.

she stops, eventually, when she finds a spot she deems spacious enough and- unbeknownst to you- in the perfect line of view for all that sit the royal table, be they a king, or a queen, or a prince, to witness you both joining in dance, a unique pair among the many couples.

“you know,” the girl ponders alloud, a cheeky grin on her face as her small frame easily twirls beneath your raised arm. “if you married my uncle, you and i would be family.”

“is that so, huh?” she must count her blessings that she remains a child, for were she any older to know better, she’d be tasting the wrath delivered upon any other who’d dare insinuate- much less so boldly propose the idea of- the unification of yourself and the rogue prince. “are you sure you’d be able to handle me as your evil aunt?”

the young girl nods enthusiastically, a silly grin decorating her features and forcing one on to your own down-trodden face, something so infectious in her smile.

when you’d first met the princess, you’d been certain that you’d never warm to her. it wasn’t that she was spoiled or particularly difficult but, rather, you’d never had a child around back home. moving to the capital- under the guise of becoming a lady in waiting to the little princess while truly being an excuse for your father to find you a husband- you’d been unsure what to expect once you arrived. your friendship with the dragon princess was a happy accident.

an accident that’s made adjusting to the capital far easier, sure, but an accident nonetheless.

“uncle!” her recent interest in your courting life and the need to intertwine it with your arch-nemesis’, however, has you rethinking this friendship.

the princess is the one to let go first, ducking out of your hold to crash straight into the prince’s leg, attaching herself onto it like a leech sticks to the skin of a dying man. daemon, seemingly engaged in conversation- with a girl you believe to be part of the lannister house- prior to the appearance of rhaenyra, dismisses the company in favour of his niece, hand clasping itself upon the top of her head and giving several scuffs, messing her hair till it stands in all directions.

and, be it the copious drinks or the immature she-devil who harbours within the depths of your soul, you condemn yourself to approaching the prince.

“stop that!” the words are a hiss as your hands shove away his own and work at smoothing back down the strands of pale blonde. “it took me near an hour to get her to sit still for me while i done her hair, and now you’ve gone and messed my work!”

“then do better next time, perhaps tie it more securely.” never has daemon targaryen had a face so worthy of a slap.

but, as slapping the king’s brother would likely land you straight in a cellar, you settle for something far more childish.

“oh, my bad,” the stretch to reach the top of his head is lessened by the heeled shoes you wear, allowing you to retaliate the treatment he’d given to the princess’ head. “perhaps you should try tying your hair more securely next time!”

it’s a marvellous kind of satisfaction that overcomes you as you gaze upon your masterpiece, the prince now wearing a hardened expression and standing with something akin to a bird’s nest in place of his once perfectly groomed locks.

“i think you’ve been spending too much time with rhaenyra,” he grumbles, attempting to sooth down the mop on his head while trying to maintain an air of collectedness about him as the surrounding guests hide their snickers behind their hands. meanwhile, the princess radiates joy, no fear holding her back from laughing at her uncle. “you’re behaving as if you were her age.”

it’s a struggle to not stick your tongue out, but you fear that would only serve to prove his- likely true- point.

“i’m tired,” rhaenyra, ever the conniving little actress, throws in a fake yawn and stretches her little limbs out as she untangles herself from the prince, staring up at him. the two have always shared a rather queer bond, as though they were cut from the very same cloth, little needing said for them both to understand one another. being aware of this, however, does not make it any easier to accept when they speak of you as though you’re not there. “would you promise to keep my friend company? there’s a lot of strangers at this feast and i don’t want one of them to harm her.”

“i’d say the strangers are the ones who need protecting, princess,” he’s doubled over, moving down to the height of his niece but his focus is all on you and the urge to squirm under his penatrive gaze is stronger than ever. “them northerners can be savages!”

with much protest from you and a shooing motion from the rogue prince, young rhaenyra scurries off towards her septa, eventually leaving the hall intwined with the daughter of her father’s hand, alicent hightower, the pair having been near inseparable since before you’d even arrived in the capital.

you last only four denied dances, three of them which are proposed by the heartbreak prince himself, the only other man bold enough to approach you with your frowning sworn-guard for the night being a lowly lord from the southern isles, kind enough in the eyes yet sporting a few too many wrinkles and grey hairs for you to consider a suitable suitor. and, at last, it becomes time you take your leave, making one last stop before the two royals, once more congratulating the pair on the early stages of the queen’s pregnancy- the first to make it through the initial trimester since the birth of rhaenyra and the sole reason you’ve all gathered, to celebrate the future heir king viserys targaryen claims grows within his wife’s womb- before making your way out into the much quieter, more solitary and notably cooler hallways of the red keep, the noise of the continued festivities drowning out into muffled cheers as the heavy doors slam shut, locking you out.

you breathe easily for what feels like the first time in hours.

ever the fool, daemon seems either incapable of taking a hint or wilfully going to any length to aggravate you, for he matches your steps and follows you out. he’s oblivious to the stare of despair and the roll of your eyes, wishing the man would drop his literal- and figurative- pursuit of you once and for all.

“you’ve been here, what, near four moons?” his voice rising above the stillness of the night captures your attention, widened eyes blossoming with surprise shooting up from facing the ground beneath your feet. “how are you finding your stay? i should hope my brother’s fitted you with comfortable quarters.”

“i, well,” you start, and you mean to finish, you really do. but there’s a loss of connection between your mind and your mouth, one running with a thousand thoughts that fight to reach the forefront and the other parting it’s lips in a broken exhale.

“what, surprised to see i am capable of niceties?” the prince flashes what you imagine most would describe as a charming smile.

“yes. no, actually,” you correct both your words and your posture, unknowingly relaxing that tense feeling that had danced upon the tip of your back and the expanse of your shoulder from the moment you’d found yourself alone with the man walking at your side. “more surprised to see you’re capable of not turning everything into a sexual pass, i suppose.”

“well, you never let me reach the part where i request to see just how comfortable your quarters are.”

that same she-devil who convinced you to mess with his hair perks up her voice once more, seductive whispers encouraging you to cross the space that separates you from the prince and place a hand upon his leather-bound chest, shoving him with less hostility either of you had expected.

“you’re insufferable!” at the very least, you retain the ability to criticise him verbally, though with far more interruptions of failed-to-conceal laughter and less sharpness in your tone.

“i believe it’s pronounced irrefutable.”

“i’m impressed,” you nod along to your own exclamation, vaguely aware of the fact you’ve twisted your feet around till you face the man completely. “that’s a big word for someone with the vocabulary of a foul-mouthed child!”

“if big things impress you, rest assured i’m well endowed.”

“like i said, insufferable!”

when your exacerbated sighs and his teasing chortles fade away into the air of the night, a calm quiet settles over you both, like fog over mountain tops. the rare abscense of the wandering eyes and judgemental snickers and the gossiping whispers exchanged through the courtiers has made way for an unexpected tolerance of the prince’s company, one that leads you astray from your usual disgust and further towards the walking disaster-child that is daemon targaryen.

“come,” it’s a demand, not a request, the talons of your hands digging into the arm of his coat admittedly harder than necessary, a sick depravation found in the firmness of his biceps. you find he gives no protest to the way your arm locks itself around his own. “walk me to my chambers, oh mighty knight!”

“is this your way of accepting my offer to see how comfortable your ch-”

“daemon, so help the seven, if you finish that sentence, it’ll be i who shoves a lance up your arse.”

silence returns like an old friend: with open arms and the promise of a story to be told.

the pair of you traverse through the winding halls of the castle together, arms linked and feet synced- the prince puts a great effort into shortening the length of his steps. to outsiders looking in, you’d almost appear to be nothing more than another couple in the early days of courtship, smiling off to the sides and capable of looking anywhere but each other. the reality that this very man has put your true intended betrothal at risk becomes buried deep beneath the surface of your thoughts, uneager to remind yourself of how you’d last seen the tyrell boy rising from the dirt of the arena, face frowning as the prince called out your name, thanking you for you favour.

“you never answered.” he speaks carefully, voice a gentle timbre as though he’s attempting to coax a wounded fawn out of its hiding place.

“hmm?”

“my question, about your stay. how are you finding it?”

you can not seem to answer him. it isn’t that you don’t want to answer- trust there is another world out there where you easily list off every reason he’s made your time in the capital feel something comparable to torturous and arduous work- but, rather, that you do not have an answer. because not a single person, from your own father all the way to little rhaenyra herself, has dared to ask you before.

no individual has cared to know, yet here the prince stands- walks by your side, more accurately said- and inquires on it.

it jars you so severely you feel the beginnings of an ache in your head.

“oh, well, it’s been... good, i suppose.” both of you share a common disbelief towards the words you speak, yours evident in the way your grip tightens around his arm and his making itself known in a dismissive grunt. “the keep is beautiful, and my chambers are beyond any level of comfort my own house could afford, and the weather is admiteddly nicer. it’s just...”

“lonely,” the man finishes what you started, the hand on his free arm at some point raising itself to rest upon your own. it’s only reflex for your fingers to relax, untense the vice grip you’ve dug into him. “this city is somehow the busiest yet loneliest place in the whole of westeros.”

“don’t get sentimental on me, prince daemon.” to dismiss the mellowness settling in between you with a jovial tone and a pointed look is all you can think to do, far too unprepared to be confronted with the possibility of the rogue prince possessing anything beyond the sheer audacity he displays on the daily. “we would not want someone to overhear and assume you’re soft-hearted.”

the man swallows back a comment of how, while his heart may falter, another of his organs would not fail to remain hardened, and simply gives a noise of agreement. you arrive at yet another flight of stairs, this one so narrow it requires you to walk ahead of the prince, the grasp you have on him never faltering as it slides down the expanse of his arm and reanchors itself on his wrist.

you make it not even a quarter of the way up before your dress proves itself to be a nusance, catching on your feet and sending you crashing forwards, saved from bruising your skin and breaking your bones on the solid stone below by daemon, who effortletsly catches you by the waist.

“i wasn’t aware the king placed you in the highest tower of the keep,” the prince, a known hypochondriac, quips on the amount of stairs  the travels to your chambers entails.

“must be to keep scoundrels like his brother from trying to reach me.” a joke it may be, given you both laugh, but there’s certainly an element of truth behind it.

pray, you will, that you’re never enquired on how often a scoundrel has taken it upon himself to lift the ends of a woman’s dress for no reasons other than aiding her to climb up steps without the fear of her feet catching on the ends of it.

he follows you up closely, closer than he’d been before, and drops the material only after you’ve reached the top. the pair of you move in sync to reform your previous positions, arms intertwining with ease.

“what,” it’s criminal, you think, that it’s taken you all this time to experience how soft the prince’s voice can be once he’s rid it of all that ego and peacoking energy he barks around the courts with. meanwhile, he’s doing everything he can think of to slow your inevitable approach towards your chambers door. “do you have planned tomorrow morning?”

