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#it's been 4 days in a row lads
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ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 8: Missive
terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!
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Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)
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Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. Daemon solves a problem.
(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)
Thank you to @angelqueen04​​​, @ewanmitchellcrumbs​ and @ajthefujoshi​ for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!
Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of pregnancy, violence.
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Fucking useless, he thinks. Then again, what was I expecting?
The High Septon is a rambling, tedious man of fourscore and one summers, closer to the grave than he is to the land of the living. Daemon’s surprised that he’s still functioning. It had taken some time for the lackwit to sink himself into the chair opposite him, so brittle are his bones in his dotage, and fix his milk-glazed eyes in his direction. Even longer for him to finally dispense with the pleasantries and focus on the goal at hand.
Questioning him had taken every iota of his sparing patience. The man had repeated the exact same avowal as he had to the others: that he was “praying night and day for the Princess in the wake of such an abominable event”, that he “knew not” who the now-dead men emblazoned with his fucking Seven-Pointed Star are, that they could not be agents of the Seven, that the Faith Militant “are extinct as they have been since the reign of your grandsire, the blessed King Jaehaerys”.
Yes, he snorts, because men who fuck their sisters are ‘blessed’. As long as a cleric speaks and waves a bit of ribbon in front of them first.
The dullard had fainted away when he’d unveiled the proof of his claims, the rather excellent pickling he’d had the healer woman perform on the head of one of the two remaining bodies in your old chambers. He supposes the sight would have been rather garish.
The dead man’s eyes are wide open from the shock of Mallery’s sudden impalement, alert and startling from within the eerie discoloured liquid. And, most importantly, the carving of the star is on full display to all who may cast their gaze upon it. He’d had to get the servants to take the damned jar away, the severed head bobbing about comically as they’d departed, and wait for the old man’s attendants to rouse him.
At any rate, he’s come to appreciate that no answers will spring from this avenue of interrogation. He departs the High Septon’s chambers—in the Tower of the Hand, of all places—with as much information as he had possessed prior to his visit.
Fuck all, that is.
Daemon finds Largent and Breakbones standing around in the middle bailey, clearly trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Their respective sizes rather prevent the accomplishment of that objective. Even with faces carefully blank and posture forbidding, the two attract many a curious eye from passers-by.
“Anything?” the Strong lad asks when he nears, shifting away from the wall with a grave disposition.
He offers a cynical half-laugh in response, striding onward. The pair fall into step on either side of him, a singular unit marching onward to the Holdfast.
He’d been taken aback by the sudden appearance of Harwin Strong earlier this morning. It transpired that Rhaenyra was alerted to the attack—and he is chagrined to admit that he’d entirely forgotten to alert her himself—and had been making ready to fly to King’s Landing. Naturally, Viserys had issued summary directives that would bar his eldest daughter access to any means of transportation off Dragonstone.
Thinking of that row still gives Daemon the urge to hit something.
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“I’ll not have my heir caught up in this contemptible plot, Daemon,” his brother says between weak coughs, groaning as the fit abates. He slumps forward into the chair while the Maesters coax leeches to latch upon the mutilated skin of his back. “What if Rhaenyra is to be the next target? Allowing her into the city would only make that easier, would it not? Nay, it is best she stays on the isle, away from all this mess.”
“So, you acknowledge that your city isn’t safe, do you?” He paces in Viserys’s line of sight. “If security’s such a concern for you, then do something about it! Double—triple the guards! Recruit more men for the City Watch! Rally troops from the fucking Crownlands—”
“And what good would that do other than engender panic?” Viserys sighs. “No. I’ll not bring upheaval to the capital to allay your rage, brother. There’s been no new attempts, and you’re managing well enough on the search.”
Well enough? He’s man enough to admit he’s floundering, though he’ll never admit to such a thing before the sycophants from Oldtown. They’ll probably go running to old Otto to crow about Lord Flea Bottom’s failures while they clamber to lick the shit from his arsehole. No. Whoever this cunt is, he’s an apparition, a ghost in the wind.
Daemon is impressed by his own ability to refrain from yelling at the King and getting himself thrown out. He takes a breath and tries again. “My wife could do with her elder sister’s comfort. Would you not provide her with that?”
He tries not to think upon how tearful and reticent you have been as of late, a return to the you that had filled his waking hours in the days immediately following the threat on your life. Something is wrong, and he knows not what—only that you need as much soothing as he can garner.
“She has her siblings and stepmother here,” Viserys says. He cannot help but to scoff at the pronouncement. The only ones you willingly spend time with are your half-sister and youngest brother, and it’s unlikely you’ll find succour in the ramblings of a witchling or a child. “She has you. Will Rhaenyra really make much of a difference? I think not.”
This time, he almost follows through on the urge to strike the King. It is not uncommon for Kings to favour their heirs above all else—who better than he to know that truth?—but he’d thought for one foolish moment that perhaps you might be exempt from it this time.
He is wrong.
“Fine, then,” he just barely grits out from between clenched teeth. “I’ll take my leave, Your Grace. I have a hunt to continue.”
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Breakbones’s voice interrupts. “What exactly have you learned thus far, my Prince?”
Daemon glances dubiously at him. He admires the enthusiasm with which the man has readily proffered assistance in the task of searching out the primary conspirator—no doubt the very reason Rhaenyra elected to send him, being among those of her confidants with the soundest pretext for paying visit to King’s Landing—but it seems foolish to speak of details out here. Ordinarily, he’d take the man to task for it. But the steps traversing down to the royal residences are perhaps the most private he is like to get until safely in your rooms once more, dotted with the occasional guard along the way. Moreover, he is not overeager to remind you of the attack in your condition.
“Nothing of note,” he says, taking the next several steps onward to ensure he’s firmly out of earshot of the last watchman before he continues. “An alias and a pin. Rumours, but nothing concrete.”
Withdrawing his sole piece of evidence from the pouch at his belt, he rolls the brass insect between thumb and finger consideringly, feeling the crevices and sharp edges that make up its metalwork anatomy. The piss-coloured stone defining the last segments of its abdomen—he suspects it’s more likely glass than anything of real value—appears amber in the daylight. He watches as it passes from his own hand to Strong’s, the man holding it aloft and squinting.
To the unenlightened, the trinket may bear the likeness of a bee or a beetle. If not for the pseudonym extracted from that scum in the brothel, he too would have assumed as such. He’d confirmed it by spending evenings after you had fallen asleep poring over dusty old illustrations from stained old tomes on entomology from scholars long since dead. Hadn’t that been an exciting venture.
The man is taking far longer to examine it than is the norm. Daemon’s heartbeat quickens. “Do you recognise it?” he asks.
“Yes,” Strong murmurs finally, frowning and turning the pin over in overlarge fingers. “I… I’ve seen it before. ‘Tis a firefly, is it not?”
“That it is.” A sick, swooping excitement curdles in his gut. This is what he has been waiting for. Finally, someone has recognised this blasted thing. Finally, someone knows it by name. “How do you know that?”
Breakbones appears to stare at some fixed point beyond him, lost in his own thoughts. “My brother, Larys.”
Clubfoot.
Larys Strong is an unsettling being—Daemon hesitates to call him a man—who always seems as though he can discern every last secret a person is concealing with a mere glance. He’s the worst sort of creature. One who hides himself behind oily amiability and glib half-speak, each and every encounter ringing with some unknown threat.
The lad before him looks back down to study the item in his grasp.  “As a youth,” he continues, “he was fascinated by them. Used to capture them in jars and shake them until they were stunned, then—pull them apart with Mother’s needles. He wanted to know how they made their light. He’d… pin the pieces to shavings of wood and present them to Mother as a gift.” The memory seems to disconcert him, for his face twitches with the effort of suppressing some unknown emotion.
Ice trickles down Daemon’s spine.
Viserys had ignored his incredulity after he’d discovered that Clubfoot had been named Master of Whisperers. “He has a talent for gathering intelligence, and his House is loyal,’” the King had said.
His House is loyal—but what of him?
“That”—Daemon jerks his chin toward the pin—“was found on one of the attackers.” He stares at Breakbones assessingly. “Would you say your brother still has his… fascination?”
“Wait—you think Larys is behind this?”
Before he has the opportunity to respond to Strong’s obvious perturbation, Largent grunts. Fuck. Daemon had forgotten he had been standing there.
“Seen ‘im around the city at night,” the knight says, the bass notes thrumming through the rock beneath his feet. Hells, but the man’s a fucking giant. “In some of the more crooked places, too. Could be doing ‘is job. Could be up to no good.”
That sounds about right. The Master of Whisperers is a position that brings with it a necessity to lurk about in unsavoury alleys and disreputable establishments, a spider spinning its web of informants across King’s Landing. It could be used to disguise dealings that have little to do with the Realm.
In this moment, he is almost certain.
“The mastermind calls himself ‘the Firefly’.” Daemon’s legs are already itching with the urge to bolt back up the steps and to the middle gate, through, past, onward to the outer yard, to the Great Hall, to the Small Council chamber, where he is no doubt sitting, watching, waiting— “Tell me he’s not capable of it,” he demands of Strong. “Swear it, and I’ll be merciful.”
Breakbones’s jaw works for what seems like hours, face flushing with the strain of the conflict he is like to be wrestling with, a brother made to decide if he can live with the consequences of standing aside so that justice might prevail upon his own blood. Daemon might have found it somewhere in himself to be sympathetic, perhaps any other time, but not here, not now, not at the prospect of finally coming face-to-face with the scum who is responsible for the way you had looked that night, covered in gore and trembling and so fucking terrified—
“I… I cannot,” the man finally says, defeated. It is all the acceptance he needs.
As Daemon strides back along the path he has just traversed, he allows the conviction to fill his body like smoke and ash fills the sky after a conflagration.
Larys Strong is privy to the movements of the royal family, he thinks, mind whirling. The Master of Whisperers knows everything that occurs in his city of employ. It’s the point of the fucking job. He’d have known that Daemon was away, that you were alone, that few would hear you in chambers so far from—
How difficult would it have been for scum like him—someone with a network of spies that spans an entire city—to pass the order to strike along to the cutthroats?
The pieces fall conveniently into place—or perhaps he is making them fit. Truthfully, he cares little about seeking proof of the matter from the mouth of Larys Strong. For the crime of association alone, Daemon is willing to see him pay. And, if nothing else, his death will send a message that the Rogue Prince is cleansing the city piece by wretched piece.
The thud of boots on stone pound in tandem with the drum of his beating heart, the rhythm of bloodlust kindling the fuel in his veins to living flame. Someone will die today. He feels this settle with assurance into the very hollows of his bones, as sure as he had been standing before you in the great winds of Dragonstone with blood dripping from your hand and your lip in consecration of a pledge made before the gods of Old Valyria.
Avy amīsilun. I will protect you. The vows had been struck, and they must now be defended.
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Daemon only vaguely notes the scattering of the court like ants as he marches through the main walkways, to the empty Great Hall and onward, flanked by Breakbones and Largent.
The Kingsguard manning the doors to the Small Council chamber make their usual racket at being ordered to step aside—“the King and his Council are within, you cannot enter!”—but they are no match for him when his blood is up. He watches dispassionately as Largent forces them to step aside for their Prince, shoving them bodily to the floor with an almighty clang of plate armour. The heavy oak doors burst open from the power behind his shove, and the occupants within erupt.
“Your Highness!”
“My Prince, really—”
“Prince Daemon—”
“What is the meaning of this?” Viserys’s voice just barely cuts over the din. He looks especially ghastly in the light pouring in behind him, creating a halo of brightness that ought to accentuate something of grandeur—of beauty—but instead only serves to highlight the decay of the man who calls himself King. “Brother—”
There he is. Daemon doesn’t give a fuck about his brother’s outrage, not when Larys Strong sits at the end of the table right in front of him. It’s almost surprising that he’s not hanging off the Queen’s leg. Or worse, the Hand’s. Though he’s done well to craft something of concerned impassivity from his features, there is a smug little almost-smile that plays at the very corner of his mouth.
He knows. He knows and he’s mocking me—
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Daemon says. “But your Master of Whisperers has just been implicated in the plot against my wife’s life. Largent”—he jerks his head toward the finely-garbed form of Clubfoot—“take him.”
Several things occur at once: Otto and his bitch of a daughter spring from their seats, yelling orders at the Kingsguard within the chamber; said guards advance with blades extended, barring the way forward; the remaining milksops at the table begin squawking as they are wont to do, contributing little other than pointless noise.
And, in the midst of all of it, Larys Strong is calm, an immovable stone object with lips carved into a smile.
“Stay your hand!”
“My Prince, this is all too—”
“Preposterous!” Alicent says, seeming so wroth that Daemon would not be surprised if her heart were to suddenly give out from the strain of forcing so much blood to her face. She makes a grandiose sweeping gesture with her arm. Supercilious bitch. “Lord Strong is a member of the Small Council and a loyal servant to the King! You cannot cast aspersions upon his name without—”
Larys himself interrupts.  “Might I enquire as to the charges against me, my Prince?”
A chill creeps across Daemon’s neck. The man sounds as nonchalant as a noblewoman at high tea, tone casual and polite.
“Why?” he asks, automatically stepping forward. The Kingsguard block his way, but he cannot look away from the man before him. “So you can make sure to dispose of any tangible proof? Shut the fuck up.”
More squawking. Perhaps I should have directed that last part to the entire room.
The King appears apoplectic, though the colour casts an almost healthy sheen across his waxy, grey-sheened visage. “You will explain yourself, Daemon, or I will have you thrown out of this chamber!”
How typical of his brother to side with anyone—anyone—other than him. Daemon wonders for a moment if he could get away with shoving the guards aside, striding over to Viserys and throttling him, punishing him for the negligence he has paid to his family, to you.
Instead, he scoffs, hand falling to rest upon the pommel of Dark Sister. “The Lord of Harrenhal himself has traced a vital piece of evidence back to Strong, here.�� The deliberate phrasing lands as intended. The others glance uncomfortably at each other, no doubt concerned by the prospect of contending with another nobleman’s accusation against one of their own. “I’ll be remanding him for questioning.”
“If you will not divulge this supposed ‘evidence’, then there is no further reason for your presence,” Hightower says. He gestures at the Kingsguard. “Guards!”
A true weakling, relying on the steel of other men to enforce his will. The guards lock blades, hindering the way.
