#this sport is becoming toxic day by day and i hate it

[foxy-kitsune]

not only did the the crowd boo charles heavily for a mistake that was fully checo's fault (i know some will say that charles could have turned to give space to checo but then he would have taken out max) but some mexican "fans" also started beating up people in the stands who were ferrari fans.

i know very well that checo is the home hero but at least try to acknowledge the mistakes that he makes like the one that he did this exact race (i am not speaking about everyone cause i know there are those out there who do acknowledge it!). if there was a hungarian (my nationality) race driver in f1 and they made this kind of a mistake i would be sad of course but also acknowledge the fact that yes it was their fault because no one is fucking perfect. do not blame the other driver who had nothing to do with this and do not fucking beat up on THEIR FANS who have absolutely nothing to do with the situation like literally what the fuck is your problem. this is truly disgusting behaviour and security should be stronger cause who knows where this might lead to in the future.

[bellenotthebeast]

Hello.

I want you to listen. Don’t scroll away because of the buzz word ‘Lando’.

Listen.

This has gone beyond hate for Lando. This about all the drivers.

This is about treating drivers respectfully. This is about your parasocial relationships with the drivers. This is about you reading into everything they say.

This is about the F1 media taking clips out of context because they don’t want a race they want a drama.

This is about you taking those clips and not bothering to find the original source, and taking it to fuel a hatred for someone you don’t know.

This is about you hating on a new driver because you miss the old one.

This is about you sending hate to fans of a driver you don’t like.

When I dislike something I scroll- I ignore, because it’s not worth my time. Why should I let the social media algorithm think I like the video because I watch it? I block a person I dislike. I don’t go onto their account and spend time out of my life to comment.

But unfortunately the amount of hate I’m seeing it’s getting hard to ignore it.

Haters and fans. Opposite end of the spectrum, still on the same spectrum.

You’re still thinking about the guy you supposedly hate. You talk about him under other driver related posts, you make it your entire personality.

You make it toxic.

The difference in drivers is what makes the sport fun. I’m friends with people who have other favourite drivers. What we do is we talk about the race. We talk about how their driver did really well and what mine could’ve done better. We have fun.

Because it’s the sport that bonds us.

I don’t send death threats to them. People have become so obsessed with other peoples lives and it shows.

A driver can’t say he feels lonely without getting jumped on for it. A driver gets asked his opinion after a high adrenaline race, one he feels he didn’t do well and he sounds a little bitter. Of course he’s going to. Yet you read into it.

He celebrates and you read into it.

And then dislike them when they decide not to do anything anymore.

You criticise them for the mistakes they’ve already owned up to and refuse to even acknowledge the good they’ve achieved.

New fans get scared to join because they worry everyone will hate them. Which kills the sport in turn.

Lando. Max. Every single driver on the grid do not know you. And you do not know them. You know of them. You do not know them.

You do not know what they do or who they are the moment they’re away from the cameras.

You do not need to like a driver. Nor do you need to dislike them. I don’t dislike drivers, I just have drivers I favour a bit more than others. Because why would I hate them?

I dislike some of the things they do- during the race. Of course. I’m bitter after a race doesn’t go well. I’m a fan of the sport.

But that’s as far as it goes.

I do not care for their personal life as it’s theirs, nor do I care for what minuscule thing they’ve done.

If you don’t feel called out, then good- I’m not talking about you. You’re the good ones. If you are feeling ‘attacked’ then perhaps it’s time to rethink what you want to spend limited time, that is your life, on.

We only have so many minutes in our lives to actually live. So live it. Don’t spend it on hating on others.

Good day/night. 😊

[sapphic-agent]

Let's Talk About Izuku and Bakugou's Relationship

Happy New Year, everyone! Thought I'd kick 2024 off with a new post. I haven't written an in-depth analysis in a while, so I figured now was a good time.

So, I've touched on this before, many times in fact. If you've seen my other posts, you know that I think that the BKDK relationship is a clusterfuck of codependency, abuse, and toxicity. But I don't think I've ever analyzed it frame-by-frame, so here's an attempt.

Childhood

The lake scene has the most focus than any other flashback in the series. It's meant to show us why Bakugou hated Izuku; he assumed Izuku looked down on him and saw him as weak. It's supposed to support the idea that Bakugou has an inferiority complex that's been present since he was a kid and that's why he lashes out at Izuku and wants to be rid of him. Because Izuku makes him feel weak.

But this isn't true. Or, it doesn't paint the whole picture.

One thing the lake scene seems to gloss over is the fact that Bakugou was always mean to Izuku. Maybe he wasn't as harsh and could be written off as just a kid being a kid, but he still made fun of him. He still went out of his way to make him feel bad about himself and humiliate him. He called him "Deku" way before either of them were (or weren't) given a quirk.

And he only ever did this to Izuku, not the other kids part of his posse. He, even at such a young age, saw Izuku as an easy target, someone he could easily shove around because he knew Izuku wouldn't fight back (this would persist for the next ten years).

It's important to note that there's only one instance where Bakugou's behavior towards Izuku turns violent. It's when Izuku defends a kid that Bakugou and his posse are picking on. This is the moment where Bakugou becomes physically aggressive; not when he found out Izuku was quirkless, during the lake, or any time before. It's here, when Izuku stops being the defenseless wimp who won't stand up to him. He doesn't like that Izuku stepped out of the mold he had confined him to (I'll come back to this later).

The truth of their childhood together is that Bakugou was always inherently awful to Izuku. It wasn't like he experienced one bad moment that flipped a switch, Bakugou liked picking on Izuku from day one.

Middle School

There isn't much to say about their days at Aldera other than it's just a progression of escalation from their childhood. They've settled into their roles as abuser and victim. Bakugou knows he can say and do whatever he wants and Izuku won't defend himself because it's been the status quo for a decade.

He revels in that power he has over him, likes to remind Izuku of his "place." And if he steps out of line, Bakugou exerts that power over him to shut him right down, stressing his inability to do anything about his situation. It's a cycle of abuse.

Deku vs Kacchan Part 1

I've already talked about this scene before, but this is also another example as to what I was alluding to above.

As @delawaredetroit pointed out in a post from a while ago, Bakugou isn't feeling betrayed here. He himself has said time and time again that he and Izuku weren't friends. He cares about the fact that his victim now has power of his own.

