Purple-eyed Envy | Daemon Targaryen; Harwin Strong:

Purple-eyed envy | Daemon Targaryen; Harwin Strong:

Neglectful!Daemon x F!Targaryen!Reader x Harwin

Wonderous music belted loudly across the ballroom walls as countless Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms spinned and swirled over the Dornish sandstone floors of the Red Keep. Joyous laughter flowed between them, coming and going as quickly as did the cups of fresh mead and summer wine.

Young and old Lords walked through the towering pillars and food-stocked tables, eyeing whichever woman went by with lust-heavy gazes and darkened smirks. It seemed, as the ladies twirled about in their iridescent tules and shiny velvets, that no noble girl could want for less than a thousand more of parties like that one.

The so-called Silver Siren of the Dragon house, however, seemed to think otherwise.

Her moonstone eyes lingered over her dear uncle's lithe frame, and the smaller one of her not-so-dear older sister with a reddish shade of contempt swirling in the pits of her pearly irises.

It stung, still, despite the passing if years and the encouraging self-talk, that she couldn't bring herself to accept Daemon had eyes only for Rhaenyra.

And, as spoiled as it seemed, it was comprehensible.

Years of pining, and dreaming, and wanting had left her restless, unable to understand why was it that the only man she ever wanted would love her own sister, of all people in the world.

Perhaps it were the gods that would punish her.

Heavens knew it wouldn't be the only aspect of her life that they had cursed.

Putting thoughts of vengeful daities aside, the siren leaned against a gray-painted pillar, swirling a cup of High Garden rose liqueur in her hand, and reaching her memory backwards to a time long past:

She remembered her first words, her first steps, her first dragon ride. She remembered how her father was too busy wanting for a son, and her mother too busy caring for her frail pregnancies. How her sister had accomplished those feats before her, and so stolen all the glory for herself. She recalled the pitiful looks she got from Lady Alicient, whose condolatory brown eyes seemed always to find her when she wanted everything but to be seen, and the humorous smirks she received from the mean-spirited Rhaenys, who had spent every second since the siren's birth relishing on each an every single one of her failures.

From all those sad reminiscences, the only half-positive ones she could pick off the top of her head were those where she ran around after her uncle, feeling her heart flutter in her chest and her skin tingle as he looked back on her.

He wasn't particularly sweet, or any at all, and in full truthfulness, the only times he looked at her for something other than to purr out some double-edged comment about her appearance were to ask about Rhaenyra's whereabouts.

But despite his clear lack of interest, and the near condescending mockery with which he treated her obvious fancy for him, being in love with Daemon was the closest thing from true joy she could remember experiencing.

Sure, Ser Criston Cole might have been a good and well-meaning friend, and her dragon brought her comfort and provided her with a thrill she couldn't otherwise experience, but there was an element of forced fulfillment to both of those bonds. Criston and Araphel loved her, yes. But they did not do so simply out of the whims of their heart. They did so because, in some aspect, they felt to owe her reciprocation for the hours upon hours of time she had but into them.

She had built Criston the very sword that earned him his fame, covered him in pentoshi leather and valyrian iron, filled his ear with all manners of encouragement.

She had raised Araphel from hatch. Fed and washed him, healed and mended whatever part of him gave the slightest suspicion of disease or infection, taught and guided his every move.

The Gods had fashioned tragons to love their riders. And it was only natural that fighters owed some form of loyalty to their sponsors. And while all that that love and loyalty filled her chest with pride and gratitude, it was not enough to fill the void left by the love that should have been, but never came. Her father's. Her mother's. Her sister's.

What worked with her fighter and her dragon had never worked with her blood. It seemed that the more she did for them, the less they wanted to see of her.

No amount of loving gestures and hand-made gifts could win them over.

No amount of attempts at bonding time and quality moments could get them to feel anything but violent repulse or irritated embarassment.

And perhaps that was the very reason she had fallen so hard for Daemon: he represented that otherwise non-existent middle ground she never knew.

Daemon was the personification of diplomatic negligence.

He was outwardly sweet enough to evoke sympathy and absent enough to evoke a feeling of missing. There were no extremes. No heightened sense of polarity. Daemon was just Daemon. Intelligent, witty, heedless, Daemon. There were no obvious falsities or intentionally hurtful sincerity. And for that the siren had always appreciated him.

She had wanted nothing more than for people to be as gracefully ommiting and critically truthful as him.

Therefore in turn, he was all she ever wanted.