“Why, Otto”—Daemon glares at the Hand—“one might find it suspect that you are so keenly interested in obstructing the Princess’s justice. Is there anything you ought to be hiding?”
The Hand is a craven, but there is nothing tying him to this plot. He would know—he’d wasted far too much time in corroborating this. Nonetheless, it is thoroughly enjoyable to watch the man squirm like an enemy soldier pinned to the ground through the ribcage, twitching and writhing in place.
“Absolutely ridiculous—”
“Enough!” Viserys exclaims. Otto falls silent immediately, sitting down in a pathetic display of deference to the half-withered man at his left. “Daemon,” the King says, “you will obey the directives of this Council or you will be removed.”
“Fine.” Daemon turns to face the target of his wrath. “Tell me, Strong. What does ‘the Firefly’ mean to you?”
Breakbones shifts uncomfortably at his back. Larys Strong affects affability, though it rings obsequious and sinister.
“It is an insect,” the man says in a tone that is almost crooning. It is fucking eerie. His head tilts and his eyes grow hazy, staring far-off as though in a daydream. That same unnerving half-smile lingers still. “I quite enjoyed studying them as a boy—”
Daemon has had enough of the prevaricating. “Someone who calls himself ‘the Firefly’ ordered the attack on my wife,” he snarls, straining at the steel barrier, “and that someone is you!”
He is pushed back once more, and he is about ready to throw a fist or two at the exposed slivers of jugular peeking out from all that gold in front of him. It mightn’t incapacitate the guards, but it will certainly delay them long enough for him to rearrange Clubfoot’s insides with Dark Sister.
“My Prince!” Larys’s hand flutters over his chest like a maiden, the very picture of overdramatised surprise. It boggles him that he is the only one to see this act for what it is. “I have never been anything but loyal to the Princess. What cause would I have to commit such an atrocity?”
Words. They’re all just words. Daemon is about to snap a demand for Larys Strong’s arrest when he takes notice of a gem glittering golden in the sunlight streaming from the window. A gem that is nestled upon the man’s cane.
Surely not—
He relaxes against the guards’ hold on him, stepping back with hands raised. As he had expected, it prompts an ever-so-slight lowering of their blades, a sure sign that they perceive the immediate danger to be over.
They are wrong.
Daemon strikes quickly, throwing his weight at the guard closest to him so as to knock him off balance. The man topples like a tower during a siege. Largent and Breakbones surge into the fray behind him, fending off the rest. It is all the opening he needs. He is able to snatch the cane from its resting place propped against the table and stare for a scant few seconds. Though he dimly registers the occupants of the table scrambling away—all save for Larys Strong, sitting so still it is as though he intends to blend into the chair—he cannot care, so fixated is he upon the metalwork adorning the handhold.
Wings warped out to reveal the inner body. Three ridges demarcating the abdomen. Antennae curving downwards from the head. And that fucking gem, warmer in colour than the pin, but so similar in cut that they can only have been made for the same purpose.
“You fucking liar—” he might whisper, might shout. As he brings the cane down over the cowering form of Larys Strong, the wood breaks apart on impact with the man’s head. It splinters into two sharply pointed parts. How fitting would it be for him to meet his end impaled by the proof of his involvement in your attack? “You will die for this!”
Daemon raises his arm high, preparing to pierce the jagged end of the cane through flesh. Larys Strong’s watery blue eyes are wide, reflective and crystalline in a way that belies true shock, horror, unadulterated emotion. Blood streams from the point of impact atop his scalp, matting his hair bloody and striping rivulets of crimson along the pale of his temples. He is nestled as far down into the seat as is possible, arms lifted to shield his skull from further assault, and it is the first sign of fear he’s shown since Daemon walked in.
“Enough! Guards!” the King roars.
He revels in it, in the fact that this man knows he is about to perish at his hand, is about to meet whatever gods he believes in for daring to harm his wife and children, for daring to harm what is his. He brings the makeshift lance down with all his might—
A harsh blow to his gut preludes the unyielding grip of whichever of Viserys’s dogs have managed to bypass Largent and Breakbones. He can do naught but wheeze as he is seized firm and hauled back, struggling against the guards’ hold to no avail. He growls like a beast dragged from its meal, frantic and feverish, unhinged in a way he has never felt before.
Maegor the Cruel reborn, Daemon thinks wildly. Let them see the horror that lurks within the blood of the dragon—
“Viserys—” he tries to say, but it takes on a decidedly inhuman cadence, brutish and bellowing.
“How have you the audacity to enter this place in such a manner? I do not recall granting you leave to slaughter members of my Council on a whim!” The sound of his brother’s voice shatters the spell of madness, and he finally absorbs the scene before him.
The Small Council members are huddled in the corner of the chamber, ashen-faced and trembling. The Queen cringes behind her father, eyes tear-bright and fearful. Otto looks upon him with alarm and revulsion in equal measure, and he is sure there is a moue of satisfaction twisting the very edges of his expression. Cunt.
The sheer disappointment contorting Viserys’s expression would have once been enough to bring up stinging bile in the back of his throat. But this—this rotting creature before him, pockmarked and deformed, elicits nothing but contempt and the faint taste of regret, bitter and stale from things left unsaid.
Defend your daughter. Defend my wife.
Defend me, brother.
“If there is truth to your accusations, let there be a trial,” the King says. “There will be nothing further from you this day, Daemon. Begone from my sight.”
His brother dismisses him with a scoff and flick of his remaining hand, turning away from him as he always does. Daemon jostles the guards away from him when they release their punitive grasp on his arms, sneering at the way they immediately grip the pommels of their sheathed blades in silent warning.
“Are you well, my Lord?” the Hightower bitch asks, standing over Larys Strong with a finger gingerly tipping his head this way and that, taking stock of the injury.
The man looks past the Queen and stares directly into Daemon’s glare, cool and calculating. Though he is clearly shaken, there is something distinctly unsettling about the notes of impassivity that reveal themselves in the subtle arch of his brow, the bluntness of his regard, the flare of his nostrils. His gaze shifts to somewhere behind Daemon, smirking. The creak and slam of the door heralds Harwin’s intemperate departure. Whatever the man had seen in his younger brother’s eyes had clearly been enough to rattle him.
Clubfoot smiles up at Alicent. It is an unfriendly thing. “The Prince has… much rage in him over the harm done to his lady wife. Perhaps I would be free of it if he were only present at the outset of the attack,” he says mournfully, so obviously mocking in nature that even Otto himself glances uncertainly at the man. “But I do not take offence, Your Grace.”
Daemon seethes. How dare he—bastard—
His feet carry him forward without thinking, only to be grabbed firmly at the shoulders by the guards. He shrugs them off with a huff. “Make no mistake, you cunt,” he hisses. “You might have been shielded by these useless fucks today. But you cannot hide behind them forever. One day soon, you’ll be alone. And one day soon, I’ll have my revenge. Bisir kīvio Jaehossi Uēpossi Arlȳssī sēten.” This I vow by the Old Gods and the New.
“Daemon!”
“And you,” he says, turning to the King. “Long have I watched your weakness rule you. Long have I stood by as you’ve run this family into ruin. This man”—he points to Larys—“is responsible for the harm done to your daughter. My wife. And so, I also promise this: if you do nothing… you are no brother of mine.”
Silence reigns for a beat; two; three. All he can hear is the sound of his own breath being forced from bruised lungs, heavy and gasping.
“Guards,” Viserys says finally. For a moment, Daemon is hopeful. He looks triumphantly to Larys Strong, ready to see the man taken up and borne forth from the room. Then, the King sighs and looks down. “Remove my brother from this chamber.”
His hope turns to ash.
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The first thing he does after Viserys’s lackeys all but throw him from the room is find some parchment. In truth, it’s a simple matter of venturing to the storeroom adjoined to the Council chambers—he ignores the faint pulse of interest at the recollection of the last time he had been in here, the taste of your slick and the clench of your cunt as he’d fucked you into the wall to the sound of those droning lackwits mumbling to each other—and retrieving what he needs.
“… gone too far, Your Grace. He cannot be allowed…”
“… assault a member of the King’s Council is unheard of! He must be…”
“… will be dealt with, I assure you, my Lords…”
Daemon bites his tongue so hard that the taste of iron fills his mouth, fingers flexing at the trails of dialogue that can be heard from within the meeting itself. Of course they’re more concerned with the fact that he’d struck Larys Strong than the discovery that had provoked such a thing. He grits his teeth and leaves, not wishing to hear further proof of Viserys’s disloyalty.
Every test, every obstacle, every affliction brought to life by my desire to see my brother finally choose me. Viserys had failed me in all, and he has failed me now. No more.
He doesn’t bother to venture forth from the hall. Instead, he retraces a path from long ago, ascending the dais upon which rests the greatest emblem of the Conqueror’s victory over Westeros.
Needs must.
The throne is an uncomfortable seat, but serviceable enough for this particular purpose, he supposes. He sets the open inkwell and pounce pot on the misshapen armrest, laying the parchment over his knee and dipping the quill lightly.
“Milord—”
“What?” He does not bother to look down at Largent, loitering at the base of the pulpit uncertainly, the hulking giant having followed him unerringly throughout his self-appointed task. As he speaks, he scrawls his message black upon blanched paper. It lacks refinement, but perhaps that’s for the best. “What will they do—mount the steps and drag me off?”
The Kingsguard, newly returned to their station at the Council doors, can hear him. He’s sure of it. They do not react, do not even move, but he knows his jibe meets its mark. Snorting at his own question, Daemon discards the quill carelessly and sprinkles powder over the wet ink, tapping the excess all over the floor.
He rolls the parchment up and holds it out, wiggling it jauntily in the City Watch captain’s line of sight to coax him forth. When the scroll is in his palm, Daemon leans forward. “Take this to the madam of The Gilded Doll,” he murmurs. The chill of menace pinches at the flesh around his eyes. “No other. If this falls into the wrong hands, I’ll gut you. Understood?”
“Yessir.” If he’s confused by the order, it does not show on his face. Largent abruptly revolves and marches his way out of the room, the beating of leather soles on hard stone fading with every advancing step.
Daemon slouches upon the Iron Throne. There is a sense of deep weariness slithering through his veins like poison, drawing the vitality from his limbs with every pulse of his blood. It is different, this sensation, so unlike the pent-up explosivity that threatens to obliterate everything in his path whenever he loses in a row with Viserys.
Against a prince turned heir turned king, I lose always. Always.
All the weight of his thirty-six years of existence seems to bear down upon his shoulders. He imagines it is what a brother’s warm embrace might feel like, heavy and overbearing. Pinching at the bridge of his nose, he tries to relieve the sudden ache. Tension presses insistently behind his eyes, forcing him to shut his lids.
He takes stock of what he knows.
Larys Strong tried to engineer the deaths of his unborn babes. By extension, your own. He used an alias to recruit three assassins of little repute, waiting until he was sure Daemon would be away to strike against you. And, when confronted, he’d had the audacity to make bold pretence of innocence before the King and his stooges, covertly deriding Daemon’s powerlessness before the governors of the Seven Kingdoms.
But why? Why? He cannot think of the motive. What would a creature like Larys Strong have to gain from this depravity?
Harwin’s words from earlier spark an intriguing thought. “He’d… pin the pieces to shavings of wood and present them to Mother as a gift.”
The man has no allies at court save for Alicent and Otto. Though Daemon despises them, even he cannot accuse the Queen and her father of encouraging such a plot. They’re too grasping, too arrogant, too soft to risk discovery of such a thing, even if they have the most to gain from it. That Larys has taken it upon himself to gift the Hightowers with the elimination of the greatest threats to their claim on the Throne seems quite possible. He’s like a barn cat proudly presenting a kill at the feet of its master, oblivious to the disgust and disdain.
Either way, Clubfoot has made himself an enemy. Fuck Viserys, and fuck his Council, too. Daemon doesn’t care what they have ordered of him. Clubfoot will not live long enough to regret what he has done.
He leaves the pilfered instruments on the Throne—let the King dispose of them himself, the useless cunt—and makes his way back to you, seized by the need to see you safe, to reassure himself that no other has sought to harm you during his pursuit of justice. As they had before, the promenading nobles and bustling servants give him a wide berth, ogling him with wary eyes and whispering to each other. He takes the opportunity to glare at a select few, to sneer at their flinching reactions when he passes them along the way to the royal wing of the Holdfast.
You are exactly where he left you that morning.
Daemon lingers in the doorway, ignoring Marbrand’s presence in the entry beside him, and watches the scene within your chambers. He observes young Daeron chattering to the healer at the table as he fiddles with the various flasks, pots and implements strewn across the surface. He sees the grin on Ūlla’s face at the excitement in the boy’s voice, nodding and contributing her own conversation in hushed volume while she passes instruments to him. He surveys the cheerful dispositions of Jeyne Cressey and Bethany Follard, your newly-appointed ladies-in-waiting—girls whose presence had been given little explanation or fanfare—as they sit on the chaise with their stitching, gossiping idly among themselves.
He watches you.
You are propped up against the headboard with legs curled under you, heavy-lidded and focused on some minute detail on the sleeve of your gown, or perhaps the mattress beneath you, or maybe even the stone floor further away. He does not know. Your fingers stroke listlessly, absently at the taut flesh of your belly, arms pressed to the bulk of your own self as though you are afraid your babes will disappear from your womb should you let go. There is something ethereal about the picture you make; immensely swelled, distant, turned so deeply within yourself that you seem content to let the world move on without you.
“Nuncle!” Daeron waves, sparing but a glance before preoccupying himself once more with the woman’s trinkets.
He offers a nod of acknowledgement to his nephew as he makes his way to where you sit. Daemon is careful to lower himself slowly, hand outstretched and ghosting featherlight along the back of your hand in greeting.
You lift your gaze, a look of vague question twisting the arch of your brow. The fog clears from your eyes when you realise who has come to disturb your trance. “Kepus.” It is sighing, dreamy, as though it had taken a great effort to expel the sound from your chest, almost a question and yet not.
Something is wrong. The words replay themselves like snatches of long-forgotten melodies ringing in his mind, the warning bells sounding for a cause unknown. It has been days now. This is more than the fear or despondency that had characterised your behaviour in the aftermath of the attack. He is no closer to determining the cause.