All their lives, Bakugou had the power and Izuku was powerless. That was the dynamic they were used to and the one that Bakugou was aware and repeatedly took advantage of. But now, Izuku isn't powerless or defenseless. He no longer fits the mold that Bakugou had tied him to since childhood. That's why Bakugou is so upset; not because Izuku kept something from him but because the power imbalance between was shifting.

And it's why he tries to use guilt-tripping here. He wants Izuku to feel bad, wants to reestablish some of the control over him he just lost. And it works, because Izuku tells him he inherited his quirk completely unprompted after the fact. Bakugou knows he has the power in their relationship and has no issues abusing that power.

Sports Festival

I don't have much to say here, but I would like to point out something very inconsistent concerning Bakugou's interpretation of his relationship with Izuku. He claims that Izuku kept following him around and that he couldn't get rid of him, which attributed to his dislike. But even if that was true when they were 5, it's actually the opposite at least from middle school on.

Bakugou went out of his way to target Izuku in the first chapter/episode. He also tracked him down after the Sludge Villain incident. He's initiated every one of their confrontations in UA. And here, he deliberately eavesdropped on Izuku's conversation with Todoroki.

I don't know whether to call it hypocrisy or ignorance, but Izuku was content to leave Bakugou alone. Bakugou's the one who's constantly harassing and obsessing over him.

Final Exams

Izuku daring to display confidence and competence invokes immediate physical violence in Bakugou. He doesn't like that Izuku is talking to him like he's an equal, he doesn't like that Izuku dares to step outside of his role as a victim. Bakugou wants Izuku to act like he's below him and gets agitated when he doesn't do that. He, in this moment, cared more about putting Izuku in his place than his own grade.

Deku vs Kacchan Part 2

I mentioned that BKDK is codependent in the beginning of the post. This is what I mean.

Bakugou can't cope with the fact that he isn't the best and takes it out on the only target he has. Izuku had nothing to do with his shortcomings, but he still felt the need to establish superiority over him; a grasp for some measure of control.

Like I said above, he's well aware of the power he has over Izuku. Do you think he would have tried this with Todoroki? Or Tokoyami? Or Iida? No, because he knows that none of them would have even dignified him with a response. But he knows he can control Izuku in a way he can't with other people. He feels comfortable treating only Izuku as his emotional and physical punching bag.

The Apology

It's interesting that prior to apologizing for treating him badly, Bakugou proceeds to treat Izuku badly.

This interaction is important because it's their first major conflict after Bakugou's "redemption." We're supposed to be at the point where he's changed. But he still resorts to insults and goading. His first instinct is still to put Izuku down.

I've said most of what I needed to about the apology. But I do want to mention that coming from Bakugou's mouth, it grossly understates what happened during those ten years. Because the abuser is the one telling the story, his transgressions don't seem that bad. He's the one controlling the narrative, so his classmates- Izuku's friends- don't know the full story. They don't know what Bakugou put Izuku through. Bakugou comes off looking sympathetic to their peers by speaking "his truth."

Was this his intention? Probably not as Bakugou doesn't really care what others think about him. But it does raise the point that this is the extent as to how Bakugou sees his past self; as a stubborn, overzealous child and not the abuser that he was

[gachagon]

I don't think Kaiser and Ness would be good together

Which is why i think about their relationship constantly despite that, i love these freaky little soccer dudes and their obsessive codependency

If there's one ship in bllk that I absolutely adore the content for and think about constantly besides Kunigiri, it's Kainess. And it's not because I think "Oh they'd be such a wonderful couple" or "They look good together", this is one of those ships where if they ever got together I feel like they'd actively make each other worse because they have so much internal stuff to work on alone first, you know? And just thinking about that potential train wreck of a relationship is enough to keep me entertained for weeks on end.

I've said before that Kaiser and Ness are a Bachira and Isagi parallel in that they show the toxic bad sides of a codependent relationship, but I think there's more to it than that. Like Kaiser and Ness are reliant on each other for both ego and attention, but they're also both deeply lonely people at the end of the day. Even in the scenes where it's just the two of them, they never let up the act of trying to surpass everyone and be at the top.

They have no silly banter or back and forth, even in this panel Ness looks more like Kaiser's personal servant than his friend or partner.

Where as everyone else in the Blue Lock compound has some healthy way of destressing after a match, these two weirdos (affectionate) sit in dark rooms and watch the same matches over and over again while plotting like saturday morning cartoon villains on what to do next game. I mean, even Itoshi Rin has a destress activity he does that's NOT soccer related that helps him not morph into some soccer obsessed monolouging freak, so to see these guys just constantly always planning and thinking and practicing it really puts into perspective how much of the time that they spend together is them not having a fun time casually. And if you compare what they do on their down time with what the other "partners" in Blue Lock do, this difference becomes even more apparent.

And I don't know, I find that to be a really interesting aspect of their relationship just because even though they are so clearly missing all of the key elements meant to make a healthy partnership, it still works on the field anyways because they're both equally obsessed with the same thing. Kaiser loves football and wants to be the best. Ness want's to see Kaiser become the best because he loves football. Their devotion to the game drives them closer to one another, but it's clear only one side holds any real "affection" for the other directly outside of the game.

Now, I do NOT think Kaiser hates Ness which I think people assume if you say "Kaiser doesn't hold a lot of empathy for Ness, or cares for him" that it translates to "Kaiser hates him".

I think Kaiser keeps Ness around because deep down he knows that at the end of the day the only person who would be willing to follow him even if he couldn't become the worlds best is Ness. And I think that's because Ness loves soccer in a different way than Kaiser does. To Ness, soccer is a really magical sport and one where amazing things can happen. And Kaiser is the only character who has done the most insane feats in the manga so far. Kaiser does things on the field that seem impossible until he pulls it off, which is the whole crux of his ego anyways: Making the impossible, Possible.

So as long as Kaiser plays that way and does all of the amazing things he's been doing, Ness would follow him literally anywhere because that's what drives him.

But Kaiser is different, it's clear that to him soccer/football is not something that is grounded in the fantastical, but something that's tangible and real to him. He takes it seriously even if he goes about it in the most dramatic and campy way possible. Looking at old chapters of Blue Lock when Kaiser was first introduced is so interesting to me because I forgot about Kaiser's whole "king" attitude where he pretty much talks and acts like some nobleman with a crown and scepter.

