#i hate you with the fury of a thousand suns

[redley-of-many-noodles]

Content Warning: Transphobia, Radical Feminism, etc.

Please do not interact with any of the tags mentioned here, or their sibling tags that fall within the same community. Just add them to your filter. It’ll be better for your mental health.

So, I just fell down an unfortunate rabbit hole.

Found a blog using Sylveon (the Pokémon) to represent anti-LGBTQ ideals. (Because the “For You” page thought I needed variety, I guess.) The logic was so fucked that I didn’t even understand it was meant as hate at first. I looked at their blog to try and understand, and quickly did. Started blocking them and the people who had interacted with them. A lot of pro-Israel stuff in their orbit too, unsurprisingly.

Then I noticed some of the tags. “Terfblr.” “Proud radfem.”

A TERF is a Trans-Exclusionary Radical Feminist, for anyone who doesn’t know what the acronym means.

It confused me that people used these tags. Why would someone want to make exclusion a part of their identity? Why would anyone call themselves a radical feminist? Definitions 2-4 on Dictionary.com explicitly describe the word as being used in regards to extreme beliefs:

Not “extreme” like LGBTQIA+ people wanting to have basic human rights and self-determination, but “extreme” like Trump’s views on the place of blacks and immigrants in society. “Extreme” like toxic masculine views on where women belong. “Extreme” like the feminists who indiscriminately hate men. “Extreme” like Nazi Germany’s views on the place of the ‘lesser races’ in society.

Those are the kind of “extreme” views that the word ‘radical’ describes. Not the “extreme” of Palestinians wanting Israel to stop committing genocide against them. Not the “extreme” of black Americans that took measures to defend themselves from police brutality like the Black Panther Party. Not the “extreme” of the USSR’s satellite states wanting their autonomy.

It makes me think they’re of the mindset that they’re being called “extremists” as an attack on feminism and not that they’re being called extremists because the beliefs they propagate are actively harmful and inherently hateful in nature.

There were tons of posts like this I found. Where transgender people were being demonized as men seeking to prey on women — largely ignoring that transmascs even existed (probably seen as “traitors” or some other bs logic). Demonizing them as people trying to use self identification as a means to invade safe spaces. And they always referred to us exclusively as “transsexual” from what I saw. Because ‘my gender is not your costume,’ and everybody seemed to be firmly rooted in a gender-binary mindset. That our identity was irrevocably determined by the circumstances of our birth. I even saw one post saying how disgusted they were by drag, because it was “a man’s mockery of a woman’s image.”

They called us monsters. For existing. For trying to be happy. For occasionally finding happiness.

They made it out as though transgenders could only be happy at the expense of the safety of women and children.

I don’t have a “point” to make with this. I just… wanted to express this.

This hate.

Because I have discovered what it feels like to truly hate someone, having seen what these disgusting humans consider “progressive.”

I hate it.

I hate you.

I hate that I understand this feeling now.

TERFs, for teaching me hate, I will never forgive you.

I will never forgive how I have been warped by you.

How you have twisted me.

I HATE YOU.

And I’m getting off this hellsite for the day, for my own good.

Goodbye.

[izzystizzys]

it’s canon to me that anakin skywalker and marshall commander fox are archnemeses of a shakespearean nature to eachother

why? well, fox’ life is a tragedy of galactic proportions. he’s a slave at best and straight up non-sentient property at worst, caught at the crossroads of being the face of the republic’s most corrupt establishment to his brothers who resent him for being forced to bear an authority he has no actual control over, and being the closest and easiest target for that very authority’s ire. made to enforce the rigged and deeply unjust laws against his own oppressed peoples, and no one understands better than fox how much coruscant truly despises them. the chancellor at the heart of it all, and anakin, the favored pupil - taken in by the flattery and empty promises like all the rest of them, the jedi most intimately connected to the senate who yet cares so little to know the clones who shed their blood in it every day that he never sees beyond his own very nose. no one asks the guard what they think, and fox despises them all for it, but the jedi who play at caring more than anything. it’s an impersonal, distanced dislike for the most part, but with skywalker it burns all the brighter for how often fox sees him walk the halls of the senate and never think to ask.

also fox cut anakin off in traffic once and he never forgave him for it

[obaewankenobis]

born to die (pt 2) ; finnick odair

pairing: finnick odair/reader (afab but pronouns not/rarely used, no use of y/n)

part one: found here

word count: 5.3k

summary: you and finnick both struggle with your feelings as the capitol's expectations aims to tear you apart.

warnings: typical hunger games warnings (violence, death, sex trafficking, etc). oral (f receiving), mentions of throwing up, sliiiight alcohol abuse, semi-public sex but not really, angst, but fluffy towards the end. the smut is very minimal in this one sorry guys </3 18+ only, minors dni!

How hard could it be, going back to hating someone? Apparently, it wasn’t as easy as flipping a switch like you’d originally thought. And apparently, it was even harder when you realized you never truly hated the person in the first place.

But that wouldn’t stop you from trying. No, you seemed to take every flutter of your heart and every catch of your breath as a challenge, furious your body was betraying you whenever you thought of him for too long.

It had been a week since you’d even seen a glimpse of Finnick, a week of remembering how gentle his lips felt against your neck, how perfectly they molded with your own. A week of being tortured by dreams of the firm grasp on your hips, of his fingers digging into your thighs and traveling up at a tantalizing pace. You’d dream of his mouth on the shell of your ear, his breath hot and warming your insides as your name escaped his lips in a beautiful melody reserved only for you.

And each morning you woke with a frustrated groan, your fingers splaying across the empty sheets beside you, reaching for him and feeling nothing. And each morning you would ignore the hurt rising in your throat upon the discovery of his absence, and redirect it into burning anger, until now, a week later, you were blazing with the fury of a thousand suns.

It was fine, I didn’t have time to sit in bed and worry about the likes of Finnick Odair. You tried (in vain) to convince yourself of this, having heard from somewhere you couldn’t remember that if you repeated something enough times with enough force, your brain would soon accept it as reality. Like reverse psychology, or whatever…

So far, that strategy wasn’t working, and you were growing desperate for release. You were so eager to get him off your mind you tried to act like it wasn’t the worst thing in the world when your services were requested by the son of some Capitol elite, because then you’d have someone else to channel your loathing into instead of Finnick, who didn’t quite deserve the anger he was currently being bombarded with in your mind.

It was some stupid Capitol party to celebrate 50 years of President Snow’s leadership. God, if you could choose something to celebrate, that would be below the very last thing on your list.

Immediately your skin began to crawl as you realized you were still the talk of the Capitol, having won your games so recently, and that you’d be put in another outfit so revealing, so you could be gawked at like a museum display.

Fuck this. If you had to be paraded around as a sex symbol for the Capitol, there was no way in hell you were doing it sober this time, escort or not.

You allowed your stylists to do what they pleased, yanking your hair and slicking it back so tightly you thought you’d be bald upon taking it out, sipping, or rather chugging, a bottle of expensive champagne you’d ordered just before they’d arrived.

Your face painted a pretty picture, the picture the Capitol wanted, coated with thick brushes of makeup to erase the tear stains permanently etched into your cheeks, lips brushed with a deep red color to cover up the dryness cracking them. Made completely out of pearls with heavier ropes placed strategically around your chest and hips, this dress was just as risque, if not more, than the one you’d worn last time.

While of course you hated how little the dress covered because it was gross and blatantly sexual, you hated even more how certain parts of your body were on display. The parts that made it obvious you had been reaping the benefits of the Capitol: your glossy hair, your radiant skin, the healthy amount of muscle and fat; they were all reminders that you were being pampered up here, enjoying Capitol delicacies, while the majority of Panem was on the brink of starvation.

Despite being from one of the wealthier Districts, you had noticed how the tributes from the other Districts were. How sallow their skin was, how their eyes appeared sunken into their skulls, how their bones were so brittle it took little effort to snap—

You downed another glass of champagne.

You hated it, you felt disgusting, but there was nothing you could say as a member of your prep team dotted tiny pearls in your hair to complete the outfit. It was all a facade, all something to squash your true feelings down and present you as somewhat of a robot, incapable of real human emotion.

That was the point, you realized. They didn’t view you as a person, they viewed you as a toy to be played with. At least the champagne seemed to be doing its job, you thought with a happy sigh as a numbing buzz overtook you, lowering your inhibitions. If only you could feel like this all the time, so relaxed and unguarded.

Your inability to sleep had only gotten worse in Finnick’s absence; he’d been there so soon after it’d all gone downhill that your mind had immediately gotten used to the feeling of having him beside you, comforting you. You’d take back every kiss, every bite, every moan you’d shared to have him back, dancing his fingers along your skin in soothing patterns.

“It’s time to go,” a girl from the prep team said quietly, yanking you out of your thoughts— what was her name? You were too tipsy to try and remember, so all you did was nod and follow her out the door. Some part of you, the emotional part that wouldn’t listen to the rest, wondered briefly if Finnick would be there as well.

The party was so much more fun this time. You were blushing at the flirtations thrown your way, giggling at every poorly made joke, and even trying to impersonate the distinct Capitol accent with your “date”. He was handsome, sure, but in a weird, i’m-from-the-capitol-so-i-have-pompoms-on-my-suit-and-wear-gold-lipstick kind of way, and you were certain had you stopped several glasses ago, you wouldn’t be finding his jokes half as funny. 

But the alternative was remembering at the end of the night, you’d be forced to go home and pretend it was Finnick’s hands roaming your body or pressing his lips against your own. You stumbled your way over to the table serving various kinds of alcohol, from fruity cocktails to straight liquor, and poured a generous amount into your already half-full cup. You were so focused on not spilling anything that you didn’t notice someone coming up behind you until two strong hands wrapped around your wrists, gently but firmly prying the bottle from your hand and setting your glass down on the table.

“Easy there, sweetheart. Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink tonight? I mean, I could see you stumbling around from across the room.”

Oh, fuck this, you would know that voice anywhere, though it had morphed into the seductive purr he put on whenever he was playing the role of the Capitol Darling. You whirled around and out of the cage of his arms, the backs of your thighs hitting the table behind you and letting out a yelp as your heels disagreed with the swiftness of your movements; You would’ve been on the ground had Finnick not steadied you with a hand curled around your waist. But you wouldn’t thank him for that. You wouldn’t admit how his innocent touch shot sparks through your body, and you certainly wouldn’t admit how gorgeous he looked.