“Dōnītsos.” Sweetling. His voice remains low and calm despite the turmoil swarming within like hatchlings through their first flame, loud and squawking and chaotic. He is wary of these strangers, these new ladies of yours, mousy and guileless though they seem, and so he keeps to his mother tongue to avoid prying ears.
“Mirros avy ivestragon eman. Vīlībāzmo bē issa.”I have to tell you something. It’s about the attack.
“Skorion massitas?” you ask, blinking in unhurried revolutions as though you are batting cobwebs of disuse from your lashes. What has happened?
He takes hold of your hand, light and cool to touch, squeezing it in his grasp to moor you back to reality. You stare blankly as he imparts the barest of details. The pin. The whorehouse. The long list of those he’d interrogated—and not kindly, at that—from the cooks to the pageboys to the maids who had dared venture near your rooms that night. The High Septon. Breakbones. And, finally, the threatening smile of Larys Strong as the knights of the Kingsguard had hauled him from the Small Council chamber.
Your bottom lip trembles in the way it did when you were a babe squalling for comfort, throat working in tandem with your reflexive swallows. It is tempting to feed his thumb into that rosebud mouth, let you suckle your anguish away with the salt of his skin as your infant self had done, hot wet tongue and spit and tears, in need of something only he can provide.
“Skorio syt…” Why…
Your breath escapes with a shudder, palm flying low upon your belly, and he brings his free hand up to join yours at the locus of activity stirred up by the twins. A flurry of movement greets him, firm thumps and hard kicks that curve the corners of his lips up despite the gravity of the conversation. Their motions seem to ground you. Trust my little dragons to settle their muña where I cannot.
You take a deep inhale and try again. “Skorio syt ziry kesir non gōntoks? Zijomy vēttīlaksir emon daor.” Why would he have done such a thing? I have no quarrel with him.
“Gīmion daor,” he says softly. I don’t know. There is no need to frighten you with tales of butchered insects and a young boy’s obsession.
You shiver like a baby bird left out in the cold as he slides further onto the bed, helping you shuffle close enough that you may latch onto the parts of him within your reach and press your face into his neck, huffing against his skin. This is where you prefer to be as of late, swaddled tight and held close, trembling waif of a girl curled under the wing of your beloved uncle.
“Papa. Yne mīstos daor.” It is muffled, muted, but he hears it all the same. He did not stand for me.
Your voice is high, mournful, so startlingly young. For a moment, he is twenty-five summers and you are seven and you have just split flesh after tripping over Caraxes’s tail. For a moment, he is hushing you as you sob with the Maester’s every stitch, streaming nose snuffling while he cups your eggshell skull to his chest to shield you from the blood and pain and fear as best he can.
He does the same now, only your bones are steel rather than glass and you smell of rose oil and the swell of your breasts and belly push against his body in triplicate, a woman grown and his wife, his wife. “Gīmin,” he says gently, hand to your middle and hand through your hair. I know.
“Ziry otāpton.” I thought he would. You nuzzle into him like a cat seeking the warmth of a fire. “Skorio syt yne amīsagon… olvī jorrāelos daor?” you ask, voice breaking. Why doesn’t he… love me enough to protect me?
“Ziry ajorrāelō daor,” Daemon replies resolutely. You don’t need him. “Yne aemā.” You have me. He strokes your middle. “Īlōn aemā.” You have us.
‘I’ll be your father,’ he wants to say. Why not? What is a father but his daughter’s guiding star, the one man to map her journey from first breath to last? Father, uncle, husband… all of them words to denote pride of place in your life, a standing he has alone claimed since his return from the East. You are his small fey princess, his baby full of his babes; he is your disciplinarian and confidant and comforter and lover. A distinction of title means little. If it is the firm hand of a father—a papa—that you need… well, does he not already provide it?
He will be your papa, your kepa, your husband. The man who corrects you and instructs you and fucks you, the man who raises you up even as he raises the children who slumber still in the safety of your womb. He’ll be all that Viserys has failed to be and more.
You sniffle, teary poppet with lilac-bloom eyes staring up at him. “Kesīr buqan.” I hate it here. And, though the capital is arguably the greatest spectacle of Targaryen strength, your confession is a sentiment he shares. Your little hand holds tighter to his shirt as you continue. “Henujagon jaelan. Mazumbille jagon jaelan. Ñuhe rūhossa Zaldrīzdōrot sikagon jaelan, luon ȳghon issa. Jagon kosti, kostilus—”
I want to leave. I want to go home. I want to have my babes on Dragonstone, where it’s safe. Can we go, please—
“Sh.” As he smooths the stray hairs from your forehead, you arch into the touch like one who is starved of love. He tries not to think of the ways his brother has failed you. “Aōle qūvyrzy iqighō daor. Hembīli.” Don’t make yourself upset. We’ll leave.
There is nothing left for you here. There is nothing left for him here. It is all too easy to agree to your desperate pleas. How amusing it is to think that Dragonstone—the fortress he had once associated so strongly with emptiness and exile—is where his heart and yours now lie. For the first time in days, he can see the trace of a smile warm the curve of your lips, and the sparkle in your eyes can almost be mistaken for happiness.
Daemon sits with you in the stillness of the afternoon, surrounded by your ladies and your young brother and your healer—the last vestiges of familiarity left to this place, this home turned battleground—and indulges in the simple joy of those pulsing movements emanating out from within your belly, the sound of Daeron’s laughter, the beat of your heart against his skin and the feel of you real and whole in his arms.
This is the family I’ve made for myself, he thinks. You and he and the lad and his babes, something tangible and ever-growing and precious. This is mine.
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In Daemon’s practised opinion, the Crafty Fox is one of the capital’s finest taverns. Situated on the corner between Eel Alley and the Street of Steel, it is often a loud and boisterous environment, easily accessible through entrances along both street-facing walls and constantly filled with patrons from various stations in life. It is a rare sort of place, one where the divide between noble and lowborn blurs in a haze of ale and laughter and smoke. Popular, cheap and long-standing, it is the worst sort of establishment for conducting meetings of a clandestine nature.
Which is precisely why it is also the perfect location.
The shadier locales will undoubtedly be manned by Clubfoot’s little informants, and so he has chosen to meet his quarry in a location few would guess or expect. With his hair pulled back and his hood keeping his face from the view of inebriated passers-by—he’s even wearing a fucking hat for good measure! The shame of it—Daemon knows from experience that no one here will notice that they stand in the presence of the Rogue Prince. It is the best camouflage for the enterprise he intends to conduct this night.
Where the fuck are they? he thinks to himself, pressing along the perimeter and scanning around the open hall, searching for a familiar face. What did her missive say? Ah, yes—I’ll recognise one of them.
He casts about for the former serjeant of the City Watch, the one he’d had to let go after that unfortunate business with the whore in the brothel some ten summers back. But try as he might, he cannot see anything. Too many soldiers and apprentices and shop owners and youths are in his way.
One of the drunkards blocking his view sidles along, opening a path directly to the two men seated in a rare quiet corner, a looming beast hunched over his rickety table and all but squashing the slim form beside him into the wall.
There.
Daemon does his best to affect the casual, ambling gait of a man in his cups, navigating a meandering trail through raucous clusters of bodies, sweaty and stinking of drink. It is a familiar scent, one that evokes the memory of years past.
Sidling along, he finds himself standing before his intended targets. “The air’s cold tonight,” he says loudly, deliberately, echoing the agreed-upon phrase from the message and drawing the attention of the two men.
They look up from the wood-grain surface of the table. “This is true,” the smaller one replies, slow and equally careful to pronounce the words. The correct response.
His speech is coarse, utterly typical of the lower classes in Flea Bottom. Satisfied that he’s found the individuals he has come to meet, he slides onto the stool opposite them, glancing this way and that.
“Evenin’, ser,” the man adds.
He looks like a rat, Daemon thinks. With a pinched face and tawny sprouted hairs on his jowls that look more like the whiskers of a rodent than the beginnings of a beard, the observation is apt. The man ogles him from behind his prominently pointed snout, grinning a strange little half-smile that unsettles him greatly.
“The White Wyrm?” he asks, just to confirm. Fucking ridiculous name. It seems her years as his paramour served for more than coin and pleasure if her new epithet is anything to go by.
This time, the former serjeant responds, shifting in his seat. His knees knock against Daemon’s below the table. Gods above. There is an audible creak, the sound of wood threatening to snap under immense weight.
“Yep,” he grunts, bass cadence thrumming through the floor. He could be Largent’s kin. He takes a swig of the tankard before him. “She said you was lookin’ for a couple good ones.”
“Are you good?” is Daemon’s immediate counter. He cannot keep the notes of scepticism from his voice.
The man sneers. “You tell me, Rogue.”
Ah. He’s not forgotten the dismissal, then.
“Not here,” Daemon hisses, eyes tracking to those nearby. There is no reaction from anyone within range, no suggestion that they have been overheard. He turns furiously back to the man before him. “I’ve been assured that you are worthwhile prospects. If that is no longer the case, I’m happy to let her know—”
“Hey, now, we was only jokin’, wasn’t we?” the smaller man says, glancing rebukingly at his partner. The larger man shrugs, leaning back. The chair groans again.
“Good man.” Cheers and laughter begin to erupt across the room. Daemon leans forward, voice dropping to a hush. The two men crowd in closer so as to hear him. “I have a task for you,” he murmurs, looking about furtively. “It’s—risky. If you get caught, there are no gods nor men that will save you.”
“Sounds fun.” The smaller man beams as he gestures to the man beside him. His parted lips reveal the gaping holes in his mouth, bloodied gums speckled with grey. Daemon cannot tell if the teeth have been knocked out or if they’ve fallen out.
“You’ll do it?” he asks. I haven’t even discussed the particulars.
The larger man stares assessingly at him, brow raised. “We’ll do anyfing, if the coin’s good enough.”
A buxom wench appears at his shoulder, tits half-out and practically staring at him by their own power. She smiles in what he supposes must be her idea of enticement, the pockmarks of a long-healed sickness or injury stretching unflatteringly with the contortion of her skin. When she opens her mouth as if to speak, Daemon waves her off with a stern glare and a shake of the head. He has no need to get soused tonight. The woman makes an offended noise and trounces off.
He turns back to his audience of two. Daemon tips his chin in acknowledgement, continuing the exchange as if no interruption had occurred.  “If you’re successful, I’ll pay whatever price you deem necessary.” The larger man nods, clearly satisfied. “Now. Before we get to the details—what should I call you two?”
The pair look to each other for a moment.
“He goes by Blood, these days,” the smaller man finally answers, something dark and sinister crossing over his expression. “Me? You can call me Cheese.”
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Read it on AO3: 
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44058132/chapters/115715053
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Taglist (😭 thank you!):
Now in the comments!
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sariahsue · 1 year
Text
Marinette’s Three Rules for Preventing the Apocalypse
Set shortly after the events of Chat Blanc, Marinette uses her knowledge of what happened that day to create three rules to prevent disaster. What happens when she can’t keep them all?
[Prologue] [1] [2] [3] [4]
Chapter Five - The Second Rule
Ladybug wiped the sweat out of her eyes. The afternoon sun was beating down on her, and the akuma was merciless. They hadn't had much time to stop and think of a plan. The entire fight so far was dodging and weaving, making sure they weren't hit with the sparkling blue beam that meant instant, and maybe permanent, sleep.
"No one's gonna make me take a nap!" the akuma yelled, and shot another beam, this time at a car that was speeding by. It turned sharply, the driver incapacitated. Ladybug had just enough time to wrap her yoyo string around the vehicle to stop it before it hit one of the glass walls that made up the National Library.
If she had to guess an age, Ladybug would probably say the akumatized girl was about four. Fairy wings gave her the ability to fly, and she used it well. Her pajama pants and top were both pink, and her face was flushed red with anger.
To top it off, her army of animated toys (all ten times their normal size, of course) was helping in her quest to stay awake, terrorizing citizens, running around making noise, and generally being nuisances.
Hawk Moth was just the worst.
Ladybug retracted her yoyo and leaped off the library's roof to avoid the teddy bear scrambling toward her, its black button eyes locked onto her.
She let her yoyo fly, then smiled as she felt the familiar tug that meant she'd found a solid anchor.
She arced, pulled into an upward swing, just in time to see the blue beam headed toward her. She didn't have time to
---
Chat Noir watched as Ladybug's grip on the line went slack and then slipped completely. A graceful swing turned into a jumbled dive, and he ran, snatching her limp body out of the air. Her arms and legs dangled, and his grip around her waist was precarious, but he didn't have time to stop. The akuma was lurking nearby, and he wasn't sure how quickly the toys would be able to report the direction he'd taken.
He looped around the library. The walls were mostly windows, and the building was several stories high. He only had to round two corners before he saw an open one on the fourth floor and jumped inside. Stopping only long enough to adjust Ladybug in his arms, he kept running. Her head bobbed. Her body sagged.
The library was silent. Everyone was either gone or hiding, or maybe there hadn't been anyone here in the first place. It would be safe enough. While the windows made him feel visible and vulnerable, rows and rows of shelves offered him good cover, so he dove in between them and set her down.
He needed to get the earrings, but if he did that, he'd risk seeing her as a civilian. He shook his head. It wasn't like he had much of a choice. She wasn't going to wake up on her own. He'd just close his eyes so he couldn't see her and apologize later.
Glass shattered somewhere behind him, and he crouched low over Ladybug, listening. They weren't visible from the window, but the toys must have seen him enter and followed him inside. Their padded footsteps were soft but quickly getting closer. It sounded like there were at least five. He couldn't leave an untransformed Ladybug here alone.
He grabbed a hardcover book that was laying on its side on the shelf and crawled toward the back of the row and poked his head out. No one was there. Perfect. He hurled the book as far as he could. It fell with a heavy thud. Padded footsteps rushed toward the sound. Chat Noir quickly stood and shoved the bookcase, starting a cascade toward the toys, trapping them underneath.
They couldn't cry out, and he wasn't sure he would have heard them over the drumming of thousands of books hitting the floor and metal racks crashing into their neighbors. When the room had settled back into quiet, he picked Ladybug up and raced toward the stairwell. If they knew he was here, they would expect him to leave the building, so therefore, the safest place was right here. Right?
Three floors up, he stopped (How many books were in this place?!) and pushed open the squeaky stairwell door. This floor looked similar to the first, though it had fewer shelves and more desks. He found a quiet corner, tucked out of the way behind a long table, and set Ladybug down again.