And one of the many things she never got.

So to have this taken away by someone who had immediately received all she ever made mention to desire, was, in the least, revolting to the girl.

Why was it that Rhaenyra deserved everything, the things she earned and the things she barely even paid enough mind to work for, all because she was the first born?

Their mother's love.

Their court's respect.

Their father's interest.

She had it all.

And the siren had none of them, all on account of being born a year too late, on the day of some foredoomed profecy that an insane old man had clamoured towards the clouds some three thousand years before.

It was outrageously unfair.

And though she loved her sister as bottomlessly as the ocean was deep, a small fraction of her, that same one that was so distinctly Targaryen, couldn't help the searing feeling of resentment that boiled within as she looked at her.

Daemon's eyes passed through her as he scanned the room, turning back to his beloved with a smirk that delated nothing if not the scornful dismissal he felt for her, he whispered some type of humorous quip, immediately turning his face elsewhere in a lofty attempt not to give himself away. In turn, Rhaenyra looked as well, gazing over her shoulder in curiosity only to reel herself back towards her uncle, unsubtly hiding her giggles behind her small hands.

The joke wasn't funny anymore.

The way they took pleasure in humiliating him had long stopped being something she could brush away, pretending not to break.

Her face burned red.

Her eyes screwed themselves closed.

The siren turned away, wishing for nothing if not for the ability to become invisible and disappear into the wall behind her.

Scortching wrath bubbled and steamed inside of her, starting to condense into an ardent lava stone, that weighed deep in her, as if she had swallowed half a pound of solid iron.

Only looking at them, together, laughing and judging all who stood around, drove the siren sick.

She couldn't stand it.

And so she turned, with a thought set to leave that sweltering room without a look back and head directly to Araphel's den. Ride the wind with him underneath the blackwater, so as to not be seen, and hopelly end up on the most distant piece of land she could find in the thousands of silk paper maps kept on the dragon keeper's treasure chest.

Her plan, however, collapsed into a distant memory, as soon as she was met, and quite honestly, tackled by, the half-familiar face of a towering man in a ill-fitting iron shirt. Storm-filled eyes met her ashen ones with interest, holding a gaze so blisteringly severe, that for a second the silver girl barely felt how the man's hands held her waist in a bruising iron grip:

- You must tell me where a lady as beautiful as yourself is going off to in such a hurry, I have a feeling I'd like to see what could bring a siren to run. - His voice roared over her like a tidal bore, a big mass of salty black water that crashed upon and submerged everything it touched in an airless stupor. A man two meters of height, chestnut brown coiled curls, and in posession of mercury grey eyes hovered over her like death's reaper. - Harwin Strong, at your services, my Lady siren.

Lord Harwin must have seen how the mighty Silver Siren froze at the sight of him, for his wolfish smile widened into a full grin as he brought her delicate hands to his lips in a double-edged kiss that had the insides of her curling and clenching in horror.

The princess attempted to swallow her fright and brush away any signs of trepidation. She gave the hand that held hers a soft, almost unoticeable, squeeze, feigning a gracious smile as she parted her rose-tinted lips and pulled in a short breath. The words however, never made it past her mouth, seeing as Lord Strong spoke before she ever could:

- There is no need for introductions, Lady. Any man that has been to Westeros knows of you. - His eyes gleamed with uncanny interest, and he moistened his wine-stained lips with careful ardor. - Tales of the Silverfury of old Dragonstone travelled far and wide through the Seven Kingdoms.

- Tales of me? - Raising a perfectly manicured brow, the Targaryen girl fought the urge to snicker. - Your Lordship must have me confused with another.

- Oh, but I have not. - A crescent moon tore his weather-beaten lips into a bloodcurling leer. - If my eyes do not fail me, then your hair is in fact like molten silver, and your eyes do remind of the jasper stone that the conqueror split between his two wives. So unless the bard that wrote this melody is wrong, then I am correct, and you really are the silver siren.

- You are kind, my Lord. I have been called that once or twice, but I do doubt anyone would write a song about myself.

It was his turn to stifle laughter:

- I apologize in advance for my crassness, but your grace must be mad if you think a girl who burned five crab-feeder ships at the age of fourteen does not deserve at least a sonet.

Silence.

The siren stuttered for a moment, flashes of that rage-blurred day running through her mind as she heard him: The blue-sailed ships and their canons approaching Blackwater bay; the absolute failure to act of the royal guardians; the dragon ride to the ocean; the short, rage-fueled dialogue with the vile pirates that screamed obcenities at her child self, refusing to negotiate any matter of importance.