Because fuck him for being dressed so much more modestly than you, and fuck him for looking so good in what his stylists had put him in — loose trousers and a simple white knit top with a deep vee stopping above his navel. The style of the shirt was something you would see around District 4, and his hair looked as if he’d just come from the ocean, with a salt kissed ruffle that messed with his waves and gave him a perfect disheveled look that would make you swoon, if you still cared about what he looked like.

Which you didn’t, because he’d made it perfectly clear the moment he’d left you last week that he didn’t care either.

He looked at you expectantly, raising an eyebrow and you realized you’d been caught staring, which only served to make you more furious. “You don’t need to babysit me,” you shrugged his hand off, “Just… leave me alone, Finnick.”

“I’m just looking out for you,” the amusement in his tone at your anger only made your blood boil.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you began, trying and failing to keep your voice from rising into a shrill whine, “I don’t want to see you! I want you to leave me alone and—”

“Can we talk?” He blurted out, his voice so timid it stopped you in your tracks. “You sound upset, and you’ve avoided me all week, after we...”

“Avoided you?” Your laugh was dry and humorless. “Are you serious? You left me, Finnick! I was doing you a favor!”

“By not talking to me? We finally— I finally think that maybe, maybe I wasn’t so crazy, that maybe you liked m—” His eyes widened and he realized he’d said too much, too loud, because people were starting to get irritated by the two of you blocking the liquor table. “Can you just come with me?” You stared back at him blankly, which only caused him to break out in a genuine grin. “Come on, don’t make me beg. Although if last time was any indication, I’m sure you’d like to see me on my—”

With a flustered shriek to cut him off, you grabbed his hand and tugged him into the most private space you could find, a small alcove in one of the many winding hallways of the mansion.

“Do you regret it?” Is the first thing that comes out of his mouth once he’s sure the two of you are alone. All playfulness has drained from his features, like the facade he’d been putting up can disappear now that he’s away from the prying eyes of the Capitol. You stared at him in disbelief, like what he’s said is crazy. He doesn’t give you the chance to respond before he continues. “Because I don’t. You needed me, and I…” He swallowed harshly, like what he was about to say next didn’t sit right in his throat, “I don’t want you to think that what we did changes anything.”

Despite knowing he meant well, those were precisely the words you didn’t want to hear. How could he not see how confusing it was? To say he didn’t regret it, but to also say it didn’t change anything, all in one sentence. 

“No, of course I don’t, that’s not…” I’ve dreamed of you far too often since I was fourteen, seemed like an inappropriate response, but you found yourself something entirely different. “Then why did you leave?”

You wanted to cringe at how small and pathetic you sounded asking such a question. Your gaze dropped to the floor, but it was too late, you couldn’t reach in the air and snatch the words back.

“You said you didn’t want it to mean anything. I was trying to make it easier for you.” He said that at the same time strong fingers grasped your chin, tender but with purpose, forcing you to meet his gaze. Just by looking at him straight on, you were frightened by the vulnerability you felt, like you’d been stripped raw of any protection you’d wrapped yourself in; no secrets could be kept now. And it didn’t help that you were so close you could count the individual eyelashes framing his eyes; the proximity made you quite flustered and incapable of forming coherent thoughts.

You were yet again consumed by neverending thoughts of Finnick Odair, thoughts that had been berating you all week in the back of your mind now coming to the forefront in full force.

How could you respond to that? It was you who’d asked for nothing more than a distraction, you who had made it clear sleeping together didn’t have to mean anything. But it wasn’t because you didn’t like him, oh no it was quite the opposite: you probably liked him a little too much to do anything casual with him. If you were to have Finnick more than once, you wanted all of him, not whatever bits and pieces he dangled in front of you. Because you didn’t know much, but you knew a few things.

One: You wanted to kiss him. Badly. 

Two: If you acted on that impulse, there was the chance you’d never get to tell him how you truly felt, and you’d be stuck in a painful purgatory of having parts of him but not all.

Finnick seemed to be warring his own internal battle as his eyes shot from your lips back up, and back down, and back up, until—

“Can we talk later?” You asked so suddenly, much to your own surprise as well as his. “I just… there’s not a lot of time here, and it’s not very private, and there are so many things I’d rather be doing…”

His gaze darkened at that, taking another step forward until your chest was flush against his, your back hitting the stone wall behind you. He dipped his head down to reply in a low voice that sent shivers up and down your spine, “Yeah? Care to tell me what you think is a better use of our time, sweetheart?”

“I’d rather show you.” This is a bad idea, the rational part of you screamed, and it was probably right. It was probably an awful, terrible, horrible, idea, but the moment his lips met yours, nothing else seemed to matter.

The way he kissed you needed to be studied, you thought. The way his nose nudged against yours and he quickly angled his head slightly more to the right until he fit just right against your profile. The way his hands immediately went to your waist, fingers finding their way under the many strings of pearls that dressed you, all so he could touch as much of you as possible. You were suddenly jealous of anyone who’d had the pleasure of being in your position before you, because how on Earth could the way you feel be shared by anyone? 

That thought only spurred on a newfound desire to make you different than everyone else, to make him feel the way you did, that no one else could even come close to the way he felt when he was with you.

His tongue glided along the seam of your lips, searching for permission as the two of you continued to trade kiss after bruising kiss. Each one shoved you further down a rabbit hole until you were certain there was no coming back from this, even if it went no further than kissing.

You broke away for a moment, not having the courage to look up, and moved your lips down to his neck, noticing with fleeting disappointment how the marks you’d made last week had faded from his skin.

His hands, which had remained innocently on your waist, were beginning to creep down to the (very short) hemline of your dress, fingers teasing their way past the heavy ropes of pearls that fell against your upper thigh. Your breath began to quicken at the reminder of what his fingers had done to you last time they were so close, and you hoped he wouldn’t notice the subtle clench of your thighs as his fingers continued their exploration.

Very unceremoniously he suddenly dropped to his knees in front of you, and you immediately tried — in vain — to tug him back up to a standing position, your eyes darting wildly from one end of the long corridor to the other.

“Finnick, we can’t, there are people…”

“Do you trust me?” He asked suddenly. His pupils had been completely blown out, staring at you with such hunger you nodded your head immediately; whether you actually did or it was just your lust-addled brain you weren’t sure. “Then we’ll be fine. Just stay quiet for me, okay?”

“Okay—” you broke your promise as soon as his fingers tugged at the thin material of your panties, letting out a gasp when his mouth came in contact with what had been left uncovered.

The sensation of his hot breath on you left as quickly as it came, when Finnick quickly leaned back to fix you with a warning glance. “Shhh,” he reminded you before he returned to your core, throwing a leg over his shoulder and forcing you to brace yourself against the wall behind you to keep you upright. One hand shot to dig itself in the depths of his hair as he continued his ministrations with his tongue, the other clamping around your mouth and muffling the soft moans emitted from your lips.

Finnick seemed to be enjoying your struggle of keeping silent, each sound that passed too quietly from your lips only encouraging him to plunge his tongue further at a faster pace, his nose nudging your clit and only increasing your pleasure. 

It felt good because he knew what he was doing, sure, but it felt even better knowing it was his tongue licking you, his hands wandering around your legs, his body pressing you against the wall.

It made all the horrible fantasies that had haunted you this past week seem like nothing in comparison to the real thing, which was all you truly wanted. You just wanted him. Everywhere, all the time.

And not just in the position you two were in now, as euphoric as his tongue felt, flicking and sucking at your core. You wanted the other things too. You wanted to wake up in his arms, watching the sunlight spill in from the window and illuminate his tan skin and bronzy hair. You wanted to fall asleep curled into his side, knowing that while you were asleep, he would protect you.

Still worried someone would walk in on the two of you at any given moment, you tried not to allow yourself to look down at Finnick too much (or perhaps you were scared if you acknowledged it was Finnick pleasuring you, putting a face to all the emotions he was bringing to you, you would truly be a goner).

“You were driving me fucking crazy in this dress,” Your back automatically arched in search of his mouth as he removed it to speak, tugging at the strands of pearls doing a poor job of covering the curves of your body. “Fucking insane.”

“Finnick,” you breathed, almost crying out when he resumed his indulgence of you and added pressure to your clit with his thumb, the pressure coiled inside you rising to new heights. “You’re so good, so good—”

And just when everything was building, just when you were about to cry out to the sky, not caring if anyone saw, he stopped and quickly stood up.

“Hey—” you quickly realized this wasn’t a teasing pause, evident by the sound of your name echoing against the walls of the hallway.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his shirt, he fixed your underwear and shoved your dress back down all in one swift motion, just as your “date” turned the corner and walked — or rather stumbled — towards you. Oh, fuck.

With a wince, you took several steps away from Finnick, just in time for your lovely Capitol date to finally make his way to you, throwing an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close to him.

He was drunk, drunker than you had ever been (you were sure of that by how strongly he reeked of liquor), barely being able to stand even with leaning his full weight on you. “There you are, beautiful,” he slurred, his hand creeping from your shoulder downward. “Let’s get out of here.”

At least he (you didn’t remember his name) was so out of it he didn’t even seem to notice Finnick breathing heavily beside you, or the bulge in his pants that was poorly hidden by the dark color.

How could you go from feeling so euphoric to so repulsed, all in less than a minute? With a regretful glance in Finnick’s direction, you noticed how he stared right through you as if you weren’t even there. His jaw was clenched and his posture was rigid, but those were things only people who knew what he looked like relaxed would pick up on. To anyone passing by he looked unbothered, indifferent, as you were led away from him.

It was in the brief moment when his eye finally caught your own that the two of you hadn’t gotten to talking, and you had no idea where you stood with him. Would it be appropriate to just knock on his door the next day, or schedule a meeting through his Avox? Or was your interruption the universe’s way of telling you to stop pursuing it and leave him alone?

All those thoughts eddied from your mind the moment you stepped in the car that would escort you and your Capitol date home, when he decided then would be the best time to throw up, narrowly avoiding your pretty pearl shoes. With a little yelp of disgust, you jumped back, avoiding being caught as he continued to empty copious amounts of liquor that once resided in his stomach. 

Fuck my life, you thought with a groan as the smell invaded your senses, thankful that most of it had been done outside the car. With a wary glance his way you saw him leaning back against the window, clearly trying to recover from how much he’d drank throughout the night.