“tomorrow morning?” the question prompts you to look at him. seeing his face closer than it’s ever been before, you see the little details, like the flecks of deep purple that accentuate the lilac eyes, or the small scab on his chin where a shaving knife must have sliced it, or the subtle indent of frown-lines on his forehead that you think a man of his age is far too young to possess. “usually my mornings are spent with the other maidens who reside in the keep, before rhaenyra comes searching for me after she’s broken her fast.”

you don’t mention the way the young girl never fails to bring something tucked beneath her skirts- an apple, a buttered roll, a slice of meat- and forces it upon you, demanding you eat the breakfast you so often forget to take.

“how likely is it that your absence would be noted, say, if you were to go one daybreak not with those wenches?” you wrinkle your nose at the choice of words and he chuckles, mentally notting the distaste you harbour for wenches and reminding himself to use it against you at some point in the future. “my brother says the she-beast they call vhagar laid a clutch.”

“how ominous. haven’t you dragonriders taken enough dragons beneath your wings?” it’s meant to be naught more than a silly comment, a clever play on words to rouse a tired eyeroll from prince daemon. it isn’t, however, supposed to pull a pointed look and a sigh of defeat from the dragonless targaryen. “i’m sorry... i didn’t mean to offend.”

“no, no, it’s fine. just never speak such a stupid pun again.” he juts his arm out, playfully stabbing the point of his elbow into your side and rousing a smile back onto your face, unease slipping out with your next exhale. “it’s for the queen’s babe. my brother demanded i collect the eggs and bring them to-”

“there you are, my love! i’ve been looking for you all evening.”

like a pair of children caught with their hands down a cookie jar, daemon and you jump apart with haste, eyes no longer focused on one another and, instead, on the figure stood at the very end of the hall.

he still wears the armour which he’d been defeated by the prince in.

“laurel!” while your tone may read as elated, it’s filled only with disappointed surprise. “what are- why- what brings you here, at this hour?”

the prince seems to instinctively step closer to you as the tyrell boy begins to approach, leaving his post outside your door. he’s stern, brows furrowed and nothing remains of the man who’d been making you laugh a mere ten paces back.

“i was looking, for you,”

“clearly not hard enough.” you wonder if the tyrell boy catches daemon’s muttered words and, the part of you that agrees with them wishes he did.

you’d been at the feast all evening, with just about every other person of status in the city. if he’d wanted to find you, he’d have been best to make an appearance at the event rather than camping outside your apartments.

“i thought we could take a stroll through the gardens,” the rose speaks as though his idea is not preprostous, inviting a maiden out into the darkened greenery at such a late hour.

passing by the prince, laurel tyrell spares him no attention, as though the man is not even there, and simply makes his way towards the stairway, turning back only when the notion that you stand frozen in your spot kicks in.

“come along, my lady!” my lady. those two words feel tainted from hearing them fall from between the prince’s lips, the tyrell’s voice prickling your skin with it. “i promise i shant keep you late.”

your eyes find the prince.

he nods, once and then a second time.

“go,” he urges verbally, when his actions don’t speak loud enough. “fleabottom’s been calling my name all evening, and i intend to answer it.”

with a twist in your gut and a wretch in your heart, you shuffle your way over to laurel tyrell’s open palm, letting him drag you back down into the night.

this is a decision you come to regret, no later than four sleeps.

because the man's words follow you, no matter how quickly you run through halls and creep up stairwells. they turn every corner you take and pause with every rush of breath you stop to heave into your screaming lungs. you pass doorways and sleeping guards, and they pass them with you too.

this nonsense best prove it's worth once i bed her.

there's anger in the clutches of your hands, clenched into fists of pointed knuckles and skin-digging nails, and sadness caught between the lashes of your eye, drops of liquid heartbreak threatening to stain your skin if you so much as blink.

the halfwit doesn't notice when i focus on her tits instead of her eyes.

the poetic words, the strolls through the gardens, the nights of dancing, the stolen smiles and fleeting looks across crowded rooms, all for nothing.

least she be a maiden. i've heard the feel of breaking one of them in is unmatched.

all for laurel tyrell to be another man who sees only the shape of what you hide beneath your clothing.

you want to hate him, curse him, tell all you meet of his crude words, but, instead, the thought of their reactions leaves you despising yourself, for ever thinking a man could think with more than what sat between his legs.

it is not even an option to contact your father, you lament while climbing yet another winding stairwell, for he’d merely remind you of a woman’s duty, which serves only her house until she takes a husband and, then, serves only him.

if the tyrell boy wishes to bed a maiden, your father’s voice plays in your thoughts as though he were stood before you this very instant, best it be you.

his words, the thoughts and your footsteps all come to a halt at the same time. like reentering your body, or awakening from a nap, you find yourself disorientated, gazing upon a chamber door you register not as your own. no, this door is more akin to the level of gradiose you face each day that you visit the young princess’ room, dragged away by her small hands as she works to avoid yet another one of the classes that she views as a bore.

yet, this is not her door.

sure, it carries similar markings and engraves in the wood, and sports that very same rich colour and shine to it. but something, subtle as it may be, is askew. the princess’ door has silver handles, this one has gold. the princess sleeps in the east wing of this part of the keep and you’re certain you’d marched west, away from the voice of your betrothed. a guard stands by the princess’ door, no one sits outside this one.

bile rises in tune with your hand, staining the back of your throat with anxious thoughts as you hesitantly knock.

you pause and wait.

minutes pass before you’re knocking again, this time with a little more anger behind the way your knuckles hit against the cold oak. it’ll be a wonder if you do not awake to swirls of purple and twists of blue painted across your skin come sunrise.

the tenant of these apartments still does not open their doors.

you hit a little harder, replacing knocks with a forceful, full-handed slap against the door. and then another, and another, and another, and-

your hand meets flesh that prickles with stubble and points with it’s cheekbones.

“what in the seven hells merits such behaviour at this hour?!”

the prince, for the life of him, has barely managed to open his eyes fully, rejecting the bright lights that burn in the hall. behind him is a sea of black, whatever treasures or prisoners he hides within his quarters lost into the darkness. he’s frowning, hair a mess, clothes foregone hours ago, and a distinctly red hand print slowly searing itself into the left side of his face.

the sight brings you more relief than you’d ever thought him capable of.

you’ve always been rational. it’s a badge you wear with honour, basking in the glory anytime one of your siblings met the angrier side of your father that never failed to reprimand them for being less like you, for being incapable of thinking before acting like you, for never weighing consequences until after a deed was done.

till the day you die, you will never find the words to describe what leads you astray from this level-headedness in the small hours of this evening.

you crash into the prince less gracefully than you’d prefer, lips barely meeting the bottom of his and pressing themselves half on his chin as you dive in for a kiss.

a kiss that daemon does not reciprocate.

in fact, he doesn’t even attempt to move, body frozen in place. pulling back to find the sheer unfazed, almost bored look that occupies the features of his face, floods your soul with a horrible, thick, heavy feeling, that stains every part of you it touches. 

you’re ashamed.

and mortified.

and disgusted.

and embarrassed.

and reaching for his lips again.

this time your mouths collide in perfect level, no unwanted chin in the way. wanting- needing something to anchor you down, your hands shoot out to grasp at where a tunic would usually be. instead, you’re met with nothing but the solid, heaving, sweating mass that makes up the prince’s naked chest.

daemon remains stoic.

“i,” you breathe a shaky exhale, a sting nagging away at your reopened eyes as the previous tears reappear. with a nod, and a sniffle, you step back from the man. the nervous tremble in your hands forces you to grab at the fabrics of your skirt, grasping at anything to distract your mind. “that- this was a mistake.”

this entails so much. kissing him, knocking on his door, walking to his chambers, moving to king’s landing, courting with the tyrell boy, letting the prince get in your head and, all over what? a single experience where the two of your were capable of coexisting without tearing one another’s hair out?

it is all one big mistake, the kind that one can’t hope to fix if all they do is turn and run from the danger it exudes.

knowing this won’t stop you from trying, however.

you twist so quick you worry you may snap your spine or strain a muscle, body kicking into action in an attempt to get as far away from the prince as you’d once desired to be from the tyrell boy. not even a full step, do you make it, until an unmovable force clamps down on your arm.

daemon imposes on you this time, leaning down and crashing his lips against yours. his mouth is warm, with lips of honey and hands of stone that grab and pull and tug at the parts of you they blindly reach for.

the prince is not the first man you’ve kissed- nor do you imagine a life where he’ll be the last- but there’s something behind the way his tongue burrows itself into your mouth, his presence so tangible and all consuming.

you pull back, if only to catch your breath, but he follows, taking ownership over your senses.

stumbling backwards and crossing the threshold into the prince’s chambers, darkness takes ahold of you both, bathing you in nothing but the light of a distant moon. you barely register how one of you reaches for the door behind you, only the slamming of it alerting you to the fact it’s been closed. a lightheaded feeling overcomes you, forcing you to pull apart when your lungs scream for air.

“i’m starting to understand,” daemon’s voice is full of rasp, dry and cracking and far too grating on the ears for you to genuinely be finding yourself attracted to it. “why my brother swears by the milk of the poppy.”

a horrible feeling floods your soul, bile burning its way up your throat.

“oh, oh my god,” your hands are at the level of your eyes, pulling at strands of your own hair. “i completely forgot... you- you’re on bedrest, i can, i’ll just leave-”

the prince’s injury had been the talk of the town since it had occurred: a near-deadly run in with a frightened stag amidst a hunting tourney. the horned animal had spooked his horse, throwing the man off its saddle as it reared and ran off, leaving him to face the male deer. the truth of what had entailed, few would ever know, all that was said was that the prince returned to camp dragging the slaughtered animal by it’s horns with a blood staining the clothing surrounding his left shoulder. 

“no, you won’t, heathen!” in rare occasions, daemon would be the only one to pull a smile from you all day. how fortunate that this is one of those occasions, the scowl on his brows contradicting the subtle upward quirk of his thin lips. “you can not dangle a piece of meat before a dragon and then refuse to feed it.”

were you in any state to think rationally, you’d dig more into the fact he’d just referred to you as a piece of meat.

but, then, if you were thinking rationally, you’d never have wound up at his door.

the second kiss is less forceful. no rush enlaced with every touch, no desperation tickling at both your senses, no desire to stray too far from one another.

you find yourself trusting the prince more than you’d like to when he starts to guide you backwards, a gentle pressure on your hips building while his mouth travels over your jaw and reaches the top of your neck. you walk, and stumble, and shuffle wherever the man directs you and, then, you fall.

any frightful scream you would have let out is quickly replaced with a squeal and a giggle of delight, back meeting what you’re confident in naming the softest bed you’ve ever laid upon.

at last, the shine of the moon allows you to see the man hell-bent on attacking you with his mouth.