From that day, what always stuck out to her the most was not the moment she yelled 'Dracarys!', Or the sickly-sweet smell that rose from the burning fleet as the flames consumed them, but the face of her family as she landed Araphel on the dragon's den.

Her father's disgusted face, her sister's contemptuous stare, Lord Corlys' satisfied little smirk. How they whispered behind her back, spinning yards about her insanity, talking of how the gods flipped a coin when a Targaryen was born, heads for greatness, tails for madness. How the lovely Rhaenyra had gotten the most favorable option of the two, while herself was cursed with the inescapable insanity that some old gods' coin had determined for her.

The pain of their judgement had burned to the core, only worsening the guilt and despair that had fallen on her as she dived her dragon into the water and barreled into the decks, trying to save any of the hostages the crab-feeder had kept to blackmail the king into surrender. She had returned with only four of them on dragonback, burned and battered, but miraculously alive.

Their tearful cries of thank you had filled her heart with suffocating remorse. Not even Daemon's proud little pats on the back managed to restore the girl from the regret her impulsivity caused her.

- And you are smiling as you say that. - Shame hung to her words like a cloud of heavy rain that loomed upon the winter stormlands. - As if what I did was not an atrocity. As if an untold number of people hadn't died on account of my selfishness.

- I do not understand. Should I not smile in the presence of a hero?

- Hero? - She laughed, though her face was barren of any humour. - That is by far, the most interesting way I ever heard someone pronounce the word 'murderer'.

She turned her face away in disgrace, though the man before her only seemed to lean further into her with every breath. - There is no way someone made you believe yourself to be the villain after you saved your city from a pillaging raid.

- And you must know all about raids and pillaging, mustn't you, my Lord? A man from one of the most peaceful and honorable houses in all of the Realm, such as yourself.

- We might be honorable, but we are no saints. - He smiled. - I'm sure you heard of the deserters that were hunted down from Winterfell to Harrenhall, how they were maimed and brutalized only to discover that they were, in fact, only some poor restless peasants that the Starks had mistaken for men of the Black. - The hands he held around her waist slithered upwards in soft languid motions that reminder her of a snake, they landed atop her shoulderblades in a comforting, almost patriarchal manner, soft strokes of his thumbs rubbing patterns into her skin as his eyes deepened. - You must have heard the dreaded tales of Harrenhall, I'm sure. Cursed place, though it is. Piled over the blood of those who built it. Separated from the rest of castles by the gods themselves. Like a country of our own. We make the laws. We built the gallows. We bring our own justice. Much like you did, to protect your people.

The silver-haired princess felt the caress of Strong's calloused palms against her back, keeping her gaze trained on the worn leather boots he wore, no doubt stolen from some poor merchant that was too arrogant to realize the unholy place in which he stepped. A man who had a life. Probably a family. A man who likely had once held someone as sweetly as Harwin held her now.

She thought about the men in the crab-feeder ships. She knew some of their names, remembered most of their faces. Often wondering about their lives, if they loved, if they had been loved. They might have not had wives, but brothers they had, mothers and fathers surely. There must have been someone who missed their presence.

Someone who looked upon the sky as news of the deaths reached their ears and cursed the day she was born. Someone who would miss them as much as she regreted taking their lives away.

She wondered if Harwin ever thought about the families of the 'deserters' who had tried to escape his Lamd. She wondered if wearing their posessions made him feel like he held their souls with himself.

- Your words are beautiful, your Lordship. But they are of no meaning to me.

The princess' statement hung in the air between them for a minute, lingering in the midst of her shameful silence and his astounded hush.

Though still shaking inside, the Targaryen girl joined up enough bravery to look him upon his face, only to find something had changed in the expression of the reaper.

It was not disgust.

Nor was it horror.

A manner of shock, curiosity, and even admiration colored his bearded face.

The silver girl's face twisted into a confused frown.

Harwin had thought never to meet a single truly sincere person amidst the snakepit that was mainland society.

King's Landing people were known to be two-faced and self-interested. They were notorious for their ability to ring roses around stories of their lives only to paint the currently most useful portrait of themselves to the people around them.

And by extension of the amount of Westerosi people he met that fitted that exact description, he assumed all of them were like that.

Yet here she was.

At the very apex of Westerosi court, lied someone with their feet planted firmly on the ground. Something quite ironic, seeing her position as a dragon rider.