"Claws in," he whispered.
"I don't like this," Plagg said as Adrien pocketed his ring. He wished he could leave it with Ladybug, to give her some sort of protection, but he knew he couldn't just leave it (or Plagg) behind unguarded.
"Me neither." He put his hands on her ears, and closed his eyes, pushing the studs out from behind.
"Adrien?" Plagg said.
"It's fine. I can't see anything." He felt the rush of power at his fingertips, heard the crackle of electricity that meant that Ladybug was no longer transformed, and he shut his eyes more tightly. The earrings were heavy in his palms.
Plagg grumbled but didn't say anything else as Adrien put the earrings on, quickly transforming into Mister Bug so he wouldn't have to hear Tikki tell him this was a bad idea, too. He straightened, backing away until he hit the table and started to slide around it, eyes still closed.
"Adrien! Look out!"
Mister Bug's eyes flew open. Toys were flooding through the doorway at the far end of the room, dozens of them, their padded and plastic feet thrumming against the carpet.
And Ladybug wasn't transformed.
There wasn't any time for anything else. He threw himself down, scooping her up in his arms even as he tried to cover as much of her from sight as possible.
Marinette.
Even though he kept his eyes firmly away from her face, he recognized the clothes she'd worn that morning and the bag that she'd designed herself, and his prickling sense of dread mixed with pure elation. But the soft stampede was almost on top of them and he didn't have any time, so he made sure his grip was tight and jumped out the nearest window.
The whistling of the wind mixed with the rushing of his thoughts. This was why Marinette had been so hesitant. This was why she'd asked for time. He was prepared to give her that, though he understood now it might be a lot of time.
All that would have to wait. First, he had to find a safe place for her. Everything would work out between them after that.
---
The first thing Marinette felt was a rushing tide that swept around her. The second was cold, hard stone against her cheek. She blinked, surrounded by a flood of ladybugs, which flew off as quickly as they'd come. The beating of their wings fading away, so all that she could hear was the steady flapping of one corner of the tarp she was under.
She slid out from under her makeshift shelter, really just the green tarp thrown over a tied-up stack of lumber, and looked around. It was twilight. And she was on top of the Notre Dame Cathedral. Scaffolding almost as tall as the bell towers stretched in front of her. And she had no memory of how she'd gotten here.
The last thing she remembered was fighting an akuma. Glancing down at her hands confirmed the worst. She wasn't transformed, and she hadn't gotten here alone. Someone knew.
He knew.
The wind blew. It was strong at that height, and she dropped low, pushing her palms flat against the metal roof as she tried to push down her rising panic. Rule number two was broken, which meant that there was only one rule left between them and disaster. She took a breath, which was shaky instead of calming. One rule, and it was the only one she had no control over. It was up to Adrien, and Hawk Moth. They still couldn't be together. Would he be able to keep his negative emotions quiet enough so they didn't attract attention? How could she ask him to shove his feelings down, just like his father always did?
Her fingers curled, nails scraping against the metal.
Heavy boot landed in front of her.
Chat Noir faced her, mirroring her crouch, quietly staring, before he slowly extended his hand to her. In his upturned palm were her earrings. She grabbed them hesitantly, avoiding his intense gaze.
"Sorry," he said. And when she looked up again, he was gone.
---
Tag list: @tbehartoo @mlbigbang @toodaloo-kangaroo
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louisupdates · 9 months
Text
FITFWT23: LOS ANGELES RECAP
Concert number: 21
Date: 30 Jun 2023
Place: THE HOLLYWOOD BOWL
Capacity: 17,500
Venue: [x] [jdelf] [edison lo] [matt vines] [cornishman_on_tour] [oli crump] [oli crump]
Livestream [1, 2, 3, 4], [partial] [partial] [complete]
Louis’ IG post, two days in a row
LTHQ Twitter and Instagram [x]
Concert Group Picture
Fashion: Adidas x Wales Bonner track jacket, Stone Island jacket for Hollywood Bowl ad
Lithograph
Openers: Andrew Cushin, The Snuts
Setlist
Photos: [HQ] [smiling HQ] [HQ] [HQ] [HQ armpit] [HQ] [HQ] [HQ] [HQ] [HQ] [HQ] [HQ] [HQ] [HQ] [HQ] [HQ] [HQ] [orange HQ] [HQ] [b&w HQ] [HQ] [sweaty b&w] [rainbow x] [baby] [wide] [wide] [wide purple] [wide blue] [blue BACK] [purple] [armpit] [biceps] [mesh tank] [transparent mesh tank] [krystle] [x] [arms up] [hot] [waist] [x] [x] [blue silhouette] [uh] [HQ][barricade] [x] [gifs] [smiling gifs] [helen seamons] [x] [with jacket] [Oli’s GO TOMMO GO sign] [x] [sweet] [x] [glitch]
Videos: [x] with more photos
Speeches: Look at the fucking venue we’re in! Hollywood Bowl, it’s been a fucking dream to play here tonight; Spark your joints; This might be the only time I play Hollywood Bowl; lad Freddie; I’m knackered
Outro: California Love by 2Pac ft Dr. Dre & Roger Troutman
Press: greatergoodmusiccharity, ladreamcenter, ascribemagazine, ascribemagazine, unpublishedzine
Trends: [x]
Hollywood Bowl video, Louis’ quote, Joshua Halling IG, exclusive merch, Louis promo at a Hozier concert, Louis follows Jack Cochrane of The Snuts. Greater Good Music posted about Louis’ donation to decrease hunger.
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dapandapod · 10 months
Note
Hii! For mermay prompts, how about depth for geraskier (ofc)
WHY YES OF COURSE FRANKSTER! and uh, I made you choose between prince and amnesia, because both of those popped into my head at the prompt. Prince was chosen and here we are! Hope you enjoy! <3
(also feel free to prompt me, here or on tumblr, i am on a writing spree and olsdfkj sorry for posting like 4 times in a day)
Send me a pairing and a word and I will make you some words? ❤️
On Ao3 here
Jaskier has been gone for too long. Geralt has been pacing their room for hours.
Yes, he did promise to stay put for a couple days, to wait for Jaskier’s… whatever he is doing. Or who.
The shoddy fisher village is gray, cold, everything covered in a thin layer of salt the spray of the waves offer in its violent rage.
Wind is whipping around the little wooden houses– sheds, really. It’s been three days since Jaskier left. Three days, and he was supposed to be back this morning.
Is this how it feels to be left behind when Geralt himself leaves for a contract?
Possibly, because no matter how much Jaskier had told him to stay put, to wait, to just fucking trust him damnit, Geralt is fretting.
Finally he gives in.
Leaving the room the kind elderly lady is lending them, Geralt stalks outside. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.
The people here are not afraid of him, but seem to keep a distance from the bard. Everything about this place seems grey, but still it seems like the ever colorful Jaskier returns here, over and over again.
He starts with the aldermans house. They don’t have a tavern, the little gathering of houses far too small for such luxuries.
“The bard? You should check by the docks, or the boat house. He usually is out with the boat this time a year.”
He..what? Boat?
What the fuck is Jaskier doing?!
Geralt leaves without saying good bye, and the bard would have scolded Geralt for his bad manners, but he isn’t fucking here, is he?!
The boat house is, predictably, just down by the water. There is a long dock leading into the water, two smaller fishing boats tied to it.
An elderly man and someone who looks like his son sits by the house, mending nets.They look up when he approaches, shielding their eyes against the setting sun.
“Have you seen a bard around here? Jaskier? Brown hair, blue eyes, a lute and the worst fashion sense known to man?”
The elderly man presses his lips to a thin line and ducks his head. His son studies the witcher for a long moment, sizing him up, before responding.
“Aye,” he says, “What is it to you, witcher?”
“He’s my friend.” Geralt manages, working hard around a word that feels so inadequate. “And he is missing.”
“No more, lad,” the elderly man mutters, “Bad luck, it is.”
Geral frowns, trying not to let his impatience get the better of him.
“I’ll make it worth your while. Six crowns.”
“Florens.” The son corrects. “Ten. And I’ll take you to where we left him.”
-
The elderly fisherman refuses to come. Speaking of ill omens and bad luck, of not talking to the sea. The son takes him anyway, the sea getting oddly misty as they go further out with the boat.
“Coin is sparse out here, but my niece is sick. I’d rather leave the sea altogether than see her hurt,” the son says, rowing the boat towards a previously hidden little rock formation, barely an island. “Da doesn’t want to speak of it, speak of evil and it shall come, he says. We don’t need more sirens, he says.”
Geralt eyes him, then the sky. He can’t hear any flapping of wings, nor splashing of their tails. The water is calm, but the mist lays thick and hides both sight and sound.
The little boat touches the edge of the rock with a soft sound when they arrive.
“This is where I let him off every year,” the son says. “And pick him up after a few days. Know nothing but that.”
The florens trade hands, and when Geralt gets off, he pushes back into the water.
“I’ll be back in an hour. It’s probably superstition, but I don’t much like this place.”
-
Inspecting the area, Geralt finds it bare of both bards and life. He climbs around it, eventually finding an expensive looking chest with a solid lock on it.
It looks strange out here, oddly devoid of the wear and tear one would expect wood around the shore. Geralt picks the lock with ease, and when opens the lid, it doesn’t make a sound.
Inside it is a very familiar lute, and neatly folded clothes. Geralt’s heart sinks, but he has a trace now, something. He rummages around, finding everything Jaskier had brought but his jewellery. Even his underclothes is here.
Geralt closes it again, locks it carefully.
There should be traces here, anything to lead him to where Jaskier is.
The scent is old, barely there and hidden by the salty smell of the sea. Geralt will never complain about Jaskier’s perfume ever again.
It leads him to the other side of the little island, across the rocks on a path that looks surprisingly smooth and well walked.
Geralt stops when water starts lapping at his feet.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
Either Jaskier has been hiding something from him, or something very bad has happened. And either truth still means Jaskier is missing, and that he went into the water. And from the sound of it, has been coming to the water for years.
Geralt trails back to the chest, takes off his boots and heavy armor. Takes off everything but his trousers, and two silver daggers.
The stone is smooth under his feet, and quickly gets slippery as it continues out into the water.
It’s cold, his skin pebbles when he gets as deep as his knees. Then the rock abruptly ends. Geralt breathes deep, and dives. Cat and killer whale would have been useful, but he didn’t know he would have to go swimming when they got out here.
Geralt has almost swum around the entire island when he notices the formations. Runes carved into stone, worn smooth by time and water.
With another deep breath, he follows it down, down, down, and what little sunlight was left quickly disappears down here.
There is an opening a bit further down. And eyes. Many eyes.
Geralt realizes too late that he is surrounded, and there are clawed fingers and webbed hands pulling him deeper still, and into the opening.
His lungs are burning for air, and he is quickly disoriented, his elbows scraping against stone and harsh hands making him unable to reach for his knives.
Suddenly, they breach the surface, and Geralt pants harshly as he is dragged onwards and thrown onto a slimy rock. Broken shells of crabs and clams are spread out, and bones of fishes of all sizes lie spread among them.
Now free from his attacker, Geralt reaches for the dagger and turns to face them, but a beautiful face filled with fangs hisses at him as they retreat backwards, and another set of hands grip him hard.
Geralt can’t entirely make out if it is siren or mer people or something completely else, but more hands grip him, wrestling the knife from his hand.
“Walk!” one hisses, “You were looking, and you found us. Walk!”
Her voice is almost human, but her tongue is unused to his language. They shove him forward, deeper into the cave. It gets darker and darker, until suddenly Geralt realizes the walls are glowing.
Aluminescent is probably the right word for it. Algae covers the walks, swirling lines make patterns he feels like he has seen somewhere before.
It takes him until the now narrow walkway opens up into a bigger space that Geralt realizes where he recognizes it from. The embroidery of Jaskier’s clothes.
When Geralt locks eyes with Jaskier across the room, the bard’s jaw is slack with surprise when he sees him
“Geralt,” he says, but oh.
Oh.
Jaskier doesn’t have a tail, but his skin is glimmering with the same pattern as the walls. He is sitting in the middle of the open space, on a rock slanting out to a deep, clear pool. It almost looks like a throne room.
Around his feet are merpeople of different shapes and sizes.
The guards shoves him back when Geralt attempts to take a step forward, and Geralt bares his teeth to them.
“Stop it,” Jaskier says, voice commanding.
The guards, now that Geralt sees them, look like a strange hybrid of fish and man. Claws and fins and webbed fingers and hissing breaths, but they keep their distance, as they are told.
Jaskier is still wearing his rings and his necklace, but little else. On his brow is a circlet, thin and adorned with shells and crowned with a mother of pearls.
“I told you to wait,” Jaskier says, tilting his head.
“You didn’t come back. It’s been three days,” Geralt says, feeling foolish without not really knowing why.
“Has it? I’m sorry, time passes strangely down here.”
They just look at each other for a long while, for once the bard too seems at a loss for words.
“You don’t look like them,” Geralt says finally, indicating at the more fish-like guards behind him.
“I don’t,” Jaskier agrees, “Many mer these days are closer to sirens, but those close to the royal family are more humanoid.”
Jaskier gives a crooked smile when he sees Geralt wracks his brain.
“I told you I was a noble, didn’t I?”
“You said viscount.” Geralt suddenly remembers. “Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenove.”
“Ah yes, well. That is some of the truth, yes. Don’t give me that look, Geralt, I didn’t lie to you. I just happen to be a prince too.”
Geralt blinks, and Jaskier looks back at him, sitting proudly despite the light frown.
“Mer prince? Is that why you don’t have a tail?” Geralt asks carefully, and the guard next to him rolls his eyes so hard his head moves with it.
“I do have a tail, my friend. When I choose to. The perks of royalty, wouldn’t you say?” he says with a smirk, “Now, as happy as I am to see you here, and for you to meet my family, this is… not ideal. I wish… It doesn’t matter. You are here now. Ligeia, let him through. I think it is time he is given the tour.”
“But my prince-” Ligeia says with her weird, hissing voice, but Jaskier waves her off.
“I have spent more time with him than you are old. Let him come to me.”
Geralt is let through, and Jaskier offers his hand. It is not something they usually do, not while awake, but Geralt accepts it anyway.
