#suddenly it's black and white for a character that's existed in so much of the grey

[backjustforberena]

EVE BEST + Rhaenys as a warrior (taken from various interviews):

She's got that nobility of that absolute samurai: honorable, noble, f---ing cool-ass warrior queen.

It reminds me a bit of that wonderful film The Last Samurai, actually. That nobility, that courage, that absolute clarity and spiritual purity that those fighters have, I think she had definitely come to that place by the end.

[...] She, of all of them knows the weight of that moment, of that decision, of that line she's about to cross. And to have the balls, and the grace and the goodness to stand up and do it, while making it seem like it was just an effortless, you know, moment of nothing, without any kind of- any sort of indulgence. I just, I thought, "Yeah. Blimey, you're cool."

Somebody described her just now as their Lancelot: she’s their best knight. And if this is an Arthurian court, you have to send the best guy for the job.

The choice to go, that second return to plunge in with Vhagar — that’s an absolute kamikaze mission. To me, that was when she felt very samurai. It was that last stand of the noble warrior. She could have just about escaped, and they could have maybe left everybody to deal with it. But she turns because she knows that’s what she has to do, morally and spiritually.

A bold, tough, and brilliant samurai woman, a mother, the epitome of feminine grace, leadership, strength, wisdom, courage, and temperance. Tough as a rock.

In Season 1 she was wearing quite a lot of frocks and it was only right at the end that she changed into her dragon-riding costume. And if she looks like an ass kicker, then I’m happy with that.

She's the equivalent of Rhaenyra's Lancelot. She's their best knight. And it's the honorable, warrior choice.

But as the series progresses, we see her transformation into a fearless warrior who is willing to do whatever it takes to protect her loved ones and claim what is rightfully theirs.

She truly believes that the end justifies the means, even if it means sacrificing her own humanity in the process.

I said to [showrunner] Ryan [Condal] at the end of last season, I really want Rhaenys to go samurai in the second season. She was in frocks and everybody was in their beautiful clothes all the time. I was just like, I want her to go full warrior.

She’s a soldier. Within that moment in [season one] episode nine, the moment she broke through ‘the glass ceiling,’ she identified herself as a warrior.

[darkmatilda]

𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: following a certain unsettling experience, you and your husband choose to move to a quiet yet incredibly boring town. in his absence on a business trip, you discover an unexpected source of intrigue and diversion in one of your neighbors — spencer.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x female!reader, cheating (but not really lol), unreliable narrative, violence, attempted murder, inspired by taylor swift's song "fortnight", mention of sex but without a detailed description, nothing in this story is as it seems so read carefully until the end, reader has some backstory because it's necessary to the plot, reader has some disturbing thoughts, just to clarify, i don’t consider her character to be good or a role model. if you’re hesitating whether to read this story, it might be better if you skip it, lol.

𝐚/𝐧: it's kind of an experiment and I'm curious if you'll like it :3

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 8.5k

“Finally…our bedroom.” Richard opened the door to the room with a chivalrous gesture, bowing slightly as he let you enter first. Before stepping inside, you glanced at his face without much enthusiasm. He seemed genuinely happy. It didn’t surprise you. He loved beautiful things, and this house you’d just moved into was exactly that. “I’ve always wanted one like this. Spacious, white. A huge bed. What do you think, darling?”

Your husband’s lips gently brushed against the skin of your shoulder as he stood a step behind you. The tender gesture stirred no emotions in you—just like this bedroom. Or the house in general.

“Why do we need such a big bed if I’ll be sleeping in it alone?” you asked, unable to hold back the bitterness in your voice.

Richard sighed and took a step back. Your words had pulled him out of his own cinematic fantasy—the one he’d been living in since morning. In that fantasy, you were a perfectly happy couple embarking on an unquestionably bright chapter of your lives, and you were his perfectly normal wife.

“It’s just two weeks. A fortnight, as my grandfather used to say. I’ve gone on much longer business trips before.”

“Well, I wasn’t in a completely unfamiliar place then, where I don’t know anyone.”

He tilted his head, clearly reluctant to revisit this topic yet again.

“You won’t be alone. Sarah will be coming by every day, remember? I asked her to take care of you.”

“You hired her,” you corrected.

“Fine, I hired her. She desperately needed a job, and I needed someone to keep an eye on you. Does the fact that she’ll be paid for it really change anything?”

Countless words pressed against your lips. Yet suddenly, you lost all interest in the argument, in the situation as a whole. You said nothing.

Richard studied your face closely, noticing that sudden, dangerous absence in your expression—a telltale sign with you. His lips tightened with concern. Before he could speak, the doorbell rang.

“Could that be her?” he wondered aloud, heading downstairs to let the guest in.

You followed him mindlessly down the stairs, like a shadow. You weren’t entirely sure why. Everything in your existence felt just like this—dictated by someone else or some mysterious force, a whisper lurking at the back of your mind. Never fully justified.

It turned out it wasn’t Sarah. Standing at the door of your new home was a couple.

“Hi there,” said a young woman with a romantic figure and a cascade of black curls. A natural blush on her cheeks softened her sharp features, adding a touch of charm. “We live in the house across the street. We stopped by to welcome our new neighbors.”

“And to apologize for barging in right after you arrived, not giving you any time to settle in,” added the man standing a step behind her, clearly towering over her in height. He looked down at his companion with a faint, probably unconscious smile, and from that alone, you knew they were either married or a long-standing couple. “Someone was a little too eager to meet you.”

She elbowed him, barely stifling a laugh.

 “I’m Vanessa. And this is my smug and sarcastic husband, Spencer.”

“We weren’t expecting visitors,” you spoke up before Richard, standing in front of you, could say a word.

There was an unintentional sharpness to your tone—you didn’t want to host anyone. For one, you had just arrived. Your belongings from the previous house had been unpacked by the moving company, but you hadn’t gone shopping yet. There wasn’t any coffee to offer, and you weren’t even sure if the coffee maker was plugged in. More importantly, you hadn’t yet adjusted to the new place yourself and didn’t want to let strangers in until you did.

Vanessa parted her lips, clearly surprised by the edge in your voice.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” your husband cut in quickly, turning to the woman with an apologetic look. “Don’t worry, you’re not bothering us at all. Actually, we’re glad you stopped by. It’ll be nice to get to know someone in the area, especially for my wife. I’ll be leaving on a business trip soon, and I don’t want her getting bored. Richard, by the way,” he added, extending a hand.

She had very small hands, round like a child’s, but in their own way, charming. Her wedding ring was simple and looked cheaper than yours. The thought flitted through your mind, as did the observation that Spencer had very elegant hands—slim with long fingers—unlike your husband’s. You had an odd habit of paying unsettlingly close attention to people’s hands.

Despite the protest in your gaze, Richard invited them inside.

Vanessa walked in first. They didn’t touch, but there was an unmistakable closeness in all their movements, as if they were two halves of one of those matching necklaces best friends wear in school. It caught your attention for some reason. You knew that you and Richard didn’t share that kind of grace. People didn’t immediately assume you were married when they saw you together. Sometimes they thought you were father and daughter, even though he was only thirteen years older than you and looked young, well-kept. But it probably had more to do with the way you walked cautiously at his side, always slightly withdrawn, as if seeking protection.

“Oh, it immediately reminded me of our house when we first moved in,” Vanessa sighed nostalgically, turning to her husband. The four of you had walked into the kitchen, where the table and countertops were spotless and empty, as if taken straight from a photo in a modern interior design magazine. “It used to look like this too, but then Spencer converted the living room and kitchen into the second and third library. Apparently, one isn’t enough for him.”

“My wife reads a lot too,” Richard chimed in. There was something strange about his tone, a faint, undefined emotion—maybe jealousy, but not entirely. Jealousy over the lightness and ease in their interactions, how their relationship seemed perfect at first glance. Unlike his.

Spencer looked at you, as if seeking confirmation of that statement.

You pursed your lips. The last time you’d read something was…six weeks ago, at best. Books hadn’t brought you joy in a long time, though there was a time when you devoured them relentlessly.

“It’s true,” you admitted stiffly. “I read constantly. One book after another."

When you lied, your voice sounded mechanical, like a robot. Recently, though, all your words carried that same rigid tone, even when you were being entirely truthful, so no one noticed when you veered away from the truth. It was, in a way, convenient. The new neighbor opened his mouth to speak. If he had asked what kinds of books you enjoyed, you would have said something absurd, like The Bible Trilogy or something equally ridiculous. Nothing else came to your foggy mind.

However, he was cut off by Richard, who quickly turned to both of them with a question about their professions. They looked young, about your age. You hadn’t expected them to have impressive careers, but that assumption turned out to be wrong. Vanessa turned out to be a surgeon, and Spencer was a criminal profiler.

Although the lines of his face were arranged in a way that was undeniably pleasant to look at, and his irises carried a warm hue, there was an undeniable sharpness in them. You could feel it, that piercing quality, whenever his gaze landed on you.

You tuned out when Richard started boring them with stories about his work as an engineer. His favorite topic—pride. You just wanted them to leave, even though nothing in their behavior really irritated you. Their love, however, bored you. You had some private aversion to happy relationships, and with the typical jealousy of a gloomy wife, you always wrote them off as doomed. Probably because of betrayal.

“And you, what do you do?” At some point, Spencer interrupted your husband’s monologue, tilting his head toward you. Vanessa, who had been patiently listening, seemed to perk up a little, her gaze now on you.

Richard swallowed, and you saw and heard it.

“She’s not working at the moment,” he said cautiously. Vanessa’s eyes involuntarily dropped to your stomach, but Richard quickly shook his head. “No, it’s not like that. We don’t have children yet. It’s just... it’s about some... health issues.”

A very creative way to convey that not long ago your wife had a nervous breakdown. So severe that you decided to buy a new house in a new neighborhood, hoping it would somehow improve her condition.

Vanessa’s eyes brightened, as if apologizing for bringing up the topic at all.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Well, it’s kind of like my Spence. He’s on leave for health reasons too. I made him take it; I honestly think it’s better to take a break and rest than push yourself to the limit later on.”

“But it’s nothing serious,” her husband quickly reassured. “Just migraines. Two weeks, and I’ll be back at work.”

You apologized to them without a hint of feigned remorse. Muttering something under your breath about not feeling well, but in reality, you simply didn’t want to continue this pointless conversation. As you walked away, you could feel Richard’s unwavering gaze on your back. He had never been angry at you for your behavior. He cared deeply, truly. More than anger, you sensed a certain disappointment in his demeanor. In his ideal world with his ideal wife, you stood by his side, holding him by the waist, entertaining everyone with some anecdote from exotic corners of the world, sparking bursts of laughter.

You lay down on the bed, in the cold sheets of the enormous bed. Closing your eyes, you imagined yourself floating on the surface of the endless ocean. There was nothing around you to focus your gaze on. In a way, it was a dream more terrifying than one where a shark would chase you. When you woke up, the sun was setting.

For a while, you lay still, but eventually, you got up and descended the stairs. It wasn’t out of desire, but rather some internal compulsion you had to fulfill. Otherwise, something would happen. You weren’t sure what. Your steps were slow, barely audible. At the top of the stairs, you heard Sarah’s voice coming from the kitchen. The rest of the way, you moved like a born detective, a secret agent, hiding by the entrance, opposite the white (like everything else in this house) wooden cubby under the stairs.

You heard Sarah’s voice again, a faint sound of vegetables being chopped in the background. They must have been preparing dinner together.

"Don’t worry," she said, her voice gentle. "When you leave, I’ll stop by every day to check on her. Are you sure that moving away was really the right solution?"

Richard sighed before answering.

"Well, that’s what the psychologist recommended. He said that a break from the big city and some peace is the best thing I can offer her in this crisis."He paused for a moment, then added, "Thank you for doing this, Sarah. I wish I didn’t have to leave, but my work...This project is incredibly important…"

Sarah was your sister, whom your husband had hired as something like domestic help. She cleaned and made sure you didn’t get the idea of taking a bath with a toaster plugged in under your arm. By the way, they were fucking behind your back. You knew about it and did nothing about it.

The reasons were mixing in your head, but the most important one was probably that without Richard, you would have nothing. Money, a house, the possibility of spending most days sweetly doing nothing. Besides, you didn’t really feel bothered by it. For most of the time, where he stuck his dick was absolutely indifferent to you, even if it was your sister. For the rest, you wanted to slit both of their throats.

But we all have our own inner battles, right?

You walked into the kitchen, and they fell silent immediately.

The next two days felt almost fairy-tale-like, as if every time the sun set, creatures straight out of folklore surrounded your house, camping outside the windows. Richard, by your side, became a kind of magical amulet—a form of protection against them all. His departure would be like violently ripping that amulet from your neck, leaving you exposed to danger.

You were getting used to the new house. For a moment, you felt so alive, so present, that you even started questioning whether bringing the porcelain dinner set from the old place had been a good idea. For a solid fifteen minutes, you told Richard how you thought it was too elegant, too plain. Too much of a match for the rest of the decor, all designed in the same style.

He listened, a smile on his face, happy that your thoughts weren’t drifting into strange, distant realms. And when you were done, he whisked you away to buy a new dinner set with cobalt floral patterns. You felt good.

The next day, he left for his two-week business trip—a fortnight, as he called it.

The first day was lonely; you wandered aimlessly through the vast new house. The next two days seemed not to exist at all.

“You can’t keep doing this.” Someone’s presence loomed just behind you as you lay face down on the bed, your face buried in the pillow. “You can’t spend your days like this. It’s not helping, really. You need to… you need to try doing something,” Sarah explained. She pulled the blanket off your body, like a mother waking a child for school.

You didn’t respond.

“Come downstairs. It’s already afternoon, and I bet you haven’t eaten anything, right? Honestly, I don’t even want to ask how long it’s been.”

And I bet you spread your legs for my husband, right? The thought pushed itself to your lips, but opening your mouth felt like too much effort. After about fifteen minutes of her continued talking, you let her drag you downstairs. You sat in a chair at the table, where you had a clear view of the neighbors’ house and driveway. It was almost identical to yours—white, two stories tall, with a mailbox planted near the road that stretched through the neighborhood. The only thing that set it apart was a trail of pink roses climbing along its white fence.

Sarah began preparing a meal. She was always an excellent cook. She had a thing for Asian cuisine—hearty soups with intense aromas.

You ate in silence. Sarah asked if you had called Richard, but you dismissed it with a snort. After that, she said nothing more and started cleaning up after the meal without a word. You kept your absent gaze fixed on the neighbors' driveway when suddenly a car appeared there. Spencer got out, wearing a polo shirt, and went to the trunk to pull out, as it turned out, bags of groceries.

He had no idea you were watching him, though if he had good eyesight, he could have seen your face in the window across the street. The entire conversation with him and his wife filled your mind again. You remembered that Vanessa worked as a surgeon almost all day, while he spent his days alone at home. Just like you and Richard. Did he feel romantically lonely, or abandoned like a dog that’s loved but you want to kick every time it pees on the carpet? The kind of dog that gets shown in family pictures but is asked to get off the bed and not lick you because it disgusts you?

You were curious if they had sex. He and Vanessa. She was probably tired when she got back and didn’t feel like it. Did he accept that, or secretly bring someone home when she wasn’t around? He seemed to love her, but that didn’t mean he could deny his human needs. Maybe he missed intimacy. You probably did too, but you didn’t want it from Richard. In bed, he was too proper, like a porn actor following a script.

"Maybe you can help me?" Sarah asked, washing dishes at the sink. Lost in thought, you didn’t even hear the sound of the running water.

Spencer came inside.

"That's why Richard hired you," you reminded her coldly.

"It’s not about that," she sighed. "I don’t know, maybe it’s just my opinion, but doing nothing drives people into even deeper depression. Believe me, you’d feel better if you had something to focus on. I don’t know, a job, a child, responsibilities. A goal." She paused for a moment, placing the dishes on the shelf. Her hands touched your new porcelain. You were planning to throw it out once she left. "Okay, maybe I’ll sound harsh, but... are you really not coping?"

"Do you think I'm pretending?"

"No," she added quickly, with real concern. "I don't think so, it's just... you know, I just remembered. When you were a child, you were like this too. Our parents gave us chores, and you didn't do your part. You used to drift off somewhere with your thoughts...you were a bit lazy.”