It wasn’t as bad as you thought it was going to be, only because he passed out before the two of you went any further than a sloppy kiss that made your stomach curl.

However wrong it seemed, you tried to imagine it was Finnick instead, but everything just felt off. This man’s hands were cold and rough against your skin, nothing like the steady, soft hands you were trying to imagine; his lips were wet and uncoordinated, unlike the delicate whispers of affection Finnick would bestow upon you in the form of warm, confident press of his lips against yours.

Yet again you felt slimy and used and disgusted, unwilling to even try to process what had just happened. So you did what any normal person would do in this situation: drink. While some part of your brain knew this was an unhealthy coping mechanism, the part of you that wanted to forget the night, forget your circumstances, won over, and soon you were tipsy enough and making your way up to the rooftop.

You let the ice of the wind hit you square in the face, hoping that if you withstood it enough, it would jar you out of the nightmare you were in. Time seemed to stretch and you were certain you’d been there all night, but in reality, judging by the lack of alcohol induced dizziness, it was probably an hour.

“Knew I’d find you here.” You knew who it was immediately, goosebumps rising on the back of your neck at the sound of his voice. “I thought I told you there was a forcefield already.”

The eeriest sense of deja vu overtook you, enough to rip you from your thoughts and turn around, trying to balance yourself by staring at the unmoving figure in front of you. 

“Hello to you too, Finnick,” you greeted in a flat tone, the mere sight of him draining whatever alcohol in your system remained. 

Your chest began to feel tight as you took in his appearance, your face flushing when he looked you up and down. He’d changed from his party attire into pajamas, and there was a tiredness to his eyes that made you blurt out, why are you still awake, at the same time he blurted out, have you been drinking?

“A little,” you admitted, and waited for him to answer yours.

There was a moment when the only sound was the faint blaring of car horns in the distance and the soft rumble of tires against pavement, city sounds that faded into nothing as the wind whistled in your ears. His gaze immediately shot to the floor, shoving his hands in his pockets and kicking at invisible pebbles by his feet. You suddenly felt embarrassed, because he’d probably had a much worse night than you had, and of course he couldn’t sleep because of that—

“I was waiting for you.” Oh. That was not what you were expecting, and clearly, it showed in your face because he rushed to continue, thinking he’d said something wrong, “I just… we never got to finishing our conversation earlier, and didn’t know if you were safe, and I know how hard it can be to fall asleep after…”

You walked over to him until you were inches apart, tilting your head ever so slightly in an attempt to catch his eye, which had returned to the floor.

“Can you look at me?” Your voice was barely above a whisper as your hand reached out, wanting to press against the planes of his chest and feel him, but refraining. Your hands simply hovered in the air, a mark of uncertainty, until Finnick made his decision. In a quick motion he’d reached out, wrapping his hand around yours and tugging it until you made contact with his chest, relishing in the security it brought you. The way you could feel his heartbeat, a steady beat of absolute certainty, that reminded you he was here, and he was real. His hand remained over yours, too, like he too sought comfort in the physicality of your hand.

“Last week…” he begins, and all you want to do is cut him off with a kiss, tell him you don’t care if he left, that he’s here now and that’s all that matters. But you don’t; you let him continue, and pretty quickly you’re grateful for that decision. “I lied. After you said it didn’t mean anything, I said okay,” he paused, like what he was about to say next was lodged in his throat, “But it’s not okay, not really. I… I want it to mean something.”

“Finnick, you know I—” You began softly, so softly, but he pressed on.

“No, please just… let me say this, okay?” He tightened his grip on your hand like he was worried you’d heard enough and would leave him. All you could do was nod silently, urging him to continue. “You mean more to me than I let on— so much more. I can’t pretend like this past week hasn’t killed me. I just… I needed you to know that—”

“Finnick,” you tried, but he couldn’t stop talking, like he wasn’t getting his point across.

“And I know it’s complicated—”

“Finnick,” you said again, a little louder and more earnest, but still, he continued.

“—and I don’t want you to think you’re obligated to feel the same—”

His lips, warm and soft and right, met yours as you cut him off with a kiss. It took less than a fraction of a second before he reciprocated, surging forward and wrapping his arms around your waist to tug you closer. Your hands found their place interlocked behind his neck, the soft hairs at the nape of his neck reminding you that it was him.

You kissed him with such fervor you thought your lips would fall right off, desperately trying to convey every unspoken word in your mind; Every point of tension between the two of you melted completely until you pulled back, breathless. 

“I’ve been a liar, too,” was the first thing that came out of your mouth, so quietly he was sure he’d misheard you. “It meant so much to me, Finnick, I… I just didn’t know what to do with all of it, I guess.”

His lips were swollen and red, and his eyes were glassy as he gazed down at you; every time his chest heaved it brushed yours. “I want you,” he breathed out, and while at first you thought it might be something purely carnal, he quickly corrected himself, “I always… I’ve always… tried to ignore it, but now I can’t…” he trailed off, struggling to find the right words, the right way to express himself without fucking up. “I can’t ignore it. I want to fix this, fix us, I want…”

You’d rarely seen him like this; struggling to say the right thing. Normally the words flowed through the air smoothly like a summer breeze, his point sliding across so easily, like honey. So to see him stumbling over his words, cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, you tried to urge him to continue.

“I think about you,” he confessed abruptly. “All the time, it drives me crazy. I want to be with you, all the time.”

And you wanted that, too. You wanted to do stupid, mundane tasks with him. You wanted to do things like dry the dishes as he washed them, like argue over whose turn it was to take out the trash, like wake up and brush your teeth side by side, grinning at each other in the mirror.

So you said it as simply as you could. “Me too.”

The grin you broke out into was so wide your cheeks would soon start hurting, but you didn’t care. The elation in your chest was blooming, expanding until the warmth of it reached all the way to your fingertips, your toes, the top of your head. Every part of you felt giddy, like a schoolgirl who’d just had her first kiss on the playground.

This time, it was he who kissed you, capturing your lips with his own with such intensity you gasped. Kissing him now felt like something entirely different, like your entire world had been gray, and his lips on yours opened you up to a vibrant array of colors that nearly blinded you.

Your hands found their way back to behind his neck, his hands finding purchase on your hips and drawing you closer, wanting to feel every inch after being deprived of all of you for so long. It wasn’t just your body you were giving him this time, but your heart as well.

Before you knew it, he’d hoisted you up and you immediately wrapped your legs around his torso, craving the surface of his body just as he was with you. The kisses continued, though never going any further as he walked back to his room — thankfully he was on the top floor, making the journey quite quick. Your back hit the mattress as he continued his kisses, moving his way down and giving special attention to the spots he knew you loved on your neck, your shoulder, behind your ear.

“I don’t— I don’t want to do anything tonight,” he finally pulled back. “I just want to be with you.”

You nodded almost instantly, happy to just be with him, the kissing slowing down as the two of you grew more tired. He must’ve thought you were asleep when he called your name softly and received no response. You were in a haze of in between, too tired to respond but aware enough to know what he was doing as his fingers ghosted over your back and began to draw again. 

Finally, before sleep came crashing down on him, his fingers said what his mouth could not: I love you.

And when you blinked your eyes open the next morning you were face to face with a sleeping Finnick — he’d stayed this time.

Your lips brushed his cheek ever so lightly as you whispered it back.

a/n: thank you guys so much for waiting!! i wrote this instead of studying for my finals cause i'm silly like that. anyways i reallyyyy struggled w this one and wasn't sure where i wanted this story to go. i thought it was an okay conclusion but lmk if you guys want more! feel free to send in any requests you might have, i write for mostttt of the hunger games characters (especially finnick <3)!

tag: @justtrying2getby , @tqmqkii , @s-j320 , @imaegonstargaryenswife0 , @s-trawberryv-eins , @ruxjules

[seecarrun]

(Part 2 of this)

“Wait, back?!”

Eddie’s head shoots up, his eyes wide. “Then!” he cries. “You liked me back then, is what I was saying!”

“You liar!” Richie laughs, clearly delighted. “You fucking liked me too!”

“I never said that!” Eddie tries to deny, but it sounds weak to even himself.

The thing is, and god, it’s embarrassing to admit, but Eddie had always had a bit of a thing when it came to Richie.

He didnt think it was exactly romantic, and definitely not anything sexual, when he was a kid; little-him would have been positively scandalized at the mere thought of it. But he was drawn to Richie, wanted his approval, his respect, needed Richie to include him in his inside jokes and think he was just as funny as Eddie found him.

Hell, maybe that was Eddie’s version of love. Not that he would know.

“I hate you,” he tells Richie, whose grin stretches even wider across his face. It’s basically an admission and they both know it. “You’re one to talk, anyway.” He gestures to the carving. “I wasn’t the one carving our initials into make-out spots.”

“Yeah, but you were cute. Liking you made sense,” Richie replies. “You remember me as a kid? You were into that gangly, bug-eyed, buck-toothed little dork? Embarrassing.”

“You were so cute!” Eddie cries, throwing away the act, offended on young-Eddie’s behalf to have his taste questioned. “Plus, you were cool.”

Richie bit back a snort. “I was not cool.”

“Shut up, you were!” Eddie looks him over, pouting just a little. “You’re still cool.”

“Cooler than you, Mr. Risk Analysis, but that isn’t saying much.” Eddie throws his arms up, ready to lay into him with the fury of a thousand suns, when Richie speaks again, quieter, “You’re still cute, ya know.”

Eddie flushes, glances at Richie briefly to catch him flushing as well, and bends down to pick up a stick from the side of the road. He gestures to the carving, shyly. “Wanna give this a bit of a facelift?” he asks. “We could grab a beer, after.”

Richie, looking like Christmas has come early, grabs a stick and pops back up, beaming and blushing adorably. “It’s a date.”