Jaskier is cool to the touch, but his hands feel the same. Same callouses, same scar just over his thumb from a stupid accident with a branch.
He is led towards the other side of the rock, into the clear pool.
“Not the way I wanted to show you, but I’m glad you are here,” Jaskier whispers, like a confession. Hand in hand, they dive.
-
When they return to the outside world, the stars are out. When Geralt worries about how they will get back, Jaskier waves him off.
“They always kind of know when I need to go back. I think that is a part of why they don’t trust me.”
Yeah, that makes sense. Splashing of ores breaks the serene silence around them, and the son stares at them a bit wide eyed.
The ride back is more tense than last time, despite Jaskier’s chattering.
When they get back to their room, Geralt realizes they are still holding hands.
“Well, my prince,” he says teasingly, “I think we have some talking to do.”
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petite-ursus · 1 month
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I didn't really want to go to the box for A Lot of cardio today. A sprint in 2minutes of of 12cal row, 36 jump rope, then max rep wall balls in remaining time... 4 times. With two minutes rest between rounds.
I've been stupid disregulated and honestly I don't always want to pick exercise as the way to shut my brain up, even if it actually is the best option. But. I got myself there with the promise to myself that I would get to practice hand stand walks before and after. I've been wanting to get the move but don't like the idea of practicing at home... cramped space.
Today I walked probably a foot on my hands. And this was such a win. One of the lads was watching at the end of class and he suggested committing to the forward lean and if you have to bail bail forward not back to really commit. And THAT helped.
I've been able to do wall walks, and handstand pushups. But. Free standing and walking. This is a totally new skill for me. I'm pretty pleased that I made so much process with just like... 15 total minutes concentrated practice. It's one of those moves where you can feel in your body when you have it. And even when I didn't WALK I had a few instances where I was upside-down and the balance was dead on.
This is going to be a year that I do new fun things with my body. More advanced yoga. Climbing. I've also gotten hooked on the idea that I'd Like to try muay thai. Some functional fighting.
It's one of my favorite things. That one day we can just choose to learn something and then just... be able to do it. Crochet. Handstand walks. The human brain and body are absolutely bananas.
I DID tweak my back a little bailing into round-offs. Hopefully it'll ease up by tomorrow. 🫠✌️
Meisha news: the drugs are doing good things for her. She is eating and seems less lethargic and sad so I think the anti nausea medication was a good addition. She Hates pill time and there are so many to give her but it is what it is. Really. Nervous for March 4th. But hopeful. After this coming Monday she'll be recovering and this will be a horrible blip.
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Chapter 4: Awaiting Bloom
Narrated by Luming.
Narrator: The cake shop is already gone by the time I come back to the riverside, my only companions being the stars shining in the night sky.
Narrator: Even without the fish lantern, the water still glimmers from the rows of lanterns dangling along the streets.
Narrator: I spot the alga in a corner by the riverbank.
Narrator: The New Year's night air chills to the bone, but the alga stretches far to poke itself out of the water and look for its friend.
Narrator: I see, in the Lantern of Wishes, how the alga has waited for the goldfish year after year just like that, longing for its return.
Narrator: I bet the alga is going to feel really upset if the goldfish can't make it, right?
Narrator: When I open the bag that holds the goldfish, it comes jumping out of the bag and into the water. The goldfish has made it.
Narrator: The goldfish wasn't looking well because it'd been staying in the bag for a long time.
Narrator: As soon as it has landed in the water, the goldfish breathes as hard as it can and circles around the alga.
Narrator: The goldfish is trying to explain to its friend why it came late, how much it has missed it, and how happy it is seeing it.
Narrator: The alga moves with the ripples, its leaves touching upon the goldfish's scales ever so gently. The goldfish leans against the alga, seemingly feeling at ease.
Choose "They finally meet again."
You: It's great that they finally meet again.
Luming: I feel really happy for them, too.
Luming: I love stories with happy endings, but I understand that not every wish comes true, and that not all old friends get to see each other again.
Luming: Now that we're here in Miraland, there is something I want to do to make up for a past regret.
Narrator: The night breeze skims the water under the twilight, dispersing reflections and sending gentle ripples over the surface.
Narrator: I lift my head and suddenly notice that the fish lanterns have been arranged into groups, as if they were swimming across a canvas of starry sky.
Narrator: I think I've seen this before in my dream.
Narrator: They used to be Qin Yi's pet goldfish. They all left him eventually, though, and I wonder if he ever felt sad about it.
Narrator: But the New Year would only be a happy one if he is happy.
Luming: And I wish you a happy New Year, too, [Your Name].
Choose "I'm sure it's going to be a great year for me."
You: I'm sure it's going to be a great year for me, and I'm sure your wishes will come true. Happy New Year, Luming.
Luming: Happy New Year, [Your Name].
Luming: Look, there are still lights up ahead. I wonder if the street opera performance has ended. Since we have granted the goldfish's wish, let's go enjoy the festival.
You: Alright.
--
Narrated by no one.
Narrator: The lively crowd and the sound of music are not far ahead. Luming and his friend enter a buzzing ocean of lights.
Narrator: Just a few moments ago, when Luming passed by carrying the bag with the goldfish, the melodies of Remembrance of Dreams could be heard through the streets.
Narrator: Curtain drapes are drawn as opera music envelops the audience. Goldfish swim to-and-fro along the stage. The scene is as beautiful as a dream.
Qin Yi: Gone are the good old days... Our love was such but it will never come back...
Narrator: Luming halts in his tracks to the singing. He looks toward the stage just as a fishbowl is smashed into pieces on the carpet amidst the height of tension. The goldfish flails frantically on the thick carpet, desperate for water.
Narrator: Qin Yi notices the young lad in the crowd. Amid the crowd, only his eyes are shining vividly.
Narrator: But Luming stops for only a moment, for he has an important wish to grant.
Qin Yi: I hold no more grudge... For the world is mine for the taking...
Narrator: When the music ends, Qin Yi walks off the stage in a sea of cheers and applause.
Narrator: And gone are the souls, every last one of them, leaving the drip drop of water chilling to the bone.
Yueniang: What happened? Was there something wrong with the music?
Narrator: Qin Yi gives him an ambiguous smile and shakes his head. He looks toward the direction of the young boy, but he is nowhere to be seen.
Qin Yi: It's nothing. I just saw a goldfish.
Yueniang: Huh?
Qin Yi: Another year went by.
Yueniang: ...
Qin Yi: And it is the time that flowers blossom again.
Narrator: Qin Yi is deep in thought, as he always does when New Year comes around. He recalls having seen the young man below the stage before.
Narrator: When Qin Yi looked off the stage at Luming just now, Luming lowers his head to look at the goldfish in the bag in his hand, since it was jumping up and down.
Narrator: Their lines of sight nearly meet, but both their eyes are gleaming with light.
Narrator: At the edge of the stage, flowers blossom on a tree.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
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Random Story
Hey everyone,
So I’ve previously mentioned on here that I ran away from home when I was 17, but it is actually more complicated than how I make it sound.
Basically, when I was 15 I came out to my Mum. It wasn’t the first time I attempted to come out. My Mum shut me down angrily the first time, which took place nearly a year prior. She tried to convince me it was all in my head and that I’d grow out of it. She didn’t do this in a polite manner though. She didn’t come off as a concerned parent. She angrily yelled it at me.
When I tried coming out at 15 it was no different and I got kicked out 2 nights in a row. The first night I ended up at my grandparents’ and the second night at my Dad’s. I guess the one thing my Mum did each time was made sure I had somewhere to go each night.
Those proved temporary solutions though. My Dad sadly didn’t have the room for me to live with him and my grandparents had too close a relationship with my Mum, it was easy for her to manipulate me from there. There was a small period during my last year of high school where I lived with my grandparents and my Mum continued to manipulate me and invalidate my identity.
The situation as it was unravelling at home didn’t escape the attention of my school. I arrived at school two days in a row without school uniform and my school books when I got kicked out of home 2 nights in a row. Additionally, one of my friends outed me and so the entire student body knew. That inevitably made it up to the staff at the school.
It was a Catholic school, so I was actually pretty scared of the staff finding out. Catholic schools after all have a reputation when it comes to LGBT+ peeps. Granted, I may have made my judgements based on American Catholic schools.
I remember one day, I was in an RE lesson and we had a substitute teacher. At this point, I kinda floated between hanging with the guys and the girls and well the class had a very interesting split. The girls sat at the front section of the classroom. The guys sat in the back section. I kinda situated myself in the middle.
The guys were being idiots though and throwing stuff about the classroom and the substitute teacher said that all the boys (me included) had to stay behind and pick up the stuff that had been thrown. By this point a lot of shit had been building in my head with the home situation. Things at school were mostly okay, but being lumped in with the boys especially when I hadn’t been involved in their stupidity was the straw that broke the camels back.
I left the classroom on the brink of tears and as I entered the stairwell for my next class I just broke down crying. Two girls spotted me and escorted me to my next class, where once I was sat down a few students approached to comfort me. As our teacher entered the class, he asked what was wrong and I just said, “Everything in my fucking life is wrong.”
So he tells this lass and lad who were stood next to me, attempting to comfort me, to take me to the Bungalow. Now, the Bungalow was the place the extremely bad students went, it was where a punishment called Isolation took place which is like the next step up from Detention.
Anyway, my brain is just like, “Okay, I’m being told off for swearing at a teacher. That is what is happening.”
I was seated in a room on my own though and a few minutes later, the Key Stage 4 Pastoral Manager enters. I only knew her as the Head of Detention (not actually a role at the school) though and taking into consideration this is a Catholic school and I was in the Bungalow. The next words out of her mouth shook me to my core, “Now *deadname*, I’ve been hearing rumours about your sexuality.”
I’m not proud of it, but I was terrified of being expelled and I wanted no reason to make the situation at home worse. I screamed in fear, “I’M NOT GAY!”
She calmly went on though and said, “Don’t worry. We just want to support you.”
The school had been monitoring my situation for sometime it seemed. They had made sure most of my teachers had a need to know knowledge of whatever was going on with me, they had already spoken to my Head of Year, Headteacher and the Head of Child Welfare at the school. They were just awaiting the best time to intervene. It turns out they felt me swearing at a teacher was the best time for that and doing it in a place where they generally dealt with the worst behaved students 😂 They maybe should have thought that one out a little.
Anyway, they got a more in depth idea from me of what was going on at home and they got in touch with the local LGBT+ youth group I was attending. They also got in touch with the Local Authority and Social Services.
The 4 agencies had various meetings together and eventually decided that I could not continue living with my Mum. They agreed that I needed removing from her care. However, I also wasn’t in immediate danger. So they sought to put me into supported housing. From this point Social Services took the lead trying to get that in place.
This was a long process though and lasted into college. By the time I was in college, the team dealing with this was my college, the local authority, the LGBT+ youth group, a counsellor, my GP, a mental health professional and social services. All resoundingly on the same page, that I needed removing from my Mum’s care. Also just for you Americans reading this, college is not the same as university in the UK. University is the one with dorms and stuff. College you still tend to live with your parents. You go to college before moving onto university.
It took until the end of my first year at college and I was then eventually removed from my Mum’s care and placed in supported housing.
And this has all been building up to some utterly ridiculous. So one of the first things I had to do in supported housing, was apply for Income Support and Housing Benefits. As part of this process, you have to go to the Job Centre to discuss your claim and hand in ID, etc. And here’s the thing, to get your claim approved you have to have a “justifiable” reason for leaving home.
I explained the situation and why I had left home. They then asked if my Mum had expressly kicked me out and said I couldn’t return. When I said, “No.” She responded by saying it wasn’t a good enough reason to leave home and that I can’t just decide I don’t want to live their anymore.
This being in spite of the fact this was arranged by Social Services, the Local Authority, the LGBT+ youth group I attended, my school, my college, my GP, a counsellor and a mental health professional. She told me it wasn’t a good enough reason to leave home. When there is that level of agency support that lead to you leaving home and like, I got into supported housing via referral from Social Services.
Like it was ridiculous. I don’t know how I managed to get passed that. I know I did, as I did get my Income Support and Housing Benefits but it was kinda ridiculous.
And I know, I got extremely lucky. I had a lot of support in getting where I am today. The house I live in now, I have lived in since I was 18. I know a lot of LGBT+ young people still end up homeless.
I actually do help people where I can too. One of my roommates ran away from home when they were 18. Like me they are trans and don’t have accepting parents. Knowing the process they’d be faced with, I offered them my spare bedroom. They’ve now lived here 7 years.
The thing I was sorta building up to was being told that leaving home due to homophobia and transphobia from my Mum was apparently not a good enough reason to leave home though. Especially given the multi-agency support I had to leave home, that struck me as ridiculous.
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I posted 3,740 times in 2022
416 posts created (11%)
3,324 posts reblogged (89%)
Blogs I reblogged the most:
@jeekoftheweek
@motherfucker-unlimited
@nintengu
@tomomo
@hotvampireadjacent
I tagged 2,784 of my posts in 2022
Only 26% of my posts had no tags
#2hu - 170 posts
#evil - 159 posts
#fumoposting - 90 posts
#kaname date cringe compilation - 90 posts
#doto - 57 posts
#girl - 56 posts
#bnuuy - 53 posts
#prime wizardly hours - 51 posts
#nice pus pus - 47 posts
#lad moments - 47 posts
Longest Tag: 138 characters
#howard the fucking duck howard the fucking duck howard the fucking duck howard the fucking duck howard the fucking duck howard the fucking
My Top Posts in 2022:
#5
Can you fly my white ass to the moon?
1,487 notes - Posted September 25, 2022
#4
Wizard Tip of the Day: a good wizard name fulfills all requirements of a very strong password
4,799 notes - Posted April 4, 2022
#3
I got voted "most likely to be thrown into The Sacrificial Pit" for the third year in the row ^_^
5,509 notes - Posted May 26, 2022
#2
1 guy - Just some guy
2 guys - The Blowjob Brothers
3 guys - The Three Musketeers
4 guys - Weezer
5 guys - Burger & Fries
6+ guys - There has been no record of this many guys existing in the same place at the same time, this theoretical group has been referred to as "squad" or "fam" by some speculative scientists
11,511 notes - Posted October 13, 2022
My #1 post of 2022
We need to keep making 9/11 jokes until some corporation tries to jump in on the meme and gets promptly executed by the public
125,068 notes - Posted June 28, 2022
Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →
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jgvfhl · 1 year
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I posted 29,334 times in 2022
That's 5,553 more posts than 2021!
