Jess: Me at Eloise Bridgerton type "feminist" characters in tv and film
If you can't tell, I'm girly as hell and any good feminist should NEVER look down on women who tend to vibe with feminine attributes.
It doesn't make them less than and shoe horning in "feminists" in period dramas who do nothing but rant, act holier than thou and look down on the more "girlier" characters is a complete disservice to women and girls who watch this and feel like they should rid themselves of femininity altogether in order to be taken seriously by others (case in point, Season 6-8 Sansa Stark)
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…and the vet was like, “You know the thing with geriatric cats is—” and I was like, “What do you mean, geriatric?! It’s a little baby, look at her!"
Kumail Nanjiani: Night Thoughts (2025)
A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: The north and the south have different approaches to nightmares.
Word Count: 4,4k
Warnings: Explicit language, mentions of pregnancy, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Days after Bran’s fall, he still wasn’t awake.
And once again, you were seeing just how different the north was to south.
Though none had been as serious as Bran’s case, you were no stranger to falling ill when you were little. And whenever you did fall ill, every single time, the life in the castle would all but stop; your father would always assign someone else to handle his duties so that he could be by your side while the maesters treated you, just like Silas who would refuse to leave the room no matter how much your father insisted.
That hadn’t been the case in Winterfell.
Granted, Lady Stark hadn’t left Bran’s room ever since that morning. She was a mess, anyone could see that, and you couldn’t even decide whether your heart broke more for Bran or her. She didn’t sleep, she barely ate, and though you had tried your hardest to offer words of comfort, you were quite certain she was deaf to all.
However, not everyone had taken the same approach to such tragedy.
“What do you mean, your father is still leaving?”
Robb heaved a sigh, looking over his shoulder to the window to Bran’s room in the keep before he turned to you, drumming his fingertips on the table.
“He gave his word to the king that he would be the Hand.”
If it were any other person in the south, you would’ve assumed it was the ambition that dragged him away from his sick son and already mourning wife, but Lord Stark was the last person to do that. Your brows furrowed while you tried to wrap your head around the idea, staring at him.
“But if Bran…”
“He won’t die,” he cut you off, his voice determined like thought he could force the reality to bend to his words if he said them with enough conviction. “He’ll wake soon, and he’ll be fine.”
You blinked a couple of times, then nodded fervently.
“Oh I know.”
No you didn’t.
Neither did Robb. Neither did anyone.
“I just think—” You licked your lips. “Will your mother not be upset that he’s leaving at such time?”
“He gave his word,” Robb repeated. “It’s a matter of honor and duty. She will understand.”
You wouldn’t.
Gods forbid, if you found yourself in such state; if someday your child was fighting for his life and Robb left to ‘do his duty’?
You were not like Lady Catelyn, honor and duty would have to wait.
Robb raised his hand to wave at Jon who lingered by the entrance of the keep for a moment, then made his way to you.
“Good morrow,” he said. “Robb, father wants to see you.”
“Now?”
“Aye.”
“Did you talk to him yet?”
“Not yet,” Jon answered as you looked between them. “Tonight, perhaps.”
Robb bit inside his cheek. “And you’re sure about this?”
“About what?” you asked and Robb ran a hand through his curls.
“Jon is thinking of joining the Night’s Watch.”
Your eyes widened.
“What?” you squealed, your stomach doing a painful flip. “Jon, you must be jesting.”
“It’s a great honor.”
Alright, you had it up there with northerners and their honor, and it wasn’t even noon yet.
“I’ll be back,” Robb said and pressed a kiss on top of your head, then crossed the yard to enter the keep. You gawked at Jon who motioned at the seat as if asking for your permission and you nodded.
“Please,” you said in a rush and he sat down. “You cannot be serious.”
“It’s—”
“A great honor, I heard you the first time,” you finished his sentence, too impatient to wait. “The Wall is far from Winterfell.”
“That’s the idea.”
You pulled back a little when it dawned on you. “Jon…”
“Me being there will put a lot of people’s hearts at ease.”
No actually, it was going to put only one person’s heart at ease.
Lady Stark.
You were guessing Lord Stark’s departure was related to this. He was the one who had a soft spot for Jon, unlike Lady Stark who disliked his presence, and made no attempt to hide it. You couldn’t blame Jon for wanting to be out of her sight, but spending his life at the Wall as a soldier did not sound like the perfect solution to that.
Not to mention, Silas would have never forgiven you if you let his affair go off to the Wall to spend the rest of his life celibate and frozen.
“Not any of your siblings’ hearts.”
“Sansa and Arya will be in the south.”
“Robb will be here,” you reminded him. “So will Bran, who I’m sure would be devastated if he woke up and couldn’t find you here. And Rickon.”
“They’ll understand,” he said. “With my father in the Capital, Lady Stark will rule in his stead as the Lady of Winterfell—”
“Current,” you corrected him, making him tilt his head like a confused puppy, a gesture you had seen Robb do multiple times.
“Hm?”
“Current Lady of Winterfell. Funny how titles work, because as Robb likes to remind me, I’m to be the future Lady of Winterfell, and I’d very much like to have you here,” you said. “And I’m afraid you’re mistaken. With your father in the Capital, Robb will be ruling in his stead, and he wants you here as well.”
A frown pinched his forehead while he stayed silent, and you reached out to squeeze his forearm in an assuring manner.