“what is the meaning of this, hmm?” the condescension in his tone usually grates you. now, it excites you, arouses you, leaves you wondering of what pleasures he could speak with it. “why’re you suddenly at my door, behaving like some wanton whore?”

oh, you think, who knew such crass could prickle your skin with desire?

the shadow of the prince casts down on you, bathing you in an exagirated enlarged image of him, as if the fates wish to remind you of how big a shadow he looms over your own existence. it scares you.

his eyes scare you more.

they’re usually wider, observing every move, full of that mischievous nature the prince is known for. but, if what people say is true and the eyes are the mirror to one’s soul, then daemon’s soul must be a dark pit made up of lustful glares and hooded eyelids, resting so low his eyes almost appear shut.

you want to answer, you really do. but between the hand that circles a grip around your throat and the heat shooting straight for your core, burning up in a puddle of arousal, you can’t. all you can do is watch the man before you, silver hair a beautiful mess just begging for some fingers to be ran through it and stare promising to ruin you in the best way possible.

the silence pleases him.

“do you know how hard it is to get you alone? always got someone wanting to talk to you, stealing your attention. do you even know how many stupid feasts i had to attend to finally get some time with you?” daemon pauses, like he’s waiting for you to relay an answer, guess a number. he loosens up the grip on your neck, teasing your skin with a few soothing strokes of his slender fingers, lulling you into a state bordering insanity. “no answer, sweet girl? or are you lost in that pretty little head of yours?”

“i’m,” your voice is but a whisper, raspy with a new found thirst. “trying to figure out what you want me to say.”

if it’s the wrong or right answer, you’re soon to find out, the sharp faced man releasing a dangerously low chuckle as he takes a hold of your chin. like a pretty doll, you move any time and any way his fingers command you to, finding yourself staring right up into his eyes, a swirl of melting jasmine that reminds you of how alluring yet sultry every inch of him is. lips near touching, he refuses to break eye contact as he speaks up once more, sealing both your fates when his breath hits your face.

“then let me show you what i want.”

his mouth comes down on yours like it’s the answer to all your prayers and, yet, all your nightmares.

it excites you how easily he works his lips over your own, captivating every inch of you when he tilts his head to the right and deepens the kiss. the rhythm of your lips is a mismatch of beats, where one moment you are moving in a sensual waltz, grazing tongues and dipping heads to get rid of that inch of a space remaining between your bodies, and the next moment your tongues are tangled in a tango, the kind where his teeth send blood rushing to your lips with every bite he drags over them and his hand drags shivers down your spine as it makes its way down, down, down your body.

yet it terrifies you how willingly you’ve succumb to daemon’s touch, intoxicated by whatever witchcraft he has in his possession and currently holds over you. there’s a deadliness to the way his lips part from your own only to repeat his previous seamless descent down your jaw and the expanse of your neck, a poisonous element to the way his hand suddenly finds itself clutching the meat of your thigh.

the moment his fingertips ruck up the fabric that safeguards the last of your modesty and meet the ends of your sleep-gown, you’re wishing you’d never slipped it on in the first place, every fibre of your being growing angsty under the weight of his suddenly halted hand. it stays still for an immeasurable amount of time, grazing over your near shear dress occasionally while he continues to mouth at your neck.

like visenya and vhagar at the unstormable vale, daemon parts your legs with little to no effort, creating a pathway for his fingers to travel further up your thigh. blunt fingernails drag up your skin, a trail of goosebumps being left behind, a visible marking of where he’s touching you.

his movements halt too soon for your liking, too much distance between his lithe fingers and your body’s pulsating core.

“have you figured out what i want yet?” his voice is a stark difference to the usual smite-filed, almost spat-out-words tone you’ve grown used to hearing from the man. right now, there’s no trace of sardonic undertones in the thick rasp and there’s no time for an exchange of childish insults while he’s glaring down at you through hooded eyes.

something compels you to nod your head, even though you’re a little too lost in the thoughts concerning what you desire, rather than what the stranger incarnate looming over you wants.

“you have?” the words come out in a layer of amazement, and you have to wonder if it’s because of the lie you’ve just told or the way your legs have closed in around his hand, trapping it between them. “i want to know what you want, though.”

you want his thumb to stop stroking over the flesh of your inner thigh.

you want his eyes to stop gazing down at you like you’re the perfect prey.

you want him to stop teetering your impending pleasure on a string.

you want-

“you.” is all you manage to breath out.

it seems to do the trick, however, your point getting very much across to him. a softness flickers over his features, brows no longer furrowed and smirk curling up into a full smile for what feels like an eternity, but is actually no more than a couple of seconds before his devilish aura is back.

lips meet lips again, the desperation and force behind each stroke of his tongue against yours the same as before. the prince, much to your delight, seems to grow just as impatient as you’ve been since the moment he’d stopped you from fleeing at his door.

one hand still resting between your thighs, his other seizes the opportunity to drag your body closer, till a mere inhale is enough to have your chest pressing into him.

the prince’s descent to the floor is graceful, his figure made of solid muscle and unclothed skin lowering till his knees hit the ground and it becomes you who stare down at him, your hands clutching at the silk sheets his bed has been dressed with in an effort to replace the desire to touch him instead.

choosing to not dwell on the heavy feeling of his eyes on you, or the sheer visual strength depicted in the straining muscles of his thighs, you instead focus on the way his lips have trailed away from yours and are beginning to make their way towards the top of your chest.

his hand abandons post between your thighs and rises to the surface, where long fingers begin to pull at the straps of your flimsy night-dress, successfully manoeuvring the cotton material till it pools around your midriff and your breasts are exposed to the damp air of the night.

with no want left to play around, he dives right in to dragging his lips down the upper swell of your left breast. you imagine he can feel the beating of your racing heart beneath the goosebump littered skin. it doesn’t take long for his tongue to enter the scene, skilfully flicking over your hardened nipple a couple times before enveloping his mouth around the bud.

one, two, three sucks and he’s moving on to your right breast. there’s no lead up, this time, simply his mouth finding delight in toying with your body while he busies his hand with your left side, thumb and pointer finger rolling and tugging and spreading the remnants of his saliva over your heated skin.

the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and has you arching your own, is the faintest pressure of his teeth biting down on you. it dances on a thin line between pleasurable and painful, exhilarating enough to make you throw your head back as a moan slips past your lips. it echoes in the empty room, replaying your own sound for both of you to hear again and again before the chain is broken by a laugh.

his laughter.

“why are,” he picks the right time to trail his fingers down your body, dragging your dress with them till it sits uncomfortably tight around the top of your hipbones, fabric digging into the rapidly heating skin. “you laughing?”

“has anyone ever told you how beautiful your tits are?” it’s crude and heartwarming all at once, not unlike the man who says it and the little smile he shoots up in your direction as he rolls his tongue over your nipple once again.

“no, i can’t say they have.” one hand finds it’s way onto his shoulder- the shoulder that does not possess gauze wrapped around it, that is- and grasps it in a vice grip, the fear of melting off the bed and directly onto the concrete floor all too prevalent as you gain enough confidence to let the other hand slide around to the back of his neck and thread your fingertips in the silver locks, hair as soft as you’ve always imagined it to be. “you’re the first.”

“i’ll wear that title with honour,” he seems to delight in the way you’re carding through his hair, eyes closing while he tilts his head back further into your touch. a delighted sigh follows. “has anyone ever asked to drink from your cunt?”

you nearly choke on your own shock.

“i suppose that’s another honourable title for me to wear.” daemon is beginning to give you whiplash, with all this switching between being unusually receptive to your presence and the man that minutes before was making poetic profanities out of the beauty of your bared chest. he peaks his eyes open again, slowly, adjusting once more to make out your figure in the darkness. when he has the nerves to smile at you, all dreamy eyed and relaxed sitting before you, knees pressing into the ground in a mockery of a bow, some crevice deep within your soul sparks up a fire that burns on the belief that perhaps you’ve been wrong about the prince all along, judging only on what people say and not on how he behaves. then, he reopens his mouth and dampens the flame. “now, do i have to tear you out of your skirts or will you stand up and let me slide it off?”

this time, its your laugh that echoes in the air.

“you think i jest!” he seems to whine his way through his exclaim, bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly in a way you’re certain is both influenced by the milk of the poppy that flows through his bloodstream, and is going to drive you insane. “i can not go on another moment like this, you sitting there like something akin to the most mouthwatering summer’s peach, without spending my seed. and, while i’d much prefer to do so inches deep inside you, i’ll settle for a mouth full of cunt.”

“you’re so-” you give up on trying to find a single word to describe him, knowing there’s no word that can quite capture the prince’s essence. “okay, okay, i’ll umm... just stand up and-” the shriek of fabric tearing rips through the space between you. “hey!”

“i’d apologise but, well,” daemon’s dazed smile should not be this gentle, not when it is proceeded with his hands returning to your now bare thighs. “you were trying my patience.”

his hold on you is strong- both the grip he has on your legs and the control he harbours over your mind-, and he plays it to his advantage, laying one palm flat over your torso and forcing you backwards, till your back meets the mattress and your eyes find themselves staring up at the images carved into the roof of the wooden bedpost, details indistinguishable in the darkened room.

from the floor, the prince is grabbing and pulling and maneuvering you down the length of the mattress, finding the backs of your knees and bending them, spreading your legs to a width wide enough for his broad shoulders to sit between. 

“need you closer, my tongue’s not that long.” the prince mutters, half to himself, as your arse meets the edge of the bed, all the way to where his wanton mouth awaits you. as if to give you a preview of what awaits you, the kisses from before reduced to nothing, his tongue pops out to run over the smooth of his bottom lip. your hands return to fisting at the sheets beneath you, digging and searching and reaching for a way to keep yourself grounded through the maddening thoughts of the prince and the current position you find yourself in, and ignoring the anxious ridden vipers inside your mind that spit their venom and hiss their tongues in commands that entail you gathering the remaining fabrics of your tattered clothing and running out these chambers, out the keep, out the damned capital, out the clutches of the man on his knees. though, with the way his fingers squeeze into your thigh, you doubt you’d make it as far as even a single step. “comfortable?”

“as i’ll ever be.”

“all the ladies in the seven kingdoms that would die to be in your position, and you choose to say that?” he tisks, tongue hitting off the roof of his mouth before a blow of air hits against your folds and, though it’s faint from the distance still between his mouth and where he wants it to be, it sends a jolt of excitement up your spine. “i’ll just have to make sure i over-perform, make you more eager for next time.”

neither of you choose to dwell on those words, next time.

him, too occupied with getting his first taste, tongue licking a strip up your core and coming to a stop as the tip of it bumps against your aching bud.

you, too busy having the air knocked out of your lungs, hand unconsciously finding safety in gripping his hair as you lurch upward momentarily, back arching off the bed and mouth falling open in a quiet gasp that echoes around and around.

