I'm a Loose Canon Of Feelings

Hallo! I’m a 27 yo emotional idiot, and this is where i go when i need a break from lyf (i post fanfiction on goodgirlofglory and artwork on volddraws)

[of-pandora]

Sometimes a family is you, a reincarnation of your father, his pyromaniac girlfriend, their bald third-wheel, your dad’s enemy who raised you and held a knife to your throat last week, his wife who held a knife to your throat last month, their adopted daughter who kissed you the other day and saved your life once, their son who saved you from captivity once, their daughter who is half your age and nearly as tall as you, and their son who was killed by the bald third-wheel.

[pixelsandothernonsense]

Designated flirt of the PTMC ER Dr. Jack Abbot completely loosing his cool around you, the new student doctor on the night shift.

No quips, no wit, no winks and no flirty comebacks. Cant meet your eyes, fumbling when praising you after having lead you through a procedure with knife sharp precision and control. Giving you such whiplash, because you see him easy and flirting with all the other doctors and nurses and even patients, and he is a formidable doctor, flustering you so hard when he gets stone cold serious, intense eyes, deep frown, smooth hands working with decades of knowledge and expertise...only to stutter and grunt akwardly when turning to offer praise for saving the patient's life, smiling too widely at first and then looking miserably embarrassed in the next moment.

Only Mateo can convince you he doesn't hate you.

"Poor guy doesn't know what to do with himself. Put him out of his misery, would you?."

And then, a month later, when you're riding that old man within an inch of his life on your couch, his prostetic off, belly full of the homecooked meal you made him, your cunt soaking his rock hard cock, he cant help pushing his face into your neck as he holds you in a bear hug, still not entirely able to meet your eyes for how much he likes you.

[plumebeat]

cheat day

[plumebeat]

The swords kissed and sprang apart and kissed again [...] steel rang, steel sang, steel screamed and sparked and scraped [...] A red flower blossomed [...] "Come on, come on, my sweetling, the music’s still playing. Might I have this dance, my lady?”

Jaime III, A Storm of Swords, George R. R. Martin

[jagiellonczyk]

Filming Doctor Foster season 3!!

[winterstellars]

It’s kinda funny there’s now such a large fandom around a guy who was written by George Martin exclusively to be perfect and dead and has like 10 minutes of screentime. George was dealing with the trauma of growing up in the 60s and watching the Kennedy brothers get killed and now he’s made it everyone’s problem in the year 2026

what's funnier, the 9/11 -> twilight domino effect or the domino effect of the jfk/rfk assassinations -> this

[stuckinapril]

I’ve had tumblr for 4 years but some of you bitches have had it for a decade. It’s time to seek penance

[stuckinapril]

wait I’m curious now . Reblog this with how long u’ve been on tumblr for. Dating back to ur oldest blog ever !!!

[ncoley]

Everyone shut up and look at Lala.

[sarcasticsweetlara]

Of course Dyanna Dayne told Aegon V about the falling star bringing luck, that's her house sygil, and the Daynes have moon and sky motifs.

[wittythunderwitch]

[hammersanvil]

Baelor and Maekar Targaryen by CrazyTom

[pixelsandothernonsense]

Beneath a dragon sconce

Pairing: Maekar Targaryan x Baratheon!f!reader

Word count: 1,3k

Warnings: SMUT, oral (f!recieving), grumpy, old, pent up, sexually frustrated Maekar. Reader is described to have traditional, fysical Baratheon features.

Authors note: this man's scowl has broken my 4 year writers block and brought me out of retirement. Not proofread

Maekar snarled quietly.

You were too fucking soft. It infuriated him. How could a creature like you, a perpetual thorn in his side, be so fucking soft.

He buried his face into your hair - the long, silken, black strands he’d obsessively studied from afar- as his hand buried further down your bodice, acutely aware of the precarious situation you were in.

How the fuck had he gotten here? Losing his grip on himself, his finely honed discipline, reduced to a fumbling mess in some alcove in the inner palace. With you, sister of the much bigger thorn in his side, Lyonel Baratheon.

You whimpered softly as Maekar's demanding hand found a stiff nipple, his blood roiling at the sound. He should think of your reputation, the honor of your house, the honor of his.