“Please,” you said. “Stay, at least for a while. If you still think the same in a year, I swear I’ll embroider you a handkerchief that says the Lord of Night’s Watch for you to take it with you—”
“The Night’s Watch doesn’t have lords,” he stated, although your jest seemed to twitch his lips into a tiny smile. “It’s a brotherhood.”
“Whatever it is that they have over there.” You waved a hand dismissively. “But Jon, come on. You’re the only person I can talk to here, and Robb is going to be so busy. I’d like to have someone who I can trust, gods know I lack those here.”
Jon swallowed thickly, lowering his gaze to his hands.
“My whole family is away,” you reminded him. “And I already see you as one of my brothers. It’d put my heart at ease to have you here, as I know it would Silas’. You are one of the very few people whom he trusts.”
When his eyes snapped up to yours again, the stubborn light in them softened albeit in hesitance. You couldn’t help but smile at the unfamiliar sight, and he blinked a couple of times like he was trying to pull himself together, letting out a breath.
“You’d still have Theon,” he joked, making you grimace.
“Gods, even more reason for you to stay,” you muttered. “Can he not join the Night’s Watch?”
Jon bit back his grin. “I doubt he would.”
“Can we not offer his name?” you asked, and for once that managed to make Jon burst into laughter while you giggled. “No I’m serious—Jon listen, we can write a letter of recommendation, I’m quite good at those!”
On the day of departure, Lady Stark didn’t come out of Bran’s room to see Lord Stark and the girls off, they went there instead. You were almost certain that it was because she was angry at the fact that Lord Stark was leaving for the south, but it wasn’t as if you could ask her, or anyone else. On happier news for you, Robb had told you that Jon decided to wait a little before he joined the Night’s Watch, and though you knew it would’ve made Lady Stark upset if she knew you had made him change his mind, you were glad for it either way, and so was Robb.
Right after breakfast, while the squires readied the horses, you gifted Sansa two of your silk gowns that you had asked the seamstress alter for her. She hugged you tight, telling you all her plans to become the best queen the realm had ever seen, and even though you still weren’t sure about Prince Joffrey, you made sure to share her enthusiasm, promising her that you’d come to see her in King’s Landing before her wedding. You also told her to make friends and stay close to Margaery as much as she could, hoping that she would listen.
Arya, on the other hand, wasn’t as easy to give advice, or presents.
“I have been straining my mind to find out what to gift you,” You plopped down next to her on the stairs while the servants carried the chests into carriages, her direwolf Nymeria curled up at her feet. “And I’m told Jon already gave you a sword?”
Arya grinned at you.
“He did! I named it Needle.”
“A very fitting name.”
“And you don’t have to gift me anything,” she added. “I don’t need silk gowns.”
You hummed.
“Do you have no trust in me at all?” you asked and held out the small package, Arya’s face lighting up. She tore the paper open, then held her breath when she saw the armguard that you embroidered with direwolves. “Consider it my thank you for teaching me how to shoot arrows. Even though I’m not quite as good as you at that just yet.”
She threw herself into your arms, making you let out a laugh and hug her tight.
“Thank you!”
“Of course, my sweet,” you said when she pulled back. “And I have another thing for you.”
You placed the small gold medallion into her palm, making her frown as she lifted it to inspect it.
“What is this?”
“That is a special medallion that Cliff gave all of my brothers and I,” you said and paused for a second, then took a deep breath. “Arya, King’s Landing can be a very dangerous place. And I know how adventurous you are, so you might find yourself in trouble away from the Red Keep. If that happens…” you trailed off. “Find a harbour. Tell a captain there you’re Cliff Greensted’s sister, and show them this. They’ll take you to him, and he’ll bring you to safety. No matter what.”
She shifted her weight. “Will he teach me how to be a pirate if I do that?”
A small burst of laughter escaped you.
“We’ll see,” you said. “Keep this with you all the time, promise?”
“Promise. But think about it, I could be a great pirate.”
“If there’s anyone in the realm who could be anything they want, it’s you,” you told her. “And it’s a good thing you have a lot of time to decide what it is.”
“If I were a pirate like Cliff,” she mused, “I’d go on so many adventures, and come back with many stories.”
“He has great stories, does he not?”
“And I’d bring your babe things from all over the realm too.”
Your head shot up. “Hm?”
“Your and Robb’s I mean,” she said as if that wasn’t clear, and you tried to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat.
“We don’t have a babe, my sweet.”
“Sansa thinks you will.” She shrugged her shoulders. “So do your ladies-in-waiting, I heard them talking.”
“Only the gods know those things,” you managed to say. “In the meantime, promise me you’ll use that medallion when you need it, not when being a pirate sounds like a fun idea.”
“Fine, fine…” she mumbled and stole a look at you. “Do you mean it?”
“Mean what?”
“That I could be what I want to be.”
Well, that was a complicated question; the realm didn’t offer many options to girls. While your brothers got to be whatever they wanted to be, you yourself had always known you’d wed one day and become a lady of a castle. Thankfully your father and Silas protected you from the fate that many unfortunate women faced and made sure you wed someone who was handsome, kind and honorable who turned out to be the love of your life, but at the end of the day, marriage was one of the very limited options you had as a woman.
The other was becoming a septa.
But you weren’t going to tell Arya that. Instead, in the future, when her father—and Robb— decided it was time for her to be betrothed, you were going to make sure to find someone who would be to her liking.
And who knew, really? Arya’s family loved her, and times were changing.
Perhaps she could indeed be something else other than a lady of the castle.