A strange hum filled your head as you returned to your body, the kitchen was filled with darkness, and your cheek rested on the kitchen table. Only after a moment did you realize that Sarah must have left hours ago, and you, unable to move, had fallen asleep in the same spot where you had been sitting. Your body was stiff, and you didn't want to move it to avoid pain or numbness.

When you opened your eyes again, the morning sun gently caressed your face.

A certain sense of unreality gently embraced your body, kissing every part of it. For a moment, you lay there—or rather, sat—with your head resting on the table, your gaze fixed on the view outside the window. The neighbor's house, the pink roses, the driveway. The mailbox, to which Spencer approached with a sleepy step, dressed in a loose T-shirt and gray checkered pants. Even from afar, you could see his brown hair was messy, which only added a charm to his already quite handsome face.

Without much thought, as if guided by some higher command in a system you physically couldn't resist, you sprang to your feet and stepped outside. You were still wearing a flowing white nightgown that reached just halfway up your thigh, with lace trimming. Though it was spring, the mornings were cold, but you didn't feel it, just as you didn't feel the roughness of the concrete driveway beneath your bare feet.

"Hey, neighbor!" you shouted at him, approaching your mailbox. You acted as it felt so natural to you, as if you did this every morning just like him. You glanced inside; there was only a newspaper.

Spencer furrowed his brow in surprise, but waved, a brief, uncertain smile appeared on his lips. You shoved the newspaper under your arm without even looking at the headline and crossed the street to approach him. You felt both more alive than ever before and fleeting, as if the breeze could blow you away at any moment, and you would become nothing more than a cloud of dust just before his face.

“Morning,” he greeted aloud, crossing his arms, one of them holding a newspaper against his chest. For a moment, he stared at you, lost in thought, before finally shaking his head. “I’ll admit, I’m... a little surprised to see you. I thought you and Richard had both left, I didn’t see you around…”

“Oh, I just wasn’t feeling well,” you waved your hand dismissively. Your tone was light, not as tense as it had been the first, and last, time you’d spoken with him. He seemed to notice the difference, narrowing his eyes slightly as he studied your face.

“I hope you’re feeling better,” he expressed, his concern sounding sincere and kind.

“Definitely. I’m just a little bored now. Not much to do in the new house, new neighborhood,” you added with an ironic undertone that only you could catch. As if you were even trying to do anything. You remembered Sarah’s words while doing the dishes.

Spencer, however, couldn’t know you were lying, and in a way, you believed your own words. He gave a short chuckle.

“I get that all too well. The doctor recommended I take a break from mental work, and I have no idea what I could do,” he said. “Vanessa comes home late during the week, and she just collapses. I guess I’ll have to push through until the weekend.”

You laughed, not because his words amused you, but because it confirmed your earlier theory. They weren’t having sex. There was no chance of it.

“Ah, poor things. The both of us, I mean,” you sighed. “Well, since you can’t work mentally, I suppose you’ll have to spend your time physically. In some pleasant way.”

“Yeah, I guess that would be the best,” he responded.

A silence fell between you. You didn’t know what else to say to keep the conversation going. Why did you even want to keep it going so much? Was it a lack of male attention, or something else? Spencer’s gaze briefly flickered toward his house, likely signaling that he wanted to go back inside but didn’t know how to show it. But suddenly, his eyes dropped, and his lips parted in surprise.

“Y-your foot…”

A pool of blood stretched out beneath you, on his driveway. Surprised, you let out a stifled cry, not feeling any pain and having no idea where it came from. Spencer snapped out of his shock, his head swiveling side to side as a sense of control began to settle into his movements.

"You’re barefoot, you must have stepped on something, a sharp stone or glass," he reasoned logically, eyeing your feet. Then, he sighed. "Damm… there’s quite a bit of it... a-are you okay?"

"A little dizzy," you groaned.

The sight of blood always made you lightheaded.

He quickly rushed to you, making sure you wouldn’t fall. One of his hands, slender with long fingers—something you had once noticed—rested on the small of your back, and you could feel it through the thin fabric of your nightgown.

“C-could you take me to my house...?” you asked, slipping further into his arms. “I need to lie down... I don’t like... I don’t like blood...”

“Of course...”

And though his house was much closer, he followed your request. The fact that you were disturbed by the sight of blood, rather than the actual loss of it, seemed to calm him a bit. He tried to guide you, draping his arm around you, but soon realized it was pointless. He froze for a moment, uncertain. Then he sighed and lifted you in his arms, supporting you beneath the knees.

"Thank you so much... neighbor," you mumbled into his chest.

A moment later, you were half-sitting, half-lying on a chair in the kitchen, while he pulled one to sit across from you. Small bloodstains from your foot marked his gray pants, but he seemed completely unfazed by it. You weren't sure if there was a first aid kit at home, so he told you to wait and went to your bathroom to fetch it.

With a focused expression and his lower lip slightly protruding, he began treating your wound. He seemed to have experience in this. You didn't feel any pain at all; you were focused only on a few things. On your stretched-out leg, resting on his lap, and what was between your legs, revealed by the short nightgown. 

You never slept in lingerie.

You carefully analyzed his face, wondering if he noticed it.

Maybe not, because he was too focused. Maybe he did, but he was trying to play the gentleman.

You pretended to let out a short groan of pain to draw his attention. His gaze lovingly fell on you... and then it landed right there. He quickly looked away, the corner of your mouth trembled.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Spencer,' you said. “My foot, actually. Is it something serious?”

He swallowed, though your limb was already fully bandaged and dressed, he didn’t take his eyes off it. As if he were afraid to look elsewhere.

“‘N-no,’ he replied hoarsely, nervously. He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of it, then straightened his head. His gaze held so much awkwardness. And you were absolutely sure that there was also some degree of desire in it. ‘It’s… it’s a shallow wound, it just bled a bit heavily. I disinfected it… there’s probably no need to go to the hospital… unless… unless you feel like you need to, of course, that depends on you.’”

“There’s no need,” you reassured him with a brief nod. In contrast to him, your voice was calm, refined. You straightened up in your seat and reached out, brushing your fingers against his forearm. He flinched. “How can I repay you?”

"Repay?" he repeated, with confusion. Then your eyes met, and if he had been standing, he would likely have taken a step back, pushed away by everything that was in your gaze. He swallowed again. "You don’t have to repay me, it’s... just a neighborly favor. And I... I need to get going."

He fought with himself, but if he didn’t want you, he wouldn’t have allowed you to touch his forearm like that, running your nails along it. Suddenly, as if struck by an electric shock, he jumped up from the chair, your injured leg dropping to the floor. You wanted to scoff, but held yourself back. At first, you watched him leave the kitchen, then you turned your gaze toward the window, where he soon appeared, heading toward the house. His steps were slow, suspiciously slow.

A sense of triumph filled your body as you slowly rose from the chair, standing on your healthy leg. You waited, watching, until he turned.

You slipped the sleeve of your nightgown off your shoulder. 

He didn’t turn around, though he stopped.

You slipped another one. 

He stood still, his shoulders moving up and down.

The nightgown slipped down along your body. 

He chose that exact moment to glance back toward your window, toward you. You saw his eyes widen, his gaze unsure of where to land. For a long, intense moment, you simply stared at each other.

Until he finally moved, gave in, and returned to your house.

*

Well, in a similar manner, the following days unfolded.

Every morning, you waited by the window like a ghost. Spencer, like a good neighbor, would approach the mailbox, pull out the newspaper, and pretend to examine the front page. But in reality, he was just waiting to catch a glimpse of you in the window of your house. You didn't need to give him hand signals, wave, or call out. You simply hobbled to your bedroom, knowing the front door was unlocked.

And after a moment, he would join you.

Your bodies collided with the bedding. Always in the same wild way, impatient and thirsty for the closeness of another person. His hand slid between your legs, a short moment later, caressed your lips, brushing against your lower lip, gently tugging at it. It was like an intense memory, suddenly haunting you in the middle of, say, a store aisle, pulling from you an involuntary gasp, even though weeks or even years had passed since that moment.

Those moments when you were together were that wonderful memory. The act itself, and the moments after, when you lay curled up facing each other. The rest of the days, the hours between your next meeting, were like that store aisle with shelves full of milk with various fat contents. Being among them, all you could do was return, return with your thoughts.

That Friday, you were sitting with your knees resting on his chest.

Your finger traced a path from his collarbones down to his lower abdomen and back again, and Spencer watched your movements, his lips slightly curled in amused curiosity.

"What are you thinking about?" he wanted to know.

He reached for your loose hair, gently pushing it over your back to see you better. To see all of you.

"Do you feel guilty for cheating on your wife?" you asked. "The beautiful, loving Vanessa? With your sick neighbor?"

Spencer was silent for a long moment, though he did not look away. If he had, it would have carried some shame, some guilt. But he didn’t.

“Desire is like a whirlpool that takes you down, with no possibility of return. Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary " he quoted softly, instead of directly answering the question.

"A guy who quotes classic literature after having sex with me," you chuckled. "Now, that's a first. But how does this relate to my question?"

"It relates in this way," he replied, "that desire is not something I have control over. It's a force that strikes unexpectedly, and although a person is often aware of the consequences it brings, they can't resist it. And I desire you."

"So you mean to say that cheating on your wife isn't your fault? Because you had no control over it?"

"Of course, it's my fault. And every sin is something a person eventually regrets, that's just how it goes. But I'm not there yet. I'm still too dazzled and enchanted by you. So, to answer your question, no, I don't feel guilty. Not yet. What about you?"

A strange feeling filled your body as you listened to his words, compliments, and devotion. It was as if you were swaying to the delicate sounds of some magical music, played live by a brilliant composer. Instead of answering, you returned to tracing the same path on his skin, starting from his neck and moving downward.

He inhaled sharply. This time, you did it with your lips.

Both of you, fully dressed, walked down the stairs. You wanted him by your side all day and night, but you couldn't have him. Not only because he had to go home in the evening when his wife was returning from work. He had other duties too, like grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning; he couldn’t devote all his time to you.

Your hand rested in his, but then you stopped suddenly, alarmed by a sound. A car pulling into the driveway.

"It must be Sarah," you thought right away. You had spent much longer in bed that day than usual, completely unaware that it was already afternoon and your sister was coming over to check on you. Spencer straightened up, surprised, and before he could say anything, you pushed him toward the cupboard under the stairs. You hadn’t had a chance to look in there yet, but it seemed like the best hiding spot. "Get in there, quickly...!"

Barely had the cupboard door closed when Sarah entered. She was holding a paper bag with groceries, nearly dropping it when she saw you.

“What are you doing here?”

Your eyebrows shot up.

“This is my house.”

“Shit, right,” she sighed, nodding. “Sorry, I just always found you in bed at this time, and… never mind. It’s good to see you on your feet. Want to help me cook?”

Without waiting for an answer, she headed for the kitchen. She moved through the house as if it were hers. Slowly, you followed her, wondering how to signal Spencer to cautiously leave the cupboard and return to his place. Though maybe that would be too risky? The cupboard door was visible from where Sarah was chopping vegetables for dinner; she would have to turn her back. Better for him to stay there until she left.

Actually, he didn’t even need to hide. You could just tell her that he came by to borrow something, like normal neighbors do. But just the thought of hiding him sent a pleasant shiver of excitement down your back. You entered the kitchen, watching your sister in silence.

“How’s your leg?” she asked over her shoulder, putting the newly purchased groceries into the fridge. “I see you’re walking normally again.”

“I take very careful steps and try not to put too much weight on it,” you replied, slipping further into the room.

You weren’t sure how to act; your gaze kept drifting behind her to the cupboard under the stairs, where Spencer was hiding. 

Sarah seemed to be watching you more closely whenever she wasn’t chopping or stirring something. She probably sensed that something was off, even if she couldn’t pinpoint what.

A quarter of an hour passed, then half an hour. Meals prepared by your sister were never the quick kind.

“Fuck,” she suddenly exclaimed, her words preceded by the sharp sound of shattering glass. She had dropped one of the plates—the ones you and Richard had bought right after moving into this house. She glanced around the kitchen as steam billowed out of the pot on the stove. “Do you have a dustpan or something?”

You opened your mouth but said nothing. The truth was, you didn’t know. You didn’t cook or clean; you spent your days in the bedroom or by the window, waiting for Spencer.

Sarah caught herself, realizing how pointless her question was.

“Wait, Richard mentioned the previous owners didn’t clear everything out of the cupboard,” she said suddenly, pointing toward the very place in question.

Your entire body tensed.

Before you could react, shake yourself out of it, or get a grip on the situation, she was already opening the door. You stood frozen, your eyes wide, bracing yourself for her surprised scream when she stumbled across a strange man inside.

You felt odd, like you were waiting for a carnival vendor to hand you a stick of cotton candy. Like…excited, rather than terrified at the prospect of your secret being exposed.

Sarah returned holding a dustpan.

“See? It was there. They really did leave a lot of stuff behind. Richard needs to check it out when he gets back,” she said, pausing abruptly to scrutinize your expression. “What’s wrong?”

You only shook your head, unable to say a word.

The moment Sarah drove away, you practically sprinted to the cupboard.

Spencer burst into laughter at the sight of your astonished expression.

“God, you have no idea how scared I was when she came in. But I hid behind the door, and she didn’t even notice me,” he explained, placing a hand on his chest as if only now beginning to process what had just happened.

A moment later, you threw your head back, laughing uncontrollably. And as you let yourself sink into the hysteria, you pressed your lips to his, pushing him back against one of the walls. He drew in a surprised breath, momentarily breaking the kiss, but quickly dove back into it.

There was always a certain urgency in the way he treated you. As if he truly believed this might be the last time you’d see each other. The pace he set felt like a challenge, one you were determined to meet.

You allowed yourself a brief moment of respite, tilting your head back in satisfaction, as one of his fingers began tracing circles around your nipple. His entire hand slipped under the thin fabric of your nightgown, the other was sliding up from the opposite side. Oh, it was marvelous. The darkness that enveloped the cupboard contrasted with a single, narrow beam of light streaming through the slightly ajar door.

He knelt before you, your knees softening, buckling more and more with every passing moment.

You didn’t even need to close your eyes to feel consumed by that sensation. It seemed as though there was only one, specific point on your body, and the rest of you barely existed—like oxygen molecules in the air around you, invisible and undetectable to others, and even to yourself.

You let out a moan, not sweet, but more of a scream, cutting through the space.

At that moment, your gaze once again fell on that one illuminated strip in the dark room, a strange glow reflecting light off itself. The axe head, resting against one of the walls, much like you in that moment. Except that it was more stable and upright, its back not arching backward.

Well, it didn’t have a back, but you get the metaphor.

*

On weekends, Vanessa didn't work.

Spencer hadn't visited you for a while.

You spent those two days with your cheek pressed against the kitchen counter, watching your neighbor water the flowers. The thick roses with pink buds, their color matching the flush of effort on her cheeks as she gripped the heavy watering can. She wore tight black pants and a t-shirt, the complete opposite of your airy shirt. On a daily basis, you didn't wear anything else. Why would you? It was comfortable and provided easy access. All you had to do was slip your hand underneath.

Sarah noticed the deterioration in your condition and told you to call Richard. She probably hoped that hearing his voice would act as a cure for you. You didn’t need him; you had your own. You had your own miraculous move-on drug. It worked reliably, the only downside being that its effects were temporary.

The long-awaited Monday had come again, and you were afraid Spencer wouldn’t show up. But he did, as usual, holding a freshly retrieved newspaper from the mailbox. He always forgot to take it with him afterward, and a pile had already started to accumulate in your bedroom. Later, on Friday, you were lying naked in bed. You reached for one of them and tried to make a paper airplane, but you couldn’t remember how.

Spencer sat on the bed, the blanket wrapped around his hips, leaving his chest exposed.

"Show me," he asked, extending his hand towards you.

You followed the command, lying on your side with your head resting on your hand, watching his movements. He looked down, focused, his hair falling over his forehead. It was longer than Richard's hair, and you liked it, along with the untamed nature that always accompanied it. You would wish he never came back from that business trip. His plane could crash somewhere in the ocean or in the jungle, where he would be torn apart by wild animals.

Vanessa wasn't an obstacle, you imagined yourself approaching her from behind while she was watering the flowers. Then it would be just the two of you. You could never leave the house, never leave that bed.

"Ta-da," Spencer said, throwing the finished paper airplane so it rolled across the bedroom like a car on a circular racetrack.