[wcdonaldo]

hate on girls with braids and glasses and face the fury of a thousand suns when i strike you down

[emositecc]

God I fucking hate Victoria the crybaby so fucking much holy shit. Holy shit, every page she's in, every scene, every fanart, every comic, she's got this painfully vacant, stupid as shit, fuckass personality on her stupid green face. Absolutely no part of her ugly as sin piece of shit character design is endearing. Her stupid fucking dress? Who the hell wears a dress like that. Her dumb fucking lizard tail? Her shitty, annoying bastard attitude ? The three thousand percent dumbass shitass fucking haircut that no woman has EVER FUCKING SHITTY HAIR DESING HAD IN THE HISTORY OF GOD'S GREEN FUCKING EARTH? God, I hate her. I hate her so much. So FUCKING much. Every time I see a comic or a fanart of her, it ignites my primal rage response and I'm overcome by the need to punt this shitty little homunculus into the fucking sun. "Boo hoo, I'm Bitchtoria the fuckshit whiny ass woman, woe is me. PITY ME 😢😢😢😢". Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. You look like shrek but if shrek was written by vivziepop. Your dumb fucking hair makes your whole shitty head look like a hairy skin tag. I hate your dumb fucking dress and your stupid, empty googly eyes and your over-the-top shitty ass upbeat asshole personality. Any scene she's sad it invokes all the wrath and fury of a spoiled child having a meltdown over a chocolate bar in a walmart checkout line. And I know its irrational. That's the worst part. I know she's just a shitty fucking sad woman in a stupid fucking fan comic, I know it doesn't matter, I know I shouldn't care. But that's part of the problem. The part where no matter the might and fury of my hatred, the locus of my homicidal intent is alltogether inconsequential. I find myself laying awake in the dark in the early hours of the morning consumed by the spirit of Wrath itself, all the force and might of a flaming hurricane directed at a bottle of piss in a ditch by the highway. The absurdity of it all burns me to my core. What better things could this energy be directed towards? And yet my disdain for this stupid, useless, insubstantial failure of endearing character design utterly eclipses the intrigue of all other pursuits. I hate her. I hate hier on a level of my mind reserved for the worst of the world's array of sinners, and I can't even begin to justify it. Shitstick the bitch wife is, for all intents and purposes, the animated corpse of all of humanity's saccharine pretenses- every condescending, passive-aggressive statement of meaningless upper middle class suburban drama distilled into a single, hateable form. The fucking. Fuck. I have no words. There is no cuss or epithet in any language that can encapsulate the height of the emotions I am experiencing. God, I hate her so much. I hate her so, so fucking much. I want to light her ugly little dumpster body on fire. I want to graphically beat her to death with her own stupid fucking punchable face. I want to punch her to death. I want to bash her brains out. You know that weird feeling you get, when you see a picture of something so cute you find yourself overcome with the bizarre, inexplicable urge to squeeze it? It's EXACTLY like that, except instead of cuteness it's disgust. The wordless knowledge that her existence as a fictional work is evidence of all the failures of mankind. I find myself possessed by the will of a Holy Angel gone rogue with the belief that God has made a mistake, and I alone must correct it. This is the trial by which Samael himself fell from grace. This wild, meaningless rage. A thousand blades of shining steel cast with inhuman force in the direction of a plastic grocery bag floating on a breeze. What horrors must I have committed in a past life to be plagued by this torment now? I must Unmake this fictional woman

you've gone on sending me these kinds of messages in my ask box everytime i've updated my comic, even mentioning r*pe in your latest ones. At first I thought this is a bit, but now i honestly dont know. I think you need help and for your own good and mine, I'm going to be blocking you.

This probably wont stop you from reading my comic in other platforms but if you still do, please refrain from messaging me or whatnot because I will just block you again.

okay, thank you.

^ and that's not even ALL of it.

there's like 50+ more

get help.

[threepandas]

Sun Burnt: Yandere Reborn

Lot of stereotypes came with having certain Flame types I mused. As bullets rammed into my back, ricocheting around me like bouncy balls of death. My feet eating up the earth as fast as I could. It was all kinds of unfair.

Like? If you were a Sun? You were expected to be gregarious. Cheerful. Some happy go lucky healer type. To hell with your ambitions, I got a paper cut! And a storm? Well OBVIOUSLY watch out! We got a HOT HEAD over here! Look out for the HOT HEAD! A TEMPERAMENTAL ASSHOLE coming through!

I mean? Maybe they're pissed cause you keep POKING at them, huh? Wouldn't anybody?

I dodge down an alley. Jumping trash cans. Throwing them down behind me. Hearing curses and howls of outrage. Man, they are persistent. And! And like? Being a LIGHTNING?! God, being a LIGHTNING can SUCK sometimes! Sure, I get to be a Tank. And yeah. Human tazer. Pretty neat. But the ASSHOLES!

It's all "ooooh~! You're nothing but a DUMB MEAT SHEILD! Come be my DUMB MEAT SHEILD and lick my BOOTS, meat sheild! That's all you're good for! Because you're so DUMB! Impulsive! We wanna use you to solve our stupid ass turf disputes and lead you ooooon~!" Like? Fuckin REALLY?!

Is it MY fault your brains move so slow? That you're so SQUISHY? I'm not fucking IMPULSIVE! I think things through! I just do it FASTER then you jack asses! Granted... never said I do it BETTER. I may, in fact, be a dumbass. Probably am. All signs point to "maybe"...

......ARE THEY SERIOUSLY STILL CHASING ME!?

It was MY haul!!!

Steal your own SHIT!!!

And yeah, was it WISE to flip the table, punch the Don, and jump out a window with the fugly ass statue they planned to stiff me on? No. No it was not. But I REFUSE to not get paid! Try to steal from ME will you?! I'ma toss this fucker into the SEA!!! Swim for it BITCHES!

I skid onto the main road of Mafia Island. Knocking over somebody's fancy ass mistress. Probably gonna pay for THAT too. Fuck it! Yolo! I am pouring on the Lightning flames at this point. COATED. The metaphorical bull in this, the mafia land China shop. Pulling shooting. Amused and playing bets. Flames rising up to brush against me.

I am a fuckin circus act on display and I HATE it.

But by all that is holy! Those bastards ARE NOT getting their stupid statue back!

To the SEA with it! I shall cast it to the briny BLUE!

FUCK THOSE GUYS!

The crowd is parting like the red fucking sea. Except... except?! Oh shit! Pretty guy on a suit! Move pretty guy! MOVE!! Aaaaah!

I barely... BARELY!! Manage to stop myself from running into Pretty? Hiiitman? Hitman. Got a gun. Very calm. Yep, hitman. Barely! Dodge! By forward flipping OVER the guy and Superhero sticking the landing. Dropping the statue but... meh. Don't care. I still plan to...

Are. You. FUCKING SERIOUS!?

Drugs!?

That FUGLY STATUE WAS HOLLOW! No WONDER they were so desperate to get it! They were BREAKING Vongola's BAN!!! Ooooooh! I'm TELLING! You FUCKERS USED ME!!! Jail! Ten thousand years JAIL! Kill um, Mr. Hitman! They're dirty, non-thief paying, DRUG MAKERS!

Am I pointing accusingly? Yes. Hanging over the hitmans shoulder like the tattling tattle that I am? Absolutely. Jail for them! Get um! Boooooo! My flames still coat every part of me. Which is why I can FEEL when the hitman decides... "fuck it. Why not?"

I can TELL? Because it's like feeling the mountain you're standing on suddenly deciding to move. Like a giant, blinking their eyes open and beginning to stand. Rising up and up and UP. So great it feels impossible. The Sun flames infront of me? Go beyond the concept of "powerful".

It's like standing in front of a star up close.

So bright and burning fury, it consumes all other light.

I can't even FEEL the other Flames around us anymore. Almost can't HEAR what's going on. He... he has a low, purring voice. Like espresso. Smooth. The smell of gunpowder and decadent things... CLINGS to him like a lover. The suit under my carelessly grabbing hands... f... feels EXPENSIVE.

Bad. T... this is BAD. D..Don't panic. Just. Just let go! Yeah? Let go, be polite, and apologize. Y... you'll be okay. Oh god. What did I DO?! L... LET GO. Move! W.. why can't I MOVE?!

I feel more then hear the shots. The slight recoil. Utterly effortless, he ends their lives. An amused lilt to whatever he's saying. His head tilts so he can view me from the corner of his eye. A mean smirk on his beautiful face. I amuse him. My FEAR amuses him.

His Flames reach out like a crushing fist... I... I can not move...

The world seems to STOP.

As two notes of the same song find each other. Flitting and high to some great and terrible low. The two farthest ends of a Set, still empty, with no sky to hold it in balance. Yet? Resonance none the less.

"Oh~?"

The flat disinterest of those abyssal eyes changes. Like a damning light flickering on in the dark. Leading something terrifying straight towards me. No longer just background noise. I was interesting. I... I didn't WANT to be interesting! No, no, NO!

He turned towards me.

And my stomach plummets straight through the earth. Oh god. Please God, no.

Before me stand a terrifying legend. Living infamy itself. THE World's Greatest Hitman, it's greatest killer, Reborn. Who's eyes were locked on my face with a terrible interest. Who's Flames, vast and hungry, tugged and prowled at the edge of my own. His mean little smirk had turned into something that could pass for charming... if I didn't know who he was.

If I wasn't probably going to die.

He casually tucked his gun away. Pulled his other hand from his pocket. And then... oh god. Then two burning weights clamped down on my shoulders. No where to run. No chance of escape. He leaned forward, towering over me.

"You know, I didn't catch your name, bella. Who do you work for again? We have so much to LEARN about each other, don't you think? All the time in the world. Now... give me your phone."

I whimpered. His hands were almost burning with Sun flames. They washed over me in a greedy search for ties that bind and cracks in my defenses. Pushing and pushing. Trying to get IN. Covetous.

"After all~ It's not like you could possibly escape me."

[geeminz]

ᯓ A CHANGE OF HEART // giselle x oc ; smau

03 | the exit

↳ in which: mihye has been secretly dating giselle, her best friend’s older sister, for four months. what happens when their relationship turns toxic, and their secrets become public?

word count: 2.1k

taglist: @thefckghost @emphobics @jisooftme @xszn @gtfoiydlyj @wonysugar @bluhuir @baewonlove

a.n. GUYS i am so so so SORRY for the insanely long wait! also i'm so sorry for not being able to go with the double update, i was busy getting my graduation affairs in order T^T to those who are still up for reading this, i hope this update can make up for my absence!

at the strike of the sun’s blinding rays, mihye’s eyes fluttered open and awake. her first instinct was to stretch her arms out and search the bed for the warmth owned by the person who was supposed to be sleeping beside her — which, to her dismay, was alarmingly absent. upon realization that she was all alone in her bed, mihye jolts awake, and panic settles in her body.

giselle’s not here.

she must’ve gotten up early to make coffee — she always does.