“All my brothers chose their own paths,” you commented. “It can’t be that hard if they did it.”
She frowned in deep thought. “Did you choose yours?”
“Not in the sense my brothers did,” you admitted. “But I’m very lucky either way, and very happy.”
“You’ve always wanted to wed Robb?”
“I’ve known him for two moons, my sweet,” you told her with a laugh. “I didn’t even know he existed until I was informed of our betrothal. I…” You paused for a moment, then reached out to hold her hand. “I think there’s nothing wrong with having different goals. Mine were quite similar to my friends’ when I was your age, yours are not. It doesn’t mean either of us are in the wrong; everyone’s happiness looks different, simple as that.”
She heaved a deep sigh, then turned your head when Sansa’s voice reached you both from the yard.
“Arya, time to go!”
“Coming!” she called out and you both got up from the stairs, then made your way to the yard with Nymeria following you behind. Sansa and her wolf Lady were already by the carriages, and it seemed that the whole family except Lady Stark and Bran were in the yard to see them off. Arya went directly to Jon and Robb, and you curtsied at the king and the queen before approaching Lord Stark.
“I wish you and the girls a safe trip, Lord Stark.”
“Thank you, my lady,” he said and his eyes found Robb over your shoulder. “Make sure he doesn’t throw himself into another duel if anyone from the south comes by?”
A laugh climbed your throat.
“I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“And uh—” He cleared his throat. “If Bran…”
“Robb will send you a raven as soon as he wakes up,” you assured him. “And I’ll make sure to help Lady Stark in the meantime. Do not worry about here, Robb and I already talked of what to do in your absence.”
That managed to make him smile, even if it was a little.
“I appreciate that.”
“And I haven’t got the chance to thank you before,” you added. “For agreeing to our union. I recognize the rest of the north hoped for something different, but I love Robb, and I’ll be grateful to you my whole life.”
“I gave him the same advice yesterday, but he stops listening whenever you’re anywhere within his sight,” he said, a fire awakening under your cheeks. “I’m glad you two are happy, but a marriage takes more effort than just depending on love. With all these new responsibilities on both of you, do keep that in mind.”
“I will.”
“Let’s go!” the king’s loud voice rang in the yard, and you rushed to bid the girls goodbye, then went over to Robb’s side. Rickon was clinging to his leg, Shaggydog by Grey Wind and Ghost’s side while Robb nodded at his father in acknowledgment, no trace of worry on his face in such northern manner. Lord Stark mounted on his horse and turned his head, his eyes stopping on Bran’s window. For a moment you wondered whether Lady Stark was looking out the window, but you forced yourself not to check seeing that it would’ve been rather intruding, so you smiled at Rickon instead, whose brows were furrowed in worry. He blinked back the tears when his father turned his horse around and followed the king out of the yard, and Robb ruffled his hair.
“You’re alright,” he told him, more of a statement than a question while Maester Luwin approached Robb to mutter something into his ear.
“I’ll be right there,” Robb told him, and you tilted your head.
“What is it?”
“There are some petitions I must listen to,” he said and pressed a kiss on your temple. “I’ll find you later. Jon, I need you in the room as well.”
Jon nodded his head and they both walked away from you and Rickon, who lingered in his spot as if he didn’t know what to do. You could see your ladies-in-waiting by the entrance of the keep and Wylla motioned at you as if asking you whether you needed anything, but you shook your head, then crouched down get to Rickon’s eye level.
“Rickon my sweet,” you said, reaching to push his hair out of his eyes, noting once again that just like most of his siblings, he took after his mother in looks. “May I ask something of you and Shaggydog?”
He nodded in silence.
“You’ve met Frost, have you not?”
His hand shooting up to his mouth so that he could bite at his thumb. “Yes.”
“I’ll go to the stables to check on her and give her some treats,” you said. “And then I’ll visit my horse Silk to do the same. Do you mind helping me?”
He looked up at you with wide eyes. “Me?”
“Of course,” you said. “And Shaggydog can wait at the door to protect us, how does that sound?”
He held his breath and nodded fervently, an adorable look of determination settling on his face as if you had just given him the most important duty in the realm.
“He will!” he said. “Shaggy already knows not to hurt Frost. And I’ll help you!”
“Wonderful,” you said and straightened up, then took his small hand into yours. “Now come. We need to get treats from the kitchens, Frost loves carrots, and Silk loves green apples.”
You had spent the entire day with Rickon; at first letting him feed Frost and Silk, and then you and the rest of your ladies-in-waiting made sure to keep an eye on him. Lyra had volunteered to be a monster to spar with him with wooden swords while Jorelle and Wylla pretended to be maidens he had to save until dinner time, the simple game managing to distract him from Bran and his mother, and the rest of the family who had left for the Capital.
With Lady Catelyn nowhere in sight, it had fallen upon you to converse with the other northern guests and be the lady of the castle, despite them being more familiar with Winterfell than you. The irony wasn’t lost on you or them, but surprisingly no one had commented on it, and you couldn’t help but wonder whether it was because Robb was in charge of the castle and by extension the north now. Robb had sent you word with a servant that he wouldn’t be joining dinner, and he had been busy with some northern lords in his father’s solar—or his solar now, if you had to guess—until after you retired to your and his bedchambers. You took a bath, got into your nightgown and were just in the process of writing a letter to Silas when Robb entered the room and flung himself on the bed facedown. You looked up from your scroll, biting back a smile.