You laughed, a sense of carefree joy filling you.

"I feel like a child again," you sighed, lying on your back. "Like I can dream again."

After a moment, Spencer joined you, placing a tender kiss on your shoulder and closely watching your profile.

"Don't you have any dreams?" he asked, surprised.

You paused for a moment. Yes, you had one. It involved stopping time, literally grabbing the hands of the universe’s clock and holding them in place. Right there, in that very moment. But out loud, you decided to say something else.

"I used to dream of moving to Florida. But I don't know if that even qualifies as a dream. A dream should be something out of our reach, or something that can’t be fulfilled. Something we can think about with excitement every night before going to sleep. And I, well, theoretically, I could move there. What about you, do you have any dreams?"

Spencer thought about it for a moment.

"By the way you put it, I guess I don’t. I’d like to buy a new car, but it’s not something I think about with excitement before bed," he said with a short chuckle, but suddenly his amusement faded, his unreadable gaze fixed on you. You turned your face towards him, gently studying his features with your fingers, starting from his lips. A short sigh escaped them. "Then… I think about you."

You kissed him gently, as if slipping a pill onto your tongue. Again, I thought of all those damned seconds, slipping away like the air from a punctured balloon. Like life, from a dying person. You wished there was a way to seal that hole or perform CPR so that the man could still survive. To make time stand still.

Suddenly, a sound broke the silence. The landline phone, sitting on the cabinet by Spencer’s side—well, actually, Richard’s side—rang.

You didn’t want to answer it, so you asked him to reach for it and hang up the call. But then it rang again, the sound felt like a personalized version of a spiked boot, kicking your head.

"Give it to me," you said with surrender, taking the phone from Spencer. "Hello?"

"Hey, babe. Everything okay? You haven't said a word," Richard's voice came through on the other end, sounding lighter. Like he was well-rested. Well, he had the chance, being far away from his fucked-up wife. Or maybe he just masturbated at the thought of Sarah, and it put him in such a good mood.

You glanced sideways at Spencer, signaling that it was your husband. For a moment, he didn’t move, but after a while, a somewhat arrogant expression appeared on his face, and you were curious about what it meant.

"You know I don’t like talking on the phone," you replied briefly.

Spencer positioned himself in front of your bent legs, gently spreading them apart.

"I know, but... I was still worried. Although, Sarah also called me saying you were feeling better." His lips touched the inner part of your thigh, you closed your eyes. Your breath had to stay steady. "Well, then she called again, saying that you were feeling bad again. I had no idea what was going on. Maybe you’ll tell me, hm? Have you settled in the area? Have you even talked to the neighbors at least once?"

You pulled the phone away from yourself, inhaling sharply as his tongue found its place exactly where it should.

"Spencer Reid, you absolute sadist," you said almost silently.

He laughed, his breath tickling you.

"Babe?" Your husband's voice came through louder.

You pressed the phone back to your ear.

"Hm? What were you asking? I can't talk right now," you said, sliding one hand into his hair, gently gliding it through the strands. At one point, your fingers tightened on them as the rest of your body tensed.

"Okay, fine," he said, not even sounding disappointed, more like he was tired of the conversation. And likewise. You wanted him to hang up already—his presence, even though miles away, filled you with a palpable disgust. "Oh, but one more thing. I hope you'll be happy."

Impatiently, you rolled your eyes, and at the same time, a moan slipped from your lips. You quickly covered your mouth with your hand. Richard remained silent—he must have heard it, but probably took it as a sign of curiosity toward his words.

The silence on the other end was almost theatrical.

 "I’m coming back sooner," he finally declared. "We finished the project much quicker than we planned..."

You shot up to a sitting position, and Spencer jumped back from you, startled.

 "When?" you managed to force out, the word laced with pure fear.

"Well, my flight is booked for today’s evening in my time zone..."

You hung up. An indescribable pain spread across your chest, as if someone had shoved a sharp instrument into it and left it there.

"What's going on? What happened?" Spencer asked, concern filling his voice as he moved closer to you, gently cupping your cheek.

You usually loved his touch; normally, you would close your eyes and surrender to the gesture. But you couldn’t. The realization that it was all going to end—that it was going to end tomorrow—made you push his hand away. For a moment, you stared into space, trying to steady your breath, but you couldn’t. It seemed like it would stay like this forever.

"I think it's time for you to leave," you said, your voice showing no emotion.

Maybe if he had sensed the despair in it, heard it crack, he would have stayed. But no, your command was cold, and it made him dress quickly and leave the bedroom almost immediately. You buried your hands in your hair, a high-pitched sound escaping your lips as you tore one of the newspapers into shreds.

Then you tore another one. And then all of them, into really small pieces, among which you curled up like a paralyzed person, lying still for the rest of the day and night. You remembered all the last beautiful days, your conversations with Spencer. Dreams of a plane crashing in the jungle.

Luckily, Sarah didn't visit you that day; she would have found you in a very strange state. First, in absolute disarray. Then, around four in the morning, wide awake like a junkie. Walking around the house, up and down the stairs, through the kitchen, even the bathroom, thinking and planning. What could you do? What was left for you?

You baked a cake. Your sister was right when she said that, as a child, you neglected all the chores your parents gave you. You never learned to cook, you only knew how to make the simplest chocolate cake.

The hands of the clock. To grab them and stop them. So that Richard would never come back, and Spencer could stay with you forever.

You sat at the kitchen table, even though it was Saturday. Spencer didn’t check the mailbox; he usually slept in on weekends. In fact, for the first time, you didn’t even wait for him.

You waited until Vanessa, as usual, began watering the roses by the fence.

And then, you went to the cupboard to get the axe.

Even then, you remained in your nightgown. The same one you wore when her husband had bandaged your foot. When it all began. A woman in lace, gripping an axe almost bigger than she was, what an unusual sight in a suburban neighborhood so calm.

At first, Vanessa didn’t even notice you approach, and when she did, she didn’t stop watering the flowers. She simply raised an eyebrow in surprise.

Meanwhile, your head was filled with a buzzing sound. You became increasingly aware of the weight of the axe in your hand. And then, the quiet, mundane neighborhood was pierced by a woman's scream.

*

Sarah found him smoking a cigarette outside the psychiatric hospital, inhaling the smoke so deeply as if he hoped it would give him lung cancer immediately. The sight surprised her.

"You smoke?" she asked, immediately realizing how stupid the question was. What did it matter whether he smoked? She probably would too if she found herself in such a situation.

Richard flicked the ash.

"I started again," he replied briefly.

For a moment, they stood in silence, struggling to find words in such a situation. Sarah stared at her shoes, still unable to grasp it all. Her own sister had tried to kill their neighbor, an entirely innocent woman, while she was watering flowers in front of her house. Because of... oh, that was probably the strangest part of it all. And it was what decided that instead of a cell, she ended up in a hospital under close observation.

She had convinced herself that, in her husband's absence, she had started an affair with her neighbor. And that led her to attempt to get rid of his wife.

"Did you see her?" she asked.

Richard shook his head in denial. He seemed exhausted, as though he had aged at least ten years. And had endured a series of life tragedies, including a war.

"I don't even know if I can," he replied, making a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He suddenly took a deep breath, his exhale trembling. "Do you know what the police found at our house? A cake. She baked it for me, supposedly as a welcome, even left a note with my name on it. She stuffed it with rat poison, do you understand that? She wanted to kill me. She wanted to kill me too."

Sarah was speechless. She covered her mouth with her hand, her fingers trembling, unable to control them for quite some time. They stood in silence for a moment, not knowing what to say, as she tried to recall the past two weeks. She analyzed her sister's behavior, only now realizing how twisted it had been. She had thought she was suffering from loneliness, not from... all this madness in her mind.

“Richard,” she managed to say his name carefully. The question she wanted to ask wasn’t particularly polite, but she had to know. “Why... why didn’t you send her anywhere after her last breakdown? To a hospital where they could take care of her?”

“Would I have to tell my parents that my wife ended up in a psychiatric ward?” he replied, voice low.

“Maybe now you wouldn’t have to tell them she tried to murder someone,” she snapped, a surge of anger rising within her towards him.

He rubbed his face, still holding the cigarette in his hand.

“Damn it, Sarah, I’m sorry... you’re right, God, I know you’re right. I regret so much that I did nothing back then, didn’t react... I... I fooled myself, thinking it would pass. That we’d move and it would get better,” he said, his voice breaking slightly.

He tried to touch her shoulder, but she pulled away. For a long time, she had the feeling that her sister’s husband was trying to get closer to her in some way. He wasn’t pushy or disgusting, nothing like that. If he had been, she wouldn’t have accepted his offer to work for them at their house. But sometimes, she had the impression that during their conversations, he tried to flirt with her. For birthdays and holidays, he gave her expensive gifts, occasionally touching her briefly, but quickly pulling away when he noticed her gaze. Sarah had been with the same girl for three years, the one she was planning to propose to. Besides, she would never do that to her sister.

“Sarah,” he said, pleading. “Sarah, what am I supposed to do?”

Well, this wasn’t something she could advise on. Maybe no one could. However, she didn’t want to leave him hanging, without a conclusion, without reflection, before she went inside to see her sister for the first time since that incident. She looked at the barely glowing cigarette in his hand.

“Be grateful that woman survived,” she finally replied.

The cigarette butt fell to the ground, and she stepped on it with her shoe.

tag list: @she-wont-miss @mggslover @kakamixo @nyeddleblog @dylanobrienswife0420 @wmoony

@heddgie @khxna @marauder-exe-old @yujyujj @charleyreid @kitty-kai @sp3ncelle @pleasantwitchgarden @beesin03 @misserabella

[mcflymemes]

"I WASN'T EXPECTING YOU TO CHANGE MY LIFE" PROMPTS *  assorted dialogue for that moment where one character realizes how great of an impact the other has had on them, adjust as necessary

you're nothing like i imagined.

you changed... everything.

i didn't think this would have such a great impact on me, but it does.

i'm glad to call you my friend.

you don't know what you do to me.

ever since you came into my life, my whole world looks different.

my world was black and white until i met you. now it's full of color.

i didn't plan for this. i didn't plan for you.

i don't know what i'd do if you left.

we made it out of there because of you.

i thought i was prepared for someone like you. turns out i wasn't.

you have no idea what you've done to me.

everything would be so quiet without you here.

are you real? do you really exist? or did i dream you up?

you stood up for me when no one else would.

you're more than i bargained for, and that's a compliment.

i thought you'd be different. boring, maybe.

you don't even realize your impact, do you?

i find myself questioning everything.

all of a sudden i care about things that i never did before, all because of you.

you've changed countless lives for the better.

i'm forever in your debt, [name].

i don't even want to consider what would have happened had you not been there.

there's more to life now that you're here.

you opened my eyes.

i have much more to consider, now that you're here.

you really don't see it? how much you've changed me for the better?

there's just something about you.

i wasn't expecting you to change my life... but you did.

you have such a positive impact on everything around you.

when they told me you were coming, i didn't know what to expect.

i can't imagine how many lives you've touched.

everyone else is so predictable and boring, but you're not.

you pointed me in the right direction, and for that, i'm forever grateful.

i was lost without you.

you fought for me.

nothing made sense before you.

you've shown me so much of the world that i didn't know existed.

i'd still be stuck there if it wasn't for you.

i'm serious. you changed my life.

suddenly i'm forced to think about a future... a future with you in it.

i'll never be the same again.

i appreciate everything you've done for me.

you stuck your nose out for me.

they didn't care about me, but you did.

i'm so grateful our paths crossed.

this place will never be the same when you leave.

i can't thank you enough for all you've done for me.

you didn't have to do that for me, but you did.

i didn't know people like you existed.

[onmydelulushitasalways]

the marauders being clingy

Characters: James Potter, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black

Synopsis: The Marauders loving their s/o and being all clingy

TW: Drunk, alcohol (Sirius)

James Potter

“James,” you whined, “breakfast is going to be over soon, we need to get out of bed.”

James was still half-asleep, with his face pressed against your chest as he laid on top of you. He was like a koala to a tree, clinging onto your warm body.

The way your hands massaged his scalp probably didn’t help keep him alert.

“Five more minutes,” James mumbled sleepily against your skin. “You’re too comfy.”

“James, don’t you have a quidditch match this afternoon? Don’t you want to strategize with the team this morning?”

“They can wait.”

“I have classes to get to, you know?” you stop playing with his hair, a gesture that didn’t go unnoticed.

“Please, baby, I don’t wanna get up yet!” James complained pathetically.

“You have to get up eventually,” you sat up slowly, James reluctantly following suit. “Let’s get ready, go to breakfast, go to class, I’ll cheer for you at your game, and then tonight we can cuddle until we fall asleep.”

James grumpily got out of bed and ready. “Tomorrow morning is a Saturday. And I will not let you out of my arms until lunch, you hear me?”

Remus Lupin

“And so the combination of rose petals and swan feathers creates a sand-like powder that is commonly used in beauty and love spells. Rowena Ravenclaw, however, feared that access to such emotional magic would harm the students, so for the first two centuries of Hogwarts’ existence was an impeccably swan-free zone…”

You read your history book out loud to Remus, who had his head rested in your lap.

“Remus? Are you listening?”

“Hm? Yes, of course, love. Swans and the lack thereof,” he nodded, as he flipped himself from his back to his stomach. His head still resting comfortably on your thighs.

“Tired, Moony?” you put the book down.

“Mhm, a bit. But don’t stop reading on my account. I’m still listening,” Remus’s voice was tired and relaxed.

“Don’t be silly, you go to sleep.”

“Are you gonna fall asleep with me?” he looked up from your lap, expectantly.

“No, I still need to study. The history of Hogwarts waits for no one,” you sighed with a faint smile. “But you had this class last term, so you don’t need to sit through all this.”

“I want to, love. I like hearing you read,” Remus laid his head back down. “Please, continue.”

You smiled with a roll of the eyes and reopened the book. “In addition to swans, all white feathers were equally prohibited. Notably, doves and cranes got it particularly rough…”

Before you could make it to the next page, Remus was asleep on your lap.

Sirius Black

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to call,” Remus frowned as he led you into the Gryffindor common room.

On a couch, laid a very drunk Sirius, talking some poor second year’s ear off.

“Oh, and you should just see them! They’ve got this smile, and these eyes, and, ugh! I hate them they’re so perfect. And I’m dating them! How did that happen?” Sirius ranted.

“I, um, I don’t know,” the perfectly sober second-year shrugged awkwardly.

“Me neither!” Sirius said just a bit too loud.

You walked over to relieve the poor kid from their duties. “I’ve got him from here, thanks.”

“Darling!” Sirius cheered happily at your arrival. He opened his arms for a hug, which when you accept he turns into a cuddle.

He wrapped his arms around your neck and pulled you down on top of him on the couch. The scent of alcohol hit you.

“How much have you had to drink, Sirius?” you inquired.

“Enough to feel good enough to do this,” he smirked as he pulled you into a kiss.

The kiss was long and sloppy, until you pulled away. Sirius frowned slightly at that.

“Siri, you’re smashed. I think you should get to bed,” you advised.

“What? No! You just got here, I’m just starting to have fun!” Sirius whined.

Suddenly, another Gryffindor approached you, asking for help with an essay he had due tomorrow.

“Back off! She was just about to take me to bed!” He declared proudly, with drunken loudness and shamelessness.

And you did just that. Took him to his room, and cuddled him to sleep. Although his hangover was not as pleasant.

[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (26)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: mention of sex, incest, smut, angst, swearing ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Jace remembered perfectly the day his little sister was born. Laenor had led him into his mother's chamber that day, holding his hand, saying that she was very tired and they couldn't spend much time with her − he had insisted on seeing her because he was delighted to finally have a sibling, a brother to play with and be friends with.

His mother, the future queen, smiled softly at the sight of him, her white hair loose and in disarray, her face red from sweat and exertion.

She held out her hand to him and he hugged her, peering curiously at the infant she held clutched to her chest.

"He's so tiny." He said in disbelief, brushing the baby's finger with his own − he smiled when he saw the baby's hand clench into a small fist with its quiet purr.

"She. You have a little sister." He heard his mother's amused voice; he furrowed his brow at her words and rose, angry and disappointed.

"− wait, comrade −" Laenor called out after him, but he refused to look at her.

She was a disappointment to him.