…and she must’ve seen shotaro.

mihye blinks, and the thoughts sink in to her — as well as the acknowledgement of just how much trouble she’d be in later.

i am so fucked, mihye thinks to herself. in a flash, she harshly wipes the thick covers off of her body, and her cold feet slip right into her slippers. mihye sprints out of the room, opening the door to the sight of a giselle behind the bar counter, pouring herself a cup of coffee — just as mihye expected.

and across her was shotaro, who seemed to be enjoying his own cup as well.

“good morning, mihye.” giselle says, not even bothering to look at her girlfriend — who was still in a daze at the scene unraveling in front of her.

“had a good sleep?” giselle continues, this time sparing mihye an empty glance – one with so little emotion; one that made mihye nervous due to how inconspicuous giselle’s true thoughts were.

there is a man in my living room. mihye starts to shake. giselle hates it when i have someone over, much more when i have my male friends come over.

she must be fuming right now.

“you okay?” giselle asks once more, this time, a hint of worry laced the older’s words. the question snaps mihye back to reality, and she nods her head lightly to answer giselle.

the younger approaches the two, and she makes eye contact with shotaro, who seemed to be just as clueless — if not more — as mihye. with furrowed eyebrows, his eyes switch from giselle to mihye, and to mihye and giselle again, just alternating his perplexed stare between the couple.

‘what the fuck?’ the boy mouths, and mihye shakes her head, eyes widened, to answer him.

“want coffee?” giselle offers, and mihye nods. hesitantly, of course. giselle takes this as her cue to get to work and make mihye (who stood like a little deer in headlights) a fresh and warm cup of coffee.as the younger girl observed giselle, she sensed a darkness around giselle, and a feeling that something was definitely brewing, and it wasn’t mihye’s coffee.

silence flooded the entire room, and neither shotaro nor mihye wanted to disturb the eerie peace looming over the three of them. luckily (or maybe not), giselle was there to break the ice.

“so, shotaro. how long have you known about me and my girlfriend?” giselle says casually, but each word coming out of her lips feels like a thousand sharpened knives, all pointed towards mihye’s feet. mihye’s eyes stay peeled, her senses all going alert. it hasn’t even been 10 minutes since she woke up and she already has to deal with both giselle’s smoothly masked fury and shotaro’s… well. shotaro’s self.

“like a month ago? i don’t really remember. why do you ask?” shotaro replies honestly, trying to understand the situation as it unfolds in front of him. he sees the rapid blinking of his friends eyes, and just like that mihye’s anxiety infects him like a disease.

shotaro’s never seen how mihye and giselle interacted before, and to him, this all feels like the disturbing calm before the storm.

“mihye and i… we’ve been dating for 4 months. but we haven’t told people yet. it’s our secret.” giselle says, before turning around and giving the boy an empty yet cold stare. shivers run down shotaro’s spine. the oldest spares him a small, almost non-existent smile, before handing the cup of coffee to her girlfriend who was frozen in her place.

“drink, baby. i know you’re tired from all the drinking you did last night.” giselle gently says, and mihye takes her words like a command. once the warm coffee hits her tongue, mihye almost lurches from how bitter it was.

giselle stares at her intently — as if confused at mihye’s reaction. mihye stares back at her.

giselle knows i like my coffee sweet.

so why…?

then it clicks. and mihye feels pieces of her heart chipping away inside her.

we’re definitely fighting.

mihye drinks the coffee anyway, despite the flavor of the coffee making her nauseous. she wants to vomit — but she’s scared of giselle right now. 

this is giselle punishing her.

upon seeing mihye continue to drink the coffee, giselle turns her attention back to her girlfriend’s friend. shotaro scrambles for a response to giselle’s statement.

“i know you guys aren’t public yet… so, yeah. if you’re scared that i told anyone, i didn’t, so don’t worry.”

giselle just nods and her eyebrows lift. “well, thank you for understanding, shotaro. i’m glad mihye has you as her friend.” 

the three went mum after giselle’s statement. the word ‘friend’ rolls off of giselle’s tongue like subtle poison — with each second the three spent in total silence, the potency of the poison grows and with it, mihye’s pain and worry.

as soon as giselle turns her back on the two of them, mihye quickly sends shotaro a signal with her eyes. when the boy gives her a bewildered look, mihye mouths:

‘leave. right now.’

and shotaro nods.

“oh um, wow! w-would you look at that! my roommate’s texting me now,” shotaro makes up a total lie as he hurriedly places the cup of coffee on the counter, and rushes to grab his other things on the living room of mihye’s apartment. “... uhh she says i have to go help her with… um, her computer. i have to go now.”

giselle gives him a nod, while mihye tracks her every move with only her sight.

“thanks for the coffee, giselle, and uh… yeah. take care mihye. text me for… whatever.” shotaro says as he reaches the door. he shoots mihye one last concerned glance, before exiting mihye’s apartment — leaving the couple together.

an uncomfortable silence falls upon the two for a few seconds. in mihye’s hands was still the cup of bitter coffee that giselle handed her, and giselle leans on the kitchen counter with her arms crossed.

as always, it was giselle who blows up the peace.

“you told him?!” giselle yells — arms now uncrossed, and mihye could only sigh. she puts the cup down on the counter.

it’s starting.

“i didn’t. he found out — “

“you are unbelievable, mihye.” giselle shakes her head at the younger girl, who seems defeated. uncomfortable in her position, and unable to shake off the anger seeping within her, giselle harshly walks away from the kitchen and someplace else. somewhere not near mihye.

“how could you be so goddamn careless?!”

“i really didn’t tell him! it was taro who put two and two together, okay?! i swear i didn’t give him any ideas about us! please believe me, giselle.” mihye begs and attempts to approach giselle. giselle moves away.

“and you even had him sleep over here last night. you know how i feel about other people staying here! especially men!”

mihye shuts her eyes in frustration. “shotaro’s not like that, giselle. and for the record, this is my apartment.”

“and you’re my girlfriend! you shouldn’t be having people sleep over every single time i’m not here!”

“you saw taro sleeping over one time, giselle. one time! why are you making it seem like i had a whole ass house party here last night?! if anything, i was waiting for you to come home! it just so happened that taro needed a place to crash!” mihye tried to explain, but based on giselle’s head shaking and her refusal to make direct eye contact with her girlfriend – just staring off into the distance with total disappointment in her eyes.

“you were waiting for me?! then what the hell are those bottles?” giselle points an accusing finger at the empty bottles of soju on the corner. mihye follows the direction in which giselle was pointing at, and feels her heart break.

“shotaro brought those to console me, okay?! he knew i was miserable here because you! were! ignoring me! you weren’t picking up my calls, and you weren’t answering my texts!” the words come out from mihye’s lips like jabs thrown towards giselle.

mihye hopes giselle would just back down after this revelation, but to the younger’s dismay, it elicits a totally different reaction. giselle’s once stoic, almost unmoving facial expressions had contorted into unbridled fury in a snap.

“you told him that we were fighting?! mihye, what the fuck is wrong with you!”

at this point, mihye sinks down on herself and begins crying. upon the sight, giselle feels her heart soften, and she halts her fit of anger for a moment of silence. giselle lets mihye cry, but she doesn’t let herself console her girlfriend. giselle breathes, and closes her eyes as she listens to the sound of mihye’s sobs.

once mihye gathers herself – not fully yet, but just enough to be angry again, she throws an accusatory look towards giselle. “well how about you giselle? where were you last night? what were you doing? were you drinking all night long with your number one best friend karina?” mihye spits out, and giselle gives her a confused look.

“what? why are you even bringing that up now?”

this time, mihye gets back up on her feet. “am i not allowed to question your whereabouts? i’m your girlfriend, right? so i have the right to ask where you are and what the fuck you were doing at a club so late at night! and with karina, too!”

“what the hell is your problem with karina?” giselle shouts back at her, this time getting all up in her face about it. mihye looks up at her with nothing but tears and anger in her eyes. 

“you’ve always been giving me shit for hanging out with karina when she’s been by my side since we were in high school! she’s my best friend, mihye! she was there for me when no one was!”

“then maybe you should have just fucking dated her, giselle!” mihye yells, and giselle backs off, a disbelieving look plastered on her face.

“w-what…?” giselle stammers, but mihye’s not done yet.

“you’re always with her when you’re not with me, you’re always going to her whenever we fight! do you even know how that makes me feel?! you’re always so vague about your… activities with karina, and i never question you about it! so don’t you dare tell me that i give you shit about her because i keep calling you and texting you, but you never pick up when you’re with her! do you have any fucking idea how that makes me feel?! i feel like i’m always blindly trusting you — always! but what do you do with me, huh? you always get suspicious of me when i’m with my friends, you get mad at me when i have people sleep over in my own house – hell, you even pick fights with me when i’m hanging out with your own fucking sister! and i’m the bad guy? does that sound fair to you, giselle?!” mihye chuckles angrily after delivering her furious piece.

giselle just stares at her incredulously, mouth slightly agape, eyebrows crunching.

“what, giselle?! you can’t say anything? i trip over myself trying to explain things to you when you’re mad at me but when i’m the one asking you questions, you can’t even say shit to me?!” mihye lets out her anger once more.

unsurprisingly, giselle can’t take the heat (or refuses to). so she turns away from her teary-eyed girlfriend, grabs the keys to her car, and goes for the door.

mihye laughs, but nothing in her current situation is worth laughing for. “and now you’re running away?!”

giselle leaves without uttering another word.

the sound of the slamming door is deafening, and just like that, mihye is alone in the solace of her empty apartment once more. she collapses once more, her mind still stuck on the fight that occurred earlier. she replayed the words that giselle yelled at her, and the ones she had let go as well. she crawls around the carpeted floor of her house, and heads towards the living room. mihye drags herself towards the seats of her couch and continues sobbing there. by a force of habit, she reaches out for the plushie that giselle gifted to her — a fluffy seal plushie, which she clutches as tears spilled from eyes.

shotaro left, and so did giselle.

now no one else is left to listen to the sound of her anguish, but herself.

go to: masterlist | next

[bokunosoul]

𝙄 𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪, 𝙄 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪

Yuno (Black Clover) x Reader

𝙉𝙎𝙁𝙒 requests are OPEN

MINOR DNI, for requests i don't accept reqs for ageless blogs, anonymous blogs or minors

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 : f-ngering, m-sterbation, d-rty talk, b-ow job, cursing, hate sex, v-yeurism, s-xual assault on reader by an opponent, reader and yuno has some experience, aged up, public intercourse, d-flowering, rushed work etc.