“I take it you’ve had a very peaceful day.”
Robb groaned into the pillow before he reached to open and close his hand as if grasping air without lifting his head from the pillow. You raised your brows.
“Am I supposed to understand—”
“Come here,” he said, raising his head a little so that you could make out what he was saying, and you repressed a grin.
“Am I being commanded?”
“Implored,” he whined. “Please?”
You took your time crossing the room with deliberately slow steps, and the moment you reached bed Robb sat up so that he could wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you to his lap in haste. A giggle climbed your throat while he buried his face to the deep plunge of your cleavage, his beard scratching at your skin in the most pleasant way.
“They are so vexing,” Robb’s voice came out muffled while you played with his auburn curls, tension washing off his shoulders. “And unreasonable.”
You hummed, running your nails over his scalp and down to the nape of his neck.
“Gods, you smell amazing,” he mumbled into your skin, coaxing a smile out of you.
“If you think flattery will make me forget that I couldn’t see you whole day…” you teased him and he lifted his head to look at you with heavy lids, the sight making your heart skip a happy beat. The rest of what you were going to say long forgotten, you leaned in to brush your lips against his, but you both snapped out of it when someone knocked on the door, making your stomach drop.
Gods, if it was this late at night…
You slipped off his lap and put on your dressing gown, your heart slamming against your ribcage while Robb made his way to the door with a frown on his face, but the moment he opened it, Rickon rushed inside to clutch at his leg.
“I had a nightmare!”
You pressed a hand on your chest and let out a breath, thanking the gods that it wasn’t bad news about Bran.
“Rickon…” Robb said with a tired sigh and crouched down while Rickon sniffled, clutching his direwolf toy to his chest.
“I had a nightmare, father was dead and they put him in the crypts—”
“Father is on his way to King’s Landing,” Robb told him while you crossed the room, and Rickon’s big tearful eyes snapped up to you, your heart clenching at the sight of fear in them. “He’s not in the crypts, and he’s most certainly not dead.”
“But he was!” Rickon insisted as you crouched down as well, reaching out to hold his little hand. “He was, I swear it!”
“It was just a nightmare, that’s all,” Robb said, wiping the tears off Rickon’s chubby cheeks. “Come on now. You’re a northman, and a Stark. We don’t cry.”
You frowned at Robb, then turned to Rickon to give him a smile.
“Nightmares can be very scary,” you told him while he hiccupped. “Would you like to sleep between us tonight, my sweet?”
“Wait, what?” Robb asked incredulously, then shook his head. “No. Rickon, go back to your own room. There’s nothing to be scared of.”
You narrowed your eyes at him.
“Robb, would you mind stepping out with me for a moment?” you asked and straightened up, then grabbed his wrist to lead him out of the room into the hallway where Grey Wind was curled up by the door, but this time he was accompanied by Shaggydog. You stepped away from the door so that Rickon wouldn’t hear you, then whirled around on your heels to glare up at Robb. “Is this your first time hearing what a nightmare is?”
“He’s not sleeping between us just because he had a nightmare,” he said. “He’s a northerner, and a Stark.”
“He’s a child,” you reminded him, pointing back at the room, “and he’s terrified!”
“He won’t be a child forever,” Robb insisted. “And he must learn to face his fears.”
“And you think he must learn to face his fears at this moment, when his brother is sick, half of his family have left, and his mother is too worried to leave Bran’s room?”
Robb’s jaw clenched.
“He can’t expect to be soothed whenever he’s scared.”
“When else should he expect to be soothed?” you asked. “When I was his age, whenever I had a nightmare—”
“We’re not coddling him,” he cut you off. “We don’t do that in the north. I understand that things are different in the south, but winter is coming. He must learn.”
Of course.
You should’ve known. Lord Stark had taken Bran to watch a traitor be executed just last month, and Robb was raised believing that was normal and expected.
It was very clear House Stark raised children much differently than House Greensted.
You gritted your teeth, then looked in the direction of the room over your shoulder before you turned to him, crossing your arms.
“Are you going to be like this when we have our own?”
“Are you?” he asked back with a tense chuckle. “Because we’re not going to be raising little southern lordlings who cling to their mother’s skirts whenever they’re scared.”
Anger shot through you faster than lightning.
“We’re not going to be raising little northern lordlings who’re not even allowed to cry after a nightmare either—you know what?” You held up a hand. “I’m not going to stay here and argue with you when your little brother is terrified.”
“He’s going back to his room—”
“He’s not,” you retorted. “He either sleeps between us tonight, or he can sleep in my bedchambers with me and Frost while you sleep alone in your own.”
He scoffed in disbelief. “My wife sleeps in my bed—”
“Your wife sleeps wherever she wants!” you snapped, glaring up at him. “It’s up to you where you sleep, but I am not sending a terrified child to his own room.”
Your name left his lips in exasperation while you walked away from him and entered the bedchambers to find Rickon already sitting on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs while still clutching to his direwolf toy. You went over to sit next to him as Robb entered the bedchambers and closed the door behind him.
“Would you like a bedtime story, my sweet?” you asked Rickon who sniffled and wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, then nodded vigorously and pulled himself up to get comfortable under the covers. Robb threw his head back, then held up his hands to gesture surrender after you shot a curt glare in his direction.
“I said nothing,” he grumbled as you raised your brows at him, then smiled at Rickon.