For the first few months, he had pretended not to hear her cries or squeals from their mother's chamber − even though Rheanyra had spoken to him and encouraged him to meet her, he had refused to do so, recognising that no little girl interested him.

"It was supposed to be a boy." He muttered regretfully while playing with his large, wooden, black dragon, pretending that the stacks of books were the great hills over which he flew on Balerion. His mother smiled at his words and combed her hand through his dark curls.

"That is what the gods have decided. She may be your future wife."

Jace put down his toy, looking at her in surprise, not understanding what she meant.

"Am I going to have to kiss her?" He asked in disgust, recalling the stories Laenor sometimes read to him before bed, in which great knights freed beautiful women from the paws of monsters, only to fall in love with them later and be bestowed a kiss by them.

His mother smiled involuntarily.

"Don't think about such things until you're a grown man. No kissing for now." She giggled, pinching his cheek. He smiled lazily seeing her warm expression, the motherly love that beat from her.

That night he went to the chamber where she slept for the first time; he leaned over the cradle, glancing at her plump little figure wrapped in a white robe and a small headpiece. Her eyes opened suddenly and he was terrified that she would burst into tears − she, however, merely clutched her small feet and began to rock from side to side, looking at him curiously.

He smiled involuntarily at this sight and tickled her belly with his finger. Her squeal and loud giggle answered him, her eyes lit up in joy, her little body all the way up in euphoria. He laughed seeing this, repeating his gesture, thinking she was like a small animal, a puppy or a kitten.

He decided that at the end of the day she wasn't so bad and stopped pretending she didn't exist.

Until Luke was born he had treated her as if she were a boy, driving their mother to despair every time they both returned sodden with mud and sand after another battle with Aegon and Aemond.

He had always felt that his uncles disliked him, and even though they were of a similar age to him, he did not feel comfortable in their company − nor could he hide his jealousy at the sight of their snow-white hair, proof of who they were.

Looking at his father and mother, he could not comprehend why his hair was not that shade.

Rhaenyra explained to him that it was surely because of the Baratheon blood that also flowed through their veins, and although he was disappointed, the sight that he was not the only one, that his sister and Luke looked similar to him, comforted him.

The first time Aegon laughed sincerely at what he said occurred when he called his sister a hamster. The comparison came to his mind when she took air in her mouth and furrowed her brow − he uttered it thoughtlessly, and his uncle burst out laughing and patted him on the back.

"− gods, you're right − and those big eyes of hers −" He sneered, and although he saw that his sister lowered her gaze, embarrassed, he continued, eager to hear more words of praise from his lips.

"− she has just as much sense too −" He added, seeing his uncle throw him an amused, mocking look suggesting that he agreed with him.

He felt a squeeze in his heart when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that his sister had turned and walked away, passing through the cloisters towards their quarters without even giving him another glance.

He turned around and noticed to his surprise that he was not the only person to notice her leaving − his other uncle, Aemond, led her away with his eyes and then threw him a look full of despise, from which he felt discomfort.

He pressed his lips together at the thought that he was the heir to the throne and, unlike him, had his own dragon.

Who was he to look down on him with such superiority?

He decided to remind him of that and share that thought with his brother.

Aegon's involvement in their little joke surprised even him − his uncle thought it was an excellent idea. He argued that his younger brother was too sullen and serious for his age, that he was sapient and could use a little lesson.

As he listened to Aegon convince him that they had found a dragon for him, as he saw the hint of hope and the shy, embarrassed smile of excitement on his uncle's face, he felt for a moment that perhaps they should not do this.

However, it was too late to retreat − Luke ran deeper into the cave, and came out a moment later, leading by a rope a large pig to which they had attached self-made wooden wings early on.

"Behold! The Pink Dread!"

He saw that his uncle froze and turned pale as they burst out laughing, swallowing this humiliation with difficulty − his eyes glazed over and reddened, his gaze again blank and distant.

He knew they had broken him.

That same day he mentioned it to his sister, and her reaction angered him.

"You are cruel." She said resentfully.

Which side was she on?

"He's forever looking down on us because he has white hair. He's constantly making excuses and bragging about what he's read in those silly dusty books of his." He snorted, playing between his fingers with the gold coin their grandfather had brought him from another of his trips overseas.

He blinked when his sister simply rose from her seat and walked out, leaving him in a state of shock and displeasure − he decided, however, that these were just normal female emotions and would surely pass her until supper.

He loved his father, but he also greatly valued and respected Ser Harwin Strong. He was a stocky, tall, handsome man who could fight very well. He often spoke to him or helped him practice by sharing stories of his duels in tournaments and hunts.

He thought then that he would like to be like him one day.

He knew that he was a close confidant of his mother and often saw them together, however, his father seemed not to mind, so he considered this condition perfectly normal and did not bother.

After a few weeks, the will of their King fell upon them like a bolt from the heavens, and their mother informed them of it during one of their suppers together.

"− your grandfather and our King has decided today that, to strengthen our lineage, we will betroth your sister to your uncle, Prince Aemond − let us raise our cups for this −" She said, glancing towards her daughter, his sister smiling broadly at her words, happy.

What?

"− what do you mean? − why? −" He asked, feeling discomfort in his stomach and a cold sweat on his back.

They wanted to gift him his sister as a consolation because he didn't have a dragon of his own?

"− your grandfather wants peace to reign in the kingdom after his death − such a marriage in his eyes will strengthen our family and our bonds between each other − of course, the marriage will only happen when your sister is of the right age −" She said calmly, looking at her daughter with tenderness, taking an unruly strand of her dark hair from her face.

"− did you agree? −" He asked his little sister in disbelief, and she nodded quickly, as if it was the happiest day of her life.

"− yes − I'm very pleased − I'm fond of our uncle −" She said quickly, putting a piece of roast on her plate, describing how worried she was that she would have to marry someone much older than herself.

He stared blankly ahead, clenching his hands into fists, bitter and disappointed.

Had she really never considered him as her husband?

After all, he was her elder brother; in their lineage such marriages were obvious.

He dared not, however, defy the will of the King himself.

His resentment towards his uncle increased with each passing week seeing that, against his wishes, he was not being harsh and unpleasant to his sister − on the contrary, he seemed to have softened in her company, his face, though still pathetically proud, also expressing curiosity and affection.

He felt rage in his heart at the thought that they could really have wished to bring about this marriage.

However, the cup of bitterness overflowed the moment he saw his sister kiss him.

They were both too certain that no one could see them − he watched them from the corridor through a window overlooking the library.

His sister was standing by the bookcase, saying something to him, and he stood up and walked lazily over to her. He rose on his tiptoes and apparently reached for a book that stood too high for her. She smiled broadly as he handed it to her, her hand traveling to his shoulder.

He swallowed hard as her lips pressed against his, and as soon as she pulled away, her uncle grasped her cheeks in his hands and kissed her again, deeper and longer.

He fled to his chamber and burst into tears with rage, dropping all the objects standing on his table, disappointed and humiliated that although he was to become King in the future, someone else was taking away something that in his mind was his right.

He never wondered what kind of love he had bestowed upon her and whether it was the form of affection that usually bound married couples; he knew that he would care for her and be good to her and that was enough for him.

She was his sister and he would never hurt her.

She, however, looked only to her uncle and it was to him that she gave her heart and mind.

He didn't know what he felt when Luke slashed his face that night when their uncle stole Vhagar − horror, shame, satisfaction and relief all mingled in his mind into one.

On the one hand, he was overjoyed that he had taken back what in his mind should have been his, on the other he was embarrassed and distraught at the confirmation of his fears that had long smouldered in his mind.

It was Harwin Strong who was their father.

To his seed he owed his dark curls.

He was a bastard.

He tried to turn his thoughts away from considering what this meant for them, focusing on the fact that his sister would surely no longer want her uncle for a husband, and their paths would part.

This is exactly what happened.

Still, what he had planned did not happen, and his mother decided to change her plan and marry her off to their cousin, Lord Arryn's son, to strengthen her support in the North of the kingdom. Again, he felt a wave of disappointment, however, this time he was not so jealous − he knew that she had no love for their cousin and that he was certainly no threat to her.

"What's my little sister doing?" He asked with amusement, startling her completely, sitting bent over her desk − she quickly grabbed the parchment she had just been writing something on and tucked it under the table, looking up at him with wide eyes.

"Are you writing a letter to someone?" He sneered, raising an eyebrow, standing over her with a smile. She swallowed hard and looked down, thoughtful.

"I write poetry. But I don't want anyone to read it." She muttered, and he sighed quietly and nodded, acknowledging that he wasn't going to force her to do anything.

"Would you like to go for a walk along the beach? It's beautiful weather." He encouraged her; she, however, shook her head, no longer bestowing a single glance on him.

"No, forgive me. I'm tired."

He pressed his lips together at her rejection, which he had faced again and again since they had moved to Dragonstone.

Even though he tried to get close to her, to understand her and comfort her, she still didn't want him.

He was ashamed to speak of his feelings with his mother or stepfather, much less Luke, however, to his surprise, his closest confidant turned out to be Baela.

"I don't understand her. It seems to me that she still misses him, even though he has certainly forgotten her by now. I have heard that he is a cold, vain, self-obsessed man. He's always been that way, treating her only as an object, a consolation prize. Now that he has a dragon he doesn't need her." He said angrily − his cousin sighed heavily at his words, looking at him with understanding.

"When people part in anger and don't close a chapter, it's hard for them to move on. Perhaps she knew him in a way that is unknown to us. He's always been withdrawn into himself." She muttered disapprovingly, fiddling with the wine cup in her hand, gazing thoughtfully into the blazing fire.

He smiled at the thought that he was certain she recalled the impetuosity with which her uncle had punched her in the face with his fist that night when he lost an eye. Baela looked at him, raising her eyebrows.

"What's that look?" She asked and kicked him under the table with her foot. He giggled at her reaction and shook his head, lowering his gaze to her fingers.

"I would have been better for her. I would have really cared for her. Maybe I wouldn't have given her everything she needed, but at least with me she would have been safe." He said with a tiredness from which his companion sighed heavily. He lifted his gaze to her as her hand grasped his and squeezed it.

"I know." She replied softly.

He swallowed hard, feeling a pleasant warmth in his lower abdomen as he saw her soft, misty gaze, feeling her warm thumb stroke his palm. He grunted as he felt his manhood pulsate in his breeches at the thought that, indeed, his cousin was a very fine woman.

He had always liked her sharp tongue and confidence.

"Have you ever lain in bed with a woman?" She asked him suddenly, and he drew in the air loudly, shocked, feeling that his cheeks had certainly turned red with shame.

He didn't know what to answer.

He didn't want to humiliate himself with words that he had absolutely no experience in these matters knowing that she had a more liberated approach to these affairs.

Daemon, as her father, had expressed no dissent, so who was he to lecture her?

She sighed quietly, seeing his reaction, or rather lack thereof, and rose from her seat, turning her back to him, gripping the ties of her bodice with her hands.

"I need you to help me."

Baela was a calm and patient teacher − it seemed to him that she took great satisfaction in his lack of understanding of what she was actually doing to him as she sank down on his swollen manhood again and again with a moan of delight − her brown naked skin glistened wonderfully in the light of the blazing fire, her white curls falling over her shoulders in disarray, her full lips parted in obvious desire from which he felt his fulfilment approaching embarrassingly fast.

She made sure he didn't fill her with his seed, letting him instead come down on her abdomen with his low moan of pleasure, his length pulsating and twitching in her hand for a while longer. He licked his lower lip dry with emotion, looking at her in disbelief, a soft, shy smile on her face.

"− you're beautiful −" He whispered, and she giggled under her breath and kissed him in a way from which he felt hot in his heart.

She made him forget, at least for a moment, what was happening around them, finding in her both friend and lover, the confidante of all his secrets.

She was not jealous of his sister − on the contrary, he had the impression that she understood the source of his anger and disappointment, herself having no intention of explaining to him what she was doing and with whom.

It seemed to him that their relationship and its freedom suited them both.

Of course, they both knew that in the end they would experience a marriage that would inevitably be purely political, and they understood what that entailed.

Then their grandfather was injured on one of his expeditions, and Vaemond Velaryon challenged his younger brother's rights to the throne of Driftmark.

Knowing the truth about his parentage and at the same time refusing to accept it, he became enraged, sad and depressed at the same time − Baela's words of comfort that they would find a solution and not allow themselves to be intimidated did not reassure him.

Once again, his uncle and his family were trying to take their inheritance from them.

His return to King's Landing was a shock to him; to his disappointment, he felt like an intruder there, and it seemed to him that was exactly how he was perceived by everyone.

He felt a drop of cold sweat run down his neck, his stomach twisting with discomfort when he saw his uncle in the distance, wielding his sword as if it weighed nothing, easily defeating Criston Cole, pressing its blade against his neck.

He was tall, muscular, his long white hair, proof that he was in fact a Targaryen partly tied at the back of his head with a black ribbon, his jaw long and sharply defined, his gaze wild and cold, terrifying.

He smiled mockingly at the sight of them, playing with the hilt of his sword between his fingers as if he wanted to devour them.

He felt ashamed at the thought that he was terrified.

And then his uncle spotted their sister in the distance − his heart beat harder at the sight of their expressions.

It seemed to him that this reunion years later had caused them pain, as they both froze, breathing heavily, looking at each other as if there was no one else around.

His uncle hummed under his breath and turned away, nodding at Ser Criston, taking another swing with his sword.

Even though he hadn't cared what happened to her for so many years, even though he had humiliated her at supper by calling her Lady Strong, she had confessed in front of everyone that her place was with him.

He looked at her in disbelief, wondering what she was doing, why she had stooped to courting him when it was obvious that her uncle had neither respect nor affection for her.

After a moment, he heard his uncle's cold, trembling, deep voice.

"So it is decided, father. We will marry."

"How could our mother agree to this? How could she let her stay there?" He asked furiously, circling around his chamber in Dragonstone; Baela sighed heavily, turning her head away. She looked at him finally, hesitation in her gaze.

"I didn't tell you because I knew it would only enrage you and you wouldn't leave her alone." She said tiredly − he halted in half-step, looking at her over his shoulder, feeling his heart pounding like mad.

"You didn't tell me about what?" He asked dryly, frustrated and concerned.

Baela let out a loud breath, shaking her head. They were now betrothed, and although he thought they both seemed to have accepted their families' decisions with relief, he couldn't rejoice.

"My father told me that she had been sending him letters all these years. That the same night we arrived in the Red Keep she spent the night in his chamber."

He stared at her dully, feeling that it made him sick to his stomach, as if he were about to vomit, his face taking on an expression of disgust.

So she didn't write any poetry then, he thought with regret and pain.

"− how could she do this − expose our mother to humiliation and gossip −"

"Jace. She never stopped loving him. I think she's naive too, but you'd have to be blind not to see that she never really accepted it all. I don't know what I think about it myself." She admitted, running her hand over her face.

"You don't know what you think about it? I'll tell you. Our uncle will play with her and take advantage of her, and then he will put her up to ridicule and hand her over to us. He won't marry her." He growled angrily, burying his face in his hands, wondering how she could be so foolish, how she could believe that he had sincere intentions about her.

"The matter of succession is on a knife-edge. Perhaps our grandfather is right? A union between our mother and the Queen could really ease the situation." She muttered, clearly looking for anything comforting in the situation, which he completely failed to understand.

Had everyone around him lost their minds?

"My uncle who thinks we are bastards is supposed to alleviate the situation? He will never agree to let me sit on the throne and I am supposed to give him my sister?" He asked in disbelief; Baela tightened her lips at his words, frustrated.

"You speak of her as if she were an object. It's always been that way."

He felt an unpleasant shiver run down his spine at her words, every muscle in his body tensing like a string.

"What do you mean?" He asked coolly.

Baela sighed heavily, clearly trying not to explode and form her thoughts so as to be honest but not cruel.

"You think she was born to fulfil your whims? That the fact that you are her eldest brother gives you precedence to lie in bed with her?"

He felt himself blush with shame at her question, shocked.

Discomfort and arousal surged through his lower abdomen at the thought.

"Do you think that's what I mean? I'm just trying to…"

"Yes, Jace. I've never witnessed you ask her how she feels, what she needs. I am fond of you, but you are a selfish boy, not a man."

He felt ashamed at the thought as tears gathered under his eyelids at her words, a terrible, cold shudder shook his body, his heart began to pound like mad.

You are a selfish boy, not a man.