Being part of the golden dawn and being part of nobility, you seemed like you have the best life ever.  That means you have to make the best reputation out of yourself.

But you can't.

You endes up being compared by your family to yuno, your colleague. You hate to admit it but he's really good at doing those missions all by himself, no wonder he became a vice captain in such a young age.

He's also kinda.... goodlooking.

Now here you are trying to be composed infront of you captain along side with yuno receiving orders.

"Y/N, Yuno, you will be going to explore an dungeon and report back immidiately once you've completed this mission. You will be leaving early tomorrow. Get along well and make sure to rest."

The captain said and you both saluted to him. Once you got out of the door you glared at him and turned your back.

"What a snob!!!" bell, his sylph said and stick out her tongue behind your back.

"Stop it bell." Yuno said

You looked at him one last time, hw just stared plainly with those attractive eyes. Blushing in fury you just marched away and layed frustrated in your room. Why the fuck does he stare at me with those eyes? You can't help but to blush replaying what happened earlier.

The very next day you both set off to your mission. You both just rided your own brooms and it was very pleasing to watch the sun rise whilst you ride in the air.

You both arrived at the dungeons amd split off. Came across a bunch of opponents. But as always they were no match for you. You sighed as you thought things were over and you were about to call it a day.

You were suddenly taken aback by a man and you can't escape from his arms. You started attacking him one by one with your magic but still he doesn't budge.

A fucking diamond mage. This is bad.

"Get of me you pervert!" you shouted at the guy and he just gave off an disgusting smirk.

Disgusting!

"What's a pretty girl doing here alone in the dungeons? hmmm? "

"None. Of. Your. Fucking. Bussiness. "

i cursed and proceeded to struggle to get off him.

"You must want to know my name sweetie, the names Ragus. "

You started to tear up as he started to linger his hands to your thighs along to the part where your mother told you to save for your marriage.

"N-no, p-please. "

Everything came in so fast. The guys suddenly was thrown across the place, none other than yuno. He looked so enraged and shocked, even though your eyes were blurry from the tears you still saw it.

"I didn't asked for help. "

He came closer to you, taking off his robe and wrapping it around your waist. Your'e faced started turning red as he carried you in his arms bridal style.

" Put me down. "

" No. "

" I hate you. "

This man so frickin persistent, it was annoying. You just kinda stared at him for a while and gave in.

___

Now it's night fall at the moon shines brightly, and it was not safe to travel as some beasts and bandits rome this area. Yuno decided to cook a meal and you decides to go take a stroll to clear your mind.

Replaying on what happened earlier, you felt disgusted. That mans perverted touch, gaze still lingers on my skin.

Thankfully,  you can hear there's a waterfall up ahead so you can go take a bath.

You were mesmerized by the scenery infront of you. A thousand stars can be seen, and the moon is so full up above.

' No one can should be looking right? '

You carefully slipped out your clothes and hopped onto the water. Leaving you naked in all of your glory. You dove upon the cold water and like any normal person would do in the bath.

Sighing you sat in a nearby boulder and dried off your body. You were frustrated, you embarassed yourself earlier infront of him.

The way he looked earlier.....

You started to feel hot as you imagined his look earlier. You can't think straight anymore whilst your breathe hitches and body heats up.

I moaned as i inserted one of my fingers inside my needy cunt, while your other hand massages your breasts.

"Ah~fuck~"

You imagine yourself getting fucked by him. His cock so deep in your needy hole as you moan in pleasure. You hate him, hate that he makes you feel this way.

All that pent up feeling all you do was just to do it solo by yourself. Your parents conservativeness, heavy burden, past relationships and stress makes you feel dry.

"Hah~ yuno~ oh fuck yes!"

"Oh~shit!"

"Yes! ~yes!~yes! "

Now here you are desperately pumping your fingers back in fourth in your slit making vulgar noises, thinking of the hot mage. Causing you to come all over the place.

'Fuck i made a mess.'

You suddenly heard a rustling noise in the bushed. You hurriedly covered yourself with your clothes.

"WHO'S THAT!?"

I heaved an sigh of relief as the figure appears to be an deer. You decided to just get cleaned and dressed and head back to him.

_

"I'm back."

You said and sat in the ground infront of the bonfire. You can't see his face but it looks like that he is eating.

It's been 30 minutes and he still hasn't talked nor faced me. He just sat down facing the other way round.

Weird. He normally would discuss about what will we report about to captain....

"Yuno?"

You asked as you walked towards him. His face seemed red and he looks so flustered.

' does he have a fever? '

You nervously put your palms on his forehead to confirm. Your eyes widened as he suddenly pinned you to a wall.

'W-what the fuck?'

He stared at you like a hungry wolf who targeted it's prey. Meanwhile you just stood there shock.

"You have much courage doing that in public, Y/N."

Yuno whispered onto your ear, making you instantly blush in embarassment. He saw that. HE FUCKING DID!??!

You looked away and shut your eyes tight. His hot breathe just hitched right at your neck.

" such a slut, moaning my nme like that. "

" HAH, you must be imagining things you perverted freak! "

You lied, facing him red. He smirked.

"I saw that, clearly Y/N, clearly. " yuno said firmly wrapping his arms on my waist.

" S-so? it's not like i like you or something. D-dumbass. " i stuttered and pushed him away, lightly.

" spit it out. "

"What? "

"I know you like me. "

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"N-no? "

He frowned and stopped, he started to walk away. You can't help but to feel frustrated.

"That's why i hate you. "

He stopped walking and slammed you hard against the tree.

"Really? you hate me that much huh? I will prove it to you that i am better than that." he replied smugly

"Then you have my consent, bastard. "

You smirked as your faces become closer and our bodies pressed together heatedly against the wall, breathing heavily as our lips pressed together and our tongues battle in dominance.

It's the first time she ever felt like this.

He suddenly stopped.

"Before we do anything, do i have your consent? "

"Yes, just fucking take me. "

His hands pressed under her shirt, quick to shove aside my bra. My voluptous breasts spilled out and his impatient lips hungrily sucked it off.

"Oh~ah shit!" you can't help but to moan in his touch.

He paused and threw your robe and bra on the ground. He goes down and down and down towards you legs as he carefully caresses, his hot breath along my thighs.

You gulped as you watch him lift your skirt revealing your thong. You feel embarassed as he stared at it for a few moments and take off your skirt along with thongs. Leaving you naked only for his eyes.

" so beautiful. " he whispered.

That was the last straw.

You straddled him, caughting him off guard as you lean in for a kiss.

"Where's all that courage coming from? "

"Shut up. "

My hands fumbled upon his trousers and onto his underwear revealing his erection. You blushed, since it was your first time seeing a man's part like that. You only see it in books......

His breatgour hand slowly travels on his cock. Pumping it back and fourth. Yuno looked so pretty like that, needy and desperate.

"Hah, just like that. "

He purred.

Slowly you started making kitten licks on his cock. Swirling your tongue along his tip, it then became much more intense. Gathering up the courage you slowly started going down on him, sucking his cock. You were gagging- but you couldn't care less.

"Hah~Ah shit y/n...." He let out an pleased hum whilst making eye contact with you, running his slender fingers through your hair.

You let out an shriek as he suddenly

forces your head down, causing you to choke on his cock. Bucking his hips into your mouth you can only tear up in the sensation you are feeling whilst he talks dirty to you.

"You fucking slut, the way you stare at me makes me go crazy everytime, now look at you choking at my cock. "

He said in his cool usual tone and slammed my body to the ground. Sorry mother, but i can't resist this man.

"I-it hurts yuno, hah~. "

You whimpered as his length was buried deep inside you. It was painful at first but it suddenly was replaced with pleasure as he slowly thrusted inside of your tight hole.

"I-is this your first time?"

Yuno sounded concerned and you looked at him and nodded shyly.

"Shit, i should've been more careful, are you okay? "

What's with this man...

"Yeah, it looks like you have just taken my virginity, vice captain. "

You said locking your arms on his neck and staring deeply on his amber eyes.

"Then fuck me hard, yuno." you whispered and he did.

Well that rest was history that night you and him just enjoyed the starry night and eachothers warmth on the moonlit night.

💌 : This is the celebration of my man turning 18. This was frickin rushed and amateurish since im new to this writing style👹

[ladykailitha]

Little Runaway Part 2

Part 1

Steve was still asleep when Eddie got up for breakfast. He made himself a bowl of cereal, going over his notes for the Hellfire Club’s session today.

Steve hadn’t awakened by the time Eddie was ready to go so Eddie slipped into his bedroom and quickly gathering his things. Eddie was a master of quick and quiet, having to get ready for school on days Uncle Wayne was sleeping off a late shift.

Eddie stopped at the door and looked back at Steve’s sleeping form. He scribbled a note that told him to eat what he wanted and that Eddie would be home later.

Eddie shoved his hair into his mouth and chewed, trying to puzzle out how to let Dustin know what was going on without letting the rest of Hellfire know that he had Steve fucking Harrington asleep on his bed. Because if he hated King Steve, it was nothing compared to the fury of a thousand suns that the rest of his friends had for the dude.

Now, the new nuggets, Dustin and his friends, they were fine with Steve which surprised him, but there it was. But if Dustin was right, even Will, Mike, Lucas, and Erica shouldn’t know where Steve was hiding out.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted an old wooden chess set that had a few pieces missing. The black pieces were dark cherry wood and the white was cedar.

He picked up the two kings and hefted them both. He flipped them over and saw green felt on the bottom of each piece. He set the white one down and dug at the black king’s felt. After a moment he was able to peel it back. And to his absolute glee he found that it was hollow.

He picked up the white piece and after a scribbled message explaining why this was necessary, Eddie rolled up the paper and placed it in the hollow. He shoved the king in his pocket and grabbed his stuff.

He got to his van and was about to start it when he looked back at the trailer.

Shit. He really hoped this wasn’t going to wake Steve up.

Wincing he turned the key and the engine roared to life. He backed out, hoping that Steve stayed asleep.