“Alright then,” you said, your voice soft. “Would you like to hear about the first king of the Reach?”
have you ever made a sort of titus danforth x female reader fic where titus is hades and the reader is persephone? she’s back for another season in the underworld, and she’s completely at the mercy of titus. it’s total power exchange, just how titus’s character in ready or not likes it.
WAITTT ANON YOU'RE COOKING SO HARD.... this is so incredibly canon..... hades!titus who waits for you in danforth manor all summer long and can't keep his hands off of you when you return :(
i am going to be thinking deeply about this and i will def post something i promise !!!!!!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
yeah the guy who invented them made incredibly precise infusion pumps (as opposed to gravity fed ivs) which not only meant they could give medications to teeny tiny babies safely, it's also used for insulin pumps and portable dialysis machines. the key element is that it's a peristaltic pump so the liquid stays in sterile tubing for safety
(unholy drink cloaca uses it to dispense precise amounts of flavored sugar syrup)
Modern!Yandere!Baelor Targaryen x fem!reader—in which, he's your boss and you always fear messing up until the day you do...and find it it was his plan all along.
Requested: Yes
TW: 18+ MDNI. NSFW. DEAD DOVE: Do Not Eat. Explicit sexual content. Dark and obsessive themes such as the yandere. He literally works out how to get you fired so that you're ENTIRELY his. Psychological manipulation. Abuse of power. Smut but it's dub-con because of the circumstances and the power imbalance. Also, I believe dacryphilia because he's into her crying during sex. Please correct me if I'm wrong.
A/N: It was nice to return to my roots with this one of Yandere!AKOTSK so thanks for the request Anon!!
Credit: The rose divider was made by the incredible @cursed-carmine but the red line divider was made by me
The job was supposed to be easy. Simple and normal and the kind of job you were trained for. It was supposed to be exactly what you’d always wanted, the kind of cushy job that made you enough money that you’d actually be able to retire—something central in the economy of the Kingdoms now.
What you hadn’t planned on was your boss. The Baelor Targaryen, heir to the company’s controls and your direct superior. You hadn’t planned on the way he always seemed to be just over your shoulder, just there with a kind word yet dark gaze. A contradiction in his body, words and smiles conveying kindness, but gaze conveying predator.
With you, the prey caught in his net.
You hadn’t planned on the way your work was always scrutinized harder than everyone else’s, the way you were treated as a liability even when you were the best one there. You hadn’t planned on always seeming to be within his sights, always just in view of Baelor. You hadn’t planned on anytime that you worked late, he would work late also.
And the check-ups.
Those were the worst.
When you would be working at your desk and he would appear, looking over your shoulder with a smile and kind questions, reassurements or simply murmured hmms, which stung worse than any criticism ever could.
Because they inspired doubt.
It was like in the meetings, your presentations reduced to shambles by a simple question. “Are those your product?” he had asked you once.
“These are the numbers you requested, yes,” you had replied, met with that horrible little hum, the one where he moved his hand to rest against his chin, dark predator eyes narrowing at you, tracing your form and flitting to your work like he was scanning everything for possible weak points.
It happened in group projects as well, your whole division working together, you and the other head of department informing the board of the numbers you had run, the results that you had found. It happened then too because he’d flip through your nicely printed booklet, knowing an email would never be acknowledged and then he’d lift his head and smile that nice and kind and cordial smile and say something kind, the undertone just slightly condescending.
It happened at lunch time, in the break room. In every single interaction you had ever had with him.
But no else saw what you did.
No one else saw his narrowed gaze and the way he set his mouth in grim determination, jaw clenching, muscle flexing every time you were applauded for your results, your findings. You could see that gleam whenever he managed to crush your confidence while never crossing the line into unprofessional.
But you saw it.
You knew that he was a predator and you were prey. You just didn’t know to what end he had planned. You didn’t know the depths he would go to or what he planned to do with you. You only knew the living experience of being repeatedly beaten down under the guise of being a fair and reasonable boss.
You knew that experience and didn’t think it would ever get worse.
You were wrong.
“I’m being fired?” you whisper, your voice going that mix between high-pitched and hoarse, the kind that when vocalized sounds like it’s breaking. Which it is. Because you are.
“Unfortunately,” Maeker says, his violet eyes flitting to his brother, the ever-present omniscient boss. The one who lounges in his chair, lips curved in a strange amalgamation of a smile, one eyebrow slightly arched as if he waits for you to react with anger. With outrage. Tears, perhaps.
His hands are folded atop his stomach, suit jacket unbuttoned, tie loosened at the collar, ankles crossed and knees apart. Every inch the pose of a man who could less that a fuck about anything that happens to his employees.
No, to you. This is something he’s been gunning for for a while. You can tell in the way those predator eyes seem to darken as they watch you, a strange perverse gleam appearing in them as you nod once, swallowing hard around the growing lump in your throat. You won’t give him what he wants.
You won’t collapse and act like the prey he must think you are.
“How long do I have to clear my office out?” you ask, pursing your lips as if to ward off the tears you can feel building behind your eyes, in your nose, that strange pressure way that arises when your eyes water and your nose stuffs, the sniffles in tears. The connection of the body systems.
“Till the end of day today. Unfortunately,” Maeker says, his body now fully turning to Baelor, violet eyes narrowed in a glare, mouth set in a firm line. You can tell that he isn’t pleased by this decision, but that it’s out of his hands.
“One more question,” you say and Baelor lifts his brows once, his smile growing deeper, more pleased. More predatory.