Her words so offended him that he stopped speaking to her despite her pleas, and then the thing he feared most happened.

The King was dead, Aegon had stolen her mother's throne and his uncle had imprisoned his sister.

They had made a mockery of them.

He had been right all along, but no one listened to him.

"Forgive me, Jace." Baela muttered, placing her hand on his shoulder. She knelt beside him, sighing heavily, laying her head on his thigh, and he involuntarily stroked her hair, feeling superiority, feeling strength.

He was going to fight for his mother's crown and bring his sister home.

In order to do so, at the behest of their mother, he flew to Winterfell to ask Cregan Stark for his support in this cause, reminding him of the oath his father had taken before her.

The North seemed to him a beautiful and wild place, so far from what he knew − the snow-covered hills, the austere fortresses of dark stone, the robes that looked only grey, black or brown around him gave him a sense of modesty and space.

Lord Stark's nature appeared to be similar to his, and the few days he had spent in his company hunting and riding horses had actually made him feel good − he felt like someone worthy with him, a true heir to the throne, not a bastard.

It was this feeling that, seeing the young Lady Snow from afar, he allowed himself to be enchanted by her charms and lay in bed with her.

Like a real man.

When he arrived back in Dragonstone he learned that Luke had just returned from Storm's End and that he had seen their sister.

"You flew after him? You flew after him knowing he could imprison you, use you as your mother's weakness? Fucking fool." Growled Daemon, shocked and horrified by his naivety, burying his face in his hands, unable to look at him.

"Daemon." Their mother rebuked him, all pale, her hand clenched on her womb. "What happened next?"

"He brought her. Someone hit her, mother, and I think she tried to take her own life. There were cut marks on her wrists." His brother muttered, and he felt his heart stop, he and Baela looked at each other quickly.

She had tried to take her own life.

Because of this bastard, his sister could be dead.

His hands clenched into fists at that thought.

"And then?" Pressed Daemon in an impatient voice.

"I told her to run away with me, but she didn't agree. She told me to tell you that she loves you and that she remains faithful to you, mother." He mumbled and he slammed his fist on the table, feeling fury and rage boiling up inside him.

"That fucking bastard purposely made her stay. He planned this, he never had any intention of marrying her!" He growled red with anger − Daemon threw him a single, drawn-out look.

"And then what? He let you just walk away? No one else saw you?" He continued, pretending not to have heard his outburst.

"N-no, I was surprised, but no. Forgive me, I had to see her, make sure that she is still alive." Luke said. Daemon sighed heavily and leaned over, placing his hands on the top of the stone table, thoughtful.

"Bring me a parchment and a quill. I need to speak with my nephew."

Baela followed him into his chamber in an attempt to calm him down.

"How can he want to pact with that fucking traitor? His brother stole my mother and his wife's throne!" He shouted in her face − his betrothed dropped her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"Since he let them meet, maybe there is something to it. My father knows what he's doing, I trust him. I believe he will bring her home."

"You're naive. You always have been."

"And you're vain. You always have been."

He pressed his lips together at her words, feeling his heart pounding like mad, feeling like something was about to explode inside him.

"I met a woman in Winterfell who I took to my bed." He muttered finally, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

Part of him wanted to hurt her, and part of him wanted to be honest with her.

That was what they had promised each other.

Baela laughed at his words in disbelief and shook her head − he had a feeling he saw a shadow of regret in her gaze, but he wasn't sure if it was because of his confession or because she understood why he said it now.

"If you wish, I'll relate to you how I spent my time in your absence, but I'm not sure you'll be able to look into this guard's face afterwards." She sneered, lifting her chin high, looking at him defiantly. He felt a wave of hot shame and anger surge through his body.

"After we're married…are you going to continue this?" He asked uncertainly and she cocked her head to the side.

"If you are not faithful to me, I will not remain faithful to you. You are dear to me, but don't think I will cry for you. Certainly not like your sister cried for her uncle. Part of me has always envied her that she experienced such a deep feeling in her life even if it burned her from the inside for so many years." She said with a kind of regret from which he felt a squeeze in his stomach, but he answered nothing to her words.

He knew that they did not love each other.

They were close and felt comfortable together, but they weren't mad about each other.

He believed it just had to be this way.

He waited impatiently along with his mother and the others gathered for Daemon to return from his meeting with their uncle, simultaneously terrified and angry that they were speaking with traitors instead of fighting.

When they heard the squeal of Caraxes in the distance his mother stood up, pale, holding her hand on her womb again, as if remembering the time when she had carried her only daughter under her heart.

His other sister had died before she was even truly born.

When Daemon stepped into the main hall everyone was already waiting for him; he sighed heavily, placing his Dark Sister on the table top, folding his hands in front of him, straightening.

"Your daughter married her uncle of her own free will. My nephew has conveyed to me that his brother-cunt will relinquish the throne he stole from you if it is your daughter's children and his who become heirs to the throne or, in the event they do not conceive a son, ours − Viserys and Aegon. He demands the exclusion of Jace, Luke and Joffrey from the succession." He said dispassionately. He looked at his mother seeing that she had run out of words.

"− mother − this is −"

"− leave us − all of you −" She ordered.

"− mother − this is my inheritance − mine −" He began, but felt Baela's grip on his arm.

"− Jace − that's enough −"

He sat in his chamber thinking only of the fact that his mother was just contemplating whether or not to agree to deprive him of his inheritance, to acknowledge that he was her bastard despite the fact that he was her firstborn son, despite the fact that Laenor Velaryon had acknowledged him as his heir.

"− Jace −" Baela muttered, seeing his condition.

"− leave −" He said. He heard her sigh heavily as she approached him with a rustle of her gown, kneeling at his feet.

"− Jace − I'm on your side − I always have been − don't you see me as your companion? − your friend? − your lover? −" She asked with a pained expression that startled him. He lowered his hands and looked at her − his palm rose to her cheek, which he stroked with a tender, slow gesture.

"− you resent me − you don't see me as a man, but as a child −"

"− that is not true −"

"− I don't want your pity −"

"− Jace −"

"− you were right − I don't want to frustrate you and I understand all the accusations about me that you've made − my whole life I've been trying to be someone I'm not −" He finally replied, his betrothed's fingers grasping his hand and squeezing it.

"− that's what I mean − stop pretending − be honest with yourself −"

"− do you want me to be honest? − very well then − my mother has never asked my opinion on any important matters − Daemon treats me as if I am an imbecile and mocks me − I am both a first-born son and a bastard − my uncle wants to deprive me of everything, he wants me to be a nobody and why? − because when I was a child I gave him a pig? − god, I regret it, it was a cruel joke − I regret that he lost an eye, I regret that a dragon didn't hatch from his egg − but even if I had said that, what good would it have done − he would have laughed at me saying I am a weak cunt −" He muttered and burst out sobbing like a small child, hiding his face in his hands. Baela embraced him and cuddled his face into her oil-scented neck, stroking his hair.

"− I am grateful to you − I am grateful to you that you are honest with me − I am grateful to you that you have never lied to me −" She whispered and he wept softly, tightening his hands on the material of her gown feeling that the closeness of her body brought him solace.

"− I am grateful to you too − forgive me for not being what you deserve −" He mumbled, sniffling loudly, trying to calm the convulsions of his body and his ragged breathing.

"− I forgive you − I forgive you and ask for your forgiveness −"

When his mother came to his chamber that evening, he knew what decision she had made even before she opened her mouth.

"− Jace −" She began, and he turned his head away, panting with rage, burning tears of humiliation under his eyelids.

"− after all this − after all you've sacrificed − are you going to let them win? −"

"− how would I be a just Queen if I thought only of myself instead of the good of the kingdom? − any other solution will mean war with our own kin − is there anything else more displeasing to the gods? −" She muttered in a breaking voice in which he could clearly hear that she herself was suffering immensely.

"− you let them dictate their terms −" He said in disbelief, looking at her at last. His mother pressed her lips together at his question.

"− no − I intend to impose my own demands on them – none of them will be allowed to sit on the throne − none of them will wear the crown − they will be rulers-regents until their son, the rightful heir, is born −" She replied, forcing herself to be calm.

"− and if no son is born to them? − will you exclude me from the succession then? − your first-born son? −" He mumbled in pain, hitting his chest with his palm. Rhaenyra drew in air loudly, her eyes red from tears of pain and grief.

"− it's my fault − not yours − me and Laenor really tried, but −"

"− I don't want to hear it − I won't listen to it − why did you let me come into the world? −"

"− Jace −" She mumbled − he heard the rustling of her gown as she took a step towards him, but he held up his hand showing that he didn't want her to come near him.

"− I will leave Dragonstone to you − it belongs to me and I can give it to whomever I wish − no one will challenge your rights in this case, you will finally be able to live the life you deserve −"

"− I was meant to be King −" He hissed, and she swallowed hard.

"− as was I − but perhaps we are not meant to be − pride steps before a fall −" She said drily, her chin lifted high.

"− what does Daemon have to say in the matter? −" He asked lowly.

"− he is furious, but he will do as I command − just as you −"

[cerastes]

Bro any time I think about Valkyria Chronicles I laugh my nipples off, the game is fundamentally flawed gameplaywise but, simultaneously, it's stupidly fun, which is the recipe for any club banger, it has a story that weaves flawlessly between "that's pretty poignant" and "this is some goofy goober shit", it's got the horrors of war but also this fucking pig piece of shit mascot, Hans,

It's an amalgam of white and black without any gray: It exists on extremes, and it never intersects, it's playing two parallel lines and coming to terms with the fact that you'll never see cohesion but that somehow enhances the end product in ways evidently no one intended. You have narrative comparisons with the persecution of jews and, at the same time, the game ends with the bad guy getting German Suplexed.

But I think the funniest aspect of Valkyria Chronicles The First is that the main character is the farthest thing from a war hero they could possibly muster with the expertise of a stoic Japanese swordsmith from the mountains crafting a god-cleaving blade: Welkin.

This Scout From TF2 Put Through An Anime Filter looking mother fucker was chilling in his hometown talking about how much he wanted to be a teacher and showing people his really good sketches of animals because he's also a gifted artist, when suddenly, the Dudes attack, and his reaction to the Dudes attacking is "hang on, I recall my dad hiding his actual service tank in the shed in the back" so he goes and, yeah, his dad's tank from a previous war is just there, chilling, so he takes it for a joy ride while the town baker, Alicia, armed with a rifle and infinite action economy due to the afore mentioned flawed gameplay, sweeps the entire god damn platoon of heavily armed machine gun troops.

The entire game is Welkin using his love for nature and his baker love interest to inflict insane personnel and materiel damage to an entire empire: Welkin and Alicia will come across a heavily fortified bridge, and the dialogue will go something like

"Welkin! They will pulverize us with the heaviest machine guns known to man if we step one foot in that bridge! They practically developed wooden low-orbit bombardment stations! What's the plan!"

"Well... Look at that duck over there. It's flying from the east to the west, right? Well, YOU SEE, that duck is known as a Balkunese Socioduck, and those, during this season, migrate from west to east, and they only exhibit this irregular flight path if a Matrisgel Weasel family is molting by the juniper berry bushes, their favorite food. Matrisgel Weasels only ever molt if they are put under the exact amount of stress caused to them by the sound of distant tank threads on the road, and they are known to hide in sturdy, stable soil."

"Welkin, SIR, what the fuck does this all mean?"

"If we follow the smoldering shrieking of the molting weasels, we'll find a SECRET PATH that will, as always, let us ambush, flank, and surprise our foes! Alicia, you know what to do."

"Ogggeyyyyy"

and then, invariably, no matter the level, thanks to Welkin's impressive knowledge of fauna and flora, and Alicia's literally infinite action economy in a game that wasn't properly beta tested in-house during development, they combine their powers like a piss poor Captain Planet and kill the absolute shit out of an entire Empire's worth of dudes, and it's legitimately one of the most fun and charming games you'll ever touch if you remember to not take it too seriously. I fucking hate Hans but I love this game.

[teeth-cable]

I need more people to talk about how just like the POC designs, the writing is terrible at clueing the audience what race and ethnicity the characters are.

Beside stereotypes, the racial coding in the writing is little to non-existence. The characters don’t have mannerisms from their cultures, speak in slangs or idioms relating to their group from their time periods, or make cultural references.

Without having to rely on outside sources (Livestreams, looking up VAs, leaked audition sheets, etc), the only characters I would successfully guess would be Vicky, Val, and Velvette, and even then, it doesn’t mean the racial coding is good.

Vicky is the only one from this list whose racial coding isn’t atrocious. I can tell she’s Latino because she curses in Spanish, but that’s it. This is admittedly nick-picky , but I wish when cursing she would have used Salvadoreño specific slang and curse phases to signal she’s Salvadoreña.

Val, I can tell is Latino too, because of his accent and him cursing in Spanish, but it’s egregious. The accent fluctuates so much, it’s strong, then weak, then strong again. Not sure if the VA was struggling or if this was an intentional direction given to him, though the fact, I and other people were confused, at the direction, speaks for itself. Another issue with his accent is how it’s sexualized, contributing to the Latin Lover stereotype of his character.

Velvette, I won’t sugarcoat it. I wouldn’t even guess she was supposed to be black though the writing or the majority of her designs until the finale. The finale, the last episode of the season and the only time she has textured hair with her screen time being around two minutes and sixteen seconds in total.

Visual designs isn’t where race coding ends. This is important to remember because it ignores the good coded characters (King Dice from Cuphead, Darwin from TAWG, the Funk trolls from Dreamwork’s Trolls) and how Viv failed and could have done the racial coding better.

For Viv, she has to rely on other coding methods too because there are characters who aren’t humanoid enough, or even humanoid at all, for visual coding to work. There really isn’t anything I can say to explain why the race coding sucks beside Viv doesn’t care about representing POCs.

I wanted to create this post to highlight how Viv fails at coding in every aspect. The fandoms and critics shouldn’t praised her for giving Velvette textured hair or darkening Sera’s skin from her leaked audition sheet. We need to stop praising creators, especially white ones, for doing less than the bare minimum (The bare minimum being making POC characters look POC) when creating POC characters, or worse, justify it. I’ve seen people tried to justify the terrible POC designs by using one of Carmilla’s daughters as an example, as if one decent POC design in a sea of ashy and euro-centric or erased features for the majority of the POC cast suddenly invalidates the criticisms.

I’m also getting tired of the fandom making posts questioning why people have and still draw the POC characters as white, as well as people harassing artists for accidental whitewashing. I’m hate the whitewashing too but in this case, it’s different because this is Viv’s own fault due to her poor racial coding. Not every fan will have the same intense knowledge you do or even should, to know what a character’s race or ethnicity is, that’s Viv’s responsibilities as the creator.

Mind you, these were the human designs we had before the show aired. Alastor being mixed creole and Niffty being Japanese yet they look white as hell here.

[demonslayerunhinged]

Unhinged rant >:(

Demon Slayer fandom discourse

I want to start this by saying, I know that Demon Slayer isn't an explicitly queer manga/anime because Shōnen Jump, but I believe that Demon Slayer is for the queers and has lots of themes that we can identify with like love, acceptance, loss, guilt and strength.

Despite what these stupid, smelly, ignorant, power-scaling, non-ass-washing, Cheetos-dust-snorting, once-a-month-showering, dude-bros would have you believe, Demon Slayer isn't just another battle Shōnen anime/manga, it's a love story and about the perseverance of the human spirit and if that doesn't speak to the queer experience then I don't know what does.

Plus, I don't know how Gotogue-sensei is as a person, but I think the fact that she managed to make one of the kindest mcs in shōnen speaks volumes about her disposition. I don't think she would be one to reject queer fans identifying with her story so well.

In these recent times, it seems like everything is going to shit, the world is slowly regressing into the dark ages destroying decades of progress and trying to distract ourselves from all this by engaging with the fandoms we love is hard because everything seems to cater to cis, straight, white men.

To be honest, I created this blog mostly out of spite, but I also wanted to carve out a tiny space for myself where I can talk out of my ass and not have some decrepit reddit dude bro go all 'well, ackshually ☝🤓' on me, and I'm happy to have met so many like-minded people.

So, I've compiled a list of answers to the common types of nonsense drivel these fuckers post in response to shipping and queer discussions and theories about Demon Slayer. You can copy and paste whenever and wherever you encounter these black holes of ignorance and stupidity if you want.