And though she was ashamed, a certain wrath bubbled inside of her. The wrath of what she had not been allowed to say in ove a year.

- You may say whatever you wish to excuse yours and mine own crimes against the people we killed. - She continued. - I do believe you may even have had a good intention in your heart of hearts during your raids, but I did not. What I did, I did out of anger and childishness. No amount of euphemisms will make it different, regardless of how much I would wish it did.

Guilt.

A feeling the great break-bones of house Strong had hardly ever known. After all, that who does not sow, as goes the old saying, does not regret. But Harwin could swear he felt a squeeze in his chest as he saw the lip of the silver siren quiver in painful reminiscence.

What was this feeling?

What had it brought out on him?

Harwin Strong laughed, as he hadn't done in many years, from utter disbelief. A bright, battered sound, so unbelieving and so unique, that he would find many faces turning to look upon where he and the princess stood, hidden in the shadows of the wide ball room.

Two pairs of purple eyes found their sights upon him, turning confused and almost enraged at the scene that played out behind the sandstone pillar.

They stared at his iron-covered hands as they pressed deep into the soft silk-clad flesh of the Silver fury, a belittling glint in their judgemental gazes, as if his riverman arse was not worthy of standing near an honorable Targaryen.

The rogue prince stared into him with severity. His eyes commanded Harwin to let go and step away. He mouthed something incomprehensible, but otherwise direct. Something that said "get away from my niece."

But instead, the Lord of the Riverlands placed the softest of kisses upon the Silver Siren's head, closing his eyes and breathing in the sweet scent of firewood and rose liqueur, before he kneeled, closer now than he had been before, hands gripping her shoulders, eyes looking deep into hers:

- They have poisoned your mind with guilt-breeding lies, my lady. - His hand caressed her teary face, in a move so soft and delicate that it nearly seemed to hover above instead of touch. - We do not carry our intentions on our sleeve, as one might do with a weapon to flaunt. We often think them to be the opposite of what they are, thanks to the wretched comments of those who stand against us. You might not know this now, for your useless court members would not tell you the truth in fear of your growing strenth, but I will. What you did in Blackwater bay is the only reason why the crab-feeder, his army, your father's army men and the people's blood aren't littering the ground of King's Landing right this moment. - The girl tried not to think of the scene. She tried, she really did, but her eyes closed and she saw the carnage right before her. Her knees buckled, and a sob escaped her lips, only causing Harwin to hold her even tighter. - Those men came to your port drunk, with wounded hostages and half-dead war slaves, threatening the safety of your people. They did so for one simple reason: criminals do not respect kings they know they can fool. And I say that with the experience of a criminal who holds as much respect for your father as I have for what drop in my toilet every morning. - A small, bistered chuckle flew past her mouth at that, the man's quiet laughter only fueling the fire in her as he spoke. - It is true, is it not? After what you did, the crab-feeder fell silent didn't he? He collected his things and retreated further into the shit piles of the free cities, where he hopes you cannot find him. For not only does he fear you would burn him to the stake, he respects the strenght you showed that day when you burned down his least valuable joes for their disrespect.

His words were like a bout of smoke that hung through the air bringing warmth and left the space surrounding it breathless. The siren breathed it in, allowing him to hold her to him chest as she leaned her face on his shoulder. But the guilt would not go away.

- It does not yet make it right. - The younger princess wailed as her mind reeled back to the faces of the hostages she had taken from the fire. - Some of them were young, most of them weren't old enough to join the city's watch.

- And yet they all chose to stand behind a man they knew to be a torturer and a cold-blooded killer.

- They could have been forced.

- If they were, the crab-feeder would have hunted their ships as soon as they touched water, and done much worse than what you did to them. - He hushed her as she parted her lips, ready to give voice to another posibility that would have driven her mad with guilt and pain. - Quit your tears, my sweet girl. You should know what you did was right. You gave those killers, thieves, and pirates a death much more merciful than the one they would recieve at their own leader's hands. They are gone. You are not. Your people, the people of King's Landing, lived to see another day because you chose to save their lives, the lives of good and honest working people, over the lives of those rogues. You made the choice neither your father, nor your maesters were brave enough to make.

- My uncle would have done better. He would have known better.

- You are a fool to think that. - Harwin spat, making sure to look directly at an ever-nearing Daemon when he did so. - If you think a man who cut the hands off of a child who stole bread to survive simply because is what his gold-cloaks thought was fair would do better than what you did, then you truly are a fool.