*

“Eddie!” Gareth greeted. “You’re late, man.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Eddie murmured getting to his seat and starting to set up. “I got a new stray last night and you know me and strays.”

Dustin perked up. “Yeah?”

“Next time Dustin when you drop off a stray, don’t do it at fuck all in the morning, yeah?” Eddie said pointedly.

Dustin gulped and looked down. “I didn’t know where else to take him. Is he okay?”

“After I got him cleaned up, he was out like a light,” Eddie said. “Been asleep since.”

“Aren’t you worried that the stray is going to piss all over the place while your gone?” Jeff asked.

“I’m hoping that he’ll still be asleep when I get home,” Eddie said.

Dustin nodded.

They started playing and Eddie watched Dustin carefully. The kid was clearly distracted. And Eddie could only guess it had to do with Steve.

They were going to have to talk about why after the session.

Finally they got to a spot where they could stop. Eddie handed out XP and gold as well as any items that they may have picked up. Made sure they all wrote it on their character sheet, too.

Dustin was getting on his bike to go home with his friends when Eddie stopped him.

“Hey, I’ll take you home,” he said jerking his thumb at the van. “You can put your bike in the back. I wanted to talk to you a bit about that stray you picked up. Because I have so, so many questions.”

Everyone looked at Dustin and then at Eddie, wondering what the hell was going on.

“I promise to tell you guys about it later,” Dustin said and immediately got off his bike and rolled it up to Eddie’s van.

“See you nuggets next week,” Eddie said waving at them.

He waited until they turned at the end of the street before glaring at Dustin. He tossed him the chess piece.

“Get in and I’ll explain.”

Dustin scrambled into the passenger seat of the van and closed the door behind him. He looked at the chess piece as Eddie pulled out.

He frowned when he saw the felt was coming off and peeled it back. He pulled out the note excitedly.

“This is a great idea, Eddie,” Dustin said. “That way we can pass messages without anyone noticing.”

“Tell me what the hell happened, Dustin,” Eddie growled.

Dustin blushed. “I was signing up for the summer reading program at the rec center. Read twenty books over summer break and you get an ice cream party. Anyway, I was finishing up when Steve came out of the locker room.”

“Doesn’t explain why you waited until almost four o’clock in the morning!” Eddie bit out.

“That’s how long it took me to convince him to hide out somewhere instead of using his gas running away from his dad.”

Eddie sighed. “Steve said that you gave him the low down on his dad?”

Dustin nodded. “He’s been going around town looking for Steve. He doesn’t say he’s missing. Only that he wants to talk and Steve hasn’t been home.”

“Grade A asshole right there,” Eddie said.

“Yeah,” Dustin murmured. “I didn’t know what else to do. I knew that the trailer park would be the last place Mr Harrington would look. And I tried Max’s place first but her mom’s currently on a bender and I didn’t think it would be right to saddle Max with both, you know?”

Eddie rubbed his face. “Yeah. So literally no other place for him to go?”

Dustin nodded.

Eddie pulled up to Dustin’s house and helped him get his bike out the back.

“I know Steve hasn’t been the best of dudes, but this isn’t King Steve anymore, okay?” Dustin said.

Eddie sighed. “I’m starting to get that, yeah.”

Dustin gave him a hug. “Thanks for doing this. I owe you big time.”

Eddie pounded on Dustin’s back. “Yeah you do. But don’t worry. That kitten you dropped off at my place will be fine.”

Dustin laughed. “We need to name the hairball.”

Eddie giggled. “Hmm...how about Ozzy?”

“No real names,” Dustin said. “It’d get confusing.”

“Okay...” Eddie said, pouting a bit.

“How about Lucky?” Dustin suggested.

“Sounds more like a dog,” Eddie said. “How about Jinx?”

Dustin tilted his head. “Yeah, sure. That can work.”

“Just put that chess piece where I can see it, whenever you need to get in contact with Jinx, okay?”

Dustin nodded. “It sounds like you’re keeping him for longer than the weekend.”

Eddie sighed. “I don’t know.”

Dustin just shook his head. “See you around, Eddie.”

Eddie closed his eyes and pursed lips. This was getting out of hand. If Steve was staying he needed to know the whole truth.

Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Epilogue

[mstarcreates]

At the request of @novabombbastic I have another snippet of the other Destiny AU I’m working on called Past Lives. As a refresher, this is an AU where Sundance does not die and Uldren takes Cayde prisoner instead.

This is the opening scene:

Those eyes. He’ll never forget those eyes. They burned and smoldered like the heart of a dying star, and Cayde was certain they’d be etched somewhere in the deepest recesses of his memory drives. Oh, how they blazed like with the fire of a thousand suns as they bore down on him with white-hot hatred from the other end of his own gun.

So, so much hatred.

“Any last words?” Uldren asked from the other side of the barrel, face half hidden in the shadow of his hood.

And still, Cayde blurted out the dumbest thing he’d probably ever said in his long life as a Guardian. He’d said a lot of shit too.

He figured he was dead anyway, might as well seal the deal. “How’s your sister?”

Then there was nothing inside those eyes. They were cold…disinterested even, as a shot rang out from the Ace of Spades.

****

“How’s your sister?” The words echoed in his mind as he started to come to, vision wavering for a moment until his orbital processors began to make sense of the blurry shapes around him. It was mostly dark, wherever he was at.

It didn’t take him long to surmise that he was in a cell of some kind, the walls made of old brick stones. The bed, if it could even be called that, was a bare mattress about as thick as a few pieces of flat wooden planks stacked together. It appeared to be filthy too, likely having been dragged out from some abandoned part of the EDZ.

There was a sink on one wall that was mostly rusted, water leaking in a steady dripdripdrip from what was left of the faucet. A cracked mirror hung above it along with one lonely fluorescent light that was bolted haphazardly to the wall. The poor thing was flickering and buzzing with what little power it still had remaining. It was barely even managing to stay on, let alone providing any actual light source to speak of.

Sundance appeared before him from her hiding place in subspace, scanning him for any other injuries. She must’ve just rezzed him. He hated the feeling of being freshly revived, it made his wiring all fuzzy and his mouth feel like it was full of old mothballs. But right now, he mostly hated it because his metal skull still felt like it was splitting in two.

Cayde groaned as he sat up, putting his head in his hands as he spoke. “Sundance…where are we?”

“Unclear,” She answered hesitantly, “Sort of.”

“What kind of answer is ‘sort of’?” He looked up at her, the Ghost’s shell dropping a little as if she didn’t want to tell him.

“Prince Uldren has taken us prisoner…but I’m not entirely sure where we’re at.”

“So call for help! The Vanguard, Petra—hell call everyone!”

“I can’t…” Sundance turned away from him, her shell spinning around as she contemplated the best way to break the bad news to him. “I tried, Cayde, I’m unable to reach anyone. I even attempted to transmat us out of here. I don’t know what Uldren did to us—to me…But I can’t do anything except heal you. Even my connection to the Light feels…weaker here.”

“Outstanding,” Cayde grumbled, he knew it wasn’t her fault. Hell, he was lucky to still have her. She had barely blinked away before that sniper…no he couldn’t go there. Couldn’t bring himself to think about how things would have ended without his Sundance, without his Light.

He would be six feet under. That’s all there was to it. He held his hand out and Sundance placed herself into his palm, her warmth settling deep into his circuitry somewhere. Cayde let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He wasn’t sure what was next or how to move forward from here. But he knew one thing for certain:

He wasn’t going to let that Awoken Bastard Prince get the best of him.

Cayde was patient. He could wait it out.

He would find an opportunity to escape, and then bring the full fury of the Vanguard down on Uldren Sov once and for all.

[colleendoran]

OK, so you are looking at a comic I did back in 1990 that changed my life in so many ways. Not the way you’re thinking of.

It taught me some very important lessons about the comics business, fame, and more importantly, how fame doesn’t rub off. And how having reasonable expectations will keep you centered and on the right path.

Many people don’t internalize this lesson. And now that our industry is no longer just Fandom Culture but is now Celebrity Culture, we see more and more creators with incredibly unrealistic expectations getting into comics, expecting the sun and moon to rise out of whatever they do, and being disappointed and frustrated when they don't.

I got occasional mainstream comics work in the early 1980’s, but I was still looking for my big break years later, especially since a major gig I was working on got shelved forever. I cannot even begin to tell you just how much being out of the eyes of the market for YEARS at a time while you work on a gig - and then the gig never coming out - can absolutely sink your brand.

Nowadays we have social media. Back then, you had no way to be seen if your work wasn’t being published. People forgot about you in about 15 minutes.

So when I got a gig working on Amazing Spider-Man, you bet I was thrilled. And even more thrilled when the darned thing sold like crazy. This issue of Amazing Spider-Man outsold previous Todd MacFarlane issues. And I knew Marvel was looking for a new artist. Huzzah! I outsold Todd! Maybe the new artist should be me!

You can imagine how pleased and excited I was to go to conventions and sign copies of a book that hundreds of thousands of fans bought. It was fun getting my first big lines of fans. I thought it would be a perfect opportunity to push my other works to them as well.

But few Spider-Man fans were interested in my other books. They could not possibly care less about Amethyst: Princess of Gemworld, that’s for sure.

The Spider-Man glow was gone in no time. And Marvel picked Erik Larsen to be the regular artist.

I might as well have never worked on Spider-Man for all the long term good it did. Were it not for that one brief shining moment of royalty check (which was darned good,) it had no effect on my prospects.

While I got more work at Marvel, I was scrambling to make a living and took on too much, doing sub-par art that didn’t please anyone.

I realized pretty quickly that Spider-Man’s fans weren’t my fans. I might as well have been a spark plug on that issue. Fans lined up, got me to sign a book, and forgot about me the next day. 

(Yeah I know some people say they love that comic, but I often hear from people who tell me how much they hated my art back then and how much they grew to love it later. Thank you, I’ll take it.)

Anyway, it was all a very tough lesson. But I appreciate that I learned it early before I got to the point where I could never learn it.

Fame isn’t transitive. It doesn’t rub off.

The public needs more than your proximity to something they know to transfer their attention to you and your work.

A lot of people got a taste of this in the early 1990’s. For a while, self-publishing was The Big Thing. I self published A Distant Soil and did well for some years, at one point making more than I could in mainstream comics, until the market crashed in 1996. A lot of creators thought if they just went to Image Comics, they’d all be millionaires.