“hmm, make sure you hold on tight.” you know he’s teasing you, with his words, and with his eyes, and with his mouth that seems to find enjoyment in trailing itself over your buzzing centre and up your pubic bone. “you smell sweet as sin, you know? enough to make any man go feral.”

the chance to reply never comes, not when the prince makes his way back down to your pearl and greets it with the stroke of his flattened tongue. every tiny nerve sparks to life under his touch and you feel yourself grow more sodden, a wave of warm arousal leaking out of your hole. his tongue dives down to welcome it, not allowing more than a single drop- which slips and slides its way down to the crack of your arse, dribbling over your puckered hole- to go to waste.

you don’t even notice the lack of his grip around your left leg until you feel it: the first few seconds of his fingertips probing around your soaked cunt, coating themselves in your liquid pleasure until it’s dripping down the back of his hand.

the first finger to enter your hole is gentle, tentative to the way your body receives him, his pointer and ring finger keeping your folds spread and allowing him the full view of the middle one slowly disappearing from sight, burying itself in the warmth of your womanhood. distracted, his mouth pulls back and his head forces itself into the grip you have in his hair while his eyes soak in the sight above him, flickering up to catch your reaction when another finger enters you, this time with a lot less care as it forces you open around it.

“so pretty,” he slurs over the words, more to himself than to you, delighting as he witnesses you struggling to bite back a pathetic moan when his digits curl within you. he repeats the action a couple times, flicking his wrist back and forth, fingers brushing over your tight walls each time and culminating in a curl that has him pressing against the spongy-like flesh inside. “so, so pretty.”

your hips begin to rut against his hand, meeting every one of his thrusts with perfect timing that has him reaching deeper, further, better places inside of you. all the while the prince is simply watching and admiring the furrow in your brow and the way the swells of your breast bounce in sync with you.

your cunt clenches tighter and his fingers fight to reach deeper before spreading themselves wider in an attempt to scissor you open. he’s giving it his all, a third finger slipping in despite the dull ache setting in his wrist while he coaxes you closer and closer to the tipping point.

the rogue prince takes just as easy as he gives, and it’s that fact alone that drives him to pull his hand back, fingers withdrawing from you and the pleasure you’re pursuing.

“why did you-” you heave through heavy breaths, brain fuzzy from the unvoiced peak you were so close to having, every nerve ready to tingle, every muscle ready to tremble, every toe ready to curl. “stop?”

“because,” the wet smack of his fingers hitting against your pearl is louder than the whimper that drops from your mouth. daemon hears both, however, and grins, quickly landing another smack against your engorged bud. “the goal is to make you cum on my tongue, not my fingers. consider them the appetiser, something to awaken your senses.”

his tongue licks in an upward motion, starting from the tip of your taint and ending at your pearl, and you get deja-vu to just minutes before, when you’d first felt his tongue on your melting skin, the saliva it leaves in a trail behind it serving to cool you down. a shiver runs up your spine as he blows air onto your cunt, the pressure of it doing wonders to stimulate your bundle of nerves.

“would you ever stop?” your whining tone is reminiscent of a spoiled babe, crying and fussing over the need to be fed milk from it’s mother’s teat.

“‘tis you who’s becoming insufferable now, my lady.” the prince, despite what he says, does as you ask and puts an end what feels like unending teasing- really, it’s hardly been a minute but the pulsing of your heat and the loss of a climax leave you no room to think about something as abstract as time.

his lips make a victorious return, wrapping themselves around your centre and sucking against the pulsing nub. every so often, he delivers a couple kitten licks- ups and downs, sides to sides, figure eights- before swiftly returning to kissing your most intimate parts.

in an attempt to make your toes curl, he dips lower and teases the tips of his tongue over your entrance, wet muscle moving over wet skin and tastebuds covering themselves in your essence, till the moans echoing off the walls are indistinguishable between daemon’s and your own.

“you can move.” he grunts into you after a few minutes of repeated alternating between kissing your pearl and tonguing at your hole. it’s muffled with the way he’s holding you down against his face and you feel his lips brush against your lower ones as he speaks. “need you to move. wanna see you use me, sweetling.”

and, really, who are you to deny a prince?

you’re hesitant at first, just like you were all those weeks ago as you watched the flowered wreath slip down his lance. you test the waters and give a single roll of your hips. it feels good, great, especially when paired with his own efforts at dragging his tongue over you.

it takes a few more attempts, and daemon’s patience wearing thin to the point he resorts to grabbing a firm hold of your arse cheeks and dropping your legs over his shoulders, mouth pressing right up against you with his tongue flat and eyes staring up at you in a demand to move, else all the old gods and the new be damned.

move you most certainly do, grinding down on his tongue like you’ve done many a time on the spare pillows that line your own bed, in the hours where the moon sits high within the sky and not a creature stirs nearby to witness your self-pleasing sins. it’s messy, sloppy in the way that his spit mingles with your wetness, a cocktail of fluids sliding down his throat, and painting his lips, and dribbling down his chin as he eats you like a man starved that’s getting a taste of the sweetest fruit.

the rhythm of your hips is thrown off when the man below you switches from having you grinding down onto his flattened tongue to slipping the muscle inside of your hole, thrusting it as far as up as the length of it allows him to. with every time your body comes crashing down on his mouth, the tip of his nose bumps against your clit, forcing you to angle yourself upwards to gain more of the friction.

hands find hair, lips part in unabashed moans, thighs shake with the oncoming of an orgasmic state of mind.

the moment builds too quickly, too unexpectedly, like the ghost of your stolen climax is back with a vengeance and set on ensuring there will be no denying it this time.

“s-shit,” your eyes squeeze shut, too scared to look down at his ecstasy filled eyes in fear of it being what finally tips you over the edge. “oh, there, right there, daemon! yes, i’m going to-.”

the prince pays no mind to your warning. if anything, he takes it as a challenge, an invisible timer beginning in his head and forcing him to see how quickly he can get you to unravel all over his mouth. he’s getting everything he’s imagined since he’d watched you first step foot into the keep, your naked body a mess before him as you fuck yourself on his tongue and your hands, with minds of their own, sliding up to grab and squeeze at your breast.

he watches how the white tips of your nails clash with the darkened colour of your abused nipples, fingers working to pinch, and twist, and pull at them as you lose yourself in the moment.

when you peak, it’s with rolled-back eyes and shaky thighs, his hands gripping at you tighter to steady you as you fidget and kick away from him, his tongue working at coaxing you through your high.

he licks up every drop of your essence he can manage, until you’re cringing in overstimulation and reaching down to push him away. he lets you move him, mouth switching to trail a couple kisses over your inner thigh, something similar to lipstick stains- yet so much dirtier in nature- being left behind on your soft flesh.

“you sound as though you enjoyed yourself.” he’s the first to speak, partly because he correctly thinks you’re incapable of forming anything coherent in the afterglow of your orgasm, mouth agape as you drag and drop the air through your lungs, but mostly because he wants- no, needs to hear you praise him.

“do you ever...” despite your efforts to sit yourself up, against his sheets you remain with limbs melted into puddles jelly and eyes staring wide at the heavens above, a tremble still present in your thighs as you subconsciously feel the patterns his hands dance over them. “shut up?”

“only when my mouth is otherwise occupied.”

silence prevails alongside the ticking of time. some part of you registers the return of your feet to the cold floor and the departure of the man from between your legs. he doesn’t stray far, hands clamping down on your hips, a gentle squeeze or two his own way of searching for your presence, urging your eyes to meet his.

they remain looking upwards.

undeterred, the prince is, bending himself at the waist and resting both hands on either side of your head, holding his own weight up as his face obstructs your view above. life enters you once more, eyes focusing at last on him and his upturned mouth and the remnants of your sexual indiscretions drying into his skin.

“for someone who hates it so much, you sure do know how to stroke my ego.” he must be on a mission, you think, to remind you of why you’ve spent your days avoiding interactions with him instead of tangling yourself within his arms. “i’ve got something much bigger for you to stroke though, once you regain your senses.”

this something bumps against your skin, solid as a rock and spluttering a spit of fluids onto you, warm and sticky. sneaking a quick glance is not enough to fully encapsulate the details that make up this fierce looking appendage, with it’s red-angered tip and its decorative bush of hair and the peak of his stones that sit just past its base, yet it’s all you allow yourself under the scrutiny of his eyes.

“perhaps it’s time you to choose your words more wisely, prince daemon,” your voice is breathy, chest heavy still. you try distract him away from noticing such a feat, hand dancing down the expanse of his bare back till it meets the globe of his arse, nail digging in so deep they’re bound to leave marks, if not draw blood too. “it would be far too easy to punch you in the cock from this position.”

he swallows back a demand for you to speak more about his cock.

clarity bestows itself upon your mind, as your memory serves you a cruel reminder of the words you’d overheard and the voice you’d been running from, dread burning its way up your throat in a sickening twist of guts. the prince must notice the shift in the air, perhaps the way your face has grown a little paler or your pupils dilate as you venture off into the hellscape of your mind, for he’s quick to return you to his hold, heavy body pressing down on you as the prince’s mouth meets yours.

there’s a tangy, sticky sweetness to his kiss, a taste of your self that he gifts you with bitten lips and languid tongue, delving deep into your mouth as if in search of some hidden treasure.

it’s clear now, to the both of you, that your reasons for being here- in his chambers, upon his bed, beneath his body- are nothing if not driven by something deeper, darker, more dangerous than simple ardent lust. months you’d been within reach. months he’d been vocal of his desires towards you. days you’d been betrothed to another man.

but the prince never asks, and so you never answer, letting yourselves indulge in the arts of pleasure and pain.

he pulls on your lip, you pull on his hair. he drags his nails down your body, you dig yours into his rear. he drives you deeper up the bed, you drive him deeper between your legs. he rolls his hips into you, you roll your eyes back into your skull.

“this is a dream. you’re a dream,” perhaps your rational thinking has devolved to naught but hedonistic intentions, for you’re almost certain the mighty rogue has something familiar to wonder intertwined with his breathless voice. the dilation of his pupils, eyes more black than targaryen-lilac, is a mystery you ponder over, wondering if it’s driven more by lust or sedative. “and tomorrow i’ll awake to an empty bed and the reality where you tolerate a rat more than me.”

it’s unclear if he speaks literal of the long-tailed rodent, or if it’s simply a new name for the ever-growing list of things he calls your betrothed.

“do you say that to all the whores you fuck?” your words carry a bite, one your own destructive nature hopes will drive him away from you.

“we don’t speak,” he does the opposite, sinking further into you. you become all too aware of the heat returning to your core when he ruts the length of his cock up your folds, coating himself in a thin layer of your lubricant. “sounding like you, they can never achieve it. they can look like you, from the back, at least.”

believing his words to be a lie feels easier than accepting them as truth. the rogue prince has been nothing if not a menace to the streets of silk since the dawn of his sexual maturity, and there is not an inch of you that can fathom him using these vices as a means to quench the desire for you, seeking out your form in faceless, nameless and, apparently, voiceless cunts.

there’s no great lead up to the breaching of your walls, simply another two rolls of his length along your soaked core and a ghost of a kiss against your forehead before the prince is lining himself up and impaling you with his cock.

you’d been warned all about the ache that would come with the breaking of your maidenhead, traumatised at the young ages of four, five, six and onwards of how, someday, your husband would tear you open and leave you a bloodied mess. and, yet, here you lay, a dull ache burning within you, the feel of a pop and the heavy slap of his stones meeting your skin.