“Go ahead, dear,” he says, his voice dark and deep, the sound sending a shiver down your spine as you nod once, lips still pursed, adrenaline warring with depression in your veins.
“What’s the reason for the termination of my contract?” Legalities and loopholes are something you’re good with. Something you know. And you want to know if when you went over your contract with a fine-toothed comb if you missed something or if they’re doing what the rich and the powerful can do: create something from nothing.
“Poor work quality,” Baelor says, his words deep and even and measured, eyes dropping from your face to your chest to your hands, to your legs as if measuring every reaction of your body, every reaction to his words, his cruelty.
“Very well,” you reply, forcing your lips up and into a polite smile, one of dignity and pride. You will not give this man what he so desperately wants.
You will not let him see you crumble.
“For what it’s worth, dear,” Baelor calls out, the dear so condescending and cruel and dangerous. Very, very dangerous because those are the words of a man grown too comfortable with the idea of someone. And someone as powerful as Baelor being comfortable with the idea of you is not a good thing.
It never is for girls like you.
“You were phenomenal…before.” The pause, the emphasis, all of it tells you that this was not your work quality, this was not your attitude or the style of your clothes. This was not about any of the number of reasons you were fired before. This was about power and control.
Possession.
“Before what?” Your jaw is set as you wait, arms crossing in a way that looks defiant but also seeks to hold you together as he stands, body tall and strong and imposing, eyes gleaming in a way that makes your knees weak and your heart race, both from anger and the strange sense of desire that this man can always seem to bring about in you.
“Before me,” he replies, his voice dropping low and seductive, nearly a purr. And his eyes track every inch of movement that your body makes, every reaction to his voice, to his words. To the pupil-blown stare of his eyes.
“Then I guess I’ll find a company that doesn’t have…as you said, you.” And with that parting remark, you leave, pulling the wood and glass door closed behind you, your palms just slightly sticky with sweat as you cross the narrow hallway to the elevator, an itch on your back telling you that you are being watched.
The weakness in your knees and the pounding in your heart tell you that it’s him, Baelor. You know that if you turn around, you will see him tracking your movements from behind that door and you know, oh you know that that door will only hold him back for so long.
That he will come to collect what he views as his.
Now that you’re in the after.
Baelor watches you go, watches the way your hips swish with your movements, almost entirely unconscious. He watches every stiffening of your muscles, mouth almost salivating at the chance to have you writhing underneath him, calling out his name, nails scratching down his back, the only power he allows you to have.
He watches you go, knowing that you know he watches you, knowing that you understand you are his prey and that soon, so soon, he will have you entirely at his mercy, beholden to his every whim.
Entirely his.
He will have you as he wants you, in his house, in his bed, entirely in his life, ensconced inside the walls of his mansion, naked and waiting for him whenever he wants you.
But more than that. You will be his confidante and the person whom he seeks out when his heart breaks and mind overruns. You will be the arms to hold him, the lips that comfort him.
You will be his everything.
Well…you already are. You simply don’t know it yet.
You have been his since the moment you laughed at his joke. It was a conference meeting four years ago, a normal one where he was waiting on the presentations, on you, the newest hire, someone beneath his notice unless you proved that you were useful. Then, of course, you would be of interest, someone imperative to the company.
But it had been a good day, Matarys receiving news of being awarded the King’s Bronze Medal for highest average in his high school upon graduation and Valarr making the Dean’s List for the third year in a row and so Baelor had wanted the meeting to start happy. So, he made a joke.
Admittedly, not a very good one. Simply one about numbers and conversation and things he can’t remember now. Most of the board simply let out a kind chuckle, preferring to humour him, the future owner, but you…you had let out a startled choking sound that turned into a belly laugh. And when everyone was looking at you, disdain in their eyes, you had laughed even harder before shaking your head and saying, “sorry. Wasn’t expecting a dad joke at a business meeting, took me by surprise there.”
And Baelor had known right then that you were his. Meant to be his. That it wasn’t your mind—which was admittedly the best he’d ever had in his company—that had landed you the job. No, it was fate.
Because you were meant to be his.
Which is when Baelor began to break you down, shatter every piece of your confidence in the hope of giving himself power over you. A way to break you completely so that he could be the one to heal you.
To mold you into what he needed you to be. Which was his. Wholly and completely.
It began with the watching but that proved to gentle. It moved to the cloying comments, but it still was not enough. Then came the dismissals of your work, the hmms and the uh-huhs and the basic comments of good attempt or I’m sure it will be even better, next time. But when these didn’t work, he was reduced to making his hours match yours, being over your shoulder every second, making you question every decision you made every minute of every day.
But it still didn’t break you.
Which is why he was forced to go to Plan B—firing you and making sure not another company would touch you. That you be only his.
And when the umpteenth company rejected you and you came crawling to him, asking for a second chance, so utterly broken, he would give you one.
He would give you the chance to be his.
And once you were…well…you would never be anything else.
“You have nothing? No jobs, at all?” you say, your tone rising in pitch, incredulity making your voice arc higher.
“Unfortunately, no,” the HR manager says, his tone calm in that clinical way of someone reading a message from someone else. The same message all HR managers have been having with every resume you submit. With every job posting that disappears as soon as you apply, claiming it’s been filled.
“Can you call me back when you have availabilities?” you ask, but inside you know that it’s fruitless. You know that you’ve been blackballed.