He even makes Ness "bow" to others or makes Ness physically lower than him like a king does with some peasant. You could chalk it up to him making Ness "apologize" in the Japanese way by also bowing, but I don't think that's why he does it just because his entire character is just so "king" coded.

It's worth noting that he also makes Ness "bow" whenever Ness seems to lose any kind of faith in them winning. Which is why I don't think the above two times was him making Ness apologize, but that its something he does to ground himself or make Ness fall more in line with how he's thinking at the moment. Notice how he seems to only do it when Ness isn't sticking to the right "script" or seems to show the wrong reaction openly etc.

But anyways, Kaiser and Ness love soccer but they don't love it for the same reasons and that is what ultimately conflicts with their relationship in the end. That, and they've both got their own issues to work out.

I feel like if they did ever get together, it just wouldn't work because in order for it to work, Kaiser has to first realize that he can still be an amazing player and have people regard him as the best without obsessing over where he sits in the rankings. That he can perform things nobody else can and never will and that is the thing that will separate him from the rest of the crop, not a trophy saying "Number 1" on it.

Maybe before when they first met things could've worked out well, but even still I think Kaiser was dead set on his goals of becoming number 1 long before he ever met Ness. We will definitely get to see the extent of that next week for sure I hope, when we learn more about Kaiser's past.

[houseofhyde]

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

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

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

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

but only for tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

seemingly foolish? most definitely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he wears them differently to the rest of his house.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you suppose she’s heard far worse.

“uncle!”

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

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

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

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

in daemon, it is the pilar of his desire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i believe it’s pronounced irrefutable.”

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

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

“like i said, insufferable!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“hmm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i was looking, for you,”

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

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

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

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

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

your eyes find the prince.

he nods, once and then a second time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

yet, this is not her door.

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

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

you pause and wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a kiss that daemon does not reciprocate.

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

you’re ashamed.

and mortified.

and disgusted.

and embarrassed.

and reaching for his lips again.

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

daemon remains stoic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

his eyes scare you more.

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

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

the silence pleases him.

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

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

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

“then let me show you what i want.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you want-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

his laughter.

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

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

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

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

you nearly choke on your own shock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“as i’ll ever be.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“only when my mouth is otherwise occupied.”

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

they remain looking upwards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

daemon never quite has been one for following expectations.

“i could fall in love with you.”

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

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

“i beg to differ.”

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

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

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

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

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

[konigsblog]

I always have thoughts about my bbg Toxic!dadbod!price.

Price who has the biggest shit fit when you beg him to bond normally with his son. Not just watching sports, trying to teach him stuff and other bs. But no, thats the womens job. Not hisss

Or

Dadbod ghost and price are fucking you and Ghost is soo kind, and sweet, until price makes him mean

Idk ngl price yasnt infected my mind latelyn

misogyny

if he was being honest, he felt as if his son was becoming an inconvenience. not that he hated him, he adored him, you believed it bring you two together - yet, like always, the football, beers and cigars came first rather than you, his wife. all it was another reason not to divorce, believing he'd change.

from your leaky tits to your constant nagging, asking him to hold his son for a couple minutes while you unloaded the washing, folding his clothes on the couch. he paid no attention to his son's babbles, occasionally chuckling as he grabbed his hair, pulling it slightly with his tiny hands. but, other than that, he was no help for you.

even if it was about bonding, he'd throw a hissy fit about how this is an inconvenience in his life. he'll only do it when you begin crying from frustration, your baby more concerned than him. finally taking his own kid while you tried to calm down and shower. “fuckin' woman's job, not mine.” he uttered under his breath, playing with his son's small fingers, accidentally scaring him when a goal was scored.

amd dadbod!ghost fucking you gently? being friends with john, slowly turning him evil with his cruel and unforgiving beliefs and opinions, expressing them onto simon. it was heartbreaking to see the sweet man turn into some monster, barely caring about your needs and only giving you one orgasm, if any, and leaving his seed oozing out your hole.

you miss the days were you'd wake up cuddled into him, or those intimate dates you'd have out. instead, cooking dinner while he talks to price about football and what not, your heart sinking at his words; new opinions on women's rights.

it actually does make me really sad to think about.. like, you were so kind before, loving 'nd everything.. and now you've ruined everything for your own benefits. i want soft!dadbod!simon!!!

[ohtobeleah]

I hope you’re still coming back

Im sooo torn about this. Because on one hand, I love writing for you guys. I love sharing my stories and reading concepts and I love the feeling of engaging with an audience that appreciates, values and encourages writers.

But on the other hand, this particular fandom as of late has become so hostile, aggressive and down right toxic to the point people who just want to link with like-minded people who share the same passion and love for a fucking movie…..are being doxed, are being sent derogatory anonymous hate, being threatened, told to kill themselves.

And all for what? A popularity contest? Because at the end of the day that’s all it is right? And that’s the most HILARIOUS thing about all the negativity, drama and discourse.

If you’re reading this right now….you’re a nerd. We’re all a bunch of nerd who sit and write fanfiction about movies, TV shows, actors, sports teams, singers, musicians you name it. If you have access to this post on this platform, then I’m sorry to break it to you but you’re also, a nerd.

So the very idea that people are attacking other people, for the sake of climbing an artificially construct social ladder of superiority that somehow makes you less of a nerd than others is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Grow up.

Sitting high and mighty on your pedestal causing chaos in a fandom that’s built on the belief of camaraderie is such bullshit.

So I’m not sure, I know a lot of people I talk to in this fandom are unsure of where to go from here. Because it’s not a safe community anymore.

[familyofpaladins]

I HAD A REVELATION

okay so I was thinking about gender. My gender. And my feelings about being a cis girl over time.

When I was little I used to wear all kinds of dresses and wore nail polish and even occasionally makeup (but like. Sloppily as a 7 year old would lol) and how overtime I stopped wearing nail polish and stopped wearing dresses and despised make up. I dont really remeber why I stopped with nail polish. Maybe because it flaked off too easily or maybe I was sick of the few colors we had idk. I know I gradually stopped wearing dresses and night gowns because I was sick of being told I couldnt "put my legs up [up against the wall or just straight up in the air] or that I had to sit a certain way while wearing one. So I wore more and more pants.