In the Taisho era, there were no gay/queer people: This is one of the dumbest statements I've ever heard, and the fact that it's a really common response really shows how we've failed as a society. Queer people have existed for ages all over the world, Japan has an extensive queer history. Demon Slayer is based on samurai culture and samurai culture was really, really, really, really, really, really, really gay. Sure, it had rigid roles, but that doesn't make it any less queer. A quick Google search would go a long way to nourish that dried-out, shrivelled husk you call a brain. Go read a book you walking condom ad, your parents and education system have obviously failed you.

It's forcing sexuality into the story: We literally had a whole season dedicated to the mcs going to the 'entertainment district', we have a sexy man with three wives who talks about 'loving' them all equally, we have the abundant male fanservice, one of the mcs talks about women on the daily, we have a boy who eats demons and is horny shy around girls all the time, we have his brother who exposes his tits because he's proud of them, we have a demon who was essentially a sexual predator that targeted 16-year-old girls and ate them, the main villain shape-shifts into a woman to 'get' information as a Geisha, we have a girl who literally lusts after almost everyone she meets but yea no lets not force sexuality into it 🙄.

I don't care: Okay cool, but I value your opinion as much as I value the shit I took this morning.

It's who they are as a character that matters: Sexuality is a part of a person's character. Your sexuality defines your experiences, decisions, options and outlook on life. That's why you as a straight man can be so ignorant.

It's forced*(I really hate this one): Honestly, fuck you. Why is it that you only think something is forced when it doesn't revolve around you and your experiences? You guys are fine with tons of anime/manga that sexualize women and girls to an insane degree even when it doesn't make sense, but that doesn't stop you from consuming and glazing the hell out of the authors, but when we talk about including queer characters suddenly it's forced? Your existence is forced, and you can just eat shit.

I don't like it: Who the fuck do you think you are dictating how other people consume and interpret the media they consume? How about you go hump your smelly, cum-encrusted anime body pillow.

Men can be touchy/emotional with each other without it being gay, it's just our western standards: No it isn't the majority of shipping activities and works come from Japan, which wouldn't happen if it was just part of their culture. We're not stupid, we know men and boys can be friends without it being sexual, and we know when a friendship is just that, and then we know when two guys are straight up pining for one another.

It's not canon/the mangaka didn't explicitly state it: They can't because of Shōnen Jump, so a lot of them pass off information about a character through subtext, metaphors and allegories. They also don't have to, things don't have to outright stated or 'canon' for them to make sense and if you need them to be so for you to understand or enjoy the story then a moment of silence for your head since it's without a brain.

It's not common: Despite Shōnen Jump, there are lots of mainstream anime/manga that have queer characters: One Punch Man, Hunter x Hunter, Dr. Stone, Windbreaker, Jojo's Bizarre Adventure, Naruto, Gintama, Dragon Ball Z, My Hero Academia, Fairy Tail, One Piece, Attack on Titan, Tokyo Ghoul, Jujutsu Kaisen, Chainsaw Man, Blue Period and that's not to talk of the ones with queer subtext like I dunno ALL Sports anime/manga to ever exist!

Why do you look for LGBTQ in everything?: It might be hard for straights to understand but growing up queer and looking for a connection causes us to develop what we call a gaydar that helps us identify characteristics, mannerisms, features and vibes from a person that screams 'ONE OF US! ONE OF US!'. It's only natural, and our gaydar doesn't suddenly turn off when we're consuming media, especially when it's media that we love and hold dear to our hearts. It doesn't matter if the mangaka inserted these characteristics intentionally or not, that doesn't stop us from picking up on them, and why should it?

Shipping is stupid: So is power-scaling, but that doesn't stop you assholes from making thousands of posts, creating YouTube channels and sharing content about it and cramming it down our throats. It's even worse because it's from grown-ass men.

The characters have no chemistry/they hate each other: A lot of queer ships have more chemistry, history, interactions, personality and development than a lot of 'canon' straight couples. It's literally a trope in media that all a man and a woman need to be in a relationship is to be in close proximity to each other, then their relationship goes on to be drier than salted crackers in silicone packets scattered in the Sahara desert. Well, I guess you can't blame the creators, you write what you know after all.

I know this is a lot and I know how angry I sound right now, but I'm so sick and so tired of all these guys who are as useful to the human race as pieces of freshly shat out dog turds that have been thrown in the grass by the sidewalk in a hot summer afternoon, who can't see past their lice-infested neck beards trying to make something as colorful, interesting, joyful and queer as anime and the fandoms fit their own boring, stupid and misogynistic worldview.

In Conclusion, Demon Slayer is amazing, horny* and unbelievably queer.

*I'm talking about the male fanservice btw :)

[misstrashchan]

So. What's the opposite of a sacrifice?

With the final episode looming it's a question we've been turning in our heads, so I wanted to give my best guess/analysis as to what it might be before Jon and Muna come to tear our hearts out in the final episode.

This is the question Hayward asks Paige, and later Carpenter, and it seems to be the underlying thematic statement of the series, in response to Carpenter's exposition in the first episode of the Silt Verses that introduces us to the fundamentals of the world and system they live in:

CARPENTER:

A god must feed.

A god must be fed.

This is a fact agreed upon across every territory in the Peninsula. And so, really, the only difference between the people born to the water and the people born to the land...

...is the precise nature of the sacrifice we need to make.

There is a God for anything in their world as long as there is someone believing in it. But all Gods need human sacrifices. A god must feed. A god must be fed.

These simple rules have been used as fascinating and horrifying metaphors of our modern society, and to explore themes of faith and sacrifice throughout the story.

And so the final question the last season proposes is if we can find a way to make something better, that can exist outside of this ultimately unsustainable exploitative system and the harm it inflicts upon ourselves and the world, when it has come to define so much of the way we live and how we think. And that means figuring out the opposite of a sacrifice, if they want to kill the idea, the lie, that is at the heart of their world.

At first I thought the opposite of a sacrifice, of offering up to the gods, was about killing your gods. Starving them out. Refusing to offer up anything. And that is part of it, I think. I mean it's literally been a repeating mantra of multiple characters this season once they've reached they're breaking points. Violence in revolution as a tool to overthrow oppresive systems is sometimes needed and necessary. But what about after? What kind of future or vision for a better world can there be? There needs to be something at the heart of that movement that isn't just about violence against their opressors, because you then define yourself in relation to them.

This is even illustrated in the Many Below god Paige created having predator and prey emeshed together, a movement defined by their resistance against the predators of the world, the beasts, cannot seperate themselves to meaningfully create a better future that exists outside of that dichotomy. I think Hayward realises that even earlier in S2:

HAYWARD:

There’s a hare in the grass, half-buried and bloodied.

A barn owl has latched onto its back, its talons driving deep into the flesh of the hare.

Both animals are dead.

Familiar black stone veins protrude from the carcass of the victim, twisting like branches, driving upwards into the predator’s skin.

Hare and owl are locked together, inseparably.

The god must have struck just as the prey died.

White crocus is flowering up from the two entwined bodies.

(Unhappily)

And suddenly I begin to feel deeply afraid.

It all makes me think of a dormouse, dead in the dirt, its ribs showing. Of rabbits, teeth chattering, hungering from their cages

I kick dust up over the corpses. Nudge them aside into the long grass so they can’t be seen from the path.

Paige doesn’t need to know about this, I tell myself.

There’s no sense in worrying her. Not yet.

Which then makes sense why he's the one proposing the question of what the opposite of a sacrifice is to Paige (and Carpenter), for this very reason.

I think the answer is pretty simple and yet, like most simple truths in this world, it's forgotten and overlooked or twisted as naïve.

Preservation. The opposite of a sacrifice is preservation. To better explain this let me use an example:

If someone who cared about you tells you you're working too hard at your thankless job, sacrificing your sleep, your time, your personal relationships, your physical and mental wellbeing, far past the point considered sane, they'd tell you to stop. To make sure you take care of yourself. Instead of endlessly feeding yourself into a machine to justify your existence.

Applied to the world of the Silt Verses, it's not just self preservation and caring for yourself. It's about caring for, protecting, and preserving the lives of those around you, that is the ultimate act of rebellion and political warfare, the first steps forward towards a better world. Caring for humanity.

Whenever our characters reach a breaking point of turning against their gods, there's a common thread of wanting to save their fellow man, and realising the inadequacy of a god's ability to do that. Whether that's somebody close to them (like Faulkner and Paige):

Or humanity as a whole (VAL and Shrue):

SHRUE:

Use them, pass them on, do not forget the suffering that keeps the engines of this world turning, forget the name of your god and cherish the name of your neighbour that was swallowed up by it-

Cherish your neighbour. Be kinder to one another.

This can even go back to Carpenter's rejection of the Trawler-Man back in S1, her fury at the fact those she loved had been eaten (her family) and would continue to be eaten (Faulkner).

CARPENTER:

(Yelling to the river)

It's over between us, you twin mouthed prick!

Do you hear me?

Does that stir you from your torpor? Pry the barnacles loose from your sodden ears?

My father and mother were Gregory and Sandra Glass. My grandmother was Adalina Glass. My brother was Em.

They died for you.

Every single one of them died for you and they thought it meant something.

My name is Carpenter. And I am still alive!

I have loved you for so long. I have tried to know you for so, so much longer.

And I'm done with you. Here and now. I'm not laying down my life for you.

I'm not dying, do you hear?

The same breaking point for Faulkner at turning against his parish and finally snapping is the idea of Carpenter being offered as a sacrifice, an offering returned, begging for her to live.

I must clarify this is my own interpretation of the question and themes the story proposes. I'm

I'm not sure we'll actually get a hard answer so much as different characters offering their own answers and us as the audience encouraged to think for ourselves what it might be. I think this is what Hayward's answer might be at least, anyway, because like me he's a corny motherfucker:

If a sacrifice is the idea that the most meaningful and transformative thing you can do is to give up your life, your sense of self, to die, then the opposite of that would be to try to keep on living, and finding meaning and transformation in that, surely?

[smbliaaa]

Hi, I'm not here for this misinformation.

I got this comment in my post 2 days ago. Pissed me off. You know who you are.

While I'm not gonna fight, I am gonna debate.

I'm gonna break down the points one by one and respond to each individually. This is because while I don't know if this person being purposefully racist, there are several statements I read as very harmful. (And just? Wrong??)

1. "Don't draw Ludwig with a dark skin tone."

I'm the artist. I can draw him however I want, so long as it is not harmful to other communities. I do not see how drawing him black is harmful to POC. Telling someone how to draw a character (if they're not being harmful) is disrespectful.

Not to mention: after a near full year of drawing him black (the post this comment was on was from APRIL) to suddenly draw my design white WILL get me in some deep shit. For whitewashing. No thanks.

2. "Germans aren't Black."

My version of Ludwig is NOT GERMAN???

And yes they are? Literally anybody from ANYWHERE can be??? Mixed people exist????

2 1/2. "Germans who are born of African descent are not fully German."

??????

Being German is not just a matter of who's in your bloodline. German is both an ethnicity and a nationality, similar to others (American, Hispanic, Asian, the like.)

If you're born in Germany... You're still German, no matter how much blood you have. To say otherwise reeks of outdated racist ideology. (E.g: "You're not a real [insert ethnicity here] bc you're black")

Gross.

Hell, you don't have to be German at all to be considered German.

(You can still have citizenship by:

Being born there - making you a German citizen

Either of your parents being born there - making you a German citizen

Or, through the process of naturalization, immigration.

In the eyes of the law, you'd still be a German citizen.

3. "Ludwig, from the accent alone very much is (German), therefore cannot be dark."

Ludwig is as German as Wario.

Ludwig used to have that accent before the 2000s, back when he was still canonically Bowser's eldest son.

Around the same time, Wario, too was canonically German, due to the portrayal of his voice actor prior to Charles Martinet.

Both things have since been retconned, and are no longer canon.

Ludwig being German is a popular headcanon now (meaning anyone can consider him whatever ethnicity or nationality they'd like. British, German, Polish, even.)

But the point still stands:

To my knowledge,

Ludwig hasn't had that German accent canonically in over thirty years.

DiC Cartoons (1990-1991) Around the same period he was canonically Bowser's son. No accent.

Mario is Missing (1992-1993) - German Accent, voice actor Rob Wallace. (It ages... badly today, I fear.)

Superstar Saga (2003) - No accent.

Paper Jam (2015) - No accent.

Paper Mario: Color Splash (2016) - No accent.

Bowser's Inside Story + Bowser's Minions (2017) - No accent.

Bowser Jr's Journey (2018) - No accent.

Mario and Sonic at the Tokyo Olympics (2020) - No accent.

"But Lian!" I hear you say, "Most of his more recent appearances are text alone! You can't tell if he has an accent or not.*

FALSE.

Alphadream (before their bankruptcy, in charge of ALL the RPGs before ending at Paper Jam) had at least two characters with a noticeable accent, and they adjusted the text accordingly.

One is Monsieur Broque, the other is Antasma.

Broque has a heavy French accent,. occasionally slipping back into his native tongue while communicating with the player.

Antasma has a heavy accent as well. Of what?

GERMAN.

If Ludwig had an accent at all, Alphadream (RIP) or Nintendo would have found a way to make it noticable in text.

It's not. There is no accent to speak of.

Stop using the idea Ludwig is German to tell people how to draw him. At the end of the day, nothing is confirmed until the day Nintendo gives them human forms, or makes it REALLY damn clear where they're from. (Which, at this rate... Not likely.)

[sukibenders]

Racism and misogynoir are so apparent in fandom, especially when it comes to shipping because why is it when a white male, sometimes female but I see it more with the former, character is on screen with a love interest, particularly woc, especially if they're black, and even with all the emotional scenes or just moments where they look at one another in ways different from the rest, it's met with "No, they aren't dating/the show is not going to put them together" but let the other love interest be white as well and suddenly it all makes sense? Heck, the examples I mentioned above don't even have to exist between the latter for some to STILL go and believe this rhetoric (eg. some Jace and Helaena shippers because, even if these two only interacted with a dance but yet we see Baela console Jace, after he seeks her out, apparently it's to far fetched to believe that Jacela could be a thing?!)

Sometimes it could be a headcanon that, largely, would make sense (and oftentimes was birth due to lack of respect that the poc characters could have been given by the writers *cough* TVD *cough*), and yet you'd still have people dismissing it left and right and spewing hate. At a HEADCANON! And I'm not saying that just because the other person in the ship is poc that you have to ship them, I'm not, but it's very apparent to many poc fans in fandom that unless the characters are swapping spit and doing the nasty, the possibility of them being viewed in any romantic lens feels too much of stretch even though their white counterparts don't have to jump through the same loops.

[vulpisnocturna]

Ahh I rarely write for Gojo and this came out very long lol

Link to NSFW prompt list

18) Hate sex. Character could not hate Reader more, and the feeling is mutual. So of course Character and Reader have insane sexual chemistry, fueled by the humiliation and indignation they feel at being so aroused by each other. What are they supposed to do?

19) Character finds out that Reader is a virgin and finds Reader's overwhelm to be a huge turn-on as they have sex for the first time

Part I

NSFW - minors do not interact

Warnings: hate sex, virgin reader, slight age gap (reader is 22, Gojo is 27), degradation kink, slight dacryphilia, loss of virginity, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), Gojo can’t stop talking, hard dom Gojo, squirting, drunk sex, creampie, slight praise kink

3.8k words

Gojo was easily the most annoying person you had ever had the misfortune of meeting. Loud and boisterous, bratty and childish, arrogant and vain, he was the bane of your existence. That was because you were not immune to Gojo’s looks. And god would he have that shit-eating grin plastered on his face if he knew. You would never hear the end of it. He already teased you enough as it was, you could not let him find out you thought he was hot too.

As you looked at him flirting with someone at the club you were in, The Pulse, you hated the feeling of jealousy in your stomach. Hated when he caught you looking at him, his glasses sliding down his nose a little and revealing his mesmerising eyes set on you.

You flushed, gripping your drink tightly and downing it to get rid of the feeling of warmth in your body as you looked at him wearing that white shirt and black trousers that did nothing if not highlight how beautiful he was.

‘Thinking about me, mh?’ his voice came much too soon and much too suddenly, and you jolted, almost bumping into his chest. You spun around, glaring at him. He towered over you, and he was certainly accustomed to using that to his advantage.

‘Aww. Did I scare you, sweetheart?’ the way he said the pet name was mocking, degrading. It made your blood boil.