“it hurts, i know,” he hushes you when, at last, a pained whimper breaks the surface of your silence, hips stilled and keeping him buried deep in your walls that fight and squeeze and tighten around the intruder. his face, from the little you see of it past the wall of tears building within your eyes, is scrunched up in discomfort, fighting back the instincts that tell him to pull back and fuck himself into you over and over. “but you’re good, and you’re strong, and you can take it. you know you can, just relax.”

you do as your told, far easier than either of you had expected, and find rhythm in his own heavy breathing, matching each inhale and exhale till the soothing of hands over your thighs relaxes the muscles and you manage to retract the nails that dig deep into his back.

the prince moves only once your legs tangle themselves around his waist, spreading you wider and holding him closer.

from there, a symphony ensues, except where normally one would find the melody of a guitar or the blowing of a flute or the beating of a drum, this one is made of skin slapping, mouth kissing, moan singing. the ache builds and builds till it collapses into a pit of delirious pleasure, the kind that opens your eyes as to why it’s so easy for men and women to succumb to the sins of flesh.

“look at you,” his words are rough while his touch is soft, hand gliding over your breasts once more, pinching and pulling at your aching nipples as he puts strength into gazing down at you, intoxicating himself with the way your bodies join at the hip, his cock disappearing into your walls and reemerging coated in your arousal, glimmering beneath the moonlight. “taking me so fucking well. letting me carve out a home for myself in your cunt, huh? gonna let me stay inside you forever?”

he’s manic, and crazed, and spewing out things that you know should make you cringe and roll over in disgust. but you’re just as far gone, mind no longer vacant in your body as you chase that special feeling only the repeated hammering of his tip against your womb can bring.

“let me cum inside, sweetling,” is it more plea or demand? it’s hard to tell, and hard to care, arms circling round the back of his neck and back arching to press chest to chest. the prince ceases his senseless rambling only to lay kisses down your sweat-covered face, neck, chest, each carrying the weight of his desperation to feel you real and breathing beneath him. “stake my claim over this tight little cunt, leave you dripping from how full i make you.”

waves of pleasure crash over you in tandem, unintelligible groans and gasps all that play through the air as hands clamp down and teeth bite skin. your walls spasm around his cock while it twitches within you, both of your peaks painting your bodies in liquid arousal. warmth fills your cunt and trickles out of you, catching on the dark mass of hair that sits above his appendage, the stark white of his cum sickeningly reminding you to the first time you’d seen snow as a child and arousing the same response from you: a desire to taste it.

he collapses down onto you before you get the chance, however, and the exchange of body heat and shallow breaths lulls you both through your states of ecstasy, slipping into a quiet comfort.

the prince moves slowly, as if not to disturb either of you, and shushes you with kisses when you whine at the loss of him from your cunt, softening cock slapping down against your leg. a few moments pass before he’s moving again, this time with you in tow, dragging at the sheets beneath and working them over you both just as you begin to register how cold the chill in the room is. never mind, the dragon keeps you warm against him, limbs tangling as you make a pillow out of his chest.

“my betrothed.” you take the lead this time in breaking the comfortable cloud of silence which had settled itself above your tired bods. the prince merely grunts, disliking the sound of those two words as much as you dislike the taste of them. “i overheard him conversing with an adviser of his.”

“whatever he said, i’ll cut his tongue out and feed him it.” his vulgar threat drags an airy laugh out of you as he mumbles it into the top of your head.

“my maidenhood, that’s what lead him to offering me his hand.” you laugh again, though there is no trace of humour as it devolves into something of a broken, heart-wrenching sob. “gods, i must be so stupid for thinking a man like him could fall in love with me.”

the silence is unnerving, weighs down on your chest with every breath that ebbs and flows between you both. you’re waiting on it, anxiously anticipating the moment laughter breaks out his ribs and shakes his whole body in amusement at your sheer ridiculous expectations, mocking you for giving away your maidenhood in an act so childish as simply not giving your betrothed the satisfaction of taking it.

marriage is politics, you can picture him saying, love is merely a made up tale to entertain children.

daemon never quite has been one for following expectations.

“i could fall in love with you.”

so it is you who winds up laughing, a repeat of that fractured chuckle that dissipates into something more painful and stings at the cracks in your heart.

“you’re not in love with me, daemon,” it feels obvious to say, yet you’re graced with a disagreeing look upon his face. “you’re obsessed with me, there’s a difference.”

“i beg to differ.”

“you see me as nothing but a lady who doesn’t fall at her feet for you, and it excites you. it’s okay, i understand, but i won’t let you delude yourself nor i into believing its love.”

he has no reply to give, not one that could change your mind.

and so there you lay, naked bod pressed to naked bod, sweat and spit and other bodily fluids becoming the glue that hold you together, with limbs entangled and eyes locked. you see peace in his smile and he watches as sleep slowly whisks you away into its warmth.

little does the prince know your eyes will not meet his own again for many years to come.

not days later, as he stands amongst the crowd of folk bearing witness to the exchanging of vows between the tyrell boy and you, nor several years after, as you return to the great hall of the red keep to see the announcement of prince aegon's birth, your own child stood at your side and grasping your hand, the silver-moon upon her head no match to the straw blonde of your husband.

[lemon-natalia]

Harrow the Ninth Reaction - Chapter 37

hmm yeah it is suspicious that the Emperor has to be locked away during the attacks. he gives an explanation, but we really only have his word for it

the Lyctors seem perfectly (and very convieniently) made to be able to enter the River while still defending themselves, which makes me wonder if that was the original purpose of creating Lyctorhood, and the Emperor maybe has some kind of plan revolving around it?

now this guy is quoting fucking Psalms 26 in Latin?? thats different to the quotes from before, the fact that its religious is interesting given this guy is apparently ‘God’ now, but he’s quoting a biblical text. also given Harrow can’t possibly know what he’s quoting 90% of the time, he’s awfully pretentious

Harrow’s eighteen, i’m pretty sure she knows how babies are made dude. at least she definitely knows after you guys nearly had a threesome in front of her on the dining room table

he’s been thinking Harrow and Ianthe are a thing omfg

the mysterious A.L.! somehow i was right that the Annabel Lee poem connected to her. and her having another name, and being dead for ten thousand years, i feel like thats a pretty good candidate for the good old Locked Tomb body. at least, thats my current theory.

‘She was my Adam’ again with the biblical stuff, this guy is seemingly religious, but also thinks he’s God??

and apparently the First House was destroyed via climate change and nuclear explosions. if i needed any other confirmation that its Earth (or some equivalent) then i’ve got it here i think

also he was just a normal person before the world ended, and he was the only one who survived and somehow became an incredibly powerful necromancer. i mentioned waaay back at the beginning of this liveblog that i knew there was a guy named John who had something to do with an apocalypse, but i didn't know if i was misremembering him being actually responsible for it, or if i was mixing it up with the Magnus Archives. and i, uh, still have no clue if that is the case or not from this convo, though i do feel like there's more he's not saying about this anyway (please no spoilers about this, i really appreciate everyone explaining things to me in the notes but i'd like to find out whats actually going on with this specifically while reading)

and A.L. was not a ‘normal human being’ whatever that means, and the Lyctors are ‘in a very real way’ A.L.’s children … what on earth does that mean? she discovered the secret of Lyctorhood maybe?

well that whole conversation both answered a whole bunch of questions and absolutely nothing at the same time 😂

well okay the dude’s gone past playing parent and just outright told Harrow he sometimes wishes she was his daughter. i really don’t know how much of that affection is genuine

imagine telling someone you view them as a surrogate daughter and they fucking. smash a glass table in response lol. and yeah if its been ten thousand years and you haven’t developed emotional intelligence yet, then i don’t think its happening mate

ohhhh shit she’s telling him about the Locked Tomb. and i suppose there are worse ways this could have ended than him not believing her at all, but i really don’t think she’s wrong, especially since Gideon said she saw her do so/saw the door open in the last book, i think she did get in there somehow

wait i was working under the assumption that it was the Emperor who’d messed up her memories, but its not! did she do it to herself then after writing the letters?

[imvietnamesenotchinese]

Dinner with 3 vampires gone wrong. For @cronchybuffalo

The tension in the dining hall is so thick, you could cut it with a knife. No one spoke a word. Perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of apathy. That is, until a loud ahem is heard, and the other two vampires focus their gazes on Nyx. ‘’Well,’’ she starts, ‘’so this is the guy you wanted to invite over for dinner?’’. The Ventrue vampire glares daggers at her Fledgling, silently judging her taste in men. Well, silently was an understatement. Perhaps even a lie. Nyx made her disdain known. If you couldn’t tell from her facial expression, which looked like someone had told her that they had fucked her mother last night, then you could certainly tell by her tone of voice.

The young vampire quirks up. ‘’Yes,’’ she smiles, ‘’that’s him.’’ This was the first exchange they had ever had since the dinner had started. No one had spoken a word since Solivan Brugmansia had stepped foot into Nyx Angelis’ mansion. The Childe looks at her mentor with hopeful eyes. ‘’He’s really intelligent and insightful.’’

Solivan tugs at his collar. This whole situation is a mess. The voices in his head were louder than ever before. All of them wanted a turn at the spotlight, to tell him what to say in this situation. A thousand thoughts competing with each other, turning him inside out and upside down. ‘’Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door,’’ he rambled as if his life depended on it. Nyx turns her attention from her Fledgling to the Malkavian lunatic. She rolls her eyes.

‘’Ugh, you can’t even hold a conversation with this lunatic. Tell me, how come you find him oh so intelligent and insightful,’’ Nyx mocks. ‘’All he does all night is speak in tongues and poems.’’

The Childe blinks slowly. ‘’Well, sometimes he has moments of clarity when he’s with me,’’ she explains, ‘’and the conversations we have then are really wonderful.’’ Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Sol suddenly turning beet red. Which is truly an odd sight, because usually he is as pale as a corpse. Like all vampires, really. 

Nyx, however, is not entertained. Suddenly, the entire mood of the room sours even more, which no one thought was possible. Alas, Nyx has a penchant for proving people wrong. ‘’You know what would be wonderful?’’ She sends Sol a razor-sharp smile. He averts his gaze. ‘’It would actually be wonderful if Mr. Brugmansia explained to me why he is here and not in, let’s say, Turkey? You know, where the expedition is.’’ Her words are like poison and her tone is cold. It sends shivers down the Fledgling’s spine, truly. When Nyx was pissed, she’d try to keep her mask on, but it was ever so slowly slipping. She continues, ‘’I sent you on a mission worth 3 million dollars. And here you are. In my estate. Enjoying my finest bottles of blood.’’

‘’He did bring a bottle as a gift…’’ The Childe trails off, not sure what to say in this heated situation.

‘’Oh, a bottle of such subpar quality could never measure up to my standards,’’ Nyx scoffs. ‘’So tell me, Brugmansia, how do you even have the gall to show your face here?’’

The man simply stares into Nyx’s venomous gaze with dead eyes. ‘’The visions,’’ he says in a monotone voice.