I think about how i used to stand in the toys aisles while my mom did grocery shopping and look at "The Boys" section and think how much cooler it was than the girls section.

And I think about how my music teacher told us one day we'd hit puberty and we'd grow and us girls would be like "[in a high pitched voice] OH MY GOSH I LOVE BOYS AND DID YOU HEAR ABOUT SO AND SO" and I looked over at my classmates and friends to see if they were also terrified of becoming annoying teenage boy-obsessed girls.

And i think about how when I was at my friend's house and we were building "tree forts" in the woods i would wish I had a penis for the convenience of being able to just go pee behind a tree, because squatting near the ground was Not Fun and I hated walking all the way back to the house. And I think about how I hated that I'd have to wear a bra once my boobs started to come in

Now you might be thinking. Friend I think you want[ed] to be a boy. But the thing is, i dont.

I may have hated being restricted in dresses but I dont actually hate them. I've gotten a couple dresses in the last 10 years (for prom and graduation and a [not my] wedding) and how I actually did like how I looked in them and enjoyed wearing them for that time.

I think about how I was jealous of the boys selection of toys, but also how I had a ton of barbies that I massively enjoyed and how if I'd been a boy I probably wouldnt have been able to enjoy them (thanks to pressure from society) as well as a bunch of other "girly" items and shows and movies. I think about how I'm actually Asexual and that I wasnt scared of becoming "a young woman", I just didnt understand the obsession with sex/romance/boyfriend&girlfriend stuff.

And while having a penis is more convenient for peeing I also remeber thinking that it would suck to get kicked in the balls and/or that trope of falling on soemthign between your legs that happens in so many movies (not that it feels any better with a vagina honestly). And that if I had been born a boy I'd most likely have to deal with all the toxic masculinity forced on me, and I'm glad I dont have to deal with that.

And while me and my boobs dont always get along, I remember that after getting my first cute bra, I thought. Oh well maybe this isnt so bad. And I mostly wear sports bras now because I do wish they were smaller and I HATE that so many bras (EVEN THE SPORTS BRAS) are already padded into cup shapes, and while I don't mind Having Boobs, i Do Not want to show them off. And sometimes i think that maybe i wouldn't mind chopping them off, but then i think how my figure/outline/silhouette would look with out them, and that seems worse.

And i think about the times I've accidentally been called "Sir" from tired fast food employees when wearing gender nonspecific clothing and felt happy about it. But not "oh it feels right to be called sir/he/him" , but more of "hehe I fooled you! You thought this was a dress but its pants!"

And really this is all to say. I was born a girl and grew up that way so it's what I'm used to. If I'd been born with a dick then I guess I'd be a guy. If you magically stuck me in a male body right now, would I feel like a Guy or feel like a girl in a guys body? I honestly dont know. So am I non binary? Maybe that that doesnt quite feel right either.

Being a girl is what I've grown up as and into, and it's what I'm used to and going by anything else is… odd. Maybe itd be better and maybe it wouldnt. It's like an old blanket. You've had it forever and maybe its frayed and patched maybe a little too small and it's not what people expect you to have for a blanket, and maybe you could do with a new one. But nothing feels right with out it. No other blanket feels the same. It's what you're used to and its familar. It's a comfort blanket.

And that's why being a [cis] girl is my comfort gender.

[f1-birb]

Honestly feel like I need to take a break from F1 altogether as a Lando/McLaren fan because that's how bad the hate has gotten. Like you can't even look at the comments/replies under his 100th race posts without "heHEHE no win" (which is funny because like look at all of the coincidences that had to happen for George, the only 2019 rookie to have a win, to get his first. And I say that as someone who likes George but without the Max and Lewis contact, odds are he would not have a win right now either). I don't know. F1 used to be something fun as an escape from the stresses of work and life but the fan spaces have become so toxic its frankly more stressful to engage with than just going to work would be. Which is a shame but given how they market themselves now, that's clearly what F1 wants F1 to be now too so it is what it is, I suppose.

I actually totally get that. I'd say maybe just take a break from the social media side, unfollow or block so you have to do specific searches if you want to see stuff, avoid comment sections on literally anything, curate your online space to cater to just you for a while, or equally if you need to fully step away do that too

sports are meant to make you suffer (mostly affectionate) not the online spaces around them

I will say that the thing that does genuinely make me laugh about the "haha 100 races and no wins" is like, it's not even a good diss? how many drivers even hit 100 races? especially over the last few years where we've seen teams be ruthless when it comes to driver performances, let alone hit 100 at only 23

this has gotten very long so adding a read more - more on the Lando hate under the cut if you want to

since F1 started, as of Qatar there's been 775 drivers and only 113 winners. 662 drivers have never won a race. That's more than 85% of the total number of drivers that have never won a race. Some of it is reflective of talent, but let's be real, in this sport machinery is a massive factor. Dominance has always played a role in the sport, look at Schumacher, look at RB in the early 10's, the 8 years of Mercedes, look at RB again now

specifically to Lando/McLaren - until this year, realistically, McLaren haven't had a car capable of winning races based on the car's own merit. As good as the MCL35M was and I enjoyed the 21 season, with multiple podiums and the 1-2, it wasn't a race winning car without a helping hand, and yes as unpopular as the opinion is that IS Monza. I honestly do not believe either McLaren would've won had Lewis and/or Max still been in the race (hate that if you want, it's my opinion and I'm allowed it)

Sochi is still a sore spot, it was a combination of a driver only in his third season, being fed information from his team that ended up being the wrong call, but even with the outcome, again it wasn't a race winning car on its own but it would've been if not for the wrong call, and only an idiot would say that the pole in qualifying and the race before the incident were not the result of an incredible performance from Lando

talking about this year, the leaps and bounds of development and the actual installation of said development is phenomenal and probably the most improvement I've seen made across a single season. and part of that is what's boosting Oscar's rookie year (again probably an unpopular opinion, not me saying Oscar's not great because he is, just it's giving Lewis 2007) and causing more heat onto Lando than is necessary or justifiable and last weekend proved it because they were exceptional circumstances (I won't go more into my thoughts on the weekend I don't want to get shot so I keep them to me)

even if we ignore everything above, and some people will, at the end of the day, the anons going round spewing Lando hate at Lando blogs are just at this point irritating, they're not upsetting, they're not big or clever or funny, it's pathetic and borderline concerning behaviour that says more about them than it does anything else 🤷‍♀️

[stormblessed95]

Hi Storm!