- But--

- He is not worthy of your high regards. - He whispered, though his voice boomed as smooth as honey poured over thunder. - Forgive me princess, but Prince Daemon does not serve his people. He does not serve his family. He serves only himself. You may say he could have done better, and perhaps he could, but in that moment, when the ships approached your port and the men threatened a raid into the city, he didn't even stand from his chair. He did nothing. He did not care if the crab-feeders killed the people. So he didn't even move. You were the one that stood for the lives of your people. You were the one that fought. You served King's Landing. You and nobody else.

She swallowed, breathing the air of clarity that had descended upon her as he blew away the clouds of doubt and guilt that had loomed over her eyes for the last two years.

- Valar Dohaeris. - The siren affirmed, sweetly, with a bashful grin on her reddened lips, though not a shadow of hesitation could be traced in her words.

- All men must serve. - He nodded, smiling in soft reassurance as his hands squeezed her own within his palms. - You served. And yet not even a man you are. Your gods will be proud of you, princess. As I am sure the Realm is.

For a slipt moment, it seemed the world stopped.

Harwin pulled her from his arms and looked upon her, swearing he had faced the entire eternal world for a second. And as she looked back at him, she saw the one thing she thought never to see in the eyes of any man: respect.

For the first time since there was a Harwin Strong, he allowed himself to relax, free of any second-thoughts or distrust.

- Thank you. - She whimpered. The honeyed tone of her tearful voice mesmerizing him into a state of tranquility he had never known could be possible in sobriety. - Thank you, my Lord. Thank you.

The drowned god himself couldn't have willed words out of his mouth in that moment. Harwin merely sighed, a breath that left his body bringing in nothing but relief, and as his now warm navy irises met the furious purple ones of Daemon Targaryen, he only laughed again.

All the Lord Strong did was look down onto his Siren. Still holding her waist, he guided her closer to the Lords and Ladies of the realm, now dancing like fools around the throne room, and offered his arm. - There is one thing I could never help bur wonder, princess.

Wiping the stray tears that had trickled down her face, she turned to him. Silver eyes overtaken by a mischief that had Harwin's heart pacing up. - Then wonder away, and the answer shall be yours, my Liege. - Her voice was sultry, almost suggestive. But her smile was of a breath-taking joy.

- Can sirens dance?

She pondered for a moment, pointer finger resting over her chin in mock. - Over the watery graves of any foolish sailor, surely.

- I am not sure I would want to meet one at sea, my princess.

- You'd be wise not to, Ser Harwin. - She grinned, wolfish tone wafting into his ears like the sweetest melody. - But while on land, sirens can be most charming.

- Are they, now?

- You do not believe me, my Liege?

- I think I need to be convinced, your Grace.

- Do you, now? - Her smile widened, an edge of danger to them, as if there was something in her eyes that told him she was about to drag him to his own watery grave. If all sirens were like her, then Harwin would be glad to shackle himself to am ancor and jump into the furthermost parts of the sea. - I think I know just the one to convince you.

The same couldn't be said, however, for the Rogue Prince.

With violet eyes burning fire, the Rogue prince watched from the very same pillar his niece and the city watch's commander had leaned against, the hushed, solemn whispers they had exchanged now long forgotten for the joyous worlds and red-hot laughter.

They seemed happy as anyone could be.

For as the Lord of Harrenhall bathed himself in the warmth that his niece provided, he himself knew only the sour cold.

The cold, lingering feeling of having lost something he didn't even know how much he loved.

Actually, the limit makes the x reader way funnier, if you ask me, than just creating OCs. As well as it has a deeper meaning.

You are the face, for better or for worse, of a character that needs your facial features. You are just like an actor or an actress. The reader plays by the writers' rules. Hence, it establishes a new kind of trust between the reader and the writer. Or a sort of contract whose terms are tags, such as on AO3, or the trigger warnings, disclaimers and so...

Therefore, when one accepts to read a x reader text, one also accepts the contract somehow and trusting as well as allowing the writer to make you someone else for a moment.

people who don’t like x reader because they’re like “i wouldn’t do that” are so strange to me…… like don’t you want to be somebody else for a bit? somebody more fun? somebody naive? somebody smarter? somebody who makes worse decisions? better decisions? i love zoning out and being a whole new person like yes i AM a milf with a rich neglectful husband actually

This is the final dialogue of the Side Job 'Chippin' in' of Cyberpunk 2077.