“Sorry,” the manager says and for the first time, he sounds as if he’s broken script, has broken from whatever he’s been told to say, his tone conveying true sympathy. “I’m not allowed to do that for you.” And then his voice drops as if he’s hiding his next words from someone, “a Baelor Targaryen from Targ. Corp has put it out that you can’t be hired anywhere in this sector. I’d put money that you can’t get hired at all.” And then the call is over, just dead air still ringing in your ears.
You set your phone down on the counter in your kitchen, hands curling around the granite tabletop as you grit your teeth, taking a deep breath in, your lungs protesting the action as you clench your hands, fingers stiffening around the stone.
“Fucking Baelor!” you cry, anger slamming into you, one foot flying out and hitting the base of the counter, the bang echoing around the room, the pain next to nothing, mind still buzzing with anger.
Which makes you do something very stupid.
Very stupid.
Dear Mr. Targaryen,
I’m writing to you to schedule a meeting. Some interesting facts have arisen in my hunt for a job since the termination of my contract with your company and I would quite like to see you to clear up any misinformation.
Please email me back with a date, time and location at your earliest convenience.
My dear,
I am free for a meeting to discuss your concerns tonight at my manor, shall we say, 8 PM? Please email me back if this is acceptable.
Yours,
Baelor.
The name he called you, the words he used, the toying, teasing tone should have tipped you off but it had been a month, a month of no jobs and rejections and pain. And you were sick of it. You wanted an answer and he was the only one who could give you that.
Dear Mr. Targaryen,
8 PM at your “manor” is fine. Please send me the address and I will be there. Thank you for your time.
See you tonight.
His house was exactly as he had said in the email: a manor. It was tall and imposing with ivy and stonework that was older than the entire city block you lived on with hedges that were better maintained than the roads you drove on every day.
It was exactly like he was.
Which is why your knees were already feeling weak as you knocked on the door, even more so as the butler (the butler?!) that lead you through the house, down twisting halls to the office. It was like the house was a structure made to tear you down and leave you a mess of nerves.
Exactly like Baelor.
“My dear!” Baelor says, his voice light as the butler (again the butler?!) stops before an open door, revealing a warm wood-panelled office behind it, one full of ornate rugs and glossy wood polished to a sheen, more befitting of a museum or model house than one lived in and used. As you step into the room, you can’t help but cringe, your shoes still on.
The butler had protested when you tried to remove them, but as you step onto the rugs, that feeling of humiliation, of less than and ruin follow. You feel like you don’t belong here in this office, in this house, in this kind of life. Perhaps, you muse, your mother was right to suggest you just become a doctor.
“Mr. Targaryen,” you greet in return, nodding your head once, attempting to maintain that level of formality that you require but as you stand there, watching the way his eyes darken as they trace your form, the way his hands flex, veins popping as they clench around nothing, perhaps holding back the urge to touch you, the way his jaw clenches, you know that whatever happens tonight, formal will not be what occurs.
“I’ll just close the door, darling,” he purrs, stepping out from around his desk, his body brushing past yours even though there’s all the space in the room, all the space between the two of you, his body hot and solid as it brushes against you, the desire to know what it feels like strange and unwelcome, yet succeeding in reducing the anger in your veins.
“Why the fuck,” you cry, turning on your heel to meet his eyes, those dark and desirous and dangerous eyes as you speak, “would you blackball me?! I’m incredible at my job! I had the best productivity rating in your entire fucking company! And I’m overqualified for most of the jobs that have been turning me down! So, why?!”
“Are you done?” he asks as your stop, your arms crossing over your chest, adrenaline searing your veins, body tensing because his tone is cold. And his eyes are predatory and suddenly you are reminded of the way you always felt like prey near him. His tone is that of a predator about to catch its prey.
“Yes,” you whisper, skin feeling like it’s burning, heat in your face, the kind that’s oppressive and lingers and no amount of placing your cold fingers on it will dissipate. It’s a heat that spreads throughout your entire body, the kind that is both borne from humiliation and embarrassment and desire.
Because you can’t deny that the way he looks at you, the way he traces your form makes you want him.
“Wonderful,” he says, tone low and seductive, lips curving into a gleam as if he knows what he’s doing to you. “Now, I blackballed you because I want you. And not as my employee, but simply mine. See…” he pauses as he approaches you, his hands no longer flexing in fists, instead reaching out and cupping your still fevered cheeks, his touch burning and disgusting you while at the same time making your body react, a coil winding tight inside of you.
“When I met you, I saw in you something that I wanted. Something I desired and it is, simply, you. Entire. I want you in the mornings when you’re tired and sleepy-eyed and in the evenings when you’re climbing on top of me, curling up against me and falling asleep. I want you during the day when you’re bright and awake and laughing that perfect laugh. I want you,” here he drops his voice, stepping closer, his body now pressed against yours, tight, “bent over my desk, whining and coming all my cock as I ram into you again and again and again. I want you crying and whining and promising to be my good girl. I want you sucking me dry with your mouth, looking at me with those perfect doe eyes. I want you.”
“But why blackball me?” you whisper, your voice hoarse as you swallow, mouth and throat dry but pussy far from it, his words awakening a feeling inside of you, your skin feeling too much and not enough, an ache forming between your thighs.
“Because nothing I did at the company could break you,” he replies, eyes locked on your lips, “and I needed to break you to have you here and begging for something, anything. Like you are now.”
“I’m not beg—” you don’t get to finish your sentence before his lips are on yours, crushing and oppressive, his beard scratching at your skin as he kisses you, tongue stroking against yours, sensous and slow, tasting of desire and victory and loss. Victory for him and loss for you because as he kisses you, you can feel your walls crumble, fall and fold down.