That didn’t happen for almost all of them.

An old frenemy saw how well I was doing self publishing and assumed that if they just transferred their mainstream comics fan base to their creator owned work, they’d get rich.

But that didn’t happen. Their self-published work sold a fraction of what mine did. Their project died in the red. I never got my art back, including work from an unpublished future issue of the project. I remember being with this creator at a show and enduring their fury at how fans weren’t paying attention to them and their project. 

How could this happen? They were a star mainstream creator!

The mainstream cred did not transfer to the other work. The fans wanted the famous characters, not the indie project they were trying to push.

There was no point in explaining this either. I’d learned this lesson myself, but this person never learned it.

Most people never learn it.

How is it that I work on Famous This or with Famous Person and why am I not famous Too?

Because fame isn’t transitive.

I’ve worked on projects that got a lot (and I mean a lot) of buzz, but there are projects that didn’t necessarily set the world on fire that did more for me as an artist and for my finances than “big” projects did. 

Reign of the Zodiac and The Book of Lost Souls, both early/mid 2000’s comics with mediocre sales set me on a solid financial footing because they are two of the few regular monthly gigs I’ve done in all my years working in comics. That monthly paycheck paid more than the projects I’d done before them. The financial and emotional stability was beyond price. I loved everything about those projects. 

Except for their premature demise.

The one and only famous project that had a major transformative afterglow effect re: me and my work was Sandman. I met Neil Gaiman years before I worked on Sandman, before he was famous. I only worked on two issues. Many other artists were far more important to the project than me, of course. Then I went for nearly twenty years solid without working with Neil at all except on a pinup and short story adaptation of Troll Bridge that almost no one remembers. 

I started working with Neil again when he saw some art I did for a book for Tori Amos back in 2008. Tori Amos fans didn’t flock to my side when they saw it, yet another example of how Famous People Fame Doesn’t Rub Off. But I lavished time and attention on the project, did the art on spec with a completely new style and process, and showed it to Neil. I asked Neil if he’d take a chance at working with me again after lo, these many years and let me have a go again at adapting the story Troll Bridge that I’d botched in 1998. Neil said yes.

After The Book of Lost Souls got killed back in 2006, I could barely get arrested in comics and I wasn’t sure I had a future. I was shocked that Neil said yes. 

That Tori Amos job reestablished my working relationship with Neil and brought me to Dark Horse Comics, a publisher which had shown little prior interest in my stuff.

It took me years to complete Troll Bridge and during that time, Peter David contacted me to ask if I’d work on Stan Lee’s autobiography. That came out of the blue, and boy did I appreciate it. It sold like crazy, which was unexpected, really.

So I went from Not Being Able to Get Arrested in Comics in 2008, doing 1$ sketch cards and working for page rates I worked for in 1986, to Not Being Able to Remember What I am Doing Because I have Too Much To Do in 2022. I mean literally couldn’t remember I did a pinup for a gig back in February, and I not only forgot about it, I didn’t know it was published last June.

It looks like I had a super fast and fun run up if you’re just looking at my highlight reel. But it wasn’t. I’ve had peaks and valleys, (a few very fine peaks, the best being around 1993 and the other now), and sometimes the “big time” projects I thought would make my career held me back worse than the “small time” ones. “Big time” projects got shelved or came and went, quickly forgotten, and I said no to other projects while I was busy, and the one that got away ended up getting made into a multi-million dollar film franchise that would have set me up for life.

Ow.

If just being next to a famous person or working on a famous project was a guarantor of success, than I’d have been hugely successful every day of my adult life. 

That is not how it works.

Even the famous people are not as all that as you think, otherwise you wouldn’t see so many actors with haunted looks on their faces at conventions.

I met Neil before he was famous, but it took over thirty years for me to establish a solid working relationship with him.

Thirty. 

Years.

I’ve worked with famous wrestlers, actors, musicians, politicians, a Pulitzer Prize winning author, and on almost every single major licensed character there is. And I’m not super-famous or rich. I mean, I never wanted to be famous in the first place, but I’m not completely unknown in my field, and I’m not poor (anymore). Still, seriously, folks. I’m not going to movie premieres and living in Hollywood. 

I actually get asked about that, and I think it’s so funny.

I was watching some recent art auctions, and I was absolutely shocked to see original pages by an Eisner-nominated creator go for rock bottom prices, mainstream interiors at around $50 per page. I could not believe it. This artist is over 40 years old. I wonder if things will turn around for them.

Time will tell.

In the end, it’s not all about the people you’re standing next to. Or the character. Or the company. Or the award. And it's certainly not all about you.

Fans are here for you one minute, and forget about you tomorrow. Then you get $50 for your Eisner nominated art.

Art either takes off or it doesn’t. You either take off or you don’t. 

And then you can fly too close to the sun and fall.

Worse yet…you just fade and no one even notices that you crashed beautifully into the surf.

If people knew what the magic formula was, they’d be selling it and everyone would have what they want out of their art life.

But there is no magic formula. There just isn’t.

Everyone wants to be special to someone. Especially artists. Everything you create is special to you.

But it is extremely rare that what you create is as special to others as it is to you. Sometimes artists are just like everyone else. 

Here and gone.

Fame and success is not transitive. And they're not forever.

That’s the lesson.

I'm working on Good Omens right now. The Kickstarter pre-sign up news is here. No, it's not an icky newsletter, it will just let you know when the Kickstarter launches.

I have a Patreon. I'm funding the final volume of my space opera A DISTANT SOIL with it, but I won't be working on it again until Good Omens is complete. I have one of the most active and productive Patreons on the site.

I'm also on Twitter and Facebook and Instagram. Not too much though, they are distraction pits.

Make art because you love it. Because the rest...well, good luck. If it happens for you...it happens. And I hope it does.

[spell-cleaver]

Portrait of an Empire

Angstober

Day 26: Persuasion

Vader was still injured and limping when he came to see Sheev. The damage their fight had done to him was made more obvious by the strain Luke’s flight had put on him, and he looked more pathetic than ever when he joined Sheev on the balcony beside his throne room.

Sheev could not draw pleasure from it. He felt pathetic himself. It was disgusting.

“You have heard his demands,” Vader said. It was not a question.

Sheev looked disdainfully over Vader’s weak and trembling form, then back out over the balcony’s view. The sun was setting over Coruscant. It was beautiful, according to all the artists and poets who had ever beheld it. All Sheev had ever seen when he saw the crimson clouds was blood.

But that wasn’t true, was it?

That was the curse Luke had forced on him. The ability to see through another’s eyes—not to manipulate, but just to understand. He thought of that useless crystal Luke had made him buy in the market, so many years ago. He thought of the fact that he still kept it. Not under his pillow, as he was meant to. But he kept it, all the same.

Sheev wondered, now, what it was that Luke saw looking at the sunset. It would be different to what he saw when he had been younger. Sheev did not understand his grandson as well as he once did.

“I cannot accede to them; You must realise that. This Empire is forever.”

Vader, unexpectedly, agreed with him. “It is the only way to maintain peace in the galaxy.”

Of course Vader would think that, in hindsight. It was Sheev who had taught him that.

“This is the pinnacle of the Sith. We are the greatest of our line. And we have waited thousands of years for this victory. I cannot scupper it for a child!”

“The Empire is forever,” Vader repeated. “Will we be?”

Sheev cut him an irritated glance. “What?”

“Will you live forever? Will Luke?”

“That is the prize of all Sith,” he snapped. “Eternal life.”

“Luke will not be a Sith. It hurts him.” Vader said it matter-of-factly. No fury. No protective vigour. He knew his son, it seemed.

Had he spoken to him? Where had this contemplative nonsense come from? Vader was a blunt instrument. Hammers did not philosophise

“It hurts me,” Vader added. He gestured to his broken body. “Being Sith is meant to hurt.”

“It brings power.”

“The power does not prevent the hurt.” A beat. “Has it hurt you, master?”

Sheev rounded on Vader so fiercely he was sure his eyes blazed. But Vader, for once in his measly life, did not flinch.

“Why do you do it?” he demanded, fearless and frustrating. “What are the Sith for?”

“Power!”

“What is power for? I have burned my life and my loves for the Sith, for this empire,” Vader continued heatedly, “so tell me what it is for!”

“I built this empire for—” But he stopped.

Revenge. He’d wanted the Jedi dead.

Influence. He hated kowtowing to lesser beings than himself.

Prestige. He was the greatest Sith that ever lived. Everyone else should recognise that.

Every reason he uttered to himself was so inane.

So… pointless.

“To bring peace,” he bit out, “to the galaxy.”

“I cannot speak for the rest of the galaxy,” Vader said. “But Luke is not at peace.”

Sheev let out a breath.

“No,” he said. “He is not.”

[houseofhyde]

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

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

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

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

but only for tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

seemingly foolish? most definitely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he wears them differently to the rest of his house.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you suppose she’s heard far worse.

“uncle!”

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

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

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

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

in daemon, it is the pilar of his desire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i believe it’s pronounced irrefutable.”

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

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

“like i said, insufferable!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“hmm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i was looking, for you,”

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

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

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

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

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

your eyes find the prince.

he nods, once and then a second time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

yet, this is not her door.

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

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

you pause and wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a kiss that daemon does not reciprocate.

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

you’re ashamed.

and mortified.

and disgusted.

and embarrassed.

and reaching for his lips again.

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

daemon remains stoic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

his eyes scare you more.

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

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

the silence pleases him.

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

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

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

“then let me show you what i want.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you want-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

his laughter.

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

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

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

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

you nearly choke on your own shock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“as i’ll ever be.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“only when my mouth is otherwise occupied.”

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

they remain looking upwards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

daemon never quite has been one for following expectations.

“i could fall in love with you.”

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

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

“i beg to differ.”

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

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

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

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

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

[running-with-the-feels]

@jocelynhealy gave me the ide for this one

Frost: God, I hate Takeda, why do I have to work with a Shirai Ryu?

Some Rando: Heh, yeah he's kinda-

Frost, with the fire of a thousand suns: Finish that sentence and I will gut you like a fish

ELSEWHERE

Takeda: Why did Mr. Cage let Frost get put on our team, she's so annoying and arrogant!

Some Rando: You're so right, she's-

Takeda, practically vibrating with silent fury: If you wish for your face to remain intact, I suggest you stop speaking.