177 posts created (1%)
29,157 posts reblogged (99%)
Blogs I reblogged the most:
@igothurtdoingsafetydance
@mercurydancer
@mrfandomwars
@xspiderfanx
@deathcomeswithakiss
I tagged 4,121 of my posts in 2022
#tcw fanart - 321 posts
#bbc merlin - 257 posts
#arc trooper fives - 228 posts
#captain rex - 213 posts
#tmnt 2012 - 186 posts
#teenage mutant ninja turtles - 152 posts
#arc trooper echo - 118 posts
#rottmnt - 116 posts
#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles - 112 posts
#incorrect tmnt quotes - 112 posts
Longest Tag: 121 characters
#society if they'd let us have a liz/jack hug in awe (said like i'm the joker carving something into the walls of my cell)
My Top Posts in 2022:
#5
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Joining the masses in creating TMNT crossover art. These lads are very Shaped. Gosh how do I get the right people to see this....
@incorrect-tmnt2012-quotes @incorrect-2003-tmnt-quotes this is not a quote per se but you will enjoy the art?? Yes?? Maybe??
251 notes - Posted August 9, 2022
#4
Jesse: I have echolocation
Kix: what?? No you don't, the commander--
Jesse: FIVES IS A FUCKIN COWARD
Echo, from across the star cruiser: what the FUCK DID YOU SAY ABOUT FIVES
Jesse: See, there he is
Kix:
Fives, waking up from a nap: Fives is a fukinnnn handsome motherfu-- *falls back asleep*
382 notes - Posted February 26, 2022
#3
Fennec: So you... were a prisoner?
Boba: For a while. I impressed their leader, I passed a few tests, I suppose. One of their kids wouldn't lea--
Din: *loud ugly sobbing from the corner of the room*
Fennec: You said the K word again
Boba: *deep sigh*
416 notes - Posted January 5, 2022
#2
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@rottmnt-totally-correct-quotes I did very much enjoy this quote 💙💚❤️
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420 notes - Posted October 15, 2022
My #1 post of 2022
I'm sorry but Fennec's PoV reveal in this episode was HILARIOUS
she gets shot by one Mando, she's out cold, good as dead. Next thing she knows she's awake in the desert with a gut full of gears and parts and some old dude and his bantha say some modders did it. Great! She's not gonna die, she'll be turned in and imprisoned or worse! Except!! The old guy says he's BOBA FETT?? ThEE Boba Fett, back from the sarlaac pit?? And he's not gonna kill her? Then as they're planning to go get his ship from Bib Fortuna, she watches him go all mushy saying goodbye to the BANTHA?? Telling it to go make baby banthas?? And he's gonna start a retirement plan???
And thEN he starts intimidating a RAT CATCHER DROID--
"Can we go now?"
This is the weirdest day and a half this woman has had in a long time and the fact that she's stuck around this long is telling
2,283 notes - Posted January 19, 2022
Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →
This is the second year in a row my #1 post has been about Boba Fett somehow. Last year it was Boba kicking Din in the groin. I'm... not sure how to take that lol. @everythingispirates I think my longest tag was actually yours...?? idk happy december folks
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homeofjonicles · 1 year
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The Jonicles - Entry 29
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It is currently the 31st of October, 2022 at 4:51 am, the morning of a very spooktacular day: Halloween!! You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this day even though they always have school on this day for some... stupid reason... That's like having school on your birthday... But now is not the time to be gloomy! Tonight is the night of binging scary movies, playing your favourite horror games and making yourself sick from eating too much junk food all night! Today also marks the #165th day of my Jon Arbuckle hyperfixation!!
You know, Garfield isn't a stranger to celebrating holidays at all. He celebrates Christmas, New Years, his birthday, Thanksgiving because he's weird and lives in America, and finally the spooky day itself, Halloween. When they were making the cartoons back in the 80s, they made these holiday specials - around three to be exact - and the Halloween one was the one I watched the most as a child!
I remember sitting down on the floor in front of the TV at my old house when I would have been around five or younger, and the Garfield Halloween special would be playing. It's nostalgic to think back to that special and remembering Garfield having a musical number about deciding what to dress up as, going out into the night with Odie, finding that spooky old house and being told of the story of these ghost pirates from the weird old guy living in the house. The ghost pirates were definitely the one thing that stuck out to me the most.
The old man in the house tells the story of these pirates that once plundered the seas looking for treasure, but as they found their riches, they had to bury it for their doom would soon come iiii'm not actually too sure what happened to them... But they swore that come 100 years on that very Halloween night where Garfield and Odie stood, they would return to claim their riches as ghastly spirits right at midnight. A ghostly ship that rippled in the wind soon came sailing across the water towards the house, promptly scaring our two heros shitless in the process. They were horrific, undeadly, spooky and they wanted their treasure. They chased Garfield and Odie away, leaving them to fend for themselves, desperate to get back home...
The special also had plenty of other memorable bits (at least to me anyway), like our favourite boy Jon looking absolutely bored out of his mind scooping pumpkin guts out from a carved Jack-O-Lantern and being startled so hard by what he thought was a ghost that the carved fruit (is it a fruit? it has seeds...) landed right on the lad's head. There was also the aforementioned song number about Garfield deciding who he'd dress up as for Halloween, eventually coming to the conclusion that him and Odie would be pirates! It's funny because as a child, I used to have this plush Garfield who was dressed up like a little pirate. Actually, it was my dad's, but the little thing was fun to play with. I don't know where the guy went, we moved houses years ago and he seemed to disappear. He was most likely donated but I miss him...
A-Anyway, the two both go plundering out i to the night as two pirates, Garfy baby being the captain and Odie as his crewmate. They have this smooth jazzy number about how Garfield isn't a scardey cat, he's all good, nothing to eb afraid of! ...Before promptly being scared by everyone's spooky costumes when they realise some of them aren't who they appear to be before they find a boat and row to the house. At the end of the special, when they've been scared shitless by the ghost pirates and collected their goods, Garfield has a tough choice to make. He's got two bags of lollies (because that's what we call candy here in Australia), and he's gotta decide: Does he keep them for himself, or pass one on to his old buddy Odie? Garfield made it clear at the beginning of the special that he'd use Odie to get two times as much lollies (or candy) and keep it all to himself, but... Ultimately, with Odie being his bestie, his bro and saving him back at that ghost pirate blunder, he decides to give Odie his share of lollies and goes to sleep for the night... Not before seeing that creepy old guy wearing his pirate hat on TV!
There's other pieces of Halloween media related to Garfield too, but most likely, you already know about these ones. Back in the 80s, Jim Davis created a series of strips for Halloween where Garfield wakes up to find his home completely abandoned and boarded up. As he ventures deeper into his home, he finds out that he's just been here for years and his beloved Jon and Odie have been long gone. Unable to face the truth of the inevitability of time and probably slowly starving to death, Garfield realises he's only one weapon: Denial. Jon and Odie soon phase back into existense and Garfield meets the both of them with an embrace, revealing Jon and Odie to merely be a figment of Garfield's warped imagination. This comic is freaky, it makes such a scary concept - the inevitability of time and death - even scarier by having Garfield be trapped in a reality where he doesn't exist and be in complete denial. It's both relatable and depressing. Time is such a horrifying thing and you don't realise how much you care about something or someone until they're gone because of time. That's already powerful in itself, but I think the last panel has the most punch. It reads:
"An imagination can be a powerful tool. It can tint memories of the present, or paint a future so vivid that it can entice... Or terrify, all depending upon how we conduct ourselves today."
There's also the Garfield's Scary Scavenger Hunt games, which I may make a separate entry about! I never played those as a child, but I remember hearing about them through learning about Lyman's disappearance. There was a long gap where I didn't read much Garfield between when I was a kid and when my Jon fixation started, so I never really played Scary Scavenger Hunt when I was little despite having played a bunch of flash games. But, it's still a great spooky duo of games that definitely is worth a mention!
So, with all that said, have a Happy Halloween, folks! Lets hope your day is scary and spooky and full of treats and surprises! And for those who don't celebrate Halloween, have yourselves a great day regardless! If you don't mind, I'm off to watch a bunch of spooky stuff, rewatch the Garfield special and play Luigi's Mansion for the day... As long as I don't have any school, that is...
Last edited at 5:46 am. Happy Spooky Month!!
Cheers,
Your Local Jonnoissuer
Posted on the 31st of October, 2022 at 5:50.
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satoshihiwatari · 2 years
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had an interview for a promotion today lads and I think it went well! There haven't been any opportunities for progress in my job for the last 4 years but this one is a new role that's basically just a step up from my current job, with a lot of the same stuff and now new responsibilities.
I'm v excited for it but there's also some stuff that sounds downright awful and soul-crushing, like they want me to start taking on all of the complaints, over the phone even. So we'll see how that goes.
So like. I'm nervous about that because I know I will despise that and it will seriously lower my enjoyment of life. However what other choice do I have? This is the only promotion opportunity that's come up in 4 years, and the job title means that after this one I can move into Ops which is what I'd prefer ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
The other thing is they asked me to eventually start doing 1 in 4 Sundays, which I can't really do. I already work 2 in 4 Saturdays, and my friendships are really suffering for it, since I so rarely have time to meet anyone due to always working (I'm currently booked until October). BEST case scenario I would work the same Sat/Sun in a row and then get the Mon/Tues off afterwards, but I think they'd probably try to give me two separate days off in the week instead of back to back, which I will not be able to manage.
And I don't want to be overly negative, the rest of the job actually sounds great and I love the rest, it's just the complaints and Sundays things that I'm worried about. And tbh any promotion would be better than staying as I am!
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a-tale-of-2-sloths · 1 year
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Day 4 - Cahuita to Tortuguero
It was another early rise today as we had a fair bit of travelling to do, starting with with a trip from the bed to the bathroom for a final cold shower. Given that it’s a hot and humid country, I’ve been enjoying the refreshing chill of fresh water. Shrivelled plantain and all! Based on our previous experience of ordering a taxi in advance, we were skeptical that Alejandro would be ready to collect us at 6.30am, however he was outside the door and ready to go as we piled out and bid our hosts a final farewell. We were back at Cahuita bus stop with plenty of time to spare and spent much of it conversing with some Canadians about the usual cliche topics such as weather and football! We got to see a photo of their snow covered house and everything! Our bus arrived near enough on time and despite it being rather busy, we did manage to squeeze on with our baggage without knocking anyone out in the process!
Our next stop was Moin bus station, where we would be getting a boat to Tortuguero. No sooner had we got off the bus were we honed in upon by a taxi driver with a very jazzy blues brothers like hat. We told him our destination and he countered with a very reasonable price so away we went, squeezed in with with a german lady and a french man (sounds like the start of a dad joke!) I can’t remember our taxi driver’s name, but most of Moin must know him as he honked his horn and waved to every other person passing by! We’ve only been here a few days, but the sense of community in every little town and village is clear to see particularly amongst those in the same trades.
As we arrived at the dock/harbour there were around a dozen boats lined up ready to take passengers from Moin to Tortuguero. Our ever popular taxi driver put us in touch with one of the boats and so we had our means to cruise down the river. However, it would be a while before we departed so we opted for some local coffee and empanadas from a small stand in the car park to keep us going until lunch. We were joined by our taxi companions, one of which spoke Swiss German and his face lit up when Georgie was able to converse with him. We also chatted to a couple who were being visited by the lad’s mother, a lady of Wittering! Turns out he went travelling some 10+ years ago around 18 and never returned, so she was there to visit him at his current place of residence - Costa Rica!
An hour or so later and after some tropical down pour it was time to board our boat and make for Tortuguero. The boat had 2 rows of seats, 1 either side, with just about enough room for baggage at the back. There were around 12 tourists, the captain and 3 locals. One of which appeared to be working for the captain as he assisted with the baggage and other boat duties, like looking out for interesting wildlife. The journey was set to be around 3 - 4 hours depending on how many times we stopped for either nature watch or pee breaks! As it so happened there was none of either, but that didn’t matter as the ride was a lot of fun and we did pass by and through a lot of nature, from jungle either side and through meadows of green plants floating on the river surface. Although we didn’t stop to observe nature (like crocodiles or sloths!) We did see all sorts of aquatic birds, the odd monkey and some water buffalo.
There are no cars in Tortuguero so via water is the only way to travel. We started off at a rather merry pace and were all told by one of the local’s on board (who was on the boat for a lift home) to put our life jackets on about 15 minutes in to the trip. It seemed strange that this safety precaution hadn’t been mentioned prior, but it transpired it was just for going past the ‘Navy base’. Once clear we were able to take them off and carry on at our own risk buoyancy free! As we made our way in to wider river and more open water the captain put his foot to the throttle and sent jets of foam blasting either side of the boat. When turning the corners at speed it felt like the passengers the other side might drop in to your seat due to the extreme lean! When the sun was beating down it was rather refreshing having a light sprinkle of water on the old trucker’s arm that was hanging out of the boat. However, when the heavens opened it it was time to roll down the plastic window cover to try and avoid getting completely soaked. But however wet we might have got (not very!) it was nothing compared to the captain’s first mate, senor wildlife watcher, as he also doubled up as a windscreen wiper! Turns out the boat doesn’t have one, so the poor bugger had to sit out front in the pouring rain occasional sticking out his arm to wipe the window clear! The weather here can go from scorching sun to great deluge in the drop of a coconut, which isn’t a problem providing you’ve packed a raincoat! But no raincoat in the world could have saved this fella from his soggy state! On the plus side he did get to driven for the latter half of the journey (once it had dried up!)
As we pulled in to Tortuguero there were tour guides on hand ready to offer their services and we just so happened to talk to one that had very reasonably priced tours on offer. Including a wildlife walking tour that evening and a canoe tour in the national park the following day. We decided to go for both as we came to see wildlife and hadn’t been out venturing in the night yet. After some lovely lunch at our Air BnB’s restaurant overlooking the river, we showered up and headed out with our tour guide and a couple from Costa Rica on the hunt for all things my nan wouldn’t want to go near! Snakes, frogs and creepy crawlies! Much like the day before, we weren’t the only party out and about looking for wildlife, which is quite useful as the tour guides advise one another on where to go. That said, our tour guide had the eyes of a hawk as he honed in on animals great and small in places so camouflaged that even with a description of which leaf to look at it was difficult picking things out. We started off with a selection of lizards, snakes and insects, but it wasn’t long before we (he) spotted sloths, one of which was moving around quite a lot so it was very easy to see, a porcupine (which is quite a rare find!) and a couple of frogs! It was a great way to spend a couple of hours and get up close and personal with the reptiles and amphibians of Costa Rica! Plus another mama and baby sloth!