‘Fuck off, Gojo’ you huffed, crossing your arms. It did not occur to you that it would make your cleavage more noticeable. But as he lifted an eyebrow and the glimpse of his eyes you could see trailed down to the hem of your neckline, you could not help but get redder and redder. From above, he would probably be able to see much more than you had wanted to show off in that dress.

‘You’re so tense. You really dislike me, don’t you? You know, the feeling is mutual. You are quite a rude, angry girl. But because I am a kind man, I will give you one chance at slapping me in the face. If you manage, well, you get what you clearly crave, and if I catch your hand, you drink with me. Just to get you less stiff and less annoying. Maybe I can finally see you smile. Assuming you are even capable of it’

‘You talk too much’ you said, considering your chances. Maybe you could take him off guard. Maybe he was drunk and wouldn’t notice. Maybe you wanted him to buy you drinks anyway.

‘Shut me up, then’ he said with a wicked grin. Your eyes narrowed.

‘Deal’ you said. You went back to sipping your drink, his closeness and dead calm presence both irritating and turning you on. And then, with no warning, you swung your hand. He caught it in a death grip near his face. You swung your other hand, and he caught it as well. Your eyes widened as you pulled your wrists free.

‘Tsk, the deal was one try… you always overdo it. You’re quite arrogant, aren’t you?’ he said in a low, intoxicating voice. You swallowed, your lips twisting in an embarrassed grimace.

‘Prick’ you murmured. He laughed, handing you a shot. You downed it as he guided you towards a secluded booth, gesturing to the waiter as he ordered more drinks. You sat down, crossing your legs and nervously glancing at him as he plopped down next to you, quite a bit too close. The warmth radiating from his body was making you dizzy. You didn’t know if you wanted him as far away as humanly possible or even closer.

He put an arm behind your back and over your shoulder, making your whole body tense up as he chuckled to himself.

‘Relax… you know, I’ve been thinking-‘ he started, but you cut him off with a groan.

‘Don’t hurt yourself’ you muttered. Gojo’s eyebrows furrowed, and his mouth twisted in a comical pout. You almost wanted to laugh.

‘Funny. So funny. I wonder if you’ll still be full of jokes when I pin you against a wall and fuck you’ he said, a sultry smirk on his face. Ah- he was using sex as a way to get power over you. He could see your reactions to him, and he was embarrassing you. And it worked. You grew rigid, your mind picturing the scene as your thighs pressed against each other and your face grew hot. He would probably laugh hysterically if he knew you were a virgin as well. Probably tease you about that too.

‘Maybe it’s just what you need. Suppose you need the anger fucked out of you’ he continued blabbering, making it worse and worse.

‘And you think you’re the best choice for that?’ you hissed, not looking at him as you gulped down the drink that the waiter had put in front of you. Gojo put a hand on your thigh, his long, slender fingers splayed and slightly curled to grip your flesh. You swallowed, looking anywhere but at him.

‘Of course. I’m always the best choice. Besides, you like me, don’t you?’ he taunted, his breath fanning your ear and sending shivers down your spine.

‘No- you’re a vain cunt’ you retorted, praying he would not push any further, because you knew that if he did, you might make a huge mistake and end up in his bed for the night. But Gojo had never done anything in his life apart from pushing buttons. He was like a child left unsupervised in the cockpit of a plane.

‘You wound me. If you don’t like me, why are you pressing your thighs together? Are you all worked up over this much already? You know, you don’t have to like my amazing personality to like my cock’ he continued, seemingly drunk off his face to be saying that shit to you without so much as flinching. He placed a kiss between your jaw and your ear, in a spot so sensitive you couldn’t help but whimper.

‘Good girl. I like you better when you whimper’ he said arrogantly, the hand on your thigh stroking lazy circles around the hem of your dress. You couldn’t even think anymore.

Was this a good idea? Definitely not. Would you regret not taking this chance even more if you refused? Probably.

‘I like you better when you shut up’ you said, clashing your mouth against his. He tasted like sweet rum and a faint trace of mint. And he was maddeningly good. The type of kiss you’d expect to see in a film where two people had done nothing but pine for each other for months. Not that that was your case. But if you could forget his comments, his arrogance, his taunting manners, then you could admit that this was the best kiss of your life. That his teeth sinking into your bottom lip and his tongue exploring your mouth felt like heaven on Earth.

‘Let me take you back to my place’ he murmured after you pulled back to breathe, his fingers tangled in your hair, your hands on his nape, feeling the softness of the short white strands of his hair.

Fuck it, you thought. You wanted this. Needed it. Needed him. Then you could go back to hating him.

‘Take me back to your place then’ you said. He did not need to be asked twice. He left a bunch of cash on the table and guided you to the back door, keeping it open for you. After the stifling air and tension of the inside of the club, the cool air felt nice on your skin and in your lungs, but it did nothing to quell the tightness of your lower stomach.

Gojo tapped away at his phone before he put it back in the pocket of his trousers, pulling you into him and kissing you again, this time, much more feral and unrestrained as his hand grabbed your ass and kneaded it. You were feverish, consumed by his touch, biting his lip and sucking it roughly, just so you could hear him moan.

‘Aggressive. I like it’ he groaned, smacking your ass and then leaving you to stand next to him as if nothing had happened. The taxi stopped in front of you less than a minute later, and you briefly wondered how he’d managed to predict that.

All the way in the taxi, Gojo’s hand was resting on your thigh, softly stroking your skin, making you squirm in your seat as you felt yourself grow more and more aroused as well as nervous. Would sex really be that good? Would it hurt a lot? Would he see that you were a virgin? What would he think? You hadn’t even gotten to being touched by a man other than kissing and dry humping. You masturbated regularly, of course, but you’d never done anything else despite being 22. Gojo was five years older than you, and a known fuckboy. He had probably had so many women who had known exactly what to do, how to touch him, how to behave. And you only knew what you knew from general knowledge, your friends and reading the occasional smut. But this would be different, wouldn’t it?

As you started to overthink, you noticed that the taxi had pulled to a stop. Gojo got out of the car and opened the door for you in a gesture that you would not have expected from someone like him. His hand settled on the small of your back as he guided you towards a lavish, modern house that you should have expected from him. He was filthy rich, after all. But it still surprised you. Your thoughts, however, were interrupted as soon as the door closed behind you and Gojo pinned you against it, kissing you with such fervour your knees were weak. There was no time to overthink what was going to happen after as he pushed his leg between yours, making your clit throb at the friction it offered. His tongue licked the length of your throat, only to nip and suck as his hands freely roamed your body. You clutched his shoulders, pulling his hair, grinding against his thigh, breathing shakily when he gripped your ass with strong fingers.

‘Show me how much of a brat you really are. Don’t tell me you like it sweet and gentle. That would be quite the disappointment, sweetheart’ he said, kicking off his shoes. You did the same, and as soon as you had done so, Gojo flung you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing, laughing and slapping your ass when you squealed.

‘I won’t drop you, no need to squirm around’ he chuckled, evidently having the time of his life as he dropped you on what you assumed to be his bed. You bounced once on the mattress, immediately pinned down by his body as he climbed over you, gripping both of your wrists and trapping them above your head as he licked the swell of your breasts.

‘Gojo-’ you whimpered when his hand started to fumble with the zipper of your dress. Your heart was pounding in your throat, but he did not seem to mind as he pulled the zipper down, starting to peel the sleeveless dress off your body.

‘It’s Satoru when you want to scream it. Or you can give me a cute pet name if you want’ he said, throwing away his glasses and turning on the lamp on the bedside table as he removed his shirt. You stared at his toned abs, the muscles on his arms, his slim hips, the lines that disappeared under his trousers along with a small trail of white, almost invisible hairs.

‘Should have done this much earlier. You are quite a pretty thing, aren’t you?’ he asked, his eyes roving down your body, liquid with want as they lingered on your bare chest.

‘It’s quite selfish of you to keep these hidden’ he continued, kneading your tits in his large hands, rolling your nipples between them, making you forget your embarrassment as he started to suck and lick them, making your clit throb in your drenched panties.

‘Shut the fuck up, Satoru’ you moaned quietly as he pinched your nipples. He snapped his tongue against his teeth, tilting his head, his unruly hair framing his angelic face, on which a wicked smirk was painted.

‘You are so rude… I know how you can put that mouth to good use, sweetheart. Show me if you’re just as filthy when you suck my cock as you are when you insult me’ he taunted in your ear, sucking on the curve of your neck. You tensed up, biting down on your lower lip. What would you do? Would you try and pretend you knew how to do that? Or tell him? No, you couldn’t tell him. You wouldn’t be able to survive the humiliation.

But Gojo didn’t seem as oblivious as you had thought him to be, because he lifted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stopped moving.

‘What’s up?’ he asked, staring at you with those hypnotic eyes, ‘you don’t have to- if you don’t want to’

His moment of kindness and thoughtfulness confused you. You weren’t used to it. You swallowed, averting your eyes, caught unprepared.

‘I- have never done it before’ you said, burning from shame. Gojo’s eyebrows lifted, and he tipped your face towards him again.

‘Okay. Tell me what you like. What works for you. If you still want to keep going. I promise that as much of a dickhead you might think I am, I’m not such a prick. Just tell me what you’re thinking’ he said oddly gently, staring into your eyes until you crumbled.

‘Satoru, I don’t know what I like. Because I have never done this before’ you begrudgingly admitted, feeling as though you would implode from the shame you felt soon. Gojo looked… perplexed.

‘You’re a virgin?’ he asked, almost disbelieving.

‘Yeah’

‘You been hanging out with a bunch of monks up until now?’ he laughed, giving you a playful smirk. Your brow furrowed.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ you muttered, though you had to admit his playful tone was making you feel more at ease.

‘I’m saying you are way too hot to be a virgin. Or were you waiting for me? You’re so sweet. Let me make it unforgettable for you. Ever got your pussy licked, sweetheart?’ his eyes were dark with lust, and you shook your head weakly, feeling a tightness in your stomach at his words.

He grinned, looking almost elated. Almost as if this was turning him on even more.

‘Aren’t you cute. After this, you might not want to let me go. You just sit there and look pretty, mh?’ he crooned, his hand cupping between your legs, making you whimper when his fingers pressed slightly against you.

‘You’re so wet. Such a cute little cunt. Seems you like me more than you’d like to admit, sweetheart’ he grinned, pulling the fabric to the side and stroking you, tearing broken moans from you that you tried to contain.

‘Shut up, Satoru- ahh!’ you got cut off by his fingers flicking your clit as your eyes rolled to the back of your head. He was good. So good. So much better than you. It was like he knew straightaway what you liked and how you liked it, and then did something more that you could not describe.

‘Don’t tell me what to do, pretty girl. I know you like my voice way too much to want me to stay quiet. You’ll see’

And you did. The first lick of his tongue on your bare cunt was like fire in your veins. It made your back arch and your fingers curl on his scalp, your hips jolting away from him and into his face at the same time. He moaned, unable to shut up even as he lapped at you, sucked on your clit, pushed his tongue inside you and quivered it on your clit until you were sobbing and thrashing and he had to keep you pinned down with your thighs locked on his shoulders. Every time you tried to scoot away from him you were pulled back, until tears ran on your temples and pleas you had never wanted to utter to him poured out of your lips inbetween whines that sounded so filthy you were unsure they belonged to you.

When he lifted his head and pushed two fingers inside you, scissoring them and stretching your muscles, you were undone by the burning look in his eyes, the way his lips glistened, his chin damp with your slick.

‘That’s a good girl. You moan like a proper slut, don’t you? Look at you, crying for me. Are you going to cum, sweetheart? I know you can do it for me’ he said in a sweet, thick as honey voice, his fingers curling inside you as he sucked on your clit, making you cum with a sob and a breathy moan, your eyes scrunching up. You felt light and airy, like you were floating. Gojo lifted himself up, wiping his chin and standing up to take off the rest of his clothes. You gulped as you stared at his hard cock. It was thick even in his larger hand, and you struggled to imagine how much it would hurt. You weren’t sure you could take it.

‘Next time, I’m teaching you how to suck it. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A little slut like you… you’d cry for it, I bet. But for now, I want to feel just how tight you are’ he said, stroking his cock with the fingers that had been inside you, spreading your slick on his length.

‘Are you on the pill, sweetheart?’ he asked, and you nodded, thinking you saw him grin for a second before he nestled himself between your legs, spreading them with his knees.

‘Breathe for me, pretty girl. I’ll be gentle with you until it doesn’t hurt anymore. You can hold onto me, just try not to tense up’ he said, rubbing his cock on your labia and your clit, making you twitch and rake your fingernails across his shoulders. He moaned along with you as the tip of his cock pushed inside you, thick and hot, making you pant with the burning sensation that followed as he pushed a little more.

‘Fuck- you’re fucking amazing. You’re doing so well for me. Good girl, just a little more’ he groaned, his eyes narrowing as your muscles squeezed him. There was some sort of resistance and then a sharp sting, but Satoru had the presence of mind to stop and wait for you as you dug your nails in his back and gritted your teeth. The burning feeling started to quell down along with the pain, and your muscles eased up a little around him, until you could feel just how full you were, and how good it was.

You rolled your hips tentatively around him, and he bottomed out, giving another shallow thrust and making you whimper before he pushed all the way in, until his balls rested against the curve of your ass.

‘God- Satoru…’ you moaned, arching your back as his hand gripped your thigh and the other wrapped around your throat, his thumb pressing on the side.

‘Good little slut. You were made for my cock, weren’t you? You hate me so much, and yet, your little cunt loves me. What does that say about you, mh?’ he crooned, starting to slam his hips against you, making you whine as though you really were a slut as he said. For some reason, the insults he was throwing at you were doing nothing but making your clit throb and your lower stomach tighten into an even tighter knot than before. And he seemed to know it too.

‘You wanted me to be your first? I don’t think you’ll be able to forget me now. You love this too much, don’t you? You’re such a mess, sobbing and drooling for me. Such a cute slut’ he drawled, his cock pressing against your g-spot with every thrust, the tip kissing your cervix, making you cry with pleasure. His words echoed in your head, making you feel dirtier, hotter. Heightening the sensations in your body.

‘Please, ‘toru…’ you moaned after a few minutes of torturous pace, slow and rough, meant to drive you insane.

‘What do you want? Tell me’ he urged, playing with your nipples and sucking on your chest, where you were sure you’d find purple marks in the morning. You didn’t care at all.

‘Harder- fuck me harder. Fuck me like you hate me’ you said in a frenzy, and he groaned, slipping out of you without a word and flipping you on your stomach, gripping your hips and lifting them unceremoniously before he pushed his cock back inside you inch by inch.

‘You want to cry more for my cock? You’re so desperate. Take it then’ he groaned, voice gruff as he fisted your hair and pulled, starting to fuck you so roughly you near screamed his name.

‘That’s right. Fucking scream- serves you right for mocking me. You just wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted me to have your cunt all to myself. Bet you touched yourself every night thinking of this. God you must have hated it- wanting me so badly’ he panted, smacking your ass and pounding into you until the knot in your stomach snapped and released, making you gush around him. Gojo moaned and let out a dark laugh.

‘God, you love this so fucking much. I was right, huh? You need the anger fucked out of you. I prefer you like this- so much sweeter’ he hissed, his hand snaking underneath you to roll your hypersensitive clit between his fingers, making you jolt and squirm.

‘You’re going to cum again. It’s only fair. Just one more time around my cock, and then I’ll cum inside you’ he said, pushing even deeper in that position, hot tears running down your face, your makeup ruined as you fisted the sheets desperately, pushing your ass into him until you felt yourself squeeze him again, your clit pulsing, your mouth open in a silent scream as you came again, seeing white. Gojo moaned, his thrusts getting more erratic until he came with a groan, pushing lazily into you.

He slipped out of you, making you hiss a little from the pain. You both collapsed on the bed, your arm draped over his torso as he caught his breath, his eyes closed.

Maybe you loved to hate Gojo Satoru, you thought.

Part II here

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

When people say that Hobie would be black4black there's some people who get upset.

They think Hobie only dating black women or people is wrong. And racist. They think it should be called out and shunned.

It's funny how those people never had a problem before.

It's funny how those people don't seem to care that Peter Parker has only ever dated white women.

It's funny how those people don't care that Peter Parker has existed for SIXTY YEARS and he still has no canon ORIGINAL BLACK love interests.