And you give in.
You give in because he did his job. He broke you.
And so you kiss him back, your hands flying to his shirt, undoing every button, wrenching it from his shoulders, forcing his hands from your face, your lips still entwined, tongues still tangled.
And his hands are on you, helping to free you from your shirt and then your pants and your underwear, everything tossed across the room as you do the same, the kiss still a frenzy whenever your lips find each other again, one of tongues and teeth and desire and anger.
One of defeat and victory.
“How do you want me again?” you whisper against his lips, pulling back just an inch, his tongue falling against his own lips, licking away the trail of saliva that connects you still. “Bent over your desk?”
And then there you are, his body pushing you down against the desk, the space cleared with a sweep of his hand, his cock hard and leaking, tip bright red. You know it must be aching as he bends you down, one hand fisting in your hair, turning your head to the side so that you can still look at him and then he’s sliding in.
You’re wet enough from the kiss; from the way his hands grazed every inch of your body that he slides in with ease. But that’s the only easy thing about it because he slams into you every time, the force hard and cruel and aching, bringing tears from your eyes as you whine, begging him to stop, to be gentle.
And his one hand plays with your clit the whole time, applying so much pressure that you just give and give and give around him, whining at him to stop, that you can’t keep going, that it’s too much. And every time you do, he slaps your pussy and says “aren’t you going to be my good girl?”
And every time you reply “yes, yes! I’ll be your—good girl!”
When he’s had you come around him three times, he spins you around, setting your ass on the desk, pounding into you with your glazed out, tear-stained face facing him, his lips chasing yours before he finally unravels, spilling inside of you.
And when he pulls out, guiding you off the desk and helping you dress, the liquid evidence of him still drips down your thighs from your abused cunt.
And as he guides you from the office, to his room, ushers you into the shower and washes every inch of you, kisses every inch of you before dressing you in his clothes, you know.
He’s won.
His plan has been achieved. And for the rest of your life, you’ll be his good girl.
“You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” he even asks you as he pulls your aching, sore, abused body against his that night.
I love how Zohran Mamdani is wearing a suit everywhere. And if he has anything else he puts it ON TOP of the suit. A basketball jersey. A high-vis vest. All worn over the suit. He’s like the mayor character in a cartoon who’s always dressed as The Mayor. If I didn’t know who he was and he biked past me in NYC I’d be like holy shit was that the mayor
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I LOVE Bloshka; they have in-depth articles and infographics on just about every type of historical fashion trend imaginable, from hair to shoes. You can get very lost in there.
I was thinking today... we talk a lot about dark Baelor, but what if we had a dark reader?
Baelor is forced to marry her after the great plague takes his wife and children. He has no other heirs, and now the council has forced him into this; she may be his niece or from some other great house. But what matters is: he didn't want to marry, nor had he even gotten over his grief before they threw this girl, who should have been Valarr's age when he died, into his bed so that he could have a new heir.
Unlike him, she wanted this marriage. She tried her hardest to be there because she wants to be the future queen; she believes she deserves that position more than any other woman in the kingdom, including the late Lady Jena. And besides, she hates Jena with all her soul, hates the memory of that damned woman and the nostalgia that surrounds her. If she were truly so good, she wouldn't be so weak as to die and give the prince such weak heirs who succumbed to the disease in less than a week of infection.
She's so mean. And Baelor hates the feelings she evokes in him. She provokes him and tries to bring out the worst in him. She loves asking him if he feels good fucking her pussy, if her young pussy feels better than Jena's worn-out one. And that makes Baelor want to kill her, while at the same time making him feel sick to his stomach from feeling so aroused. He blames himself like hell for days after slapping her face while fucking her one night when she starts talking about Jena and insulting her. And even when he slaps her face, she keeps laughing. That doesn't make Baelor feel any better.
She loves to tease and drive him crazy, and Baelor runs from her, but she seems to be everywhere, stalking him wherever he goes. And the council constantly questions him about the heir, so it's not like he can simply not sleep with her. The prince doesn't know how his life became like this. One day he was peaceful, happy, and in love with Jena. And the next he was married to the devil himself, who made a point of tormenting him night after night.
He feels so guilty for having sex with his new wife in the bed he used to share with Jena, so guilty for the mean words she utters, so horrible for coming deeply inside her like Jena had never made him come before. He feels like the worst of monsters for feeling his skin crawl with desire as he hears the moans and cries of pleasure from that hideous being he now calls his wife, who writhes beneath him, milking every drop of his sperm with her pussy.
There was no way to avoid it. She had destroyed him. And she would destroy more each day, purely for fun.
Baelor would be going through the worst torment because he hates that some part of him – deep inside – likes this. Likes her.
He'll do his best to ignore his new wife as much as possible, but every night, he finds himself on top of her, slamming himself into her over and over again until he's finally spent, and he can have a moment of peace in his slumber, only for her to mock him even more.
"You can deny it all you want, husband. I know what a satisfied man looks like."
It doesn't help when she finally births a healthy, squealing boy. It has the realm so eager on her – a new Prince, a new heir. She's given Baelor and the realm what they desperately needed. Baelor wishes he could feel something like happiness at the new Prince, but really, all he can see is his young wife smiling wickedly at him as she parades around his son. She's cemented her place by his side once and for all now. He can't get rid of her.
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