But he’d never, never, heard you sound even remotely vulnerable like he did now, and never, ever gotten to touch you before - and that despite the need to growing in him for months now. Ever since that drunken fool Baratheon had brought you to court, no doubt to show you off for the marriage mart. The very thought sent a rage to Maekar’s mind now.

The first time you set your eyes on him, he could feel it. His power over himself being stolen right out of him by those deep, blue pools of your eye - even more so when your utterly delectable lips pulled into a smirk the longer your eyes kept him captive. He’d been doomed from the start.

But now, you were his. You’d kept him snapping at your tail, drooling at your feet for months, but in the end, you’d let him capture you, finally, finally letting his reaching hands pull you into his grasp.

“My Prince,” you sighed, another achingly vulnerable sound, and Maekar felt like a rabid hound, wanting to tear you apart for the way you surrendered to his ravaging.

He pressed his face further into your hair, taking in a loungeful of the tantalizing scent of your hair, sweet musk and cinnamon, pressing his hand further into your bodice and pushing you further up against the stone wall with the entire length of his body. His cock was hard as stone in his royal breeches.

“Quiet,” he grumbled in your ear, and felt your whole body shiver in his arms. Your fine, pale hands scrambled for purchase against the hard stone wall, and Maekar had the absurd notion that he should let you go, lest you cut the delicate skin on the unforgiving surface. But then you moved your head slightly, bearing more of your neck to him, and Maekar threw that notion away with the rest of his senses.

The two of you could be found out at any moment, but damn him if he wouldn’t steal a proper taste for himself before that time. He needed it.

He flipped you around, pinning you back into the wall and bowing his head to claim your mouth again. He groaned when your mouth willingly opened to his tongue, sharing breath as he started raising your skirts and bunching them at your waist.

“Let me,” he snarled against your mouth. He’d meant it to come out as a question, but it sounded more like a threat. Still, as he leaned slightly back to let your answer, his eyes meeting yours, he saw no fear there, no doubt either. He saw victory, the beginnings of your smirk transforming your features. A victory for you meant no defeat for him, he found. He wanted that smirk directed at him every day for the rest of his life. You gave a tiny nod, and Maekar was on his knees, lifting your skirts the rest of the way, revealing a hidden treasure he’d only allowed himself to imagine on late, miserably lonely nights in his cold, empty bed.

Your hair was as black between your legs as on your head, which only made Maekar more ravenous. He wondered for a split moment if you had ever shown this to another lover, and found he really hoped not. He wanted to be the only one you ever associated with this, with pleasure, and devotion, and adoration.

He adored you, he realized. As much as he was infuriated by you and the sway you had on him, he adored you. It was easier to accept the control you had when you were giving yourself to him, and letting him possess you like this, he thought, as he leaned forward and kissed you on the thick thatch of hair.

With more controlled and gentler hands now than before, he pried your legs open, spreading the softest thighs he’d ever touched. The sweet, intoxicating smell of womanly musk gently filled his nose, and Maekar surrendered. He couldn’t contain himself, and wouldn’t either.

The first taste of you had him twitching in his pants, his tongue mapping every part of you as your wet coated his tongue. You tasted even sweeter than you smelled, and Maekar blood pounded in his ears. He licked you slowly, carefully, then firmer, listening for your hitched breaths and gasps, letting it spur him on and guide him to your elation. Never mind his desperation, never mind un-princely manner, never mind anyone finding him on his knees beneath a woman’s skirts in the palace hall. All that mattered was your pleasure.

After a time, you started to move your hips, grinding yourself on his tongue, chasing your peak. When one of your hands tangled his hair in a fist, he had to reach down and squeeze himself in his breeches. He was so sensitive to the touch, nearing the edge himself, he grunted into your mound, pleased beyond reason when your body shuddered in response.

You reached your peak way too early for Maekar’s liking, shuddering and whimpering as both your hands clung to his hair, pulling at the strands with a sweet ache that went straight to his loins. As the warm, wet wave of your pleasure hit his tongue, Maekar sighed in contentment. His very blood sang with a sense of bliss. He could scarcely recognize himself. His mind was quiet, at peace. He couldn’t remember that last time he’d felt this way. Many years ago, before Dyanna went on, when his boys were still happy, gentle and full of promise.

Maekar got to his feet and lowered your skirts gently as you caught your breath, leaning