I'm obsessed with your book recommendations and just read aftg and loved them... do you know any other books like them?

Ah yes! I've recommended some of these before, but I'll include them anyway as "gives similar vibes but probably isn't as problematic/toxic as AFTG and yet still as wonderfully amazing and made me fall in love with it" list. Queer characters, character driven, slow burn, angsty at times, happy ending, achillean book recommendations....

(Andriel from AFTG in fanart above)

Icebreaker by A.L Graziadei

Seventeen-year-old Mickey James III is a college freshman, a brother to five sisters, and a hockey legacy. With a father and a grandfather who have gone down in NHL history, Mickey is almost guaranteed the league's top draft spot.

The only person standing in his way is Jaysen Caulfield, a contender for the #1 spot and Mickey's infuriating (and infuriatingly attractive) teammate. When rivalry turns to something more, Mickey will have to decide what he really wants, and what he's willing to risk for it.

This is a story about falling in love, finding your team (on and off the ice), and choosing your own path.

Tropes: Sports Romance, Rivals to Lovers, found family... I mean it's basically just reading about a depressed bisexual hockey prodigy in a Rivalry and romance with his teammate.

Content warnings: Abandonment, Anxiety, Depression, Tricholillomania, Alcohol consumption, Drug use mentioned, Suicidal Ideation

Quote I Love: "I hate you" "Prove it"

The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater

“There are only two reasons a non-seer would see a spirit on St. Mark’s Eve,” Neeve said. “Either you’re his true love . . . or you killed him.”

It is freezing in the churchyard, even before the dead arrive.

Every year, Blue Sargent stands next to her clairvoyant mother as the soon-to-be dead walk past. Blue herself never sees them—not until this year, when a boy emerges from the dark and speaks directly to her.

His name is Gansey, and Blue soon discovers that he is a rich student at Aglionby, the local private school. Blue has a policy of staying away from Aglionby boys. Known as Raven Boys, they can only mean trouble.

But Blue is drawn to Gansey, in a way she can’t entirely explain. He has it all—family money, good looks, devoted friends—but he’s looking for much more than that. He is on a quest that has encompassed three other Raven Boys: Adam, the scholarship student who resents all the privilege around him; Ronan, the fierce soul who ranges from anger to despair; and Noah, the taciturn watcher of the four, who notices many things but says very little.

For as long as she can remember, Blue has been warned that she will cause her true love to die. She never thought this would be a problem. But now, as her life becomes caught up in the strange and sinister world of the Raven Boys, she’s not so sure anymore.

Tropes: Paranormal Adventure novel, forbidden love, found family, high stakes, going on a quest, human sacrifice, tall dark and snarky (mlm side pairing)

Content Warnings: there is a lot, so here is a link to a detailed list

Quote I Love: “When Adam kissed him, it was every mile per hour Ronan had ever gone over the speed limit. It was every window-down, goose-bumps-on-skin, teeth-clattering-cold night drive. it was Adam’s ribs under Ronan’s hands and Adam’s mouth on his mouth, again and again and again.”

Wolfsong by TJ Klune

Ox was twelve when his daddy taught him a very valuable lesson. He said that Ox wasn’t worth anything and people would never understand him. Then he left.

Ox was sixteen when he met the boy on the road, the boy who talked and talked and talked. Ox found out later the boy hadn’t spoken in almost two years before that day, and that the boy belonged to a family who had moved into the house at the end of the lane.

Ox was seventeen when he found out the boy’s secret, and it painted the world around him in colors of red and orange and violet, of Alpha and Beta and Omega.

Ox was twenty-three when murder came to town and tore a hole in his head and heart. The boy chased after the monster with revenge in his bloodred eyes, leaving Ox behind to pick up the pieces.

It’s been three years since that fateful day—and the boy is back. Except now he’s a man, and Ox can no longer ignore the song that howls between them.

Tropes: Found Family, Alpha Male, jealousy, revenge, troubled pasts, Boy next door, Clumsy with a Crush, wait for me, own voices gay

Content Warnings: Abduction/hostage, Ableism, Age gap, Assault, Blood, Death, Emotional abuse (parental, past), SA (mentioned), Sex scenes (graphic), Torture, Violence

Quote I Love: "My future,” Joe said, “is Ox.” Ah god, that made me ache. “Is that so?” Mom asked. “How do you figure?” “He’s really nice,” Joe said seriously. “And smells good. And he makes me happy. And I want to do nothing more than put my mouth on him.”

Check, Please! By Ngozi Ukazu

Check, Please! is a comic about hockey, queer romance, and the frequent baking of pies. And you can read this one for free! It's online and free on the authors blog here, including a link to the where the start at the beginning of the story. It's super cute!

Red White and Royal Blue by Casey McQuinston

First Son Alex Claremont-Diaz is the closest thing to a prince this side of the Atlantic. With his intrepid sister and the Veep’s genius granddaughter, they’re the White House Trio, a beautiful millennial marketing strategy for his mother, President Ellen Claremont. International socialite duties do have downsides—namely, when photos of a confrontation with his longtime nemesis Prince Henry at a royal wedding leak to the tabloids and threaten American/British relations. The plan for damage control: staging a fake friendship between the First Son and the Prince.

As President Claremont kicks off her reelection bid, Alex finds himself hurtling into a secret relationship with Henry that could derail the campaign and upend two nations. What is worth the sacrifice? How do you do all the good you can do? And, most importantly, how will history remember you?

Tropes: Forbidden Love, Enemies to lovers, royals, secret relationship, love letters, celebrity romance, heroes with titles

Content warnings: Addiction, Alcohol, Anxiety, Blackmail, Cancer (mentioned), Death (parental, mentioned), Drug abuse (mentioned), Forced outing, Grief, Homophobia, Invasion/violation of privacy, Neglect (parental), Panic attack, Politics, Racism, Sexual abuse, Sexual harassment (mentioned), Sexually explicit scenes

Quote I Love: "Should I tell you that when we're apart, your body comes back to me in dreams? That when I sleep, I see you, the dip of your waist, the freckle above your hip, and when I wake up in the morning, it feels like I've just been with you, the phantom touch of your hand on the back of my neck fresh and not imagined? That I can feel your skin against mine, and it makes every bone in my body ache? That, for a few moments, I can hold my breath and be back there with you, in a dream, in a thousand rooms, nowhere at all?"