They don't care that the only POC he's been attracted to are Silk - which was driven by biological pheromones and not actual love. And Michelle Jones - a black variant of his originally white love interest.

And EVEN THEN they casted her as a mixed race black woman. Zendaya said it herself - she recognizes she's "Hollywood's definition of an 'acceptable' black woman."

Hobie Brown dating black girls in fandom is wrong. It would be shunned. We should be ashamed, they say.

Peter Parker dating white girls in canon is okay. It's fine. Don't think about it, they say.

To them Peter Parker being attracted solely to white women is natural. They don't even think about it.

They don't give a fuck about diversity or representation. They care about seeing their favorite characters fuck white women regardless of who it is, how it happens, or how much of the character they have to erase.

If a character only dates white women - like Tony Stark in the MCU - they're fine with it.

Notice how Tony almost never takes home a black woman? And how all his one night stands are slim white women with blonde hair? Bet you didn't. Cause it's 'natural' to them.

Peter Parker has been basically romantically White4White since 1962. Y'all do not care.

Some rando on Tumblr thinks Hobie is Black4Black - and suddenly you're fixing your fingers to type a message - on anon of course.

I wonder why y'all never write to Marvel, demanding they show Peter with ALL RACES.

The same way y'all write posts demanding Hobie being shown with ALL RACES.

The next time someone tells me 'Hobie wouldn't discriminate, he loves all races!!'

I'll say 'So does Peter. Peter wouldn't discriminate. Yet all his love interests are white. Why is that? Do you care?'

The answer is very clearly no.

When Peter gets a canon ORIGINAL black love interest, maybe even we can talk.

Until then, don't tell me shit about diversity.

[rose-morose]

I want to mention before you start reading this, this isn't a hate post on Arcane or Jinx, so if you're gonna read it please read to the end, though it is a very long read, so you have been warned

look I know it's not a very popular opinion, but I really wasn't a fan of Jinx in the first season of Arcane, I just thought her whole madness arc was uncharacteristically generic and over exaggerated compared to the rest of the show's extremely competent writing, and her character felt very one dimensional and simple

(Arcane season 1 and 2 spoilers under the cut)

after she stopped going by Powder and became Jinx, she just kind of felt like the kooky crazy lunatic archetype with no other facets to her personality

there were moments that kind of made her seem more complex, like some of the early interactions she had with her sister Vi after the time skip, and her relationship with her father figure Silco, and the one scene on the bridge where she was fighting Ekko, but she seemed to only exist in the context of the other characters and wasn't really her own character, to me she seemed more like a plot device than a person

but then season 2 came, and Silco was gone, Vi didn't want anything to do with her, Ekko was off doing his own thing somewhere else, and for the first time ever she was truly alone

and it suddenly felt like Jinx could finally be alone and still be compelling and interesting and have her own growth and development outside of the context of other characters, she could be her own person

she went from over the top stereotypical movie crazy to a person struggling with genuine mental illness, a past filled with trauma, and complex feelings around her remaining relationships with the other characters, characters that she no longer depended on, as well as her self

like when she had the shot on Vi, but couldn't take it, there was a great deal of strife and contemplation on her face and ultimately it was her tear falling that alerted Vi to her presence, this is the first time she didn't seem to have one of those black and white demeanours of unbridled aggression or passive despair that she had often flipped between when interacting with other characters

and Jinx finally formed a real relationship with Sevika rather than just being outwardly jealous and petty but ultimately not behaving like she actually cared that much about her one way or the other, only using her to justify her new initiative, and while they still don't seem to like each other, now there is more complexity behind that unfriendly relationship that allows for nuances like the two working together in the wake of Silco's death, someone that they had both previously relied on for direction and purpose, which was really the only thing they had in common in season one

and the introduction of Isha gave Jinx another opportunity to form a relationship with a new character that required more than one word like "dad" or "sister" to adequately describe it

now Jinx had her own little sister that looked up to her, instead of her constantly looking up to Vi, she actually had to take the initiative and act on her own and allow Isha to follow

I of course hope to see Isha continue to develop as her own character as well, but for now I'm content with her helping Jinx to be her own person

now I said that this isn't a hate post on Arcane or Jinx, and that's because I actually fucking love this show, the writing is brilliant, and now I love Jinx's character too, Silco was my favourite character and I'll admit that I was apprehensive about how the story would unfold without him, but now I really can't wait to see what Jinx and Sevika do in the next two acts of the show

thanks for sitting through another one of my extremely amateur and even more extremely long characters analyses, hope it wasn't too wordy (even though I know it was) as usual I would love to hear the insight of others on the topic, so feel free to reblog or comment your own take and I would love to read it

[cancerian-woman]

Hi! I hope I don’t word this wrong, so sorry if I do, but if Hope had a black/non-white mother, do you think the Mikaelsons would’ve treated her differently? I think you (or maybe it was someone else) spoke about how they treated Marcel was part because he wasn’t blood related to them and part to do with race, so I thought it would be interesting (?) Again, sorry if this is worded weird, I don’t mean it too

Hi, I get what you meant no worries. I’m gonna answer this backwards though lol. Long post warning. I had to grab my receipts.

Yes, Marcel is treated differently because of his race but that’s because the writers 1.) needed the diversity quota filled and 2.) wrote dynamics in for anti-blackness to exist. The narrative that the black child couldn’t heal a family but Hope the white one will. Suddenly having more black/of color actors in the cast but only because white characters are using their bodies. Slavery. That’s relatively differently than a woman of color in Hayley’s spot. Hayley existed as the werewolf queen, girl with no parents who had a child and wants better for her…

Before I say my thoughts I don’t think Phoebe Tonkin had to do much to get her role as Hayley. Kevin Williamson loved her and wanted her in TVD, TSC was done. Then she got Hayley in TVD. She knew she was doing a spin-off.

No black woman or WOC would have gotten the role that easy. I’m calling a spade a spade. The industry wasn’t taking a big risk on black women(and of color) leading TV back then Kerry Washington spoke on this. This is different from sitcoms that targeted just black audiences if that makes sense.

Hypothetically speaking if the lead of TO was a woman of color I assume to make the show successful still amongst their racial bias to someone the writers would do the work to make the character enjoyable on-screen for everyone. Making a black woman/of color a lead is an intentional choice. For example Kat Graham(listen around the 3minute mark) has recently shared that she could only audition for Bonnie. No one else was considered for her and she was presented Bonnie. See how that’s very different from Phoebe’s experience? If Hayley is black/of color then Hope would be biracial, that is something the writers would have to grow within the characters. You cannot ignore that.

To end this off I would hope and imagine"Hayley" as a black woman or whomever filled the position was treated fairly and accepted within the character and through the actress. I don’t think the Mikaelsons would have done wrong by her. They loved Hayley. Dysfunctional yes but they did care for her.

Using Kat Graham’s experiences as examples you can’t Bamon Ban a lead’s relationships, you can’t kill off every black person related to her, intentionally sideline a minority and underpay a minority. You can’t be on Twitter (Julie) bashing their fans and them. Or having a meltdown because said black woman is paired with your fave man and more. Hell, Kat Graham wasn’t allowed to attend cons with the main cast until the later seasons. Joseph Morgan actually went before she did.

The fanbase would not have been as welcoming to a black woman in the role and definitely not to a biracial child in the plot. I’ve said it before in various spaces and gotten backlash but even Hope has more characteristics that tie her to Bonnie than her own mother but it pisses people off lmao.

Hope I answered this well for you💜

[tcf-fan]

A clopeh-centric tidbit, set in the time when they were preparing to go to Aipotu.

If you have no idea what Aipotu is DO NOT read this!

Read it here or in AO3

***

A/N: Because I have a thing for loyalty, and an even bigger thing for crazed devotion... Why are there not many fics in ao3 with this theme?? Clopeh is perfect for them 😭

***

Clopeh had always liked stories.

When he was a little kid, adventure stories were his favourites. He loved the main characters, he cheered them on their adventures... He dreamed of becoming them.

That's why, once he became an adult, he accepted Arm's proposition. He coukd write his own story, he could be like thise protagonists and save his frozen home.

He could write a legend. No, he was certain that he was destined to become a legend known all around the world.

Ah... How small his dreams seem, now.

Clopeh looked to his right. Standing there, was a feeble-looking redhead chatting calmly with an ancient dragon. A chubby black dragon roamed around, with a red and a grey colored kittens. Nearby, as if standing guard and keeping a wary eye on Clopeh, a black haired swordsman stood with his hand on the pommel of his sword. Vigilant.

Clopeh's eyes didn't move from the redhead. Cale Henituse. A man who was known as a trash until he suddenly went left and right causing trouble around the continent. A man who knew things that he shouldn't, no, couldn't have known, no matter how intelligent he was or how big his information network could be.

The Sekka Household's story. It was simply impossible for someone outside of the patriarch and the heir to know. They had taken serious pains to keep it that way, because no one could know their white hair wasn't because of a God's blessing. They had eliminated all information about how the lake used to be a river. The traces were properly erased, his ancestors had made sure of it.

Yes, it was impossible. Impossible.

But, Cale Henituse. He had known.

He had known about the truth of the Sekka Household, about the lake, about Arm... He had known all of that.

Clopeh Sekka couldn't understand how. He really, really couldn't.

And then, he thought about his books. The stories he had read again and again until one could say he consumed them. The protagonists of those books... They also knew things, didn't they? They found clues, they followed leads to the truth, and uncovered it.

But, there were no clues. No leads. Then how?

And Clopeh understood.

Things no one could have discovered. In stories, the protagonists had help uncovering those things. Like divine revelations. Or ancient artifacts given by some mysterious character who disappeared afterwards.

Cale Henituse... He was the protagonist. Him, not Clopeh, was fated to succeed in their battle. And to do so much more.

In the stories he had read, the main characters ended up beloved heroes. People who are worshipped. They ended up as existences akin to Gods.

Only, that was another mistake too. Cale Henituse... The way he talked. He looked not like he had been told, but like he simply... Knew. The battle against his forces, it had everything to counter them, Clopeh realized. Everything. As if he had been preparing for the battle for a long time.

Maybe... Maybe Cale Henituse wasn't the protagonist. Or at least, not your normal human protagonist who goes on to become a hero. After all, there were other existences that could become the protagonists of a legend...

Clopeh then had a revelation. And then had scoffed at his tiny dreams. To become a hero who would be worshipped by all? To become a Legend? 'Akin' to a God?

What was all that, compared to a real God writing his story?

People looked at him as if he was crazy for thinking that, but Clopeh sincerely believed he was correct. Cale Henituse, that steemed sir, was a God. To be exact, he was a God who had descended and chosen the body of Cale Henituse to save their world.

It wasn't hard for him to reach that conclusion. He was sure that he would've noticed someone like Cale Henituse before, especially when he was investigating tge Henituse territory for the invasion. But the information he got about the eldest son was that he was a trashy young master, more concerned about drinking and causing a ruckus than the territory. That Cale Henituse wasn't hero material, and he had dismissed him as a non obstacle.

But now, that trashy young master appeared before him with knowledge out of nowhere? With a territory prepared for his wyverns and Arm soldiers?

It was obvious there had been a radical change. And that change was, obviously, that a God had descended and chosen Cale Henituse as his vessel. How else could you explain what he'd accomplished in such a short time?

And everything Cale Henituse did, only supported his theory. From defeating a villain who had been preparing for nearly 1,000 years, to saving whole worlds, Clopeh only got confirmation after confirmation about his theory.

And Clopeh, well. He was greedy. He was shrewd, like the white snake that symbolises his household. He wanted to become a legend. So he betrayed everything he had worked on all his life, and devoted himself to this God so he could be recorded in a corner of the Legend he was building.

Or at least, that was his reason at first.

Cale Henituse... That God... He may have no greed, he may want world peace, but he was very... human. He was nice and warm to his people, but cold and downright cruel to his true enemies. He lied, he tricked, but he also was very honest in some ways. He had a weakness for kids. He was ruthless to those who hurt his own. He had many powerful ancient powers that made him look like Nature itself. He was so weak he coughed blood and fainted often.

Warm but cold. Strong but weak. Deceitful and Honest. So full of contradictions... Just like every human.

Maybe that's why Clopeh started to devote himself to that God, not to be recorded on his legend, but just... Because he couldn't help it. The way he fought to save people. The way he sacrified himself for world peace. The way he stabbed himself in the heart, just to defeat the evil that wanted to destroy their world.

Clopeh had a thought. He believed in the existence of Gods, but had never devoted himself to one. But if there ever was a God worthy of being worshipped... A God worth following and obeying, without question, without doubt... Wouldn't he be the one?

The God inside Cale Henituse. Whoever He might be... Clopeh wanted to follow Him. Wanted to devote himself to Him.

Clopeh watched Caled Henituse. Images of the recordings priest Durst had shared with him flashed through his mind. He then looked at his heavy, useless arms, and clenched his fists. His past self had been an idiot who couldn't see what was in front of his eyes, and so he had started in the wrong foot with his God. His past stupidity was why he was now useless, useless to follow Him in His quest of saving other worlds from their new enemy, the Hunters.

He briefly closed his eyes out of frustration. And in that moment, he dared to make a prayer.

'Please, let me rectify my past mistakes. Let me be useful. Please, my God, use me for Your cause.'

He then smiled bitterly. His, no, the God wouldn't listen to his prayers. He was a former enemy. He had tried to harm the people the God chose as His. He still had a long way until he had proved himself enough for his- for the God to forgive him.

'Then, I'll just have to work harder.'

Clopeh took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, standing as firm as his condition allowed, his resolve strengthened. But then... when he opened his eyes and looked at Cale Henituse, he internally flinched when he saw the God looking back at him.

'Hmm?'

The God said something to the ancient dragon before looking at Clopeh again and signaling him to follow.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Clopeh's heart oddly began to beat faster. His hands began to sweat, as an intense feeling began to invade him as he followed the God and His knight, Choi Han.

'Could it be?'

The moment they got to the room in the black castle and Choi Han closed the door, Cale Henituse sat. And then, the God spoke.

"What would you do if I could give you your sword back?"

Clopeh froze. His expression and mind blanked at those unexpected words.

"Aipotu. That's our next destination," the God continued. "I'm thinking about bringing you with me there, but to do that, you'll need something to defend yourself with." His- The Gods's detached and cold gaze seemed to pierce through his frozen body, though oddly, that's what finally jolted his mind back. "You are a swordmaster, and I am the one who took your sword away. That's why I have to know. What would you do if I could give you your sword back?"

Clopeh's expression was still blank, but his mind was chaotic.

'My sword back? Cale-nim wants to give me my sword back? Cale-nim wants to bring me with him? He wants to use me?'

His God... His God had answered his prayer?

A change to that cold gaze made Clopeh act on instinct. Knowing He wouldn't give him much time to answer, he dropped to one knee, and did what he longed to do for a long time.

"I would devote that sword to you, Cale-nim."

He devoted himself to Him. No, he was already devoted. But now, he was seeking the God's permission. Could he consider Him his God? Could he... Become one of His?

The God smiled. The smile wasn't warm, but it was full of satisfaction. Clopeh's heart began to beat faster.

"Then I will use your sword as a sword that saves." The words hit Clopeh like a commandment. They felt like salvation.

The, no. His God had accepted him.

"Choi Han." A booklet sailed through the air at him, and Clopeh grabbed it. "Learn that," His God ordered. "Choi Han will help you."

"Yes, Cale-nim." Clopeh said, taking those words as the dismissal they were. His expression and voice was calm as he stood up, calm as he walked out of the room, and calm even when he walked out of the black castle. It was only when there was no on e around him that he let the tear roll down his chin. His hands trembled as he clutched the little booklet, and a radiant smile drew itself in his face. His green eyes gleamed fiercely, the spark of lunacy in his gaze turning into a bonfire.

His God had answered his prayer. His God had forgiven his past transgressions and accepted him as His knight. Accepted his sword as Clopeh offered to him. Said He would use him as a sword that saves.

Clopeh looked at the booklet and skimmed through it before closing it.

'I will not fail you, my Lord.'

The flames of lunacy in his eyes raged.

***

A/N: This is my theory about why Clopeh looks calmer than one would expect in the Aipotu arc (at least to up chapter 250, which is what I have read... I'm gonna wait for chapters to stack up a bit before continuing, so pls no big spoilers!)