‘’What visions?’’ Nyx queries.

‘’The visions told me. There is no ancient Assyrian tomb housing a 3000 year old vampire. The archeology mission is a failure. Take this as a gift. I’m aiding you in saving your coin.’’

Nyx recoils. ‘’Visions? How do I know it’s not just one of your episodes?’’

‘’You told me that you’d recruited him because he might potentially have the ability to see the future,’’ The Fledgling shrugs. ‘’I’m just saying-’’

‘’Yes, potentially. As in, not confirmed. As in, I don’t actually know if he can predict the future or if he’s just insane. Like the rest of his kind,’’ the elder vampire spat. The only thing stopping her from jumping on Solivan and gouging his eyes out was that she simply didn’t want to stain her hands with his dirty, disgusting blood.

‘’It was a gamble. And you lost,’’ the younger vampire continues. Sol wanted to kiss her there and then for defending him. She really spared him the headache of arguing with Nyx Angelis, known as the Bitch of the Ventrue. In his opinion, that standoffish clan was already bad as is, but Nyx Angelis was a different breed of insufferable. She asked too many questions.

‘’Fledglings nowadays are so… sassy. Fine then, fine!’’ Nyx takes a swig from her wine glass, the thick red liquid staining her lips. ‘’My Fledgling invited you as our guest of honor. So let’s move onto nicer conversation topics.’’ She puts her glass down on the exquisitely crafted marble dining table, which was fit to host an entire party of guests. However, it looked quite desolate with only 3 guests present. Nyx sat at the end of the table, while Sol and her Fledgling sat on the opposing sides, facing each other.

The Fledgling fiddles with the dining table’s silk cloth, nervous at where this was leading. Knowing her mentor, she’d probably hurl a barricade of questions at Sol. Unfortunately for her, that was the case.

‘’So, tell me,’’ Nyx draws her first move, ‘’you’ve been around for 200 years, take or give?’’.

Sol is silent.

‘’Oh come on, now. I know you can speak normally. You just did a few minutes ago!’’ she presses on further. Still, no reply. Nyx sighs and turns to her Fledgling. ‘’Ask him for me, dear.’’

‘’Um, is it true that you’re around 200 years old?’’ she asks.

Sol opens his mouth instantly. ‘’Yes.’’ It’s as if she has him under a spell. It’s as if she’s got him wrapped around her finger. Is she aware of that? No, at least, not yet.

‘’Good!’’ Nyx claps her hands together cheerfully. ‘’In all of those 200 years of dawdling around and being a worthless piece of shit, have you acquired a law or medicine degree? Perhaps even both?’’.

‘’...’’

‘’Ask him for me, dear.’’

‘’... Have you?’’

‘’No.’’

‘’Then,’’ Nyx continues, ‘’what have you achieved in your lifetime as a vampire?’’. She looks over to her Fledgling, yet again. ‘’You know what to do.’’

‘’What have you achieved?’’

‘’I am an avid collector of art and artifacts. My art gallery-’’

‘’Oh!’’ Nyx exclaims. ‘’You do art? I see, really playing into that starving artist archetype, huh?’’

‘’I’m pretty sure he’s rich?’’ the Fledgling quirks an eyebrow.

‘’Well, he sure as hell doesn’t dress or look the part,’’ Nyx scoffs. ‘’Well, you see. This beautiful young lady here, as I assume you’ve set your eyes on her, works in the field of medicine. She’s barely been alive for three decades, and yet she still holds a medical degree. Isn’t that wonderful?’’ the elder vampire puffs out her chest in pride, as if it were her blood-daughter she was bragging about. ‘’So,’’ she smiles coyly, ‘’what do you have to offer her?’’

‘’It floats about quite tubbily lucent, light and coloured lovely. Brought to life by breeze or breath, its short-lived belly will be its death.’’

Nyx shrugs. ‘’Only riddles and enigmas then, I fear.’’ She turns to face the young vampire. ‘’See, I told you. Lunatic.’’

Sol suddenly clasps his head. His two-toned eyes suddenly turn dark. ‘’And Death Shall Have No Dominion. And Death Shall Have No Dominion. And Death Shall Have No Dominion. And Death Shall Have No Dominion. And Death Shall Have No Dominion. And Death Shall Have No Dominion,’’ he rambles on and on and on, as if in a trance. His knuckles turn white, fangs bared.

‘’Oh dear,’’ Nyx rolls her eyes once again. ‘’Looks like we’re all out of blood, and I am not going to deal with this lunatic’s ramblings while parched’’. She stands up from her seat and promptly leaves the room. ‘’I trust that you’ll keep an eye on him, dear.’’

With only the two of them there, the Childe and the Malkavian vampire lock eyes. His darkened gaze seemed to lighten up a bit. There was something about him that she couldn’t quite put a finger on. Perhaps it was his heterochromic eyes. One of them was green, while the other was orange-red. Such a captivating sight. 

If only she knew what he thought of her. From the moment Sol had first catched a glimpse of her, he was frozen in awe. She looked so much like her. She had to be her. Who else could it be? He had gotten a second chance in this unlife. Not even death could separate them. Once more, she had returned to him. She belonged to him. And only him. And he belonged to her. And only her. When Sol was with her, his thoughts calmed a bit. She’s the beacon of light in the storm that was his discorded mind. He could think clearly for a minute. 

Silence. But unlike the previous one, this was a pleasant silence. The crystal chandelier above casts swirling shadows on her face. Sol wants to capture this moment in a painting. His love, his muse. In this desolate and quiet dining hall, she looks like a princess holding a banquet. Her pale complexion is a stark contrast against her dark hair. But her eyes, as clear as glaciers, always made his heart flutter.. He wants to break the silence so badly. He needs to hear her voice.

‘’Come with me,’’ Sol pleads. There’s desperation in his eyes.

‘’Excuse me?’’ her icy blue eyes widen in confusion and shock.

‘’She wants to send me away again.’’

‘’What do you mean, who?’’

‘’Who else? Your mentor. She hates my guts. She wants to keep us separated. I can’t lose you a second time-’’ his breathing turns ragged. Like a dying man asking for one last prayer, he darts his arms across the table and holds her hands in his. ‘’I won’t let her separate us. Don’t you remember?’’

The young lady clears her throat. ‘’Sol, maybe she’d despise you less if you were less like… this? You can be charming and polite, you know. Why not try to use some of that charm on her? I’m sure she’ll warm up to you eventually. After all, you’re my friend.’’

The word friend stings him more than Holy water ever could. It burns, but he’s drawn to her like a moth to a flame. ‘’Listen to me this time-’’

‘’Am I interrupting something?’’

Nyx stands there in the grand doorway, holding an unopened bottle of blood. There’s an old label on it. The label reads Type O. Aged 30. The Fledgling quickly retracts her hands from Sol’s and puts them to her sides. 

Sol stares at the interruption. One of the many obstacles in the way to his true love’s heart. 

‘’Don’t touch her,’’ Nyx hisses. ‘’I don’t want your filthy hands on her.’’ She takes her seat. Her long, dark tresses spill onto her dress like slithering snakes. ‘’I should warn you,’’ she hums in amusement, ‘’that my dear Fledgling has an affinity for Thaumaturgy.’’ The elder vampire smiles kindly at her Fledgling, not a sight that many have the privilege to see. ‘’I shall ask Jess from the Tremeres clan to tutor her. So be careful, or she might boil your blood if you get too touchy.’’

‘’Oh shit, I can do that?’’

Sol simply scoffs. His soulmate would never hurt him.

‘’Anyway, let’s end the night with one of my finest bottles. You and I, of course. My Fledgling prefers… A different kind of blood.’’ Nyx scrunches her face together, overtly judging her Fledgling’s taste in food. ‘’Seriously, bad taste in blood AND men… It feels like I’ve failed as a mentor.’’

‘’Sol can be polite-’’

‘’As polite as a dog on a leash can be.’’ Nyx catches Sol rolling his eyes.

The Bitch of the Ventrue raises a glass. ‘’To an... adequate dinner,'' she says, not really believing in her own words. ''Drink up, and get the fuck out of my house.’’

[farmerbebop]

I heard some birds singing at midnight yesterday and thought "At least McGoohan photoshopping has one good side effect, I guess".

So I put him in paintings again, while thinking of my paternal grandpa, who died before I was born. Yes, in case you are wondering, he also "resigned".

He was chosen to be a revolutionary at a very young age by an army officer who came across a group of boys playing one day and noticed one of them was different than the rest. He was then trained among the "elite" of his generation, who all went on to be high-ranking politicians, except him.

While he and his wife were out there fighting against the biggest war machine in the world, his son was raised on a thousand lines of epic poetry recited to him by his illiterate grandma, on the songs and poems of his father's friends. Dad didn't mind not being as talented as his father, in music, poetry, sport, everything. He loved swimming in the river, playing the guitar, and being mischievous. He later caused his mother many troubles, the least of them was him saying "How can I work for a boss who is less qualified than I am?" everytime she sent him somewhere to apply for a job.

How my grandma raised three kids alone after grandpa's death, how she wrote poems for him every year on his death anniversary, how we struggled and are still struggling to live, like many millions of our people who don't belong to the rich and corrupt ruling class of our country, I can't really tell you. I have never been good at this.

I just want to say one more thing. That "The Best of Friends" also reminds me of my best friend. She used to take a nap after lunch, I didn't. Everytime I turned up at her door after lunch she told me "What are you doing here?". And then let me in. After doing the dishes, she and her sister soon fell asleep with me lying between them, wide awake, daydreaming the summer noons of my childhood away. Those were probably the happiest days of my life.

References:

Pereza andaluza (Julio Romero de Torres)

Reading by Candlelight (Carl Vilhelm Holsøe)

In front of the house (Józef Mehoffer)

Wild Friend (Évariste Carpentier)

[crazyf0rswayze]

Johnny Cade: Love Poem

JOHNNYS POV

"Ponyboy?" I asked 

"Yes Johnnycakes?" Pony replied walking over

"So y-you know how I like y/n...yea well I wanted to asked her out...but i-i wanted to write a poem to ask her out...a-and tell her how I feel. But I don't know how to write a poem...." I explained

"Ok! I'll help you then." Ponyboy said, taking a seat next to me

"Ok...so I would start off with some things you like about her. So make a list, and then we'll word it so it rhymes" Ponyboy explained to me. He wrote poems for school alot, so that's why I came to him first

"W-well she look really pretty when she wears plaid...l-like flannels and stuff" I said

"Ok! Yes great. That's a nice start" Ponyboy said to me enthusiastically

"Sh-shes really beautiful...and she makes me go mad. Hey! Hey ...plaid and mad kinda rhyme" I said excited that I was getting a good start

"Yea... yea it does Johnny" Pony said...a little shocked that I was catching on quick

"And...I see her...i-im....GLAD! Glad rhymes" I said, as I started writing everything down

"Mmmmm....and...when she cries...I get ......SAD! Sad rhymes "

"Wow...you're a natural! Ooh, so I learned what an Olympiad is, and it's those four years between olympic games! You could say something like....'for you i would wait thousands of Olympiads'" Pony suggested

"Yea...thanks. I didn't know that" I said

"Hey, you learn something new everyday "

"PONYBOY, GET READY FOR BED" Darry yelled out from his room

"OK DAR....GIVE ME A MINUTE IM HELPING JOHNNY WITH SOMETHING " Ponyboy shouted back 

"ALRIGHT ALRIGHT....NOT TOO LATE OK?" 

"OK DARRY! THANKS" Ponyboy yelled out

"Ok...where were we-" Ponyboy said looking down at my paper with shock. In the few seconds that he was looking away, I had started to form the poem. Ponyboy leaned over my shoulder so he could see what I was writing.

"Johnny, that's really good! I like how you mentioned Robert Frost's poem 'Nothing Gold Can Stay'!" 

"T-thanks. Do you think y/n's gonna like it?" I asked worriedly

"Yea! I think she's gonna love it! I gotta get ready for bed ok? But I'll help you in the morning if you need me to" 

"Ok!" I replied focusing on my love poem

Ponyboy patted my back as he went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. 

'youre a beautiful lad

And you look wonderful in plaid

Your looks made me go mad

And you not being next to me makes me sad

For you, I would wait thousands of Olympiads 

And they say 'nothing gold can stay'

Yet you're standing right here'

I yawned as I read over what I had. Gosh...I should go to bed. Just in case Y/n came and stayed at the Curtis house tonight, I gave the notebook I was writing in to Ponyboy to keep in his dresser drawer

"Mmmmhhmm whats that" I heard Sodapop ask

"Nothin'" Ponyboy responded. I think Sodapop was too tired to question it because all he did was groan tiredly. 'Close call Johnny' I thought to myself. 

Just then I heard the door open. It was y/n. 

"Oh..hey Johnnycakes." Y/n said  

"You ok?" I asked the girl. She looked a little spooked

"Yea Johnnycakes! Just tired. " The pretty girl replied to my question

"O-oh. Yea I get it. You can take the couch. I don't mind Darry's recliner" I offered Y/n

"Are you sure? I don't mind the recliner either" Y/n asked

"Yes. I'm sure" I reassured the girl

"Alrighty then" she said with a yawn

She went to lie down on the couch. She looked really cute when she was tired. And cuter when she was all cuddled up in the blankets. I found myself standing there looking at Y/n with heart eyes. I then went to lie down in Darry's recliner. 

"Good night Johnnycakes" y/n said in the darkness

"Good night Y/n" I replied to her. It was surprising how easily I found sleep that night.

                              IN THE MORNING

"Hey Y/n" Ponyboy said as he walked into the living room with my notebook and pen. He sat the notebook and pen down on the recliner's arm rest.

"Thanks Pony" I said with a yawn

"Mmhhmm. Hey Pony" Y/n said sleepily

I opened up the note book to continue writing my poem. 

'when I see you I'm glad

But when I see you cry I get sad

And I get mad only a tad when socs pick on a perfect lad like you

I could do better than any guy named Brad, Chad, or Vlad

You're like a beautiful dainty lily pad

My feelings for you are like a wild fire

They won't stop getting bigger

And no Valentine's card card could explain it

You're a perfect shining piece of gold 

That I know will stay'

I wrote as Ponyboy started cooking. 

"Whatcha doin' Johnnycakes" Y/n asked happily

"Nothin'" I replied 

Gosh she was so so beautiful

"Mmmm...ok" she said narrowing her eyes suspiciously

"Y/n, can you go wake up my brothers please?" Ponyboy asked Y/n kindly 

"Sure!" She said springing up 

Ponyboy walked over to me.

"When are you gonna give it to her?"

"I-i dunno." I replied

"Can I read it?" Ponyboy asked

I hesitantly handed the notebook to him. I waited for him to finish reading it for what felt like forever. I was rocking back and forth, from the balls to the heels of my feet.

"Is it good? Does it seem...wrong? Is she gonna like it? What if she doesn't?!" I asked worriedly

Ponyboy chuckled as he put his hands on my shoulders after setting down the notebook. 

"It's great, it seems perfectly right, she gonna love it, and she'd be crazy if she didn't." Ponyboy reassured me. 

I was really worried but whatever. 

"I'm gonna give it to her later today" I said confidently

"Good" Ponyboy responded

A few seconds later, Y/n walked in with Sodapop and Darry following behind. Ponyboy served everyone their food, and we all sat at the table 

"So...how'd everyone sleep" Soda said finally breaking the awkward silence

"I slept alright. Hurt my back at work yesterday, so it was a little hard to sleep" Darry responded before taking a bite of his food

"Mmm...I slept pretty good for once!" Y/n exclaimed with a smile. It made me happy that she was happy

"I slept pretty good" Ponyboy said

"Same here" I replied to Soda's question

"Howd you sleep Soda" Y/n asked, returning his question. 

"I slept good Y/n...thank you" Soda replied

I loved how social Y/n could be. It amazed me how one person could so many amazing words. I snapped out of my trance and looked down at my food, and took a few bites. I felt eyes staring at me. And I felt heat rising up my neck. I looked up at Y/n to find her gazing at me. As soon as I looked up she looked away. I finished up my food, and brought mine and Y/n's plate to the sink. What a gentleman I am! I was really glad these feeling flowed both ways. So now, it wouldn't be as bad giving her the poem. 

"Y-y/n...i-i have something for you" I said after she and I sat back down in the living room. Ponyboy, Darry and Soda were playing cards.

"Really?!" She said excited

"Y-yea here" 

I handed her the folded price of paper. She opened it and started reading. I read it with her, since she was right beside me, so close out legs and shoulders were touching.

"Mmhmm" she hummed out as she read.

She giggled a little, hopefully happy little giggles, not laughing at how odd it might sound.

"Aaawww Johnny!" She said happily 

"D-d-do you like it? Was it bad?!" I questioned her

"Gosh Johnny! I-its perfect? I like how you complimented me, talked about you feelings, and added in mentions of your favorite poem all in one piece of writing!" 

"Th-thanks Y/n" I replied

"It's so beautiful...just like you!" Y/n said, slyly complimenting me.

"Y-you think I'm beautiful?" I asked

"Yes I do!"

"Th-thanks!" I said.

She leaned her body into me, and cuddled up against my body. I don't really know what to do, but Sodapop told me that Sandy liked it when he ran his fingers through her hair, so that's what I did to Y/n. 

"Mmmhhmmm" she hummed out happily. I guess she liked when I ran my fingers through her hair. She closed her eyes, I noticed, and soon enough her breathing slowed. She fell asleep....I really didn't know what to do. 

"Sodapop! Sodapop! Ssooddaaa!" I whisper yelled. 

He walked in the room...

"What do you wa-" he said 

"Oh..." He said seeing Y/n asleep on me

"I don't know what to do...Soda what do I do. Just sit here or carry her to bed?" 

"Your best bet is to sit as still as possible...that's what I do when that happens" 

"O-ok" I said

"You'll get used to it the more it happens" Soda said as the other boys walked in to get him to continue their game

"SOD-"

"Shut up! She's sleeping" Soda said, cutting Ponyboy off. 

"Sorry" Ponyboy said in a whisper

"Uuuhhhhgggg" Y/n groaned out

"Shut. Up. Guys" I warned them all.

"Ok, ok. We're gonna continue our game. Call if you need anything." Darry said

"Real quick can one of you grab me a glass of water...please?" I asked quietly

"Yea" Darry said walking to get me a glass of water.

"Th-thanks Dar" I said

"No problem kid." He replied 

This was the best morning I've had so far. Y/n being happy, and feeling good, her loving the little poem, her falling asleep on me, even if it was a little uncomfortable. I continued running my fingers lightly through my girl's hair. 

"Mmmhhhmmm, I love you so much Johnny" Y/n said. I immediately went red. 

"I-i love you too Y/n" I said. I really, really meant it.

She quickly fell back into a deep sleep. After she did, I lightly kissed her head. 

Really...best. Morning. EVER!

[jiangwanyinscatmom]

Once more, I do not post links directly leading to any blogs that are not from my mutual friends and followers regarding meta, anon, but I will break this down.

In cultural context, it is not meant to be romantic regarding the idiom of (青梅竹馬) qīng méi zhú mǎ. Literal meaning, green plums and play horses. The innocence of youth and the wonder of simple (childhood friend) games. Please note that endearments such as "sweet heart" in modern context, as the direct translation means, is vastly different than what is entailed by the idiom itself, and is bad, awful machine translation that does not take into account the linguistic meanings that are needed for tone meaning and reading.

If it meant the direct romantic connotation of romantic, it would be 恋人 (liàn rén) compared to the character used within the idiom 青 (qíng) (which does denote a more platonic meaning for the relationship and childhood friends). You do not use this to mean "lovers" as an idiom, it loses contextual meaning otherwise and loses the point of the word play.

The poem itself was originally a romantic poem, by Li Bai. And as such should be one of most well known Chinese poets and usual literary fair elementary students know as much as the West would with the usual school fare of reading assignments.

妾髮初覆額

折花門前劇

郎騎竹馬來

遶床弄青梅

同居長干里

兩小無嫌猜

十四為君婦

羞顏未嘗開

低頭向暗壁

千喚不一回

十五始展眉

願同塵與灰

常存抱柱信

豈上望夫臺

十六君遠行

瞿塘灩澦堆

五月不可觸

猿聲天上哀

門前遲行跡

一一生綠苔

苔深不能掃

落葉秋風早

八月蝴蝶黃

雙飛西園草

感此傷妾心

坐愁紅顏老

早晚下三巴

預將書報家

相迎不道遠

直至長風沙

My hair had hardly covered my forehead.

I was picking flowers,playing by my door,

When you, on a bamboo horse,

Came trotting in circles, throwing green plums.

We lived near together on a lane in Channggan,

Both of us young and happy-hearted.

...At fourteen I became your wife,

So bashful that I dared not smile,

And I lowered my head toward a dark corner

And would not turn to your thousand calls;

But at fifteen I straightened my brows and laughed,

Learning that no dust could ever seal our love,

That even unto death I would await you by my post

And would never lose heart in the tower of silent watching.

...Then when I was sixteen, you left on a long journey

Through the Gorges of Changgan, of rock and whirling water.

And then came the Fifth-month, more than I could bear,

And I tried to hear the monkeys in your lofty far-off sky.

Your footprints by our door, where I had watched you go,

Were hidden, every one of them, under green moss,

Hidden under moss too deep to sweep away.

And the first autumn wind added fallen leaves.

And now, in the Eighth-month, yellowing butterflies

Hover, two by two, in our west-garden grasses

And, because of all this, my heart is breaking

And I fear for my bright cheeks, lest they fade.

...Oh, at last, when you return through the three Pa districts,

Send me a message to home you come

And I will come and meet you and pay no mind to the distance,

All the way to Changgan.