We rounded off the night back at the Air BnB bar restaurant with some little sausages and chips and a round of drinks so we can get an early one as we’re up at 5.30am tomorrow! I say that, I’m still sat here typing at 11.30pm as G’s snoozing away thinking of all the things we’re going to see in our canoes. Personally I’m hoping for some toucans and turtles!
G’s highlight - Seeing another mama and baby sloth!
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17/6
Spoke to your mom yesterday. Wanted to see how you were getting on and see if your ok. Didn't really say anything, just said thanks for checking in. Asked how I was and I said I'm not doing too well in all honestly. Which if you have read up till this point you can see is true. She responded you take care mate and speak soon. Not the response I was expecting to be honest. Not sure on what you've told your mom. As we haven't really had a conversation about it. Thing is I don't think I care anymore. Hard for me to say. Its almost been a week and I've had so many different emotions, non of them good. Still blame myself. If I would want 1 thing from you it'll be just to speak up more and maybe just be a little more decisive rather then just answering I don't know to everything. But I could have been so much better. Haven't been on my ps the last few nights. Just got home and watched tiktok then my programs until I fell asleep. Tiktoks not been my friend recently. Scrolling through before work yesterday and I like watching the random reddit posts videos. Anyway one of the first ones that came up was "how to know if a girl is definitely not into you". Yeah great, thanks for that. Worst thing was, I watched it and some of the things said was more about me not being into you, not the other way around. Felt even worse after that. Also had about 3 different dating apps show up as ads. Great. Don't know if my phones trying to tell me something.
 My birthdays next week. Don't know how that's going to plan out. If I still feel like this I wont want to go over to Rowes. That was the plan. I don't really want to go on holiday feeling like this. Don't think this feeling mixed with alcohol is best for me right now. Maybe ill go and just lie in the sun all holiday and not go out on the night. I don't know. Just not been in the right mind set recently. Still not in the right mind set. Yesterday I was so angry. I couldn't even tell you why. Walked Lara to scouts and she just talked and talked and talked. I got home and I was just angry. Didn't know weather to knock myself out or just cry. Wasn't even thinking of anything that's what annoyed me. Almost lashed out at my boss Wednesday, again just so angry.
 Going to Scott's BBQ today. Surprised you didn't say anything in the chat. All of the lads know. Well they don't know the ins and outs, but know that we have decided to take a break due to you not being happy and wanting to find yourself and there's reasons to do with me. Scott knows more about what's going on. Doesn't know what I had sent you as I don't need that right now, but he knows I haven't said anything I shouldn't have. Craig knows how I feel as he asks every day how I'm feeling, but doesn't know anything that's gone on. So he knows everything and nothing at the same time. And everyone else responded saying that they are there if I need anything and said they hope it doesn't last. The break I mean. Scott and Rowe went out last night for a few drinks before the football and messaged to see if I wanted to go Made. They said they'd both give me £10-15 for it, but I don't want to. Not only are the tickets £70 for A DAY! but I only know 4 of the people going and I like maybe only know 1 song from each of them. They said it'll cheer me up but I don't know if it will. Its at the end of July. 
 Who knows where we will stand in a months time. Its been a week and I feel like I cant like without you. Who knows how long it'll take for you to figure whatever it is you need out. If anything. I just want, together or not, to be on the same page as you and make sure the decision you make is what's best for you.
I've got tiktoks showing me places to visit in the UK. This one had a lovely beach that was slightly out the way so it wouldn't be too busy. Thinking about doing it for a week end. 6 hour drive. Could drive down on a Friday 3 hour to a hotel, then drive to the beach for the day then back to hotel, then back on the Sunday. Think it would be cute. And if I could drive at that point, we could take it in turns. Just more thoughts throughout the day.
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wanderingcas · 3 years
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i am once again asking the chronic pain in my neck to let me sleep 
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stephspurs · 3 years
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ONLY ANGEL - A John Stones Fanfiction
STEPHSPURS. - THE MASTERLIST ONLY ANGEL - FANFICTION MASTERLIST
The lights go down, the room turns dark, a murmur of people still trying to find their seats settles into the otherwise silence. The floor to ceiling screen behind the runway awakens to show a video montage of arguably the most famous supermodels in the world. “It’s difficult being a woman, and other women understand that...but it’s also fun to be a woman and I think we should be able to own that”
The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show is unlike any other in the world, it is the equivalent of the SuperBowl for supermodels. Bodies like Gisele Bundchen, Heidi Klum, Tyra Banks, grace the runway year in year out for the most-celebrated lingerie event in the runway calendar. A change of scenery for the traditionally American-based fashion show saw the glittery stage set up and a plethora of beautiful women touch down in London town.
Josephine Andersen, a 25 year old Danish-born supermodel found herself sitting backstage in hair and makeup, in a scantily-clad lingerie set with the iconic barely-there silk wrap adorned with the famous branding across the back of her shoulders and ‘Angel Josephine’ across her left side, right above her beating heart. Make no mistake, Josephine was meant to be here. She had worked hard every single day since the last runway event that she was fortunate enough to have walked in for the lingerie brand, to prove her rightful place as an Angel.
Yes, success is the direct result of hard work - and there was no denying that Josephine was a hard worker. She knew that she wasn’t special, and like most, she would have to work for what she wanted out of her life. What she didn’t know before going into the modelling industry at the ripe old age of 13, was that it was as mentally challenging as it was physical. Everyday was a constant battle between her head, her heart, and her agent. Nevertheless, she was aware of how difficult it was to be a woman, but she was also aware of just how fun it could be too.
John Stones, a 27 year old Barnsley-born (although his mate Kyle Walker would argue the point that his postcode says Sheffield but that's a story for another time) footballer for Manchester City Football Club, found himself sitting front row of the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show in London. He had never attended an event quite like it before, his mates sat either side of him ready to enjoy the spectacle that he didn’t think he would ever have the pleasure of attending. With the current season underway and the fact that his home club was a whole 4 hour drive away from his current location, it was a small miracle that the group of lads from Manchester were allowed to attend at all. These boys were down for a night of beautiful women, lingerie and getting up to no good.
The music started, the screen went black, the crowd erupted in applause for the first model through the parting screen - Angel Josephine. Strutting down the runway to Harry Styles' live version of Only Angel, John was mesmerised by the woman before him. She was working the crowd, sensual glances, little smirks, a cheeky grin here and there. Standing at the end of the runway, facing the abundance of cameras, Josephine gave her best smile and a confident wink to the camera before tossing her hair over her shoulder and proceeding to walk back up the runway.
John hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of the girl, he wasn’t sure he had blinked since she stepped foot out on the runway - if he closed his eyes for just a millisecond he would miss too much. He was addicted to her beauty, never having seen something so ethereal in his life. Maybe it was the atmosphere, maybe it was the champagne, but he honestly believed that there was an angel before him. Following her with his eyes as she walked back towards where he was seated, he made eye contact with her and she held it. Sending him a wink, and blowing him a kiss before smirking to herself and exiting the stage. She had no idea the effect that she had on the otherwise cocky man, she had reduced him to a puddle of mush, too intimidated by her beauty. The moment she was out of his sight, it was like he could breathe again, the sound that was previously muted around him returned to its full volume and his tunnel vision had widened to take in the whole show. Taking another sip of his champagne, he caught the eye of his best friend Kyle (yes, the same Kyle from earlier) who smirked and gave him a pat on the shoulder. Kyle had seen the whole interaction, albeit limited and largely one sided, and knew exactly what kind of trouble his friend could get himself into here.
Backstage Josephine was being ushered from the runway to the small curtain that was hanging from a clothes rack, providing a make-shift dressing room for her to strip off of the current segments undergarments and into the next set that had been so kindly draped over the top rail by one of the wardrobe assistants. Normally she would be thriving under the fast paced nature of the evening, the adrenaline pumping through her veins like a drug, however she was encumbered by her own thoughts of the devilishly handsome man in the front row. His eyes were engraved in the back of her mind, when she shut her own eyes she could see the intensity of his stare - it was numbing her, slowing her down. She was desperate for another glance at him, being brought back into the moment by the yell of a backstage hand asking for her to hurry and get into her next wings, she stripped and redressed. Was she lightheaded from the pressure that she had placed on herself to prepare for the evening, or was it because he seemed to take up all of the air in the room and space in her brain? She could argue that she was fulfilling her role as an Angel by winking at him and blowing him a little kiss. It was her job to flirt with the crowd and put on a show after all, but she knew exactly what her intentions were and they were nothing but devilish.
Perhaps the only event more iconic than the fashion show itself, the afterparty was what most people involved in the show looked forward to. The humans, even with their celebrity status, had the opportunity to mix with the angels - who, for one night only, let go of their halos and swapped them for horns. For one night, the beautiful women of the Victoria’s Secret Fashion show in all of their angelic glory; could be as bad as they dared to. This was the unspoken truth of the after party, and if you had the fortune of being able to attend, it was not an event easily passed up.
John found himself once again surrounded by his mates, mingling with the models and his celebrity pals alike. Not once had he forgotten about the first angel he had ever laid eyes on, he didn’t even know her name but by God did he know her body. It was as though the 30-odd seconds she was before him his eyes scanned her from head to toe, every curve of her body engraved into his memory. He could remember how the light reflected off of the body shimmer she had bathed in before walking the runway, how the curve of her waist continued at the perfect degree to complete her perfectly-sized derriere. Before long, he felt the room get smaller and smaller, the air was thicker and his hearing had started to muffle. She was standing in his direct line of sight - not that it would matter if she was standing on the other side of the room, behind a crowd of people, John’s eyes would find and fixate on her.
John watched as she worked the room, obligatory pleasantries flowing from her lips as she double kissed the cheeks of men who were old enough to be her grandfather. He watched their leather-like hands wrap themselves around her lower back, too low for his liking. He watched her smile and pretend that she was comfortable, but he could see the look behind her eyes scream that she shouldn’t trust their words - that they didn’t want to just buy her a drink. Without realising, his hands started to curl around his scotch glass until he had to put it down on the table before him and excuse himself from the company of his friends and the new company they had invited to their table. Weaving his way through the crowd, eyes never leaving the side of her face, he began to make his way towards her. No plan of action, nothing to say, anything would be good enough in an attempt to rescue her from what is looking to be her own personal version of hell. As though the universe had willed it, she looked into the crowd and locked onto the gaze of the tall man who was currently striding towards her. The look on his face told everyone around them that they weren’t to get in his way, to mess with him.
Reaching her, she held her breath and waited for his next steps. Josephine didn’t know what to expect, but the handsome smile that erupted from his previously pursed lips and filled up his face had sent her heart into a frenzy. For just that moment, she chose to believe that that smile was reserved for her and only her. Reaching forward and coincidentally knocking the older man’s arm from around her waist and replacing it with his own, he leant forward and planted a loud kiss to her cheek before wrapping her in a hug that warmed her soul. Her whole body pushed into his, she was unable to see his face but she could hear his heart and it told her that she was safe.
“I’m so proud of you, babe. I reckon I'm the luckiest guy in the room to be able to call you my girlfriend” He said into her ear, loud enough for the group of older men to hear and begin to talk amongst themselves after realising they had no chance with the Danish beauty, not that she ever gave them that impression to begin with.
Pulling away from the tall man, she looked up at him and gave him her best smile, a sincere smile. She ran her hands down from his back and found his hands that were placed on her waist, lacing their fingers together and pulling him off into the crowd to the bar.
“So, boyfriend, do you have a name?” She spoke whilst picking up the vodka on the rocks - not her favourite drink but it had little to no calories and anything that had a calorie count lower than her weight, which was difficult enough to find in the first place, was a win in her eyes.
“John, but I prefer to be called your boyfriend, even if it's only for one night” John spoke back to her, looking down at the angel who had covered herself up a bit more since the last time he had the pleasure of looking at her. However, the outfit she was currently wearing still allowed John’s mind, and eyes, to wander. A secret moment shared between the two in an overcrowded room.
PART 2. (smut warning)
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sopxhiea · 3 years
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Lush
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Alfie Solomons X Reader
Summary: Gradually but surely, the wild girl becomes easier to tame by Alfie but all he really wants to do is to set her wrath free and to be the only one who gets to have her.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8
"All it did was to turn me on."
“Everyone already thinks that we’re dating.”
Alfie was an unusual man. 
Not because of his status as the big bad boss or the fact that he always had his cane with him lately. It had nothing to do with his reputation or the countless illegal things he’d done, not even remotely related to the fact that he had killed men with his bare hands and would do it again in a heart beat if the occasion called for it. 
And certainly not because he still had you around.
The curtains were drawn, the space was unusually quiet for a weekday. No one dared to make a noise, except for the occasional footsteps and the shuffling. Some of the men were sitting closer to the window and their faces could be made out but you had no idea who was on the other side of the room, not that it mattered.
There would be the usual screaming, it was easy to spot it from miles away and you certainly looked forward to it.
It wasn’t fair, not really but it was never directed at you so you didn’t find it in yourself to care. Alfie would yell at the lads around every now and then, it had already been done earlier in the week but a boss had to do what a boss had to do and Alfie saw that as shouting at middle aged men so they’d do their jobs a little better. 
All it did was to turn you on.
There were things that were hard to explain: how you liked your tea with lots of sugar and why you knew how to stitch a wound back together were only some of them and this just added to the long list of things. It didn’t bother you, just created an uncomfortable itch on your skin that made you want to be as close to the man as possible.
But the gem was still on.
The rules were slightly changed now that he had given you employment and a house. It didn’t put you in the lower part, you still had the upper hand and would never lose that but there were facts to consider and one of them was that Alfie was a man of extreme power who also happened to be a gangster.