Alexander Pennington here with the facts that hurt

Hi Nour! May i request a headcannon where reader is the exact opposite of mihawk (kinda like shanks) but he's head over heels for her? (: Thank you!

It's more of a scenario than a headcannon. Srry😅

.

Mihawk's S/o being his complete opposite

.

. S/o taken female

. Spoiler free

. SFW

.

The clock striking 1:30 am, a loud crash shot the hawkeyed man awake immediately. He barely had time to register the fact that he had dozed off waiting for your return. Which you eventually, did.

A bottle of booze now in pieces, splattered on the entryway, with it's owner on the ground, darkness covering their features. You look up at the said man and a blushy grin overtakes your complexion.

"H-Hello DRACUOOLAA, here toooo... suck my blood?" You blurt out stupidly, the said "Dracula" deadpanning at your lousy state.

Mihawk furrows his eyes in frustration, already despising the idea of dealing with this a fourth time. He silently picks you up bridal style, somehow tolerating the strong smell of alcohol against his senses.

"Just how many bottles did you drink?" He's already aware of your annoying passion with parties, and with parties come heavy dozes of sake contests and games. And YOU- confidently knowing your victorious drinking record -participate in such activities.

"Oo! Oo! W-What do you call a blwood-drwinking deerww..?"

" *sigh* ... what?"

"Vlad... the Impala! BWAHAHA-!!" You cackle loudly at your so-called "pathetic joke". Mihawk ont the other hand, lets out a loud hopeless sigh knowing how stupid you sound. And maybe, MAYBE, if you had a clear view of his face you would have noticed his mouth corners slowly curving up.

Unknown to you, Mihawk finds your laugh pacifying, somehow. You've always been that one ray of sunshine illuminating the void in his heart, always laughing, smiling, so carefree about everything. Even the toughest things don't shake you, holding a motto to never act on things unless absolutely necessary.

Yet he never seemed to understand your approach. Someone once stole your wallet and you kept laughing about it for the rest of the day. It makes him worried sometimes, how careless things could get, and you'd be waving your hand in a dismissive manner, calling his behaviour "un-chill" and "grandma-like".

The raven haired halts at one of the hallway doors, putting his daydreaming to a stop. His bedroom door... The said man blinks several times. He's sure he was walking you back to YOUR room! Then how did he-?

"... Oi... Don't go.." You, now asleep on his back, tighten your hold around his neck. Mihawk's grip seemed to have loosened along the ride, in which he immediately secures you back before you fall off.

"Curse this." He mumbles, a bit embarrassed by the series of mistakes he's already done. As far as he remembers he's been a man of total composure, not a single mistake have been made throughout his swordsman years. It's only around you, YOU, that he manages to flunk up so clumsily.

Where you influencing him so much?

Mihawk lets out one last sigh, taking a break from his barrage of memories. He delicately twists the doorknob, and with a slight creek, makes it in.

He makes sure to place you as careful as possible, despite knowing how much of deep sleeper you are. Not to mention how soft and ravishing the bedsheets are, of the finest quality across the world, thus your entire body relaxes onto the matress, a smile creeping along the line of your lips. Now standing at the other side of the room , Mihawk watches you fondly, giddy feelings surfacing back again.

He loves you, surely there's not a single sentence in the entirety of the world's books that could describe his level of attachment to you. Back then he thought he'd achieved his dream, his purpose in life, everything was done after that. But then you came in the picture, his total COMPLETE opposite. Messy, rambunctious, carefree, expressive... you name it. To summarise, he found you darn annoying and an after-thought. Despite his dry treatment, you always stuck to the man, inviting him to toasts and parties that he never wanted to involve himself in. Your cheeky demeanor, and a stacky bonus of charm and beauty, he found himself lost in his own emotions.

Maybe this is what led him to that... unfamiliar situation. The term "Opposites attract" never appealed to him till now, and it just seems too good to be true. From an annoying loud brat, to a partner he couldn't have asked for any better.

.

.

" My hopeless darling... just how much longer will you make me worry...?"

Making the opponent collapse by emptiness and lack of support ?

Noted.

hey. the celebrities and corporations are going to try tumblr. you may want to drive them off the site, or find them amusing, ie “well THIS one can stay.” they may try to engage with the culture. they may do their research. DO NOT ENGAGE. do not bother. don’t fucking acknowledge them. don’t mess with their heads. don’t reply to them as a bit. let them think this site is a lost cause. let them fizzle out and die