Running with Lions by Julian Winters

I haven't read this one yet, but it's on my TBR as a gay sports Romance that sounded really cute!

Also, ao3 is a goldmine of amazing fics for the AFTG fandom. Like top tier beautifully done fics. AFTG is a great sandbox for fandom honestly. So definitely check that site out if you want more too.

[red-velvet-0w0]

ok ok ok so I’ve heard you talk about your OCs but I don’t actually know anything about them so could you tell me about them?

:D

A chance to talk about my ocs!!!!!!!!

YIPEE!!!!

okay so

basicaly

theres a WHOLE lot of details i could get into but the basics of it is:

5 teenagers from a small town end up trapped in a time loop, though most of their memories get reset every loop, with a few exeptions (they keep the knowlege that they are in the time loop and the general knowlege of the relationships between each other, but cannot remember specifics of what happened)(they also each have a special thing that allows them to have some knowlege of what happened last time called a Memorabilia).

Ida Vidya: was a photographer from the school newspaper who dreamed of being a investigative journalist when she grew up. She is by far the most determined to figure out all of the mysteries in the town and escaping the loop. her memorabilia a disposable camera which stores 10 photos taken in the previous loop into the next loop

Jack Edmund-Kang: Is the son of the mayor and a sports player (though i havent fully decided what sport he did and its not really relevant). He has a lot of self worth issues and has taken it upon himself to protect everyone else from everything thats trying to kill them. His memorabilia is that he can remember all the blood and dead bodies hes seen in past loops and keeps any bodily changes through loops (ie: muscle growth, or scars. he has so so so so so many scars)

Jane Hare: a trans girl and aspiring writer. Shes pretty shy and has a fuck ton of anxiety and self hatred. I would go into more details but her story is pretty heavily tied to The Reflection so ill get to that later. she wakes up every morning with a limerick explaining what happened in the previous loop but with vague and cryptic wording

Amelia Augur: genderfluid cottagecore artist. she has a raven named Ray who she keeps as a pet. Ray keeps all the memories from previous loops but can only do so much to help due to being. you know. a bird

Blake Payne: angsty emo transmasc/nonbinary dude. has a neglectful mother and a lot of trauma. plays the drums. Hearing specific sounds can trigger memories from them from previous loops

as they start investigating and trying to figure out whats going on, however, they then realize that the situation isnt as simple as they seem

every loop the US government figures out something is going wrong and sends Special Agent Booker (CIA) to investigate the town and see whats going on. she doesnt keep her memories (at least at first some stuff goes down towards the end of the story) but comes into conflict with the children when they both are after the same thing.

As it turns out, Jacks father, Mayor Kang, is the leader secret underground society that worships and ancient magical artifact known as the Pentagramic Pocketwatch that he has been using to keep himself alive for centuries and was planning on using to revive his dead wife. It was stolen from them recently and they figure out that whoever has it is using it to trap them in a time loop. They realize that the kids are keeping some of their memories, and assume that they were the ones who stole the pocketwatch and begin hunting them down and trying to reclaim the pocketwatch.

Several minor gods have realized that the watch has been stolen and are trying to take it for themselves to become more powerful. among them: The Beast, god of the hunt and strength, The Mask, god of manipulation and trickery, The Reflection, god of self-perception and mirrors, and The Day, god of... days. The Beast has the least going on and is mostly just busy having vague toxic yaoi with the mayor and killing people. The Mask is just absolute worsties with Booker, and also really really hates Ida. its by far physicaly the weakest of all the gods but makes up for it by managing to constantly outsmart everyone. The Reflection ends up using Janes dysphoria as a tool to manipulate her into a weird abusive relationship where it forces her to work for it and help it get its hands on the pocketwatch (eventualy they "break up" and trap it inside of a hand mirror with The Masks help). The Day is just sorta there and nobody knows what its up to.

eventualy (im skipping past a lot) its revealed that The Day was the one who stole the pocketwatch because it dies every night and is reborn every day (fun paralels to how the time loop affects the kids) (this was set up earlier dont worry i just didnt have somewhere to put it in here so i didnt mention it) and is using the watch to turn back time right before it dies. they manage to get to it and convince it to give back the watch and allow time to progress again (again this is skipping over a lot). so the kids take it and are about to destroy it when out of nowhere The Mayor shows up and steals the pocketwatch before dissapearing to try to use it in a ritual to bring back his wife. However, the ritual nearly unravels the spacetime continuum and he comes to terms with her death and allows Jack to destroy the pocketwatch, killing him in the process

(this was a very quick summary, if you want more specific information on any part of this you can just send another ask. this is just sorta the very basics)

[chronically-peach]

Don’t think of Jean and Kevin as Favourite Person by Peach PRC. Don’t think of Jean listening to it and thinking of Kevin every single time.

“And I see your name in every number plate. I tried to erase your face but you’re there everyday.”

Jean couldn’t escape Kevin even if he wanted to. This was Kevin Day, the son of Exy. The former Raven turned Fox overnight. Kevin was everywhere and he knows deep down that even if he wasn’t, Jean would see him in everything anyways.

“You’re my favourite person, I have created a version that hurts less. I had to tell myself you’re toxic, better off ‘cause you’re the problem. Really I just couldn’t take it being hated by my favourite person.”

Over time it gets easier to hate Kevin. Between the Raven’s echoes of Kevin being a traitor and Jean’s own insecurity in being left behind it’s easy to weave a whole new identity for the Kevin he had fallen in love with. The Kevin he had fallen in love with never existed, he was simply a figment of Jean’s desperation. He couldn’t stand the idea of being hated by his Kevin but what if his Kevin never existed? What if it was all an elaborate lie? Jean chose to believe that as reality. After all, it was easier to create a monster than to stay in love with someone who abandoned you out of necessity. Deep down Jean know’s this isn’t the truth, he still loves Kevin and he knows Kevin loved him back, but it’s the survival of the fittest and Jean would never survive if he didn’t villainize Kevin as quickly as possible.

“I hate that I’ll never stop thinking that we’re still home growing up.”

Edgar Allan was the closest thing Jean and Kevin could ever consider “home”. The place was cold and unwelcoming and constantly felt uninhabited despite the amount of people who resided there but it was the only place the boys could call home. They grew up together there. Struggled together there. It haunts Jean that he wakes up every day still expecting Kevin to be there with him.

“I’m starting to lose all hope of ever letting go.”

Years pass, Jean moves onto the Trojans and begins a life he never thought he’d live to see. Slowly he changes and adapts and grows. He starts to feel things he didn’t think he was capable of feeling. He has a family, one that doesn’t expect him to hurt and call it love. But still he finds himself thinking of Kevin. Kevin is still everywhere, still making the news and sweeping the Exy world by storm. He’s in advertisements and sports store windows and on the radio. Jean doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to let go. Time heals most wounds but it will never heal the hole Kevin left inside of him.

“And if the world was ending I know I’d be spending my last day pretending we were fine.”

When things get especially bad and none of his newly learned coping methods help, Jean allows himself to pretend. He locks himself in his room, pulls his knees to his chest and closes his eyes. He lets himself believe that he left with Kevin. Let’s himself believe that Kevin wanted him enough to take him along to the foxes. He thinks of what life would be like if he had become a fox too, he would still be beside Kevin. He would still be on the receiving end of Kevin’s love. On the hardest days he allows himself to believe that him and Kevin are fine. He’ll never admit it to anyone but Kevin will remain Jean’s lifeboat until the day he dies.

“And when we both grow old with families of our own, I’ll probably always go back in my mind.”

Jean allows himself to fall in love again. He lets himself open up and takes the chance of being left behind once again. He falls in love and entertains the idea of having a family, one he would never let go of. One he would protect with his life. Jean has all this yet his mind still wanders back to Kevin. He knows he’ll never fully be over him, his love for Kevin was infinite and despite the fact that he’s well past moving on and has already fallen in love again, he’ll never rid himself of Kevin. When they fell in love they made a soul pact and while Jean can give someone else his heart, his soul will always belong to Kevin. He never had a chance in hell of ever giving it to someone else and over time he’s become content with that.

[hockeyforlife]

A change from the regular hockey smut I post, this has been living rent in my head for days now. How backward and cowardly the NHL has become in banning Queer support. As a gay hockey player, and gay fan, let me tell you: it DOES NOT get better. Yes, you can play...if you ignore the bigots.

To have had visible support was huge. To have the ultra male toxicity culture take a step back and teach tolerance and acceptance was huge.

Yet, we're back to square one. Because Russian players want to play in North America, want our money, but don't want to wear the jerseys for a 15 minute warm-up or risk supposedly not being allowed back in their war-mongering, illegally invading, homeland. Or because James Reimer thinks homosexality is a sin. Or, because two Stall brothers are grossed out by homosexuality. Then don't wear a cross when you play boys; not everyone believes your religion.

Unless they are closeted, self-hating victims of their environment, or unless they slip and accidentally fall on a dick, they're *pretty safe* from homosexuality in the dressing room.

*Caveat: Chicago Blackhawks Kyle Beach scandal.

*Caveat: Maple Leafs Gardens / Gordon Stuckless scandal.

I jest. No one accidentally falls on a dick.

But still, we take a step back. The NHL reveals their message of inclusion was just window dressing. Some immature players don't want fags in their dressing room. The league still wants all the money it can get, Russian, gay, straight, Aboriginal, cancer...So you know, they support us, just in the shadows.

Now all causes and special jerseys are banned? No offence, but yeah, this better include Military Night, and Hockey Fights Cancer - If there can't be pride tape there can't be pink tape. Or, ignore the cowardly few, educate them why awareness is needed, take your place as leaders in sports entertainment, and make genuine inclusivity a reality.

And while you're at it NHL and Hockey Canada, let's see some real repercussions for ALL the 2018 Team Canada juniors involved in the sexual assult, not just the alledged Alex Formenton. Let's see Kaner and Towes, Hoss, and all the Blackhawk players that deny they knew anything was happening to Kyle Beach admit that they did know, and acknowledge that winning the cup was more important to them than helping out a fellow human - a fucking hockey-bro TEAMMATE - who was being preyed upon. Let's see genuine apologies, not more debunked denials. Enough others in that dressing room have come clean say you ALL knew...but, I digress.

NHL, sponsors, Hockey Canada, US Hockey, take a good long look at the toxic culture you incubate and promote.

One overlooked bright spot deserves recognition. One player made a point over the years of supporting and raising equality awareness for the community and a couple of his gay friends. Comfortable in his heterosexuality, starting in 2016, Anders Nilsson had a Pride flag on the back of many helmets for the different teams he played for over the years.

Cheers to you Anders, shame on you NHL.

[hedghost]

I get both sides but it just seems so over the top. I'm an Arsenal fan but if a player switched clubs then that's what they wanted to do. It's stupid to lock a player in one place because of 'loyalty' when it's their own career. If Katie or Viv switched clubs I would not be booing them whenever they played against Arsenal because it's their choice. Sure, it may be 'lighthearted' and I doubt it affected Alessia that much but it's about why they even felt the need to do that, it's childish and immature. The players don't owe you anything and if they want to transfer it's up to them, don't belittle them over it

i wasn’t expecting her to stay, i understand why she went to arsenal and i don’t hate her for it, but if you go to a rival there’s nothing wrong with a bit of chants in jest, you’re telling me if like mccabe went to chelsea you guys wouldn’t boo her? it’s not belittling, it’s sporting rivalry.

what’s belittling is treating a professional athlete like a child who needs wrapping up in bubble wrap, or reducing a player’s performance on the pitch to a narrative about friendship (cough tooney and less)

i think the difference is bc the united women’s team are quite recent, a large amount of the fans are also long standing fans of the men’s team who have transferred over from men’s football, so they understand that these things are normal. i get the impression that a lot of arsenal women’s fans were not originally men’s arsenal fans, but were attracted to the club bc it has a history in the wsl.

for me, i welcome the booing because it shows a switch from marketing the idea of women’s football as a fun family friendly day out, rather than a legitimate sport, which for me holds the women’s game back from getting the mass respect it deserves. i agree i don’t want it to become full of hooliganism or toxicity like the men’s game, but booing an ex player is neither of those things. i like the booing bc it comes with the growth of the game. what’s childish and immature is arsenal fans getting butthurt about it.

[vro0m]

I agree with your prev post btw, however a similar discourse was fueling the bird app a while ago and i’ve been meaning to say something adjacent;

>>This is also all my opinion, i’m also not trying to police f1, Lord knows we have enough of that;

I personally think as long as you’re a journalist, why shouldn’t one be biased? it’s a sport at the end of the day. A technical one so there’s a more quantifiable logic but a sport regardless. I don’t like comparing F1 to other sports but atm that’s what’s lacking (imo). Rivalry makes a sport. it allows like minded people bond over mutual love/distaste (maybe those are harsh words and it gets borderline toxic most times but ygwim). Again, you and you alone are entitled to how you enjoy your hobbies.

I appreciate Max and Lewis fans so much cuz imo they’re the ones keeping the lights on. These drivers haven’t been in a title fight in a while lol but the fans would argue over the color of the sky if they could. Everyday Alonso fans say “if Alonso had gone to… in 2014, he’d have had… championships by now”. Sainz and Leclerc fans as of lately are also at each other’s throats cuz these are great drivers.

When Lewis got announced to Ferrari, people fell to their knees cuz that’s the enemy, that was the death star. Sure this may not be our grand parents Ferrari and here we sing and do marshmallow challenges now but it’s a long rivalry. Mclaren-Ferrari, Red Bull-Mercedes. I’m not trying to dissect what was said or what caused what but Toto seemingly trying to cozy up with Helmut and Max felt like backstabbing to some.

delusional takes?… exists everywhere, some driver’s fans have blamed the wind,mirrors, chassis and even his own team sabotaging him for poor performances. saying the other teammate’s win has been “nullified”.

AFCON, Nig vs Cameron, one team absolutely bottled it but the fans were dancing up until the last minute to boost morale. it’s what fans do. Objectively is good but so are biases, it makes us human imo.

These days a lot of the races imo are boring asl. It’s why DTS tries to milk slight disagreements as intra team rivalries. There’s also new wave of fans who’s welcome to the sport ofcourse but i just personally don’t understand this “I love every driver and want to see everyone do well”. If i wore an arsenal muffler with a Tottenham jersey in North london i’m getting jumped over rivalry that’s been here almost 100 years lol.

Again yes it gets extremely racist and parasocial but that’s the toxicity that doesn’t belong in a fandom but exists in most if not all. It’s all capitalism at the end of the day but at the core of it or what it should be is a sport

ps…this long ass essay lol and it’s also one of the reasons imo football socials don’t take us seriously and also calling f1 not a serious sport😅

Yeah that's what I meant by everyone is entitled to enjoy the sport the way they want. I personally think it's fine if you're 100% delulu biased following other like minded delulu biased people if that's what's fun to you! God knows the delulu posts are the funniest on this hellsite!

I understand what you mean with rivalry and I agree but personally didn't find the teamLH-orange army war fun at all because it got nasty really quickly. Fans were hating on each other and very aggressive about their opinions and I don't like that. I like heated arguments fine but when it tips into hate then it becomes a bad experience for most people.

To take your football example, I think singing songs in the stadium, making fun of the other team and fans, it's all playful and part of the culture. But fuck ultras, you know what I mean? I shouldn't be worried about getting jumped when I leave a game. Same thing goes here. The problem is a lot of people get genuinely angry at things and then genuinely aggro and that's not fun. So like I said in my previous post, if getting into fights with other people over these things is fun to you, you do you, I'll personally probably block you cause it's not enjoyable to me.

Imo the difference lies in self awareness. If you're a bit or even fully insane about your fav but you know that you are then it's generally all in good fun. But some people aren't aware that they are being irrational about things and that can get ugly because they take things seriously and get serious emotions about it and send serious hate about it etc. But it's not only bad for other people they might get aggressive towards. I've had anons here be genuinely distraught and/or enraged by the lack of performance at the moment. I've had to ask many a person "are you sure F1 is enjoyable to you?" because at the end of the day arguing can be fun (God knows I looove debating, irl and online, I'm annoying that way) but if you step away from these fanspaces angry, sad, frustrated most of the time, then is it really good for you? are you really having fun?

[omegapheromone]

Imagining the dynamics of my family members based on my irl family (with a side of childhood trauma)

Note: I'm only mentioning blood-related family members who are old enough to "have presented" in an omegaverse setting. No step-parents etc mentioned. (Context: parents are divorced)

Mother: Alpha female. Birthgiver. Who we lived with for the most part. Her entire side of family is literally like the trope of a snobby alpha family who are super picky about spouses.

Father: Either a "recessive" omega (trope I've seen in some webtoons) or a Zeta (between beta and omega). Just to clarify, he did not give birth to us despite the dynamic. Mother's family hated him.

Brother (in his early 20s): Alpha, clear as day. Literal opposite of me in every way, a gym rat, career in security, plays sports on a national level.

Maternal grandparents: alpha/omega couple. One worked for law enforcement and one was a secretary.

Maternal aunts & uncles: two alphas

Paternal grandparents: beta/omega couple. One was a school principal/history teacher and one was an accountant I believe.

Paternal aunts & uncles: two betas

Random little facts bc I feel like sharing just a little. I'm the black sheep of the family unsurprisingly, being an omega firstborn.

My brother and mother used to clash so much all the time and I 100% attribute it to them both being alphas. I take credit for raising my brother at least in terms of emotional intelligence even though we used to fight when we were kids, because I'm the only family member he ever opens up to about his troubles or things that are on his mind. Also I'm the only reason he didn't become a completely misogynistic dbag gymbro.

Father is the most pathetic man I know. Like not in the little meow meow sense I mean in the sense that he's like. Genuinely an awful father and barely took any part in our lives, also his relationship w my mother was stupidly toxic and I'm glad they're divorced and never talk to each other at all.

My maternal family is the epitome of a snobby alpha family and I'm sure they wish my mother would've had kids with an alpha man rather than our father. I dislike them all intensely.

My little brother used to be annoying but nowadays we get along. He actually drove me around to a few stores today despite not getting anything himself because he had nothing else planned, I don't have a driving licence, and my foot is still a bit sore from having sprained an ankle a while ago. Had a moment of "wow, he's grown into a decent alpha, I hope his girlfriends thank me later for the emotional maturity lol"