It was only sensible to act carefully around the distillery with all the strange men going around. Ollie was with you most of the time when you left the office to go get something, per Alfie’s orders to keep you safe all the time. You still had a blade on your leg and a revolver in your bag but in Alfie’s eyes, those weren’t the most dangerous things about you.
Alfie was a strange man.
He had taken care of the bastard for you, his cold body had been swimming in Thames for a while now. You had thanked him kindly, in proper fashion but he knew there was a catch. This time he got to have that catch.
He still hadn’t asked for his favor.
You had not been into his bed yet, although it had been awfully close once, but he seemed to be determined with something else. You didn’t quite know if it was an ulterior motive of sorts, to get ahead of you in the game and if it was, you’d have to grant his wish since you’d promised him.
Even though you still didn’t know what it was.
You watched the lads exit the room one by one and the screaming started pretty soon after that. Alfie was fuming but the day had been a normal one, although it was hard to tell with him. His moods had been shifting too quickly lately, he was angry one minute and horny the next and you never really knew what was coming.
You stood in front of the door when the screams subdued and you could hear his agitated groans while he walked towards his office. He realized you’d been waiting for him when he spotted you and watched your flushed cheeks offer him a gentle smile. He didn’t return it but it compelled him.
Was something wrong?
You wouldn’t put it that way. After months of toying with the man, you had realized that this was wearing you down, too. The game was fun and you still played it well but touch after touch, little kisses here and there had weakened you. Alfie was already ready to go whenever you’d ask for a kiss which showed his frustration and it only made you respect him more for waiting for your call on it.
But he was becoming very hard to resist.
You took pride in having a thicker coarse of patience when it came to things that made you frustrated in any way but there you were, trying to calm yourself down as he walked towards you. You gulped right before he stepped in front of you, he didn’t say anything at first but just looked at you for a clue as to what was bothering you.
Nothing was wrong, you told yourself in a row for fifteen times. Nothing was. So what if he was becoming too hard to resist? You still got to kiss him as much as you wanted and at first, you’d though that would subdue your need for him but it turned out that it was just the opposite, the more you kissed him, the hungrier you got.
But now was not the time to give in.
He furrowed his eyebrows, arms at his side as he looked down on you. Your cheeks were flushed more than usual, eyes deep with something he’d seen before but he wasn’t so quick to judge. You were deceiving in many ways and who knew what was making you feel this way.
Except that the bastard knew.
“What’s happened, pet?” he spoke, voice soft as opposed to how he had been behaving a minute ago. You gulped, too subtle for him to notice but your cheeks gave you away anyway.
He knew that this turned you on: the power he had, the way men averted his gaze and most of all, the dominance he possessed. He had seen you lick your lips one too many times, voice always breathy when he’d return from shouting at the lads. That was the only time he’d seen you grow almost a bit sloppy, needy for his touch but you had immense self control and he wouldn’t deny that.
You blinked, looking at him through angry eyes. He knew what it did to you and yet, he had the audacity to flaunt it in front of you like this. It was fair, you supposed, you had tortured him a good amount and it equaled things between the two of you.
“Nothing too important.” you spoke, not tearing your eyes away from his lips as he looked down at your small form.
You were a marvel to play with.
“Didn’t scare you with all the fuckin’ shoutin’, now, did I?” he spoke, poking the beast with every little word that came out of his mouth. He was confident, cocky almost and it made you smile.
You were still the one who controlled the ropes.
Who was he to think that he could win?
His hand cupped your chin and titled your head softly so that you were looking directly at him, craning your neck to see the smirk on his face. It would wipe off soon, you knew. You blinked once or twice, far too innocent for him to think that you had an ulterior motive and spoke, voice soft against his face.
“All it did was to turn me on, sir.” you spoke, saying ‘sir’ like it would open the gates of hell for him. 
It took him a minute. 
It was times like these when he came into his senses. Sure, he was a wealthy handsome man but you knew the game like the back of your hand. He felt his pants tighten almost immediately, his body entirely too reactive to any act that came from you at this point. A grunt came out of his throat after a while, one of extreme approval but it was still a work place.
He nodded, blinked and nodded some more as an attempt to calm himself down but you were too impatient. You shot him a knowing smirk and walked inside the office, knowing very well that he’d be watching your every move. He gulped before following you after a minute of just standing in the same position, unable to get himself to move.
You’d be the death of him and he knew.
His grunts and murmurs about ‘not being respected in his own work place’ filled your air as you waited for him to close the door.
-----
“What do you mean exactly?” your voice was angry at this point, no point in hiding the already evident emotion on your face.
The audacity Alfie had still surprised you to this day.
Your arms were crossed as you looked at his sitting form behind the desk, he wasn’t fazed, not in the slightest but simply observing you and it only made you more mad. Your cheeks were flushed, from anger this time and he thought you were simply a vision but your words cut him off again. Like venom from a pretty crystal.
“Are you going to answer or should I repeat myself again?” you said, not beating around the bush in the slightest.
“It’s just a fuckin’ business meeting, pet. Jus’ a bit too far than the usual fuckin’ place.” he spoke, nonchalant about the whole thing.
“Alfie, first off it’s in Birmingham.” you said, trying to level down with him so that whatever that came out of your mouth didn’t mean that he would lash out at someone else later. It wasn’t a pretty sight. “And why do you need me to come?” you spoke, purely out of confusion this time. 
What was he planning?
Sure, you played with fire but gangsters were a different kind of fire you were adamant on keeping away from. You had your dangerous man in front of you and one big gangster was enough, let alone two of them. You knew he had to make appearances here and there but this was out of the game, not something you had ever planned on doing.
“You scared, little bird?” he spoke, not joking in the slightest due to the look of uncertainty on your face. You gulped and nodded before speaking, voice a hushed whisper this time.
“These are not just any men.” you spoke while Alfie got up from his chair and walked from his desk to where you were standing, listening to you as you spoke with a look of adoration somewhere in his eyes. “I don’t want to die because I got stuck in between two gangsters in a pissing contest.” you spoke at last, knowing how these things went at this point.
“Nothing like that, eh?” he spoke, face closer to yours as he looked at your small form. He wasn’t blaming you, this was normal at the sight of something as dangerous.
But he’d protect you, he owed himself that.
You nodded at the words, searching his eyes for any sign of threat or underlying intention, there was nothing. This scary burly man who many feared had turned out to be a giant sweetheart and it scared and surprised you at every single turn. He was supposed to be a ruthless but all he had been to you was gentle.
It confused you to no end.
“What am I in this scenario, then?” you spoke, voice back to normal as you walked around the room with the swift sway of your hips.
The game was on.
“What would ya’ like to be, pet?” he spoke, hand waving through the air around as he looked at you. You shot him a small smile and he crossed his arms while standing in the same position.
“You’re the boss, aren’t you?” you spoke, answering his question with a more cunning one and it only made him chuckle deeply.
Your eyebrows raised slightly at the sound, far too used to the antics the two of you had but you were gradually becoming softer, easier on him and even forgot about the game of push and pull. You’d never lost a round, not yet but he was breaking down your walls, melting them one by one by the sweet torture of kindness.
He was not a regular man.
You’d thought he’d be a tough one to crack, pull a gun on you at some point and definitely offer you a lot of money to get you into bed: these were the things you’d expected from the Camden gangster but all he’d ask for were kisses and for you to be around. He had turned out to be generous, something you hadn’t seen in a while and it made your heart feel some type of way.
“You, yeah, you’ll be my fuckin’ secretary then.” he said, playing it safe but you turned around and spoke, confident as a minx as you looked into his eyes.
“Why not your girl?” you said, a smile on your lips and it took him by surprise.
He had to be careful so that he wouldn’t accidentally wound himself with the sight of you.
“My girl, eh?” he spoke, smiling but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was curious, wanted you to go further with your words.
“Your sweetheart, the woman you sleep with, your little bird..” you elaborated, treating him like the old man he was and it brought a smile to his lips, each little word that left your mouth shot straight through his heart. “...you know?”
Oh, he knew.
He wasn’t daft, or blind in any way. Ever since he had met you, it felt like a storm had hit him right in his heart. It wasn’t fair, he thought, that he was the one to succumb like this but he was willing to, if it meant that you’d be his. He had no intentions of taming you, no, just to know that you belonged to him at the end of each day. He wanted to be your home, the pair arms to hold you. 
And that wasn’t like him.
Wasn’t he a cruel gangster, one that had killed many with just his fists? Why did it matter now that his old heart wanted someone? It had been a very long time since he’d felt the longing for a soul, long before the war. The feeling was still gut wrenching. Too dense for him to swallow. 
“Why would ya’ want that?” he asked, eyes following you and he stopped at your features to watch for any sign of emotion.
Only mischief.
He was the one in the wrong for playing with you in the first place, the one to blame for how deep he was in the mud but he didn’t want to get out. You were siren for him, a calling of sorts and even if it meant that you’d ruin him beyond recognition, he didn’t care. He supposed he had never cared.
“Everyone already thinks we’re dating.” you spoke, amusement dancing in your eyes and it earned a smile from him.
“Yeah?” he asked, but he knew the answer all too well.
You weren’t officially his girl, certainly not behind closed doors but on the street, you wore his name like an armor. You weren’t between the walls of the school anymore and people talked, really talked, around here. For all of Camden knew, you were his girl and it would not take long before you were wed.
Although there were other things said about you, too.
You were not easily tamed, most still saw you around certain clubs each week but the whispers were loud. It didn’t bother you, people liked to talk and that was not something you had control over. But the things you’d heard made you snicker. About how it was the perfect match: you and Alfie. 
The wild girl and the ruthless gangster.
You smiled at him and nodded, almost too gently this time. Your words were audible as you spoke, voice still softer than what he was used to. “I’m sure you’ve heard.”
“Aye, I have.” he said in a heartbeat. He liked the chatter, most gossip was shit and usually untrue but people had so many scenarios of how it had happened that it made him smile.
For some, he had slept with you on your first date and couldn’t get enough. Some others thought that he had proposed on the first date, unable to resist your charm. Word had gotten around your absence in the boarding house which only made people think you were knocked up and about to get married.
“Which one is your favorite?” you said, finding this all too fun with the one person who knew what had actually gone down.
He smiled and watched you relax on the sofa after you sat down, hand tugging at his beard as he spoke.
“I heard one, yeah, I did where you were fuckin’ pregnant.” he spoke, amused at the words that were coming out of his mouth and it made you giggle, all of it. “And apparently we’re gettin’ fuckin’ married next week.” he said and you smiled at the words.
“So what do you say, hm?” you spoke, reminding him of your proposition of posing as his lover.
It was all too tempting.
But he wasn’t sure if he could just act that way, controlling himself around you had been hard enough without you acting like you were his girl. He looked at you for a while, almost measuring something before clearing his throat. You were still sitting on the sofa when he spoke.
“Alright.” he exhaled, a low smile on his lips while you looked at him with wide eyes.
“Alright?” you said, a little taken back by the fact that he’d agreed. Sure, you were the one who had the upper hand and he’d be a fool to say no but he was still the gangster in this equation, the one with the gun and the power.
“Why the fuck not, eh?” he said, more talking to himself than you. You let him go on, rambling on like he usually did while leaning against his desk.
You got up, slow enough for him to get a good look at you and walked towards the man. He really had to do something about the tightness of his pants, he noted while watching you. It was an innocent act from the outside but your eyes told him otherwise. Your voice was breathy, like how it would sound after he kissed you senseless.
“But you have to act the part, sir.” you spoke against his face, he was leaning against desk and almost sitting on it but somehow still taller than you.
You looked right into his eyes, not breaking eye contact as you licked your lips. His eyes followed your tongue, watched the way you wet your lips and it earned a gulp from him. You smiled afterwards, his eyes didn’t leave your lips. His hand found your waist, slowly caressing the soft skin over the silky material of your dress.
“I will.” he said, gently pulling you towards him by the waist. He was about to kiss you but you put your hand on his chest, stopping him.
“It’s just business.” you spoke, reminding him of where he stood in the game.
He was losing, badly so but he didn’t seem to care in the slightest.
It worried you.
The game was only fun if he played with you. So far, he had put up a good fight but he was getting careless about it. He let you win, easy and clean. You wanted the chase, the thrill but Alfie just seemed to want you. There were times he caught you off guard, he was still good at the game but it seemed as though he didn’t care anymore.
And a vision of you with him in the future struck you.
If he let you win this much, he was willing to be around as much as you let him.
“I kno’ that, you minx.” he spoke against your face before stealing a kiss from you. You let him, too distracted by your own thoughts.
Maybe you would sleep with him.
It only seemed fair. 
You took a few steps back, he let you go while keeping his eyes on you. You would tell him, he didn’t seem to be playing the game and it threw you off. You took a breath, looked at him and spoke with certainty.
“I’m going to leave now. Come by at 6 pm sharp.” you spoke, calculating and he knew what it meant.
He had done it, cracked the code.
It was your way of giving him a way in. It wasn’t surrender, the opposite. You held enough power to let him have you but the chase had you tired, frustrated almost and you needed some relief. Your own hands didn’t do the dreams justice and you knew, you just knew, he’d make it worth his own while.
You’d be waiting in your own home, ready for him to get you into bed with all you had. Everything had been a bit too much lately and you thought you deserved a treat, Alfie was the sweetest treat of them all afterwards. You looked at his smile, inviting and happy like a kid as he eyed the clock and prayed for the minutes to pass by faster.
You were not surrendering, you thought yourself.
This was not you losing, just giving him an in.
“If you’re late by a minute, Mr. Solomons, you don’t get to have me.”
He watched you leave with an expression he hadn’t seen before and looked at the clock the entire time while waiting for 6 pm to come around. There was a silly smile on his lips, one that he had not put on since the war.
He had won.
----
Tagging: @clairecrive  @parkbearum @sourirez  @vetseras @mollybegger-blog @babylooneytoonz @peakascum @fuseburner @r-rose08 @innerpaperexpertcloud @caffinated-tree @cathartichaoss  @ihavefandomsssss @thatchickwiththecamera @sugarcoated-lame @alainabooks143 @enrapturedbythemoon @a-southern-doctors-drawl  @houseofdupree @evangelinesolomons​  @kissmyoops a/n: This is taking a different turn but i’m not mad at it :) I’m getting a lil’ bit busy with school but i will keep them coming as fast as I can. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and do let me know what you thought of it!!
Happy Spring, dear ones <3
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