I hope in comparison the vast sarcasm of the idiom is apparent in context to what the random nameless gossiper is exhibiting in the original reference this sentence used:

江澄居然就让这厮嚣张了这么久，换了是我，当初魏某人叛逃时就不是只捅他一刀，而是直接清理门户，否则他也没机会做出后来那些丧心病狂之事。对这种人，还讲什么同门同修青梅竹马的情面。

Translation (mine, seven seas and ExR:)

1: Jiang Cheng allowed that servant to live for too long. If I were him, when he defected, I wouldn’t have just stabbed him, I would have thoroughly wiped him out so he couldn’t commit his deranged acts later. Who cares about the sentiments about childhood friendship when people like him don’t care.”

2:

“I can’t believe Jiang Cheng allowed that guy to run amok for so long. If it were me, I wouldn’t have just stabbed him when he first defected, I would’ve cleaned house! He wouldn’t even have gotten the chance to do all those crazy things. What does a childhood friendship matter when facing people like him?”

3:

Jiang Cheng allowed this fellow to live for too long. If I were him, at the time of the defection, I wouldn’t have just stabbed him. In fact, I would have thoroughly examined the disciples of the clan again, so that he doesn’t do those crazy things he did later on. Who cares about the so called ‘considerations’ that he gave to his childhood friend.”

Now, with the idea that while the original meaning was meant to be sweet and sentimental, the idiom is certainly not any longer nor is the meaning to mean lover literally. Mandarin plays heavy upon the context of meaning for each of these words.

In short: this is why actual understanding of the language you are lecturing of is important as you can easily twist it to what is not there for ones that literally do not know and take it all at face value.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Remembering 9/11: Honoring the Victims (by Robert Mooney)

* * * *

Billy Collins Here is that poem, written by Billy Collins for a special joint session of Congress in New York commemorating the first anniversary of 9-11.

THE NAMES by Billy Collins

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night. A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze, And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows, I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened, Then Baxter and Calabro, Davis and Eberling, names falling into place As droplets fell through the dark. Names printed on the ceiling of the night. Names slipping around a watery bend. Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream. In the morning, I walked out barefoot Among thousands of flowers Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears, And each had a name – Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins. Names written in the air And stitched into the cloth of the day. A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox. Monogram on a torn shirt, I see you spelled out on storefront windows And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city. I say the syllables as I turn a corner – Kelly and Lee, Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor. When I peer into the woods, I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden As in a puzzle concocted for children. Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash, Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton, Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple. Names written in the pale sky. Names rising in the updraft amid buildings. Names silent in stone Or cried out behind a door. Names blown over the earth and out to sea. In the evening – weakening light, the last swallows. A boy on a lake lifts his oars. A woman by a window puts a match to a candle, And the names are outlined on the rose clouds – Vanacore and Wallace, (let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound) Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z. Names etched on the head of a pin. One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel. A blue name needled into the skin. Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers, The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son. Alphabet of names in a green field. Names in the small tracks of birds. Names lifted from a hat Or balanced on the tip of the tongue. Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory. So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.

from AIMLESS LOVE, Random House, 2013

[pyrrhia-times]

Chapter 1 - Swaying Kelp

Croak shot up from his bed and hit his head on the ceiling of his sleeping nook. He let out a groan and lifted up his talons to cradle his head. A couple pieces of kelp fell from the nook where he had been curled up to sleep. He pressed a talon on the tender part of his head and winced. Ouch. He could already feel it turning into a headache.

Not sure what had startled him awake, he looked around his room anxiously, heart hammering in his chest. He took his shaking talons from his head and bent down to pick up the fallen fronds of kelp. Every slow moment that passed, he expected a murderous dragon to leap out from the darkness and attack him. He blinked a couple times and his eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. The shadows crept back, and no murderous dragons were anywhere to be seen.

The kelp safely returned to his bed, he slipped down from the ledge and made his way to the small window cut into the wall of his room. The moon glowed fiercely high up in the sky. Great. It’s the middle of the night and I’m wide awake. He let out a deep breath, trying to dispel the rest of the anxiety still lingering in his chest.

The night breeze drifted into his window and tickled his nose. The air was familiar, and the night's peaceful sounds soothed Croak back into a state of calm. He concluded that it was probably a noisy seagull landing on his roof that had woken him up yet again. His home had sturdy curving walls made from clay and dead coral, and a roof made of dried palm leaves layered thickly to keep the bad weather out, though it failed miserably at keeping the noise of his feathered roommates out. His house was not far off from the water on the rocky northern shore of an island in the very outer ring of the Bay of a Thousand Scales. The island mostly had bare cliffs and rocky beaches, making it an undesirable place to live. Farmers and hunters made up most of the island's residents, selling their produce to wealthier SeaWings and traders who lived on the islands of the Sea Palace. Some of the residents stayed in underwater homes, some stayed in houses like Croak along the shores of the Island.

Well, I might as well get started on drying my seaweed. He thought. That would leave him the rest of the day to spend squid hunting.

Croak had a small seaweed farm in the shallow waters near his home. He used the dry seaweed leaves, ground down into a fine powder, and the dark ink of a species of small squid that were annoyingly hard to catch to make a deep green water proof ink. He sold his ink to SeaWings who liked to write poems, or to parents with dragonets in school learning to write. His best client was a giant of a dragon, Slag, who frequently bought his ink in bulk. Slag was a hybrid between a MudWing and a SkyWing. His scales were mostly dark, like hardened lava with red scales that shone brightly in the sun, and he was huge in size – Croak’s head only reaching the top of his shoulder. He had massive wings that stretched out further than any dragon he had ever seen, and a wide chest and large muscular arms...

Croak shook his head to clear the image of the dragon out of his head. He was supposed to be getting a head start on his day. He left the windows side and grabbed his cloth bag, slinging it over his head and under an arm, where it looped down below his shoulder. Passing through the kitchen, he pushed the wooden door open and left his house. SeaWings had great night vision to see in the darkness of the ocean, so he didn’t have to worry about needing light to work.

He rubbed his head to try and chase off the stabbing headache that was forming, but only succeeded in making it feel worse. Hopefully the cool ocean water would help soothe it.

He extended his wings and took flight, circling around to fly down the rocky slope towards his patch of seaweed. He brought his wings in closer to his body and dove into the water, thousands of bubbles sizzling past him. A couple of startled fish bolted out of Croak’s way, he snapped his teeth after them hoping for an easy breakfast.

Just my luck. He blew frustrated bubbles into the water as the fish disappeared behind some kelp.

His seaweed patch had eight evenly spaced out squares of the algae at different stages of growth, so the crop could recover before he harvested it again. He swam up to the tallest patch, which had grown several feet tall and reached for the sun just above the surface. Grabbing the plant from the bottom, he used his talon to slice it, leaving just a few inches of the stem behind. He wrapped the long plant around his wrist, looping it until he reached the end. Then he slipped it off his wrist into his bag.

He had a feeling that Slag would visit him soon to stock up on ink, and he didn’t want him to buy up his entire stock like last time, so he collected a dozen more bundles of seaweed just to be sure. The reason Slag needed so much ink was because he was part of a group called Pyrrhia Times, who wrote about what was happening all over Pyrrhia. They printed hundreds of copies of each issue of their newspaper and many of the Queens disliked the newspaper, but they still managed to get all over the continent.

It wasn’t uncommon to come across a dragon in a town square, or in a tavern reading the newspaper out loud. Most dragons could read, but not all dragons could find, or afford, their own copies of the newspaper. Slag often complained about the re-sellers to Croak, “the newspaper is supposed to be free. Every dragon should be able to know about what’s happening where they live.” Many dragons took the opportunity to collect as many copies as they could and sell them for profit. The group wasn’t sure what to do about the problem, other than make as many copies as they possibly could.

Slag worked in Sanctuary with his other team members, but was rarely ever there because he traveled all over Pyrrhia following even the faintest smell of a juicy story. He took notes and dropped them off to his coworkers, only to take off again after another story. The members all had permanent dark-greenish stains on their claws from using the ink so often.

All of the seaweed bundles safely secured in his bag, he took some extra time to inspect the rest of his patches to make sure they were still all growing healthily. After he was satisfied that none of his crop was being eaten by pests, and that the soil was still giving them enough nutrients, he started swimming back to the direction of the shore.

His powerful tail propelled him in the water and he kept his wings tight to his body. Once he neared the rocky cliffs below his home he swept his wings and tail in unison to launch himself back out of the water. He rose up into the sky with another few quick beats of his wings and landed outside his home.

He had a couple very large flat stones he had dragged back to his house that he used to dry out the seaweed with the sun. Once the sun had done its job, he gathered it up and brought it inside where he ground it up with a stone into a powder. Then, once it was mixed with squid ink, it turned into a dark green liquid great for writing. In the Sea Kingdom it was important for scrolls to be waterproof since so many of the Kingdom’s schools were built underwater.

Croak unrolled the seaweed bundles one by one, and placed them flat onto the stones. When he was done he gazed up at the calm and cloudless night sky. Perfect, it should be nice and sunny today.

His farming chores done for the day, Croak decided to pass some time reading until the sun rose. He glanced back down at the strands of seaweed to make sure they were all placed properly and made his way back inside. Past the door was his kitchen, that also doubled as his workshop. Deep wooden bowls sat on the counter stained nearly black, and rows of bottles were arranged on the wooden shelves waiting to be filled with ink, some already filled.

Past his kitchen was a small living space with a doorway leading to his bedroom. He glanced at the scrolls in his bookshelf at the back wall. Most of them were copies of The Pyrrhia Times that Slag had brought him. Whenever Slag visited, he always brought the latest copy of his newspaper with him, and of course he would tell Croak all of the behind the scenes details. Like how he almost lost a talon to frostbite in the Ice Kingdom, or how a SandWing made threats against his life for prying for too much detail. Or being physically thrown out of crime scenes by annoyed soldiers.

Croak picked up one of the scrolls and traced his talons along the dark-greenish letters. He imagined himself being there with Slag, seeing the stories unfold in front of him. Quietly observing a festival, writing about the dragons who were there, the history behind the celebration. Running away from angry soldiers, laughing with locals. He quickly put the scroll back onto the shelf.

He often daydreamed about a more exciting life. He didn’t hate living here, it was just that he never really left the island. When he would travel to the Sea Palace, for special market events, he never got much attention. Most of the dragons avoided his stand and he knew it was because most dragons thought he had rolled around in mud, and then forgot to wash it off. When he was still in school, the other dragonets passed around a rumour that his dad was a MudWing. He knew dragons still thought this, but they kept it to themselves at least.

He picked up one of his favourite scrolls, a copy of The Puddle that Dreamed of Becoming an Ocean that he had stolen from his classroom’s library. Like most of Queen Coral’s scrolls it was a required reading, but Croak loved the story. His teacher, who was surely guilty about his near constant bullying, never brought up the missing copy of the scroll with Croak and he had read the scroll so many times since that the paper was worn and soft on the edges.

He started reading it, and desperately tried to concentrate on the familiar tale, but his mind kept swaying back to Slag and his stories.

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