#i hate drawing frilly things

[layalu]

WIP Wednesday

got tagged by @greypetrel! <33 Well, technically got tagged for my side lol but i don't really have anything DA related to show, so i hope you don't mind me putting it here instead x'D

but ye! got some character designs for a project i'm working on rn :3

the concepts are a group effort, but i'm the one who's takes with designs, which. is not my strong suit, but it's fun! Specially cos these are some fancy fellas (and a business koala) hehe

tagging (as always of course with no pressure) @exotic-inquiry, @creativegoblin, @daggerbean, @the-penguinspy, @snowberry-pie, @bearsizedant, @quakingbirch, @absyntthe, @little-lightning-lavellan, and whoever else has something they'd like to share! :)

[todayisafridaynight]

still obsessed with how whenever you look up nakai you just get adachi front and center instead of arakawa or like. anyone he's actually played

[child-of-the-cosmos]

P.o.v.- you give moon a camera.

[st4rreid]

MDNI

CW: smut, virginity loss (reader), fauxcest, soft dom, p in v, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), drug use, alcohol, fingering, swearing, mostly smut barely plot

AN: i was too lazy to proofread but, i did put in effort to make it look pretty :)

Hanging out with Stepbro!Sam again because your parents thinks it’ll keep him out of trouble. He knows you’ll tell them everything so he has to be on his best behavior or get grounded.

Tonight he’s reluctantly taking you to a party, and he hates the idea of his little sis stopping his fun.

When you get there you immediately decide this isn’t your scene; people making out, the smell of weed and the loud music. It totally isn’t your thing.

You’ve been mindlessly swiping through your socials as to not feel so out of place, when he snatches your phone instead replacing it with a beer.

“Don’t you wanna at least try and have fun” he scoffs, tucking your phone into his back pocket.

You try to refuse, reminding both yourself and him that you’ll be grounded if you get caught drinking, but your protests are silenced when he lifts the cup up to your lips and forces you to take a big gulp.

You screw your face up “God Sam, tastes horrible.” but it only encourages him to make you drink more.

Sam disappears for a moment, before returning with an already lit joint. taking a deep inhale before blowing the smoke into your face. You cough disgusted by the thick smell. “Can’t snitch on me for smoking anymore, not when you smell like it too.” he smirks while studying your curious gaze.

“Wanna try?” You attempt to refuse but he’s already pressing it up to your lips, stroking the back of your head with his other hand.

You take a big deep inhale trying to mimic the way Sam had done it. Unfortunately for you it doesn’t go as well and you splutter up a chesty cough.

“Oh, poor baby” he coos, debating if it was the pet name he used or the weed that has you blushing like an idiot.

“Look at you, misbehaving. Can’t tell on me anymore, can you?” he winks before pressing the joint back to your lips “again.”

As the night goes on you feel increasingly confident with Sam protectively guiding you through the house with his hands steadily placed on your hips.

“I’m really tired Sam, we should go home” you slur while making dizzy eye contact with him.

“m’kay princess, let’s go” he’s says, taking your hand.

The drive home was a blur, sat in the passenger seat giggling as you held your fingers out the slight crack in the window.

“Let’s get you to bed, sweetheart” he states before taking you inside and up the stairs.

He steps inside your bedroom with you and you mumble something about wanting to get undressed and that he should go, but he ignores it, undoing the zip at the back of your dress and slowly pressing chaste kisses onto your pulse point.

“Sammy, what’re you doing?”

“getting you ready for bed princess” he states plainly, before slipping your dress off you leaving you in just your pretty lace set.

He continues to kiss down your neck and shoulder pushing you forwards, till your knees meet the edge of your frilly bed. He spins you round, eyeing the front of your bare body and your slightly timid expression.

“We shouldn’t do this Sam”

“shh, you know i’m just looking after you.” he answers, hands placed on your hips drawing small circles with his thumbs onto your stomach.

You move into his touch, reluctantly giving into what he wants. He dips his head, allowing his lips to be level with yours breathing against them before pressing them onto you. His kisses are wet and sloppy, swiping his tongue against your bottom lip, politely asking for entry.

Too jaded for you to notice. He asks verbally “open” to which this time you comply. His tongue wraps around yours gently massaging.

He pulls away laying you down on top of your pretty floral bedsheets adorned with various stuffed animals and pillows and removing his shirt.

“Are you still a virgin?” he questions and you nod frantically. The idea of it amuses him. His perfect lil sis, that he wants to corrupt so bad.

Sam brings his thumb to the wet spot on your panties, “are you sure darling” he chuckles “you’re soaked.”

He hooks his arms under your thighs and pulls you into the bulge in his pants, encouraging you to let out a slight whimper.

He drops to his knees, not breaking eye contact with your panties. Leaning in he presses a sloppy kiss onto your mound. “gonna take these panties off ok?”. you reply with a nod, head too fuzzy to let any real words come out.

He bundles the panties into his pocket before returning his gaze to your slick. He rests the side of his face on your thigh inches away, while bringing his finger up to run up to your slit. “ever been fingered baby?” he groans while kissing the soft skin of your thighs.

You crane your neck to look at him “m’never!” you whine, clenching around nothing begging to be filled. With the admission he plunges his finger into you, and you respond by grabbing his hair and tugging hard. “shhh, you’re ok my love” he coos and your walls flutter around him, needy for more. He obliges working you open with a second finger, this time placing wet sloppy kisses on your pulsing clit.

You muffle your moans with your fist, remembering not to be too loud. You can feel him let out a breathy laugh against you. “you’re taking me so well princess, are you sure you’re a virgin?” He knows you most definitely are, Sam just loves to see you get all flustered and defensive.

“your cunts so sweet, here come taste it” he rises up from his kneeling position, smiling to himself with how already fucked out you look.

He kisses you, this time more deep and aggressive making a point to bite down on your lip opening your mouth wide enough to spit into it.

“You’re so fucking well behaved for me, you know that right?” there’s almost a hint of aggression to his voice now, possessed by his need for you.

You’re too overwhelmed to speak, you have been since he first kissed you. all you can do is whimper at the way his bulge is tucked in between your heat, rutting himself into you.

“You want me too fuck you baby?” he questions, smirking when you nod desperately.

“Ask for it.”

“p-please fuck me Sammy” you whine, barely comprehending what you’re asking him for.

He stands, quickly removing his belt, followed by his jeans and boxers. His thick erection slaps against his lower stomach. It’s big you think, or at least bigger than you thought it would be. Tip blushed and leaky precum, and the base decorated by dark trimmed hair.

He returns to his previous position, arms bracing himself either side of your head. Length pressing against your slick cunt.

“You ready baby?” he questions, almost amused by your wanting expression.

“Just be gentle” you mutter, he smirks at this as if he knows something you don’t.

Almost painfully slow he nudged into you inch by inch, it’s a dull, burning kind of pain. But nothing that isn’t bearable. He stops when he’s halfway inside you- not that you know that, to you, you’re stuffed to the brim.

He holds himself there for a minute, leaning down to press a kiss onto your forehead.

“Doing so so well my love.” he looks almost pained, as if he was the one currently getting impaled.

“Can feel you squeezin’ me, want me to move?” he doesn’t wait for your response only groaning when he drops his hips, sliding fully into you.

Tears start to well as sam starts to move, he kisses you hoping it would provide an ample distraction to how you’re puffy cunt is bullied by his thick cock.

“my little good girl takin’ me so so well aren’t you” he looks down at you grinning at the way your little pupils have dilated, and how your swollen lips tremble with every thrust.

The feeling of him inside you is becoming more and more pleasurable, Sam senses it too, speeding up his thrusts. There’s a feeling building up in your lower tummy and he can tell, bring his hand down to tease your little nub, as you tangle your hands into his dyed hair.

“You gonna let go on my cock baby? C‘mon do it, cum for me” his verbal affirmation was enough, your heart raced and your mind went fuzzy as you had your very first orgasm on your stepbrothers cock.

The tight grip of your cunt along with the sensation of you tugging on his hair sent sam into overdrive, his thrusts growing messy and desperate. He let out a final grunt before cumming inside of you, leaving you even more full than you thought possible.

He collapsed onto you, his chin in the crook between your neck and shoulder. Both of you attempting to regulate your breathing.

He rose onto his forearms before pressing a wet kiss onto your lips. “Not so much of a good girl shoes now, huh?”

[cheyisagirlkisser]

.・College Ellie Headcannons゜・

Note: This is more loser Ellie-centric, I wanna maybe do a part two with just reader and her. Some sexual content and mentons of getting zooted below so 18+ warning!

•Art major, but she’s not the typical hot artsy lesbian you dream of her to be. More like rolls a fat blunt and sketches in her journal, it’ll either turn out to be a masterpiece or look like a crackhead had a go with her paper.

•Speaking of art major, when she’s horny and frustrated because she refuses to hook-up…she draws the lewdest art known to woman-kind. Those are her real masterpieces, but she can’t exactly turn them in for credit in her art class, can she? Fuck, the things that woman can make, though. Lowkey uses her exes naked bodies as inspiration though, maybe kind of weird but who’s gonna stop her?

•Doesn’t eat the food on campus half the time. She is embarrassingly addicted to Tai Pei containers and the occasional microwavable egg-roll. “That shit’s nasty, Ellie! Goddamn, just eat the Tacos 4 Life we have on campus.” Her friends will all tell her, but no. It’s like a guilty pleasure. Maybe it’s cause she grew up lower class and is used to TV dinners, has a special trauma bond to food that should be banned and probably is outside of America.

•Wardrobe consists of band tees, honorable mentions to Gorillaz and Falling in Reverse.

•Is actually an insanely talented writer. After reading her journals I feel like nobody talks about how emotional her entries are and she keeps a journal of her own in college for sure, not only for sketching and organizing art but also to write all her feelings out.

“Fuck me, this is my last year being gay.” -After her and Cat’s break-up, probably.

•Hates coffee. Definitely game-cannon, but this is important to the college setting. It’s the classic Monster or nothing, and she will absolutely judge you for drinking coffee. She calls it “the devil’s dirt.” So dramatic.

•Used to watch bad Hallmark movies because of Dina, now watches them alone because she misses Dina. There’s nothing like crying your eyes out to Christmas Under Wraps!

•Has a collection of rubber ducks on her shelf. Doesn’t use her very small space for normal things like her wallet or books, no. It’s rubber fucking ducks.

•Also has a slipper collection in her tiny closet, from Pikachu all the way to dinosaur feet.

•Has the “two-seater” t-shirt (iykyk) but refuses to wear it in public because she’s a pussy

•Favorite fruit is grapes. I just know my girl loves grapes when she can get her hands on them steer clear bc she will NOT share. Favorite candy is gummy worms!

•Actually wears rain boots when it’s wet outside or snowing

•Likes wired earbuds over airpods, listens to Pearl Jam when she misses living with Joel

•Is oddly good at making those little paper stars and has a huge grocery bag of then in all different patterns and colors

•When she starts dating you she shows you her dinosaur cookie-cutter collection because you're really good at baking. (Also bc she wants to see you in a frilly cute apron!)

•Is a slut for hugs. Kisses are cool, sex is great but agghhh Ellie just loves wrapping her arms around you and sometimes when you two are in her dorm she'll just hug you for what feels like hours on end, she calls it her 'weekly therapy.'

•Loves high sex because when she's sober she hates feeling like she's awkward or all up in her head. She also has a tendency to invite you over for sex after smoking.

•Has a septum piercing. Maybe this one is self-indulgent because I would go ballistic over seeing actual Ellie with one, but I say that college Ellie got hers pierced at 16 and didn't cry over the pain but wanted to literally jump off of a bridge the entire healing process it was so bad.

•Sometimes when you kiss her, her septum will slide over and look uneven and she feels fucking NIGERIA FALLS in her boxers when you fix it for her. Also for those of you who are sluts for glasses, you can fix her glasses too and it'll make her just as weak.

[poppy-metal]

something about rough around the edges guys and prim and proper girl is ALWAYS gonna eat… patrick finds you so annoying but when u ask him to your penthouse with that rich girl fucking arrogance he can’t help but come, talking to him like he’s the help but when he’s eating you like a fucking mango slice you’re suddenly sooo respectful. you’re lucky you’re so hot or he would’ve actually snapped by now and told you something real about yourself and then you’d cry like the sheltered bitch you are

right like it always hits - need him to be dressed in all black, scuffed jeans, wild hair and combat boots - need him to take rich!girl out somewhere in his old truck where no one can hear her scream when he eats her out in his back seat. that lip she's got isn't running a big game when he's got her panties pulled to the side and his mouth on her puffy clit. one knee propped up on the seat with the rest of you while the other kneels so he has the right angle to really work at you.

hes got one hand fisted the band of your frilly little panties keeping them taught and pulled out of the way - and the other travels up your stomach, pausing to palm your tit before he's venturing up and you feel his warm hand at your throat, his thumb at your fat bottom lip, drawing it down - you suck so sweetly at the digit - so docile when your cunts getting eaten - blinking down at him with those big wet eyes as he glares up at you from between your legs -

and god, the way he eats at you like he's angry - makes your thighs well and truly tremble - those dark green eyes and thick head of hair - those lips that like to sneer at you now wrapped around your clit, sucking and tugging at the tight nub until you're sighing his name so softly it's like you're in love. you might be in moments like this. he's so fucking good at eating pussy.

he lashes his tongue against you in hot swipes, pulls your clit between his teeth like he might bite it the fuck off, putting just enough pressure to make your legs jerk in reaction before he's plushing his lips again - sucking the the tender point until you're melted butter again. he eats you so messily - moving up and down until his nose is bumping your clit and he's sliding his fat tongue inside you -

"oh -" your toes curl in your pink slippers. "oh fuck yes -" your hand slaps against the glass pain window - knowing they've got to be fogged up by now.

patrick pulls back just long enough to say - "spoiled pussy really is sweet." he licks a fat stripe from your entrance to your clit. "reach down and spread it for me - feed me that gold dripped cunt."

"you're such a prick." you pant, but you're reaching down to do as he says anyway. spreading your lips for him shyly, your pulsing slit on display for him. slick and shiny from his spit.

"you want my prick." he tells you. leans down to glide his tongue through the wet slip of flesh you're offering to him on a silver fucking platter. your head falls back on a gasp. fingers trembling where they hold you open. "you want it thick and hot and sliding inside you -" his tongue dips back down to your hole, bobs inside just once. "- right here."

you haven't let him fuck you yet. but you know you will, eventually. it's just the last thing you have left - but you want it so bad. you know hes big. have felt him through his jeans before, big and hard and pressing against you. you want it inside you - bare and stretching, stretching, stretching - you'd let him fuck you here in his stupid fucking car, probably. you'd let him do anything to you.

but you say - "you're never - ah - you're never sticking that shit inside me -"

patrick just hums against your pussy.

"I'm going to fuck you" wet kisses against your soaked flesh - "when I want to - not when you do. and baby - you'll beg me for it."

you hate that he's probably right.

[endless-ineffabilities]

in the shadow of your heart (part two of two)

Daemon Targaryen x f!Reader

requested by anon: inspired by the plot of the movie Flipped, where the reader openly pines for Daemon, but he always brushes her off until one day, she stops bothering him.

word count: 11.2k ▪︎ part one ▪︎ masterlist

themes: pining, angst, language, Daemon being Daemon, slight Cregan Stark x f!reader, some smut (18+)

“Greetings, Prince Daemon.” Cregan Stark is the first to speak. His genial manner is something that draws everyone to him, warm and earnest. The Lord of the North is much beloved, and with good reason. As he assesses Prince Daemon, he easily notices the agitation in the prince’s stance. The confusion in his eyes. If Cregan also notices the subtle envy collecting in Daemon’s expression, he does not let it show.

“Lord Stark,” he saunters in your direction, slowly, like a predator who has finally cornered his prey. Taking in the competition like a practiced fighter.

“Lady Y/n.” He calls you by name, and you realize how much of a rarity it is. It’s always just You, a statement more than an endearment, or my little shadow. You still don’t know what to make of the latter. Shadow. Does that mean you are indispensable, a part of him he can never shake? Or does he see you as an unwanted presence?

“Daemon. How have you been, my prince?” An attempt at cordiality from you. You know Daemon doesn’t care much for such dialogue, but what else is there to say?

Why did you not show up at my nameday, like you promised?

Have you been finding comfort in Mysaria’s arms?     

Have I even crossed your mind, even once, or is my absence something that you welcome?

But you don’t make any of these thoughts heard. You don’t believe there would be a point. Besides, there is no need to air out your grievances whilst in the company of Cregan.

“I don’t know, my lady. Perhaps you could enlighten me. I have roamed nearly every inch of the palace grounds, and I’ve only just found you. You have not come to see me as of late, either.”

“I was not aware that you were expecting me, my prince.”

He scoffs, hating how formal you were being. Was this a show you were putting on for the Stark boy? Where are your throwaway smiles and your playful quips? Your appreciative gaze, drinking him in as if it were always the first time?

Cregan comes to your rescue, “I’m afraid I may be to blame for taking up the lady’s time, Prince Daemon. She makes for excellent company, as I think you know. She’s kindly been showing me around King’s Landing.”

“You’ve been around King’s Landing before, Stark. We were not aware you have taken a particular interest in the ins and outs of the city, but we’d be more than happy to provide you with our best maester to tell you everything you need to know. I’m sure the lady has much better things to do with her time. Besides, after a while, you might like a change of scenery. One that she wouldn’t know how to provide.”

What in the seven hells is that supposed to mean? Of course, the first time you meet in a long while, Daemon has surely stored some kind words to tell you.

“Don’t worry, Daemon. I can assure you that we’ve been making good use of our time together,” you look at him directly, no longer bothering with the niceties. Daemon knows how you really are, after all. He’s seen you flustered, embarrassed, angry. Mostly, he’s seen you pining. Wanting. For him. You’ve always been open around him, not holding anything back. Daemon enjoyed your brazenness, so unlike the other frilly maidens who clamber for his attention. But what changed?

“If you don’t mind, Lord Stark, I’d like a moment alone with the lady.” Daemon readily meets your gaze, barely giving mind to Cregan, who is now halfway covering you from his vision, as if preparing to protect you from him should the need arise. The nerve of this fucking Northern Lord.

“Honour demands that I only leave if this is what the lady wishes, Prince Daemon.” Cregan declares, his voice steady.

Bloody Northerners and their honour. “I was not presenting you with a request, Stark. Try not to get on my nerve.”

“Alright,” you speak up, “it’s okay, Cregan. I’ll come find you later.”

Daemon notes the familiarity with which you addressed the Stark boy, and it doesn’t sit well with him. “Yes, run along, young wolf.” He doesn’t drop your gaze, doesn’t watch Cregan walk away.

So, he also does not notice Cregan throw you a comforting wink as he disappears from view, leaving you with Daemon on the rooftop. Daemon’s mood considered; this is probably for the best.

The air is thick with words unsaid, and while Daemon relaxes his stance, his face betrays a storm of emotion. Ones that he is not equipped to deal with. Jealousy? Unrequited yearning? Uncertainty? What can he possibly say that would be enough? So he settles for, “You look well, my shadow.”

“As do you, my prince. Enjoying the comforts of home, I’d hope?”

“Tell me this,” Daemon impatience flares, “why have I not seen you around? They used to be rare, the days in which you would not simply make your presence known to me.”

“That’s why I got to be called your shadow, was it not? That I was always following you around like a pest, driving you to irritation. There were moments wherein I could swear that I saw you grimace at my arrival - ”

“A pest?” He looks taken aback. He reaches for your arm, but you sidestep and fold your arms behind you, “Y/n, where is all this coming from?”

“I think you know quite well, Daemon.”

“Would it delight you to hear that I may have missed your company, no matter how unreasonably persistent it might have been?” Daemon’s smirk is dangerous, capable of breaking through your icy approach.

“Unreasonably persistent? Is this your way of making amends, my prince? You might need a lesson in tact from your markedly more diplomatic brother.”

“I was never one to bother with needless flattery. Unless directed at me, of course.” His smirk grows even wider, enjoying the resurgence of your familiar banter.

Your tone turns sour, almost angry even, one that Daemon has not heard before, “You promised that you would attend my nameday festivities, and yet you did not. I waited for you, like the stupid little shadow that you have deemed me to be, and for nothing. I don’t know why I even expected you to come, given what you clearly think of me.” Your voice breaks at the end, and it snags at Daemon’s heart.

“I did not think you cared much for such frivolities, and…well, I…”

“No, I did not. I don’t. I only cared whether you would be there, so that I might see you. So that you might greet me with the smug smirk of yours. So that you might even ask me for a dance,” you pace around Daemon, your mind lost in thought of what could have been, “But no matter. It’s all over and done with now. We can keep such nonsense in the past, Prince Daemon. You no longer need to waste your time with me.”

“Y/n,” he says your name with such clarity, such emotion, as he moves to narrow the space between the two of you, “I sincerely apologize if I was not there for your nameday. Had I thought that my presence would mean that much to you, then I surely would have come.”

That’s not enough, Daemon. That’s not what I need.

You notice the sincerity in his eyes as he continues, “I don’t want you to be cross with me. And… I don’t want you to think that I… think little of you. You are not. You are - ”

“You were like my sun, you know. My entire world revolved around you. You were in everything that I could see.” Your face morphs into a mixture of sadness, and longing, and acceptance. Daemon notes that you were speaking of things as if it were already in the past, and he does not like it at all.

He lets you continue, even though it pains him to see the turmoil in your expression, “Daemon, I… I thought about you when I woke, and when I went to bed. You were intoxicating… and fucking infuriating, because you clearly did not share the same sentiment when it came to me. I was simply there.”

“Listen, I don’t know what you fucking expect of me,” he counters, not willing to comprehend that your words can bring him to fold so quickly, “but you know exactly who I am. What I am, my shadow.”

“Did I not make it clear to you just how I felt?” You ask. Your gazes are locked and heated. The distance between you has narrowed, and he can feel your warm breath on his face. He notices the way your chest rises and falls, the slope of your breasts, the furrowing of your eyebrows which he finds endearing. You stand so close, an alluring distraction, nearly making him lose all train of thought.

“For fuck’s sake, of course. Everyone could see it!” He snaps, raising his voice at you.

“And yet, it did not matter.”

“No, it matters - ” he pauses, looking away, “I just… don’t know…”

You straighten, “You know what, it’s perfectly fine, Daemon. Why were you looking for me?”

“I thought I already mentioned. I was wondering where you’ve been all this time. Whatever wrongs you believe I have done to you, it was never my intention. I do not wish to be rid of your presence. It does not…” When his eyes capture yours once again, you see the inner turmoil reflected within, “It does not feel right without you around… my shadow.”

You want so badly to take his hand as you had done so many times before, and reassure him that everything is fine. But Rhaenyra’s advice had struck you, so well that it rings true in your mind as you look at Daemon. “Make him hunger for you,” she had said, eyes glinting mischievously, “so that he may realize what it is he may be at risk of losing, if he does not get his act together. And, well, if he still does not treat you as you deserve, then surely someone else will.”

You would have chased Daemon to the ends of the Seven Kingdoms, but you can only pursue someone so far before you might tip over the edge of the world yourself.

“I understand, Daemon. I am not angry at you. Truthfully, I don’t think I could ever be.” You offer a comforting smile, but it does not reach your eyes.

“Very well, then. On the morrow, I shall once again conduct my training in the courtyard. I expect you to be there.”

When you narrow your eyes at his implication, he adds, softly, “I mean, I want you to be there.”

You smile, and echo his exact words from weeks ago, when you gave word to him about your festivities, “I’d be loathe to miss a good training display of yours, my prince. I’ll be there.”

There may be a lot more than needs to be said, that Daemon wants to say. But he cannot find the words. He is not even certain what it is that compelled him to seek you out today. Or if he is, he is not ready to face it yet.

“I shall take my leave, my prince,” you curtsy, “I’ll be seeing you.”

He watches as you walk away. He is covered in sunlight from where he stands, the wind gently blowing mild and pleasant. And yet he feels cold, and his spirit is strained, as if this unspoken stalemate between the two of you casts a gloom over his days. As if you had taken all warmth along with you.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Daemon swings forcefully, toppling his opponent to the ground.

“Again!” He yells, “I thought you cunts are supposed to be decent fighters, at the very least. And yet even the whores in the Street of Silk might make for better competitors.”

Not one of his gold cloaks makes a move, and they all look at him warily. Their commander has been heated all morning, and they have taken the brunt of his rage.

The spectators have created a wider berth around him than usual, while they mostly whisper to each about the prince’s nasty temper.

One of the braver gold cloaks, Maron Tyrell, decides to approach him, “My prince, perhaps we should conclude our training exercise for today. The men are drained and wish to - ”

“We finish when I say so,” Daemon emphasizes every word in his displeasure, “not at your fucking heed.”

Maron persists, forgetting to mind the risk of talking back to Daemon when he is in this state, “We noticed that a certain Lady is not among the spectators, my prince. Your shadow, I think that is what you deem her to be, and rightfully so, I mean… don’t you think that actually made this morning’s activities more bearable, without her needlessly yapping at you at every-”

Maron does not get to finish his jibe about you, as Daemon pummels the young knight into the ground. His fist collides with Maron’s face, again and again, until he is pulled back by several of his struggling men.

“Prince Daemon!” A cacophony erupts around the courtyard – pleas for him to cease, gasps of shock and worry, even some callous laughter at the absurdity of the situation. The rogue prince has assailed one of his very own men. One of his loyal devotees. An undignified act, even for the volatile prince.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” Daemon squirms out of the grip of his men, and storms out of the courtyard, people parting like waves in his path. His knuckle is bruised and partially covered in Maron Tyrell’s blood. Yet, he cannot bring himself to care.

For what is a man without his shadow? He might as well just be gone.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Lord Mathias Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden, your Grace." A member of the Kingsguard announces the new arrival, his clear voice resounding in the throne room.

The imposing hall is nearly empty, apart from King Viserys who stands at the foot of the Iron Throne, several members of the Kingsguard, and his Hand, Lord Otto Hightower.

The elderly Tyrell walks in with a dignified air. There is a slight hunch in his posture, but his gaze is trained straight ahead. King Viserys meets him halfway, with a welcoming smile on his face, "My Lord Tyrell, what a pleasure this is, truly."

"My King," Mathias bows his head once, then looks at Viserys again, eager to finally make his appeal known, "I do hope my arrival is not untimely. It has been a while since we last convened, you and I."

"Not at all, Mathias," Viserys says, "I am always at your disposal for any important matter that you wish to bring to my attention, as I understand this is the case at present."

"Yes, well, let me begin by relaying my wife Lady Lenna's well wishes for you, my King. She feels honoured to have been a friend to your late wife Queen Aemma, and we only hope the best for your family."

Viserys nods amiably, accustomed to such flattering declarations from Lords and Ladies alike. He also knows by now that such, while potentially genuine, are usually followed by either a complaint or a petition. As if he was being softened up for what follows.

“Which is why it saddened me greatly to hear that a certain member of your family had attacked one of mine. The inducement of this remains beyond my understanding. My nephew, Maron, a member of your gold cloaks, is currently being attended to by our finest maesters, after suffering several injuries at the hands of Prince Daemon.”

“What?” Viserys’ friendly expression falls, “Daemon?” He looks toward Otto Hightower in hopes of some clarification.

“My King, we have just received word of this incident, and we were planning to discuss this in our council meeting on the morrow. The prince is required to attend, after all, which gives him a chance to elucidate his actions.” Otto explains placatingly.

“Daemon,” Viserys repeats his brother’s name, breathing it out like a curse. It was no longer any surprise to him to hear of such an act committed by his brother. He merely hoped that their occurrences would grow fewer and farther between.

“I knew you would understand the seriousness of this matter, my King. House Tyrell has, after all, always supported House Targaryen since the age of the Conqueror. All I want is for Prince Daemon to answer for what he had done to my nephew, in any way that you see fit.”

Viserys puts on his best placating smile, “Of course, Mathias. It shall be done. Now will that be all? I’m afraid I have some other matters to attend to.”

The Lord of Highgarden does not fail to notice the poorly hidden irritation in the King’s face, and he is quick to be done with the formalities of making himself scarce, exchanging a few choice words before bowing and promptly leaving the throne room.

“Well?” Viserys looks around the throne room, addressing whoever might have answers, “where the fuck is he?”

Otto squirms where he stands, “I can send for him right away, your Grace.”

They will soon realize that Prince Daemon’s whereabouts will elude them that day, as he had taken refuge in the clandestine quarters of the Lady Mysaria after the incident in the courtyard. However, the usual pleasures will not be exchanged between the two. Daemon no longer possesses the eagerness to lose himself in his apparently favoured woman. Mysaria does not press on, letting the prince get some much-needed rest. She does take note of one name uttered from his lips as he succumbs into slumber. Yours.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The members of the Small Council settle around the table, each one placing their round totem in front of them. The council meeting has begun.

Each Lord sits alert, ready to present their reports and findings for the week. Lord Corlys on the ongoing war in the Stepstones. Lord Beesbury on lowering the common tax for grain. Lord Lannister on arranging a play for the nobility. And so on. At the head of the table, however, their King does not appear to give off his usual air of graciousness. He leans to the side of his chair, routinely running his hand over his face in frustration.

Lord Beesbury speaks up, “Your Grace, shall we start with - ”

“Where is my brother?” Viserys’ voice is irate, his query directed at Lord Otto.

“We summoned him, your Grace, but he made it clear that he had other pressing matters to attend to.” Otto speaks slowly, clearly, in hopes that Viserys does not take his frustration out on him. “He mentioned having to meet with the Lady Y/n,” At this, Otto looks at your father across the table.

“My daughter?” Your father says, “I assure you, your Grace, I am not aware that she has any pressing matter with Prince Daemon. I would not even go so far to say that they are acquaintances.”

“Oh, Lord, you must know,” Tyland Lannister says, almost mockingly.

“Know what, my Lord?” your father asks, incredulous.

“Your daughter has been openly pining for the rogue prince. It’s common knowledge. She has not been shy about her affections, mind you,” Tyland smirks.

“I know nothing of this. My daughter has just begun a courtship with Lord Cregan Stark himself, and this I approve of. It would be unseemly for her to get involved with Prince Daemon in the way that you are insinuating.”

“What is the truth?” Viserys raises his voice, then turning to Otto, he adds, “Have you heard of this development?”

“I did not believe it to be consequential, your Grace. The prince has his share of admirers, after all.” Otto replies.

Viserys sighs heavily, thinking of how things will never just be simple when it comes to his brother. “Well, has he been receptive of the young lady’s affections?”

Lord Beesbury says, “The consensus has been that the prince has largely ignored them, your Grace.”

“Seven hells,” Viserys lets out a dry laugh in disbelief, “How come everyone knows of this matter except for me, the man in question’s own brother?”

“If I may respond to what Lord Beesbury just claimed, it does not seem that way. At least not anymore. Word has been circulating of yesterday’s incident, and apparently, the reason why Prince Daemon assaulted Maron Tyrell is because the latter brought up the subject of Lady y/n, and not in the nicest way.” Tyland says.

Lord Corlys intervenes, “Might we get on with more urgent business, lords?”

Viserys sits silently for a moment, letting all of the information sink in. He looks around the council table, baffled at the ridiculous scenario in front of him – the highest-ranking officials of the Seven Kingdoms prompted to engage in chitchat all because of this whole affair between yourself and Prince Daemon. “My lords,” he finally says, “Lord Corlys is right. We have better things to do with our time than to fucking gossip. I shall deal with my brother myself.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The same morning, in another corner of the sprawling castle, you stand in your chambers, arranging the books on the shelf. You have just gone on a stroll with Rhaenyra, and are just taking a short rest. You startle slightly when your lady-in-waiting Hestia walks in.

“Good morrow, my lady.”

“To you as well, Hestia.” You smile in return.

“I have a message to relay, my lady,” she timidly says, “Earlier, when you had departed, Prince Daemon visited your chambers.”

You freeze. “Daemon?”

“Y-yes, my lady. I had walked in to change the linens, and he was already sitting there at your desk. Waiting for you, it seemed.”

“And? Did he mention anything to you?” You ask gently.

“He wants to meet you in the godswood, my lady. He said that he will anticipate you there at around noon.”

You note to yourself that noon is fast approaching. “Hmm. I see.” Hestia smiles comfortingly at you, and you can deduce that there is more that she wants to say.

“How did he seem, the prince, whilst he was here?” You engage her further, genuinely curious yourself.

“If I may be blunt, my lady, he seemed quite distressed. He appeared as if he was lacking in rest, and well… he really did seem eager to find you.”

You walk over to your chair and slump down in a dramatic huff, “Ah, it appears that I have found myself in quite the conundrum.”

Hestia smiles, following you, “What a conundrum, though, my lady. Prince Daemon and Lord Cregan vying for your hand? Nearly every eligible lady in all the kingdoms would feel envious of you.”

Your smile is wistful when you say, “It’s not quite the fairy tale that it seems, Hestia. I mean, you know how Prince Daemon is.”

“So it is Prince Daemon whom you favour?”

“What made you think so?”

“Well, I can’t be certain, my lady. It’s just that… he’s the one you chose to mention. His is always the name that you bring up, as opposed to Lord Cregan’s.”

Huh. I really must have been fixated on Daemon, haven’t I, if everyone is still of the impression that I want him, even with Cregan in the picture.

Do I want him?

“My lady?” Hestia’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts, “are you alright?”

“Yes,” you clear your throat, and stand, “I think I have somewhere to be.”

“To meet with Prince Daemon?”

How could I ever not want him?

“Perhaps.” You look back at Hestia, eyes glinting in anticipation, before leaving your chambers.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

You walk through the hallways, still uncertain whether the godswood will be your destination. Whether Daemon will be your destination.

The weather is quite lovely anyway. Why not sit and enjoy some calm in the godswood? Deep down, you know that your reasoning, while sound, is a mere excuse for wanting to see Daemon.

Turning the corner, you see your father coming your way. He calls for you with a wave, and you rush toward him with a smile, “Good morrow, father.” You kiss him lightly on the cheek. “I was just heading to the godswood. Perhaps I shall take a book from the library and - ”

“To meet with Prince Daemon?” Your father's voice is stern, and you become nervous.

You tilt your head, unsure of how to respond. Your father continues, “This matter was brought to my attention, in the council meeting of all places! I felt like a bumbling fool. My own daughter, and I did not know.”

“You’re certainly not a fool, father. And - ”

“How long has this been going on?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.” Your brows furrow in frustration.

“This affair between yourself and Prince Daemon. Do you not have any mind for decency? How must this look? Cregan Stark is courting you, and here you are, running around with the rogue prince.” He speaks in hushed whispers, as if he is afraid of being overheard, but the anger in his tone can easily be detected.

“I am not sure what you heard, father, but I am not having an affair with Prince Daemon.” You lean back, also growing irate at his tone.

“Everyone knows, my child. I do know that you are intelligent, and that you mean well, but this - ”

“I was quite… smitten with him. Only that. But it is over now.”

“Is it? Then how come he apparently came to your defense yesterday, assailing Maron Tyrell when he spoke out of turn about you?”

“What?”

“Word has spread, and King Viserys has been saddled with the laborious task yet again of having to make amends on his brother’s behalf.”

“Oh, I didn’t know.” You remember that you meant to visit the courtyard for his training, but instead opted to read with Cregan Stark in the library. You did not think Daemon would particularly mind, and truth be told, you wanted to give a taste of his own medicine. You made your mistake in believing that Daemon might approach it just like anyone else – with a reasonable amount of impatience and irritation. But of course, it’s Daemon.

You want to appease your father’s worries, so you say, “The next time I see Daemon, I shall make things clear. There will no longer be anything between him and I. Not that there ever was anything before.” You can’t help but look away sadly, but then your father pulls you in for a hug.

“I trust that you will do the right thing. Lord Cregan is a man of true honour and kindness. You deserve someone like him.”

“I know.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Moments later, just before you make a turn into the open area of the godswood, someone catches you by the elbow.

“Hello, lass.” Cregan says. “I am happy to see you.”

“Cregan,” you attempt to hide your surprise with a smile, “ perhaps you were simply following me?”

“That idea did cross my mind, yes,” he jests in return, “but I’d much rather have you aware of my presence so you can indulge yourself in my undeniable charm.”

“Ever so humble, my Lord of the North.” You have grown accustomed to his witty quips, easily shared, making whoever he converses with comfortable. When you had mentioned it, he assured you however that the doting glint in his eyes is reserved for you only.

“Having a good day so far?” He draws you in close by the waist, his sincere gaze boring into yours.

“Very much so, thank you. I was just about to, uhm, spend some time in the godswood.”

“I shall accompany you then, my lady, if you would allow me.”

“Oh, I - ”

“There you are.” You turn towards the familiar voice. Daemon has found you. “I thought I heard you.”

“Ah, Prince Daemon, ever a pleasure.” Cregan loosens his hold on you, but he does not let go. You notice Daemon’s eyes draw downward to Cregan’s arm around your waist, and his jaw clenches.

“Oh, I wish I could say the same, young wolf. But I have been waiting in the godswood for the Lady Y/n, and I can see that you are taking up her precious time. Keeping her from me.” Daemon spits the final words, making his annoyance clear.

“Daemon, I was just about to come see you,” you say.

“I thought you were going to spend time in the godswood?” Cregan looks at you confused.

“Yes, she is,” Daemon chimes in, “with me.”

“Simply to talk.” You start to become anxious with how the two men are sizing each other up, cold expressions plastered on their faces.

“No matter,” Cregan shrugs, “might I accompany you too, my lady?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You and Daemon speak at the same instant, your contrasting responses putting a pause on the whole exchange. The silence is filled with tension, with Daemon staring at you intently. A slight smirk rests on his lips, and you can tell, he is enjoying this. He takes pleasure in being able to get under your skin.

You might be right, but in that moment, Daemon’s mind also wanders to the smoothness of your skin. The fire in your eyes. His stare grazes your decolletage, exposed by your dress, the very same dress he had disparaged weeks prior. How foolish of me. Anything she wears is immediately more refined as a result. Although I’d much see rather that dress on the fucking floor.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that there is still something between the two of you.” Cregan’s voice cuts through the silence. When you turn to him questioningly, he explains, “I have heard whispers here and there about a possible mutual affection that you share.”

“Prince Daemon and I are merely friends,” you clarify, “and even this I have reason to doubt.” You glare at Daemon, imploring him to not cross the line.

“We are friends,” Daemon grits his teeth, “come with me, Y/n.”

You continue to challengingly stare at Daemon, and any passer-by would immediately feel the tension. They would also be quick to assume that the connection lies between yourself and Daemon, not Cregan. Not that you would be willing to admit it straightaway.

“Forget about the godswood,” you look between both men, “Rhaenyra tells me of a travelling theatre troupe that will be conducting their show in the Red Keep this afternoon. I think I fancy heading over and seeing it for myself.”

You start to walk away, not paying mind to either the dragon or the wolf.

I’m done with this bickering. Let them follow me if they wish.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

After a short period of deliberating and preparing, you find yourself walking the streets of the Red Keep, with Daemon walking close to one side and Cregan to the other.

Hestia follows suit, conversing with Cregan’s young squire, Pod. You had looked back to her to give a comforting smile, and you could tell that she was slightly intimidated by the member of the Kingsguard accompanying your little group. The knight is a looming figure of hunkering armour, walking close behind her and Pod.

Daemon and Cregan both offered an arm for you to hold onto at the start of your stroll, but you avoided the pain of choosing by clasping your hands in front of you, walking forward with your head held high.

You reach the city centre, and Cregan points to a fountain in the middle of the plaza. “I remember when you took me there, darling. We had the most pleasant afternoon.”

Daemon snorts upon hearing that, “The bloody fountain?”

Pod comes up to speak with Cregan about the tasks he has to fulfill for the day, demanding his attention, and they shuffle to the side in discussion.

“Yes, Daemon, the bloody fountain. We sat, had the best lemon cakes, and conversed with the common folk. Activities that are not to your taste, I’m sure,” you matched his sardonic inflection.

“I thought you would have preferred mulberry tarts,” Daemon responds, matter-of-factly.

Your lips part in mild surprise. “How could you have guessed that?”

“You might have mentioned it once, weeks ago.”

“Huh.” You continue to stare at him in disbelief. So he does listen to me.

You had the impression that all those times when you prattled in his ear, your words would simply dissolve into air. Like an incessant tune droning on in the background. Daemon always looked as if he was pondering some other more important thought.

“You continue to surprise me, Daemon.”

“And you never fail to pleasantly disrupt my life at every turn,” he remarks, the corners of his mouth turning upward.

“Since you used the word pleasantly then I shall assume that it’s a good thing. But disrupt? How so?”

He kicks a pebble across the cobblestones, lost in thought, “This is the last thing that I would have ever expected, my shadow.”

You continue to look at him in suspense, your heart thudding in your chest. Try as you might, Daemon still has that effect on you.

He continues, “I never expected to… feel this… about you.”

“Feel what?” He turns to you, and softens at the sight of your innocent expression, your eyes wide and glistening. You’ve always gazed at him in such an open and caring manner, unaffected by the reality of his reputation. Very much unlike other people, who are almost invariably wary or distrustful when dealing with him. He has accepted that he needs someone like you. But recently, it became clearer. He only needed you.

“Prince Daemon,” a familiar soft, accented voice calls out.

The spell is broken. You turn toward the new arrival. The lady Mysaria.

“Good day, my lady,” you greet her reluctantly. You badly wish to move close to Cregan and engage him in conversation, just so you would not be privy to the interaction between Daemon and Mysaria, but something keeps you rooted in place.

“Good day to you as well, lady Y/n.”

“Have you come to watch the performance?” you tilt your head toward the stage that is being set up on one side of the plaza.

“I’m afraid I don’t have the time for such frivolities at present, my lady,” she smiles thinly, before turning to Daemon, “I am glad I found you, my prince. I would have waited until you eventually came to see me again, but since you are here, I want to return this to you.”

She reaches out her hand, and in it lies an ornate ring, decorated with an exquisite blood-red ruby. An inscription in High Valyrian is carved on the band.

Daemon snatches it swiftly, “Right. Good eye.”

“I recognized this to be one of your Targaryen heirlooms. You must have dropped it when you spent the night with me.” She steps closer to him, caressing his arm.

Your heart sinks. What did you expect – that Daemon would ever commit to you? He has been making gestures that are unusual for him, giving you just the slightest hint of hope. And now, this.

He was right. You do know exactly who he is. What he is. The lady Mysaria can be taken as confirmation of this.

“Would you excuse me?” you clear your throat, and start to walk over to Cregan.

Daemon notices the drop in your spirits - in the frown that formed on your lips, and the way your shoulders scrunched forward. He knows that you are aware of him looking at you imploringly. You refuse to meet his gaze, and continue to ignore him as he stares daggers at your retreating figure.

Daemon shrugs Mysaria’s hold off his arm, taking a step back. He is not certain what to say, and Mysaria senses his agitation.

“You desire the lady Y/n,” she states, not a shred of doubt in her enticing voice.

“You know nothing of it,” Daemon spits defensively.

“You do. You want her. I can see it in your eyes,” Mysaria repeats, “It’s a novel thing, as you once told me that she is someone whom you merely tolerate.”

And I fucking wish I knew better. “I’ll be damned if I’m not capable of changing my mind.”

“Or perhaps you always wanted her, and you just were not aware of it? You did speak plenty of her even before,” she muses, as she knows that Daemon will not deny her keen eye for observation.

Daemon and Mysaria look over to you, as you stand with the rest of your group. You smile, and stroke Hestia’s back soothingly. Cregan leans over to you, and you laugh at whatever he has whispered.

Daemon sulks, hands firmly clasped in front of him. “Fucking Stark.”

“She wants you too, you know,” Mysaria smiles.

This piques Daemon’s attention, though his face remains sour, “Don’t toy with me. Perhaps she did, but now - ”

“She still does. In time, you will both see the truth of it all. Good fortune, Prince Daemon.” she walks away, her long tresses blowing softly in the breeze, but pauses and turns halfway, “Just don’t be stupid.”

Daemon nods once, feeling hopeful anew.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

One brisk morning, you sit peacefully in the gardens, a new book in your hands. You sit comfortably, your legs tucked underneath you on the seat. Daemon once remarked of how he liked the careless way with which you sit, to which you rolled your eyes, “Don’t mock me, Daemon. My father has scolded me plenty about how I don’t sit like a proper lady.”

Daemon just snickered at that, and playfully pulled at your ankle. That was one of your more amicable exchanges. Even now, your mind trains back to him, as if his absence is a thing that demands to be felt. Even after you believe yourself to have grown resolute at giving up any romantic notion when it comes to Daemon, after the encounter with Mysaria a few days prior.

Hestia sits beside you, crocheting, her needle deftly held between her slender fingers.

“My lady,” she says, looking to the side at the hedges, “I think you have a shadow.”

You follow her gaze and see him. The prince currently occupying your thoughts. As he always has. Daemon leans against the bark of a tree, evidently watching you. A smirk forms on his lips when he sees you finally notice him.

Your shadow.

You throw him a questioning look from afar. He merely shrugs his shoulders and starts to confidently walk toward you. He reaches you, and you just stare at each other in relative silence.

“You,” you say, as he had always done upon seeing you.

“Excuse me, lady Y/n, Prince Daemon,” Hestia curtsies to the both of you, then proceeds to take her leave. She smiles slyly at you over her shoulder, and you know she will want to be filled in about what happens later on. You consider yourself fortunate that your lady-in-waiting grew to become one of your closest confidantes.

“My shadow,” he says smoothly, then sits beside you.

“I might go so far as to say that the tables have turned. You are my shadow now, Prince Daemon.”

“Hmm,” he sneers, “No Stark boy today?”

“He’s visiting his sister, but he shall return soon. He promised me.”

“I’d much prefer it if he were to never set foot in King’s Landing ever again,” he comments casually.

“Jealous are we, my shadow?” you look at him teasingly through your lashes, realizing in that split moment, how easy it is. Being around him feels natural, despite the flares in his disposition and his offhand remarks.

You also realize that it is not completely the same with Cregan, as sweet and perfect as he might be. There is a sense of trying to fulfil your duty as a lady from a noble house, when it comes to your courtship with the young wolf.

But you have always chosen Daemon. If only he would choose you in return.

“I could ask the same of you. I saw the way you were glaring at Mysaria,” he smirks, raising his eyebrows tauntingly.

“I was not glaring at her.”

“Oh no, apologies, not glaring,” he raises his hands in faux surrender, “Not glaring. Seething.”

“Can you honestly blame me?” your face turns gloomy as you look off into the distance.

Daemon feels the drop in your demeanour, and his heart sinks. Must I always be the root of her heartache? Have I not done enough?

As if on instinct, he reaches across, and squeezes your hand, “My shadow, you must know, I have not bed any other, have not even looked at any other, ever since…”

You look down at your joined hands, his hand wider and calloused around yours. You’ve always known, when you would hold his hand to give him comfort, that it was always for your sake as well. His touch calmed you, but it was as if you had to steal moments of it for yourself.

This feels different. His thumb lazily strokes the back of your hand. You watch his eyes roam your face, from your eyes to your lips and back.

You wait for him to say the words. To say anything that would validate your longing.

“Now, I’m going to attempt something, my shadow, and you mustn’t be angry with me. Alright?”

“Daemon.”

“Alright?”

“Okay.”

Your breath catches in your throat when he leans closer, close enough that you feel his warm breath on your skin. Even closer, as you feel his lips graze yours, ever so gently. His eyes continue to search yours, gauging your reaction.

Then he presses his lips to yours. The countless times you had imagined that way it would feel, certainly does not do it any justice. Not even a little bit.

You let out a sound of appreciation, a soft little moan against his mouth, overwhelmed by the sensation. He pulls away for a second, hums affectionately, and runs his thumb over your lips. You let out a laugh, feeling light-hearted. He smiles at you, at his little shadow, before motioning towards your lips with a tilt of his jaw.

You kiss him again, and he feels his heart beating faster than ever before. The rogue prince, quite possibly one of the most notorious philanderers in the Seven Kingdoms, feeling flustered over you. You blossom into him, revealing yourself like you never had, his beloved shadow being engulfed and warmed by his sunlight.

His mouth becomes insistent in brushing against yours, his tongue tracing your lips. A shiver runs down your spine, your nerves set completely alight. His tongue mingles with yours, and you savour the taste of peppermint and sweet wine.

Reluctantly, grudgingly, you find whatever little impulse you have to pull away.

Your breath comes out in pants, and you raise your fingertips to feel where his lips were once on yours.

He studies your face, wondering what thoughts fill your mind.

You stand abruptly and begin to pace in front of him.

“Shadow?” he stops you, keeping you still with his hands on your shoulders.

“W-why?” you question.

He is still half-dazed from your taste, your scent all around him, “Don’t you see? I want you.”

“You want me?” your tone rises in disbelief.

“Must I repeat myself?” he nearly rolls his eyes, but keeps his manner sincere, “I’ve never been the sort of man to deny myself the desires of my heart. And my heart only wants you.”

Just give in. Kiss him again, throw reason away to the wind. Forget any doubt, any past grievances. He says he is yours now.

But you remember all those moments wherein you made yourself available to him. To be his friend, his source of comfort, his defender. Any way he wished to have you. You desired him. You wanted him. You loved him.

You love him. But for so long, he turned the other way. You had held your heart out for him to take, and he did not. He merely tolerated it.

“Daemon,” you shut your eyes, needing to clear your head, “what of Cregan?”

“What of him?” he hisses, eyes narrowing.

You become infuriated, “Seven hells, I am in the middle of a fucking courtship!”

“An empty formality.” Of course Daemon would believe so.

“We should not have kissed. It is not respectful to Cregan.”

His hand moves to grip your face, tilting your head, and you are caught up in the passion in his violet eyes, “Did you not enjoy it? Did you not like kissing me?”

“You know I bloody well did.”

“We can speak with your father and end this farce of a courtship. You need not continue - ”

You interrupt, “It wouldn’t be right. Cregan is a decent, and loving man. My father says so himself. He would make for a good husband.”

“And I wouldn’t?” his hands drop to his side, and he takes a step back.

“I don’t know. I have to learn how to trust you again. After everything.”

His eyes are tormented as he looks away.

“Daemon, I need time. I want to be completely certain if I will have to give up a life with Cregan.”

“Because he matters so much to you,” he sighs, appearing dejected.

“I’ve grown to value him for who he is. He’s my friend, and I had entered this courtship in hopes that it would help me forget about you. And I was thinking that perhaps, I could learn to love him… in time.”

“Don’t,” is all he can bring himself to say.

“I did not believe you cared for me, as I did you. It is only now that this,” you gesture between the two of you, “ever became anything. For you, at least. There was once a time wherein there was only you for me, but now, I just need some time.”

Daemon says nothing, letting your words sink in. His jaw clenches, deep in thought.

“Daemon,” you take his hand, “say something.”

He doesn’t. In a flash, he simply connects his lips to yours again, sucking the breath from your lungs. Your worries cease, as you give in to him. You reach upward to entangle your fingers in his silver hair; his hands hold your waist tightly.

In true Daemon fashion, his lusty resolve breaks, and he lets his hands slide downward to grip your backside. You moan, and bite his lip as a result.

He smirks, breaking the kiss, his forehead pressing against yours, “Okay, my shadow. I will wait.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The days are long and languid. Daemon thinks so. He does not have much to occupy his time apart from his duties as Commander of the City Watch. He used to gain just the barest enjoyment from it, from ensuring that the city’s vermin are put to justice. But everything feels gray, devoid of any appeal. Nothing made him incandescent. He merely watched, and waited. For you.

He remembers you as he sits in the courtyard. He remembers the way you cheered for him while he trained, the way you sneered at his opponents, cussed at them even. The intensity in your expression was almost too much at times; you were so invested in his insignificant, little displays of skill. You were always there for him.

He remembers you when he strolls into the gardens, where you first met. You had been reading in solitude that fateful afternoon, your brows furrowed over a passage that baffled you. Something about witches in the histories of Westeros, you told him afterward. He responded, “Why, do you fear you might be a witch yourself? You certainly possess the ferocity.” So crude, you thought, so intriguing. So this is Prince Daemon Targaryen.

“Careful now, my prince. I just might put a spell on you.” you smiled at him, the very first time. He thought you very comely, but then again, he thought the same of several dozen other ladies. You thought him inexplicable, his reputation preceding him. The Rogue Prince, the rebellious second son. The patron saint of delinquents and whores, Otto Hightower once told your father. But you thought him amazing. Different. Dangerous. That very night, he filled your dreams. Since then, Daemon Targaryen became your sun.

On one of these mindless strolls, he comes across you. He cannot help it, and so he trails you, like a shadow. Every step feels heavy, because you are not alone. Your arm is looped around the wolf boy’s, walking too close for Daemon’s liking.

When he sees you kissing Cregan Stark, he sees red. He feels ill, fueled with rage. He saw it unfolding, the Stark boy running his fingers over your cheekbone, and then slowly closing the distance between you two. You stand arrested by the moment, seemingly apprehensive, but you don’t move away. The way the Stark boy curls his fingers firmly on your waist, drawing you close, he wishes he had done that.

He wishes he had pulled you close when you wiped the sweat from his forehead on those days you watched him train. In those moments when he was overcome with emotion and you would hold his hand. He had walked away, or turned to someone completely insignificant, when he could have held you. When he could have kissed you, much better than the Stark boy kisses you now.

Every part of him wishes to end the Stark boy’s life. He wants to strike him down in front of you. He wants to get you back.

But seven hells, Viserys would cast him out for good. He has only just returned to his brother’s good graces, the incident with Maron Tyrell having just been resolved.

And you. You would never forgive him. You would never speak to him again. And he can’t have that. He can’t live with that. He won’t.

He needs you, he knows this now.

He loves you, he is certain.

You had become Daemon Targaryen’s sun. As he was once yours.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

There is a storm raging over King’s Landing. Heavy rain is pelting against your windows, and thunder echoes across the skies, a blanket of shadow covering the kingdom’s capital.

You sit in front of your mirror, absentmindedly running a comb through your hair. The week has felt long and languid. You certainly think so. You’ve had much to occupy your time – Cregan, duties with your father, lessons with the Septa, poring over books in the great library.

And yet, everything feels gray, as if devoid of warmth, not unlike the state of the city at present.

Daemon has been flooding your thoughts, despite your reluctance. You have been trying to not let your mind flash back to the kiss, without much success. A knot in your belly formed the moment Cregan’s lips touched yours, because you realized that you wish it had been Daemon instead.

It is as if your heart is sound in its resolve, its verdict clear. It is now left to you to either embrace the truth that it speaks, or stifle it, for the sake of an obvious consolation.

Daemon. You close your eyes, in remembrance of how he tastes. What if he loses heart? What if he no longer waits?

A sound catches your ear, one you think to be a faint knock, but it is overshadowed by a crackle of thunder booming outside at the same time.

The knocking repeats, a consistent rapping on the heavy wooden door.

You cautiously walk over, confused as to who would be visiting your chambers at this late hour.

“Who’s there?” you call out.

“Shadow.” You freeze, you would recognize this voice anywhere.

With tentative hands, you push the door open, and you are at once met with the sight of Daemon. His hair is unkempt and he is clad in only a loose white poet shirt, and dark trousers.

Words fail you, and you drink in the sight of him, as if it was the first time.

He rasps, holding your gaze, “I’m done waiting.”

“Daemon.”

He lunges forward, flooding all of your senses, gripping your face tightly in his hands and smashing his lips to yours. It’s different this time. More heated, passionate, greedy. He kicks the door shut with his foot, and he leads you deeper into the room.

“Daemon, what - ” you break away, in an attempt to catch your breath.

His forefinger flits across your lips, silencing you, “Hush, my shadow. I need this. I need you.”

You hum in agreement, and throw all caution to the wind. This is your Daemon. It has always been clear, he is the one you will always want.

Your hands roam, feeling his neck, his collarbone, and his chest exposed by the flowing shirt.

He stands captivated by you, and the gentle way in which you touch him. Your eyes filled with adoration. This is exactly what he needs. The storm might be raging outside, but right now, in this glowing candle lit room, he has his sunshine.

You had gone from being his shadow, to his light.

“I love you,” his voice is a mere whisper, and yet it electrifies your entire being, “I love you, my light.”

You look at him in a daze, and your vision becomes cloudy as a tear threatens to fall, and it does, when he kisses you again. He lifts you up on the table, and you wrap your legs around his waist. You lean backward, pulling him with you, making his pelvis press onto yours.

He groans, his frustration heightening even more when your hands roam under his shirt, gliding across the chiselled plains of his stomach, down to the line of his trousers.

He breaks the kiss, burying his face in your neck, “I want to… do this right.”

He straightens, kissing you once, before declaring, “I shall wed you first, my dearest love. Then, I shall have you.” His hand comes up to squeeze your breast, as if to make a promise, “All of you.”

Heat rushes to your face, and you can feel all this yearning prompting a knot to unravel low in your belly, “I must admit this is not what I expected of you, my prince. You were never one to exercise such restraint.”

“Be that as it may, my light, this is different. You are not like the others. Granted, I am not one to shy away from the pleasures of the flesh.” His fingers caress your ankles, before slithering gradually up your legs. He savours the softness of your flesh, squeezing your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You will soon find, my light, that fucking is a pleasure, and I especially want to show you how satisfying it can be,” his hands slide higher, and higher, “in every way possible.”

“Daemon,” you bite your lip, encouraging him, “my love.”

“Yes, my light?” he taunts.

“For fuck’s sake,” you curse impatiently, guiding your pelvis so that his fingers finally graze your undergarments.

“Impatient are we?” he shifts the cloth to one side, tracing one digit over your folds, “You are exquisite.”

“Mmm,” you tilt your head back, and brace yourself on the table, your hands struggling to keep yourself upright, “please, Daemon.”

Urged by your mewling, sensual music to his ears, he pushes one finger inside your warmth. He pumps it inside, outside, watching you all the while.

With his other hand, he undoes the delicate string on the front of your nightgown. The thin fabric haphazardly falls to your waist, revealing your torso to his hungry eyes.

“Fuck,” he hisses, pushing another finger inside you, picking up the pace. He then moves to plant a sloppy kiss on your lips, before trailing downward, licking and pecking his way until he reaches your breast. His tongue swirls freely on your nipple, and your hand comes up to brace itself onto his hair.  

“This is fucking torturous,” he nearly growls, once again kissing you. Daemon wants to lose himself in the sight of your unravelling, as you unabashedly fuck his fingers. He prays to the gods that he might learn to control his lust, his desire to just forego tradition and bury his cock deep inside your pussy threatening to take over him.

“Gods, Daemon, this is so much better than I imagined,” you pant, your lips turning up in a smirk.

“Is that so, my light? Have you touched yourself to the thought of me?”

When you nod, he purrs in your ear, his lips grazing the skin, “Have you dreamed about fucking me? As I have you?”

His thumb circles rapidly around your clit, while his two soaked digits relentlessly plunge into your pussy. “Y-yes, Daemon.” His movement grows ever so careless and wild, fingers curling inside you, eager to bring you to climax. Your eyes flutter closed, as your pelvis begins to feel tense, that familiar spasm gathering below.  

“Let go, my light,” he commands, “Release yourself onto me.”

Once more, you pull him by the neck, and taste him. When his tongue collides with yours, you let go, gushing down on his fingers. He feels your juices drip down to his palm, but he makes no move. He leans back, memorizing the sight of you. His shadow, his light, covered in a sheen of sweat, thin nightgown pooled by your waist. Your legs spread wide open for him, your cum still warm on his skin.  

He cleans his hand, first sucking some of your orgasm off his fingers, and wiping the rest on the back of his shirt. He leans forward, palms on either side of your thighs on the table.

“Daemon?” you breathe, eyes half-lidded from the aftermath, “What is it?”

“I love you.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Daemon’s arm is wrapped around you, as your head rests on his chest, listening to his faint heartbeat.

You found yourselves lying down on your bed, atop the silken sheets, after that delightful table incident, deciding to call it thus as you now fondly think back to it.

You had been sharing stories of mixed significance, ranging from what you had for breakfast to the culmination of the war in the Stepstones.

“I may have to go into battle,” he confesses, “sometime in the days to come.”

Worry floods you, knowing how reckless he can be when faced with the thrill of war. Violence is not something that deterred Daemon, let alone the pain of death. If anything, he seemed to welcome it, and it frightens you.

You do not want to ever lose him. It was true then, but now, your very being depends on it. With him gone, you are afraid that you would never be whole again.

“Must you go?” you whisper.

“You need not worry, my light,” he kisses the top of your head lovingly, “I will always return to you.”

“But must you go? Is it necessary that you be there?” you prop yourself up on one elbow, so that he may see the sincerity in your expression.

“No,” he decides, “the war is all but won. There are just some loose ends to tie up, and the Velaryon army is more than capable of putting an end to it all. I had just half a mind to proffer aid from myself and a portion of the King’s army.”

“So let the King’s army go, and you can stay here with me.”

“My love?” he grins, “are you truly demanding that of me?”

“Just this once?” you plead, smiling at him, “I don’t wish to forbid you from ever stepping into battle. I just… I’ve only just had you. I prefer not to take any foolish risk, as little as it might be.”

A smile forms on his lips, as he relishes in knowing that you truly must care for him.

“As you wish,” he relents, “I shall stay.”

You kiss him, certain that you will never tire of the feeling of his lips flush against yours.

You look down at him with stars in your eyes, “I love you, Daemon.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The members of the Small Council try to hide their surprise at the presence of Prince Daemon, already sitting comfortably at his chair, as they enter the room and each shuffle to their place around the table.

“My lords,” Daemon casually greets, “I had thought you all had forgotten about the council meeting.”

“Prince Daemon, I assure you that we are exactly on time,” Lord Beesbury responds, failing to understand the jest.

Viserys is the last to walk in, accompanied by his Kingsguard. He pauses upon seeing his brother, but quickly carries on to his seat at the head of the table.

“Brother,” Daemon says, amused, “do try not to look so amazed.”

“Daemon,” Viserys merely nods in acknowledgment, before turning to the rest of the council, “let us begin.”

The minutes seem to pass by at a snail’s pace, at least for Daemon. He unknowingly gazes out the window now and again, as if in a daydream, eliciting several scolding glares from his brother.

Taxes, festivities, tapestries, resources. All these concerns fly over his head, especially since it was only the night before last when he finally claimed you. Or more aptly put, when he surrendered himself over to you.

“Princess Rhaenyra is to embark on a tour to several neighbouring cities, as part of her duties as princess of the realm, and as my heir,” Viserys announces, before addressing your father, “She kindly wishes to have your daughter, the Lady Y/n, as her companion for this particular excursion.”

Daemon’s interest is restored at the sound of your name, and he straightens, eager to hear the rest. Little does he know, Viserys notices this slight movement, peering at him suspiciously out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh, what an honour that is, your Grace,” your father beams, “she will surely only be glad to accept the princess’ request. I shall relay the news to her when she returns from Storm’s End, in around a day or two.”

“Y/n is in Storm’s End?” Daemon speaks for the first time since the council discussions began, and all heads turn to him. There is an intimacy with which the prince mentions your name, a genuine curiosity with which he inquires about you, that drew everyone’s attention.

“Yes, my prince,” your father responds carefully, “she wanted to treat with Lord Cregan Stark, who has been visiting his sister Sara, the consort of Lord Baratheon’s eldest son.”

“How goes the courtship, my lord?” Tyland asks purposefully, knowing that it might turn Daemon irate, as he is already sulking in his seat, looking as if the wrong word might set him off.

“I’m afraid she plans to put an end to it,” your father finally says, regret perceptible in his voice, “as she has divulged to me that she might never see Lord Stark as more than a friend.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, my lord,” Viserys expresses genuinely, although he continues to closely watch Daemon’s reactions. His amusement grows at his younger brother’s inability to hide his emotions when it comes to you. First, intrigue at the mere mention of your name, then disappointment upon hearing that you are to see Cregan Stark, and finally the most obvious sense of relief regarding the end of your courtship.

A laugh threatens to escape Viserys. Being the elder brother that he is, he craves the pleasure of playfully taunting Daemon over his increasingly apparent affection for you.

“Nothing to be sorry about, dear brother,” Daemon speaks, breaking Viserys out of his thoughts.

“Oh?” Viserys turns to him in anticipation.

“My wish is to wed the Lady Y/n, as promptly as can be expected.” The entire council falls into silence, and Viserys finally lets out the dry laugh he has been holding back.

“M-my prince?” your father looks as if his heart would cease, and he certainly feels so, his chest significantly tightening at the prince’s declaration. Due to elation, or horror, he is yet to determine.

“Seven hells,” Otto exclaims, turning to Viserys, “won’t this be improper? The Lady Y/n has just ended a courtship with another lord, immediately to be wed to the prince?”

“I don’t suppose so,” Viserys easily counters, placing his hand atop his brother’s, “Daemon, I would hope that the lady is aware of your desire to be wed to her, and that you are not simply about to spring this upon the poor girl?”

“Of course she is,” Daemon confirms, his voice steady, “we are in love, if you cunts must know.” He could not help his less than tasteful remark, growing defensive about you.

“Gods be good,” Lord Beesbury balks at the prince’s crudeness.

“Alright,” Viserys raises a hand to appease the council, “Daemon, brother, I would be glad to see this come to fruition. Your marriage to the Lady Y/n would be exceedingly advantageous after all, for both our Houses.” He addresses your father, “I would assume that you believe so as well, my lord?”

Your father’s thoughts race, and with your best interests in mind, he speaks only to Daemon, “Do you truly love her, my prince?”

There is not a shred of doubt in Daemon’s voice when he answers, “More than anything.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

You sit in your usual spot in the gardens, accompanied by Hestia. A book rests on your lap, but you pay it no attention, your mind elsewhere.

Having just returned from Storm’s End, you feel at peace. You already knew that Cregan would accept your choice, but you did not wish to cause him any pain. It may have just been his natural charm, or a sense of ease with which he can hide his displeasure, but when you finally confided in him about Daemon, he was only quick to offer you a smile and pull you into his arms.

“Quite frankly, my lady, it only seemed a matter of time before Prince Daemon would break and accept that he needs you,” he said sincerely, his smile unwavering, “and I can recognize love when I see it, and it certainly exists between the two of you.”

Love. You shut your eyes, thinking of him, and savour the warmth of sunlight on your skin.

“My lady,” Hestia whispers, and your eyes slowly flutter open. You see her looking toward a figure in the distance.

“I think you have a shadow.”

🖤🖤🖤

The longest fuckin chapter I've ever written, gods be good. It did get a bit rushed towards the end. There was meant to be this whole scenario about Daemon heading into battle after hearing that the reader went to Winterfell instead to treat with Cregan Stark. Then I read how long it actually takes to travel from King's Landing to Winterfell and the timing just didn't fit with the events.

The parallels between Daemon and the reader were my favourite parts to write. They really are just two sides of the same coin.

Also, I did not expect myself to be writin' spicy content for this chapter, but I guess it just happened?? Oh well. 🤷‍♀️

I apologize this took aaaages to be put out. The amount of times I altered some parts I'm telling you, y'all would have just wrenched my laptop from me and I would not have blamed you 😂

My inbox was indeed flooded with demands for this chapter and I can only thank you all so much for wanting to read on!!! 🤍

taglist: @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @itscheybaby @my-dark-prince @keep-beating-my-dear-heart @mamamooqa @63angel @azucarmorennna @kate16sstuff @thoughtfulfreakalpaca @alexandra-001 @babywolff @gloryekaterina @writer-lee5 @lockleysgrl @alexa4040 @piceous21 @softtina @bregarc @ramennoodles212 @siriusdumblittlepuppy @captainweirdo42 @thx-rn @merovingianprincess @clarap23 @itisjustwhatitis @blushinyouth @aeisnoa @a-lil-bit-nuts @paprikaquinn @just-some-random-blogger @cantstoptherecs @baybieruth @wondergal2001 @pax-2735 @immyowndefender @moonmaiden1996 @wrendermeuseless @schniiipsel @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @icarusignite @flourishandblotts-inc @siriusdumblittlepuppy @booknerd2004 @just-a-harmless-patato @moni-cah @boofy1998 @huntycola @sanguinalia @thelastcitysposts @daeneeryss

[asdfghjklmals]

LILIES & ROSES✩༶‧˚

GENRE + T/W: sfw, fluff. suggestive comment. WORD COUNT: 1.2k words. TAGS: boyfriend!gojo, satoru gojo x fem!oc. established couple. adoptedkiddos! megumi & tsumiki

SYNOPSIS: oc gojo girlfriend hates being woken up in the morning, but her unconventional family has a surprise for her. AUTHOR'S NOTE: happy mothers day to all the mamas out there! here's a quick little fic for oc gojo girlfriend and how much tsumiki, megumi, and satoru love her. REMINDER: if you want to imagine yourself in oc gojo girlfriend's character descriptions instead, please do!

"alright kiddos, here's the plan," satoru started a huddle in the middle of the living room with tsumiki and megumi. megumi rolled his eyes and sighed, he never liked to entertain anything satoru was thinking of. tsumiki had a big smile on her face and always followed along with whatever he said. "megumi is going to get flowers across the street and tsumiki is going to stay behind and start breakfa—"

"and what exactly are you going to do?" megumi glared at his white haired guardian.

"well, your brave and handsome caregiver is going to obviously be the one to wake up (y/n)." satoru said.

megumi, tsumiki, and satoru shuddered at the thought of having to be the one to wake you up from your slumber. if there was one thing they all knew in the household, it was not to wake you up from your sleep on your days off.

7 year old megumi held out his hand to satoru, "give me your credit card."

satoru scoffed in disbelief at how straightforward megumi could be. he sighed and pulled out his credit card as the 7 year old boy swiped it from his fingers with the swiftness.

megumi walked down to the flower shop across the street. he thought out how you and satoru had "adopted" him and tsumiki almost two years ago. you and satoru were still students at jujutsu high school. it was a huge adjustment as satoru and you were only 18 years old at the time, entering into your third year as sorcerers.

the flower shop owner smiled as megumi walked into the shop, "hi megumi, are you here to get some flowers for (y/n) for mother's day?"

megumi softly smiled, "how did you know?"

"oh, i had a feeling," the shop owner said.

little did megumi know, satoru gojo was a regular at this flower shop. mainly because he stopped here to buy you flowers whenever he made you upset.

"(y/n)'s favorite flowers are lilies," she recommended as megumi was looking at the huge bouquet of roses. "mr. gojo always gets her roses, but secretly her favorites are the lilies."

megumi turned to look at the beautiful white lilies. he had an idea.

"can i have a big bouquet with both lilies and roses?" megumi asked the shop owner. she smiled at him and nodded.

*************************************

at home, tsumiki was standing on a small step stool in front of the stove flipping pancakes in a cute pink frilly apron that satoru had bought for her. the kitchen smelled of bacon and coffee. at the ripe young age of 8, tsumiki was quite skilled in the kitchen. she hummed to herself as she set the pancakes onto four plates and started to crack eggs into a new clean frying pan.

"megumi and i like overeasy eggs... gojo-sensei likes scrambled... and (y/n) likes sunny side up..." tsumiki spoke softly to herself. the toaster popped up as she stepped to the side and took the four pieces of toast out. she returned back to watch her eggs.

"i'm home," megumi announced as he set the large bouquet of flowers on the dining table, "where's the idiot?"

"he's in the room with (y/n)!" tsumiki happily chirped.

the mutual agreement was knowing that the "idiot" in question was satoru gojo.

megumi took out a folded piece of paper from his backpack and handed it to tsumiki as she slid all the eggs into their respective plates, "here, sign it."

tsumiki opened the piece of paper to find a drawing of somewhat identifiable stick figures. she saw megumi with his dark blue hair, her with her brown ponytail, satoru with his sunglasses and white hair, and you with your long black hair and green eyes. underneath the family portrait was written in megumi's surprisingly neat penmanship, ‘happy mother’s day ’.

"awww megumi, this is so cute!" tsumiki gushed.

megumi brushed her off and said, "it's not a big deal, we had to make mother's day cards in my homeroom class".

*************************************

satoru gojo was risking it all today. he opened the bedroom door, the room was still dark as the blackout curtains haven't been opened. he quietly made his way to the window and quickly opened the curtains as you winced from the bright sunlight hitting your face. rule number one broken. (read ‘morning routine’ here)

you grabbed the duvet to cover your face, but was felt with resistance. satoru completely grabbed the duvet cover off of you and threw it on the other side of your shared king size bed. rule number two broken.

you kissed your teeth in annoyance and turned to face him, "satoru gojo, what do you think you're doing? are you asking for a death wish?"

satoru laughed, "come on, i have a surprise! wake up already." he leaned into the bed and grabbed your hand. you groaned in tired annoyance. he held up your body and pushed you into the bathroom to do your morning routine.

"this better be a good surprise." you threatened him.

"or what? you gonna spank me?" satoru retorted back at you.

*************************************

satoru led you into the kitchen with his hands over your eyes.

"surprise!" satoru, tsumiki, and megumi shouted in unison.

there was a delicious breakfast spread of pancakes, toast, eggs, bacon, fruits, and hashbrowns thanks to your wonderfully talented, adopted daughter. next to the table was a bouquet as big as megumi.

you pouted your lips as you looked at the smug three, "oh my gosh... is this all for me?"

"yes!" tsumiki yelled and ran to hug your leg.

"thank you, babygirl." you bent down to hug her as megumi slowly crept towards you with the bouquet that was just as big as him.

"these are you for you, (y/n)."

you grabbed the huge bouquet from the little boy, "how did you know my favorite flowers are lilies, megumi?"

"i thought you liked roses, babe?" satoru asked in confusion as he sat down in his assigned dining seat.

"every girl likes roses, but lilies are my favorite flowers... i guess megumi just listens to me." you teased your lover. megumi quickly stuck his tongue out at the white haired sorcerer.

"oh! one last thing (y/n)!" tsumiki ran to the kitchen counter to grab the card that megumi made. she gave it to you and you swear you almost cried.

"megumi, you made this in school? babe, look at this." you showed your boyfriend megumi's drawing of your little family of four. satoru had a huge grin on his face. megumi couldn't help but turn bright red in embarrassment.

"thank you, all of you." you grabbed satoru underneath his chin with your free hand and pulled him in for a kiss. megumi and tsumiki ran to your side to hug you as you kissed them on the top of their heads. satoru bringing home two children without letting you know was a very unconventional way of becoming a mother, but you wouldn’t want it any other way.

“happy mother’s day, babe.” satoru grinned at you.

EXTRA:

"hey megumi, how much did the flowers cost?" satoru questioned the blue haired child as he was reading a book on the couch.

"i don't know, like maybe $20?" megumi lied.

satoru glared at him, he knew he was lying. he logged into his bank account and saw the transaction from the shop.

"maybe $20? more like $200, you brat!" satoru barked back at him.

"who cares if it was $200? (y/n) likes it."

satoru stopped mid thought, the kid was right. as much as he and megumi butt heads, if there was one thing that they could agree on, it was their love for you.

© 2023 ASDFGHJKLMALS — ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PLEASE DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, OR REPOST MY WORK.

DIVIDERS PROVIDED BY @/ANLIAN-AISHANG

[writers-potion]

said is NOT DEAD. our brains have seen it so much that when reading dialogue, it just glosses over it. if you don't want to detract from the dialogue, USE SAID. other words might ground the reader a little too much and lose a bit of immersion.

--this comes from my old tutor who now has a phd in literature

Said Is Not Dead

Of course not! "Said" should still be your go-to speech tag, the benefit being that it flows best. I find it nice to have a larger working vocabulary when it comes to expressing speech, though, and I think many writers would agree! It's one thing to use "said" because you know it's the best word choice and another to keep using it because you can think of no alternative.

Having said that:

". . . Don't tell me your character 'excaimed,' 'stated,' or 'replied.' When in doubt, just use 'said.' That's all. Maybe they 'answered.' They certainly did not 'retort.' You can use 'said' more often than you think . . . it's one of those words that takes a while before it starts sounding repetitive." -- Ariel Gore, How to Become a Famous Writer Before You're Dead

"The best form of dialogue attribution is 'said,' as in 'he said, she said, Bill said, Monica said." -- Stephen King, On Writing

"Mr. [Robert] Ludlum . . . hates the 'he said' locution and avoids it as much as possible. Characters in The Bourne Ultimatum seldom 'say' anything. Instead, they cry, interject, interrupt, muse, state, counter, conclude, mumble, whisper (Mr. Ludlum is great on whispers), intone, roar, exclaim, fume, explode, mutter. There is one especially unforgettable tautology: '"I repeat," repeated Alex.' The book may sell in the billions, but it's still junk." -- Newgate Callender, in The New York Times Book Review

"Editors and critics often refer to melodramatic dialogue tags as 'said bookisms.' They know that these phrases give our story an amateurish look. Your readers might not know what the darn things are called, but chances are that they'll notice them, too . . . In most cases, the word 'said' would work just fine, and using said bookisms detracts from the dialogue." -- Ann M. Marble, "'Stop Using Those Said Bookisms,' the Editor Shrieked."

"[Say is] just too simple and clear and straightforward for many people. Why say something when you can declare, assert, expostulate, whine, exclaim, groan, peal, breathe, cry, explain, or asseverate it? I'm all for variety and freshness of expression, but let's not go overboard." -- Patricia T. O'Conner, Woe Is I

"In journalism circles, said is a virtue--simple, precise, and unadorned--and alternatives to it are considered frilly and silly. You don't have to agree, but be aware that lots of editors hold this view. Choose your alternatives to said with great care." --June Casagrande, It Was the Best of Sentences, It Was the Worst of Sentences

"We're all in favor of choosing exactly the right verb for the action, but when you're writing speaker attributions the right verb is nearly always 'said.' The reason those well-intentioned attempts at variety don't work is that verbs other than 'said' tend to draw attention away from the dialogue." --Renni Browne and Dave King, Self-Editing for Fiction Writers

Side Note: After a month-long hiatus while this uni writer struggled with exams, internships, interviews and multiple mental breakdowns, I am going to resume answering questions that have piled up in my inbox! Get ready to be bombarded with writing QnA!!!! :)

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

[captain-lessship]

Dad! L Headcannons

a/n: I tried to write this as gender ambiguous as possible but it definitely leans more AFAB reader but I just wanted to say that families come in all shapes and ranges. And L would want to raise a kid with you regardless of your gender orientation.

Pre-Children:

Was the one to bring it up.

wanted two but would be totally supportive if you only wanted one

Would help you plan everything for getting yourself ready for kids (Doctors visits, family therapy if you wanted, looked into every option if you couldn’t carry a child on your own.)

when you actually became pregnant, he was over the moon.

Pregnancy:

Was very supportive and caring.

Never made you feel guilty for your cravings and such.

went to every appointment he could with you

Wanted this to be stress free as possible so he eliminated a lot of your struggles

He legit took notes on pregnancy books

Could be a little much with all the information he now knows but will back off slightly if you told him that he was being a hovering husband

He only trusted certain people around you: Watari, Your family, your friends and the doctors. Would definitely try to keep you in the house if he could but would accept it if you had a problem with it.

when you found out you were having twins, he nearly fainted of happiness. (But do to his lack of expression, you thought it was shock)

Infant: 

very gentle with the babies but isn’t very good at holding them. 

Prefers to give the affection by means of letting their tiny fingers wrap around his or giving them tiny kisses til they giggle

Thankfully he is up to take care of the babies throughout the night. With the aid of Watari. (Who is pretty much their grandpa)

Keeps a keen eye on the baby monitors. The monitors themselves have microphones and thermometers to keep the nursery at a comfortable and consistent temperature.

Was a little shaky when changing the first diaper but is now a pro and surprisingly quick at it. 

Throws up if they throw up.

Calls the babies “it” 

Pities them when you dress them up.

“Do they really need to be that… frilly?” “They’re adorable.” “Our baby is currently 86% frill.” 

Family photos litter the house. He is extremely proud of you and his children

Toddler: 

he falls victim to the puppy dog eyes too easily. 

The children are spoiled rotten. 

Has been wrapped around his kids fingers since the day they were born and the kiddos are just now realizing this. And using it to their advantage 

Doesn’t want his kids to be like him and only eat sweets.

If his kids didn’t like a certain food, he would have it cooked a different way. Only after several attempts at getting the kids to at least tolerate it, would he give up and drop the matter entirely. Almost

“Taste buds change every seven years” “They hate all things that resemble a carrot.” “For now.”

Would be the one to check in the kids during the night, either on the hallway camera (after they don’t need a baby monitor, he takes cameras out of their room because he respects your child (and honestly, can a toddler do anything maliciously?)or by carefully peering through the door. 

Would be extremely proud if his children took on his seating position.

he was built to be a girl dad. He just was. 

He would let his baby girl do his makeup and paint his nails. 

Surprisingly good at doing her hair. 

“Look! Papa made these!” She’d said, pointing at her pigtails. 

Has been known to forget that he was playing dress up and go on video calls with a fake tiara in his hair. 

“Please, refrain from snickering. There is nothing funny about this case.” “Uh… Sir, there’s something in your hair?” “Ah..” 

is *somehow* surprised when his son reflects him: Quiet.

Loves doing anything with his kids because it gives him a chance to have a childhood again.

Nearly came to tears when he saw his kids drawing of him as a superhero. (He later laid his head in your lap and cried happy tears.) 

He loves his kids more than anything in the world and would do anything for them. 

[hnnn-fable]

I've had this idea for a portrait of Cassandra for years now, and today I think I finally successfully pulled it off. I did have the sketch of it for a while, but far less skill in digital painting back then than I have now.

Poor Cass though. She really doesn't like wearing dresses, let alone frilly, poofy, gaudy ones. And the wig is also probably her least favorite thing in the world.

Below the cut are some earlier sketches I did of her over the years trying to get this down. I warn you, they are not all that pretty XD The original uncolored sketch is also included:

Gosh I hate that drawing on the right XD Her face is just so...off.

EDIT: Oops, forgot one XD I used an interestingly fuzzy brush for this on for whatever reason lol

[okaeri-ossan]

I've been under the weather so I randomly picked up this Alice Soft visual novel called Diabolique. The company is a legend in the industry as is known for creating the (much praised and maligned) Rance series. I haven't played that but I have played Toushin Toshi and Mamatoto, both of which I enjoyed quite a bit. However, I've been really surprised by Diabolique so far...

Diabolique is a pure love story about a demon-ish kinkiller guy named Azulite falling in love with a very punished little girl named Leticia. Tragedy befalls them, and the immortal Azulite travels the land in search of Leticia's reincarnations with the goal of making her happy throughout all her lifetimes.

I was seriously surprised by how pure it all is. There were some lines in Toushin Toushi that made me go "awww" and I assume that's thanks to the writer Tori, who has had her in hand on Alice Soft since the start. There's lots of tooth-rottingly sweet sentiments, like "I'll chase all the bad things in your nighmares away" or "even if you won't speak to me, I'll watch over you so you're happy". They're the kind of straight-forward precious words that I always fall victim to. TOO KYUUUUUUTE! It gives the work a feeling not dissimilar to... joseimuke? But there's a bunch of monster r*pe sometimes too. But also there's cute stuff. So yeah, too kyute LOL

The most moe character isn't any of the heroines, though (even if Leticia and Aria are very adorable). It's the immortal demon protagonist, killer of his own kind. Azulite is the gentlest, sweetest man I have no clue how he ended up in an H-game.

When I said the game was pure love, I meant it. This man is too pure. He starts off the game wandering through the desert alone all badass-like before stopping to talk to flowers ("aren't flowers and humans the same?"). He's timid in front of people and painfully polite, always bowing and saying excuse me, tripping over his words when he's flustered (which is often). He has a genuine deep care for the heroine, promising to protect her from the painful things in her life. It's a promise so strong he follows her into her next lives. It's okay if she falls in love with someone else, as long as she's happy and safe. He tries to do all the domestic chores (FRILLY APRON TIME!), he gets up early to cook for her, he draws her a hot bath if she needs it, and most of all he watches over her when she sleeps so she won't get nightmares. In that case, isn't he like a guardian angel? He's a demon who hates himself and prays to God because he wants to be good, but I think he ended up acting like a real angel. Leticia, the poor heroine who experiences endless tragedy throughout her many lives, will always be loved where ever she goes. I still have yet to finish it but I want them to be happy in the end. And if they can't have a happy ending, then I hope he will continue following Leticia through her many lifetimes...

It's not a game I would recommend for various reasons-- the painfully outdated system, the menu functions that break the pacing in areas, the previously mentioned r*pe that pops up-- but it's got so much wholesomeness (I know that sounds silly after what I've just said) I can't stop reading. Sometimes, you need some sugar sweetness in a brutal world. Sometimes... malewife (╯▽╰ ) Okay time to go see if I can snag any doujinshis of the main couple they are mega totes adorbz KYAHHHH!!! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

[danikamariewrites]

I would die with happiness if you did Eris x adhd!reader 💕💕💕

Eris x adhd!reader

A/n: I’m so happy that these headcanons are getting some love

Warnings: some angst, mentions of verbal abuse, and mentions of mental health struggles

Growing up in the Autumn Court your parents always expected perfection

You were the oldest of your siblings so you were expected to set the example of how to behave

When your tutor brought up to your parents that you have ADHD and that you should be tested for an official diagnosis they just brushed the tutor off

Your parents refused to believe there was something wrong with their perfect daughter

Growing up when your symptoms would show like zoning out, forgetting things, or blurting things out when you weren’t supposed to speak your parents would become very angry. When you were in private they would yell at you for acting disrespectful or stupid or tell you that you made them look bad in front of the court and worse the High Lord

The only person who wouldn’t yell at you and who understood you was Eris

He understood that not everyone acted the same and some people just worked differently

Masking your ADHD took a lot out of you and you were very anxious that everyone could see through it or were looking at you when you attended parties or dinners

You hated loud noises or certain sounds, they drove you crazy and all you wanted was silence when you got overwhelmed

Eris could tell when you were anxious he would always float over to you and help soothe your worries

“It’s alright little fox, I’m here with you and you can get through this.” He’d coo at you and place his hand on your lower back

Even though the room would be crowded he would walk you through and then take you out into the gardens for fresh air. You’d sit by a fountain and just space out listening to the water trickle as Eris rubbed circles on your back

Fidgeting and being overstimulated were your worst problems and you hated that they would draw attention to you. You hated feeling like people were looking at you with disgust or annoyance because something so small was bothering you

Eris was always there to make you comfortable

Eris would always ask you to hold something for him if you were moving around so you had something to focus on or toy around with

if you were biting at your nails or cracking your fingers too much Eris would take your hands in his and start playing with your fingers and kissing your hands as a distraction, it always made you happy

When it comes to being overstimulated your big thing is usually the texture of clothes or food

You liked simple things, nothing over the top or frilly

When you were at a dress fitting for the Autumn Solstice ball Eris went with you

Your mother had picked out the fabrics and style the dress would be so you automatically knew you’d hate it and need Eris there for moral support

Once you put the dress on you could tell it was too tight and the fabric was too itchy, overwhelming your senses

When you stood in front of the mirror with the tailor and Eris behind you he could tell you were on the verge of tears

Not only was the interior uncomfortable, the outer materials of the dress bothered your exposed skin when you put your arms down. You just couldn’t find a comfortable position in the dress

Eris excused the tailor so she wouldn’t see you break down. “I hate this,” you say with tears forming in your eyes, “not just the dress. Why can’t I just be normal for once.” Eris turns you around to face him. “Hey, you are normal. Just because you feel things differently doesn’t make you abnormal.”

“They’re going to call me difficult and hate me even more than they already do if I don’t wear this.” You cried. Eris pulled you to his chest shushing you. “I’m sorry Eris, gods this is so stupid. I’m sorry I’m just so much.”

“You aren’t too much little fox, your perfect. We’re going to get you a new dress ok.”

It always broke his heart when you talked down on yourself. He thinks that your perfect and he couldn’t believe you couldn’t see it

He would always get you to see the positives about your ADHD like how creative you are, your view of the world is refreshing, and you have this joyful spark in you that makes him forget how awful things are at times

“You are so beautiful little fox, did you know that?” “I didn’t even think of that. You are so smart fox.” “I’m so happy you’re mine, and that I get to be with you.” “You are always the best part of my day, did you know that my love?”

[deconstructthesoup]

Y'know what, screw the "voice designs get unlocked when you unlock the voices," I love all these ladies and I'm gonna talk about them.

So!

Apprentice is basically dressed like a cute wizard girl you'd see in an anime or video game---big hat, comfy cloak, frilly skirt, thigh-high boots, and an equally frilly button-up. It's her first day at wizard school, she's starry-eyed and ready to learn, but she's still incredibly naive. She's also got a wand, because how else are you going to learn how to cast spells?

By contrast, Curious is more of a "cozy librarian" type girl---big comfy sweater, big comfy skirt, glasses on a chain. She doesn't have multiple heads or arms or anything like the Stranger does, even though she's a Stranger equivalent, but her features are... floating is the best term I can use to describe it. She's confused, she wants to know more, she's gained through moments where questioning things leads to mixed results---our girl's a bit scattered, and that's okay.

Charming is styled more like your typical Halloween witch---big black hat, black dress, belt stocked with potions, and a badass magic staff. She's still got catlike features, because she wouldn't be herself without them, and... yeah, no, Charming's design is pretty standard, all things considered. She's a devious little magical catgirl.

Warrior is a full-on lady knight. She's fully dressed like your typical paladin---gorgeously designed armor, a billowing cape, and an enormous fuck-you sword. And while she definitely has a bit of an ego, this woman is very much your classic knight devoted to a cause. All of the Voices secretly have a thing for her. Especially Researcher.

Restless is styled in a Victorian fashion---fancy updo, corset, heavy skirts, puffy sleeves---and she looks every bit as ghostly as her canon counterpart. She's someone who can't handle stagnation, and just wants the freedom to be impulsive and crazy... hence, why she looks like the tortured heroine of a gothic novel.

Doll also has a Victorian aesthetic, but it's more akin to, well, a spooky doll---frilly black dress, pigtails, the whole nine yards. I also imagine her, weirdly enough, holding a doll, just so she can have something to squeeze when things get really freaky. She's got Jane Doe vibes.

Humbled is bound in chains like Prisoner is in canon, but she's dressed in rags instead of a princess dress. Her whole thing is that she's been beaten down and made to believe that she's lesser, and her design kind of reflects what it feels like to be at rock bottom and being kicked when you're down---even though she is much smarter than she believes herself to be. (And yes, I am drawing from insecurities based on having been a neurodivergent kid with strict and exacting teachers, what of it?)

Hateful is still a large devil girl, but she's visibly unwell (bags under her eyes, sunken features, regularly coughs up blood), she's dressed in a hospital gown, and there's still IVs in her arms that aren't attached to anything but are nigh-on impossible to remove. I've considered renaming her Voice of the Patient, except she's... well, the opposite of patient. She's essentially meant to be someone who is sick and is getting worse by the minute, but keeps on fighting anyway because she doesn't know how to do anything else.

Prepared still has a lot of animalistic features in her design, though she looks less like a prowling beast and more like someone who's well on their way to becoming one---basically, werewolf vibes. She's kind of meant to be a contrast to the Inventor's more industrial style, representing a natural force that's apprehensive towards all the metal and gears and is hell-bent on proving that he doesn't have an advantage. She has the instincts of an animal, and she can guide us through... hopefully.

And last but not least, Rebel is the most modern out of everyone else---baggy pants, combat boots, chain wallets, leather jacket, the whole shebang. If the Substitute is the teacher who has no idea what he's doing, then Rebel is the student who's slacking off, cutting class, and has no other motivation other than to be a thorn in authority's side. In my opinion, the Razor is the only one who really breaks away from all the fantasy vibes of all the other vessels, and I think that should carry over into her voice equivalent.

[vincentask]

Balan WonderWorld: Tale of Two:

Interlude

Author’s Note: This all takes place in the events in the Balan Novel. No spoilers of the novel, but it’s best if you read the novel first hand! :]

This is also a repost; so some things in the canon may look different from the original!

The stage was a quiet, little city in which a stage prop-like crescent moon lightened blissfully of a fake night. It was adorned with little shopping centers and a beautiful plaza fountain, which on top had a statue of a swordsman. The grinning man, along with The Fighter on his side, looked around the dream-like plaza. Fighter couldn’t shake her head off the eeriness of the mannequins with the many and multiple sizes that had a variety of clothes on them. One was a frilly dress, another a simple suit, most had sheets covered on them as if they were ghosts. One after one, each mannequin looked uncanny and stranger as they progressed from the stage. 

“...Balan?”, Fighter asked.

  The Grinning Man turned to the side of Fighter.

“Why are we here again…?”

The man sighed, as if he heard this many times. He knew she was getting anxious with this stage, so it was best to reassure her:

“This stage that you see right now may be ordinary, but it is not what it seems on the contrary…” The Grinning Man says, as if trying to solve a mystery.

Fighter gulped, this wasn’t a good sign.

The Man trials off in rhymes again as he was thinking to himself; “Now I could’ve sworn I’ve seen this stage before. The mannequins, the towns, the swordsman on the fountain… it’s all too familiar what we have to restore…”

Restore…? Restore what?! Fighter thought. That maestro, he’s always aloof with what he says in his actions and words. Fighter thought it was best not to ask him, not only he hates questions being repeated, but he was in his thoughts again.

Whatever was going on, they kept going until Fighter stopped and looked at the brick sidewalks, they were all this beautiful wood-orange, not those sidewalks that she’s seen from her city. Until she saw something glisten in the sidewalk.

…A drop…?

Those drops were everywhere in everyone's stages with Fighter’s adventures with the Grinning Man. Many had different varying colors, one pink, blue, gold, red … the colors were endless! The man even told her once that they represented the emotions of each person's heart. Some say they were stolen, or lost.

Her curiosity took over her as she picked up the drop. It was beautiful, it glistened rays on her face of all of the colors of the rainbow, until she caught a glimpse of…a shadow. Fighter’s eyes widened as she narrowed them down to see what she actually saw. 

A figure of a little girl just like her. She had brownish-blueish hair that was stylised with low dropping pigtails. She wore a white summer blouse and jean shorts with leggings. She was probably around her age, maybe younger than that. Fighter couldn’t recall what she was doing, but it looked like she was in her room and she was… sewing? Drawing? Whatever she was doing, a woman came into the room. Fighter assumed it was her mother, maybe it was to check on what she was working on…?

As she watched the memory go by like a movie, the mother and the girl seemed to look at her, then she started to see the shadows, the visions in her mind.

She gasped and dropped the memory drop in her hand. 

She saw a vision of a swordsman, his cavalier hat drooping down where there was a shadow on his face and you could only see his eyes on his hat band, just like The Grinning Man. Unlike the The Grinning Man however, he didn’t seem to carry that theatrical grinning smile. His hand band was also adorned with these beautiful feathers as well. He also had a suit that had two puffy shoulders and two long tail coats behind his back. He also wielded a sword that possessed a ribbon right around it. Beside him, there was that little girl that Fighter saw in the drop, except her hands had a pleading side, was she trying to tell them to save her? Save Wonderworld? Help them? What?

As the visions went away, Grinning Man caught the drop just in time before it hit the ground, as if this was expected to happen to her.

“Be very careful on dropping these, dear Emma!” Balan said with his wide grin, 

“These drops are delicate and could easily break if you are not careful enough.

One mistake, and all of the memories you seek will be rough!”

Emma tried to gain all the information she just witnessed from the visions. The girl, the swordsman that looked just like Balan, and why did the woman and girl stare back at her in the drop? What could all of this mean? Wonderworld was always a strange place, but she had so many questions that she wanted to ask Balan.

“Ah, so you saw those visions..?” asked Balan as if he could read her mind.

Emma nodded slowly, Balan kneeled at her level.

“And you saw the girl and the swordsman that looked just like me, correct?” Balan was in full detective mode, he wanted to make sure that Emma saw what she actually saw.

Emma nodded faster, determined to find answers on this mysterious duo.

This is all the Balan wanted to know;

“Now, that was none other than Detective and The Memory Thief. Nobody knows who they are and what their business is here. Nor Lance or I know, for they would always disappear.”

Emma listened, taking all of the information that she could process. 

As Emma looked at the drop to see the reflection again, it was gone! Her eyes widened with surprise as she then looked behind her to see all of the other drops that were laying as well. As soon as she tried to pick up another drop, Balan put his hand on her shoulder to stop her. 

“Little one, I believe it is best if I took care of them. Those memories are too precious to handle like a gem. One crack and it could easily damage one in an instant!”

Emma was at unease with this thought, one crack could damage that memories. It could mean that someone, or perhaps Detective, could easily forget her memories by just a crack from this gem.

. 

. 

.

At the corner of Emma’s eye, she saw that the statue of the swordsman from the plaza was gone in a blink of an eye. Strange things had always happened in Wonderworld so she shrugged it off until she thought she saw the vision of the girl from the drop in the corner of an alleyway.

…Detective…?

The vision, or detective, looked like she was caught in the act as she ran in the other direction. Part of Emma wanted to talk to her as she ran up trying to catch her.

  “Hey! Wait!” Emma yelled, but as soon as her hand tried to touch her shoulder, Detective vanished in an instant.

On the other side of the alleyway, she saw the exact swordsman with the long tailcoats. With shock across her face, she ran to catch the swordsman, who vanished in front of her eyes as well. 

Emma once saw the Detective again as she ran straight out of the alleyway and chased her down until..

“HEY! COME BACK HERE YOU-“

Balan said with a booming voice as he was chasing the Memory Thief, the swordsman snickered when he disappeared as if taunting him.

Both of the two made a big chase all over the stage, failing to catch them at hand.

“Oof!” Both knocked each other and fell down on the ground.

“Are you alright, dear Emma?” Balan lifted up from the ground and held out his hand to help her up.

“Ugh, yeah I’m wondering the same as you…” Emma said as she rubbed her head.

“Hmm, well I believe this adds more mystery into our hands. What are they trying to hide…” Balan muttered and pondered.

As the two catch their breath, Balan hears a faint giggle of Detective and Memory Thief's shadowy figures, standing near a fountain as if watching their every move.

Whatever that thief had in mind, he was up to no good….

[sealrock]

11. surrogate

no content warnings word count: 626 words

The remains of the bisque doll's head lay shattered on the floor, its body cracked and split from the impact. Its silken dress was ripped to shreds by enraged fingers, its beautiful raven hair, fancy curls fashioned with bows and ribbons, yanked from the scalp and strewn across the room. Blood droplets stained the plush area rug, the hand of the child who destroyed her gift sliced from an errant piece of the doll as she mercilessly smashed it against the hard floor.

"Paris, what have you done?!"

Paris stood still under shocked stares, her fists curled tight as she regarded her aunt and uncle—her surrogate parents—with a glower of deep-seated resentment. Blunt nails dug into her palms, the wound pulsing and oozing fresh blood the more Paris clenched her fists. Paris said nothing, she just tightened her jaw.

"What's wrong with you?! That was a very expensive gift from your grandfather, young lady!"

Paris narrowed her eyes at her uncle, a look of defiance he didn't particularly like. Paris braced herself for the swift backhand, but she stumbled to the floor. Still, she didn't cry out at the radiating flares of pain in her cheek, that was what he expected.

"You insolent girl! Have you nothing to say for yourself?"

Paris dug the heel of her bloody palm into the rug, sending a scornful look toward her speechless aunt, her wide eyes emphasized by her spectacles. She was useless, doing nothing but wringing her hands as she looked between her husband and niece. Paris refused to let her be her mother.

Paris didn't want a stupid doll. She didn't want stupid gifts or stupid girly clothes. She wanted to go back home, she wanted to be home with her real family.

Her uncle sighed through his nose, his nostrils flaring and teeth gritted with vexation. He loomed over Paris, and while any other kid would cower away and cry, Paris refused to cry. She refused to bend to his rules.

"Fine," he threw his hands in the air, earrings dangling as he shook his head, "if that's how you want to be, then so be it."

"Alimar, what are you—"

Paris was grabbed and dragged by her wrist down the stucco hallway and into a tiny broom closet, the door slamming in her face as she was tossed inside.

"Things may have been different in your old life, but you'll learn soon enough that you can't have everything your way. You will stay in there until I deem you ready to come out. You'll learn to respect me, my wife, and your grandfather."

Paris wiped her bloodied hand on her frilly dress as she sat in the corner of the musty closet, the lock turning on the other side. Heeled footsteps faded down the hall before silence fell over the area. Paris' face grew hot, the tears she managed to hold back finally spilling over like an overflowing cup. Drawing her stocking-covered knees close to her chest, Paris wept in the stillness of the closet, biting her tongue hard enough to keep from whimpering.

In the darkness of the closet, Paris seethed, wincing at her swollen cheek. She didn't want to stay here with these people, she never met them before. The adults all look at her with disgust, they talk about her as if she wasn't in the same room with them.

This was her family now.

No.

Never.

They're all fake, a replacement family.

"I hate you… I hate you…"

Her words came out as a broken hiss, regarding no one in particular. The more she repeated herself, the more the tears flowed.

"I hate you both. I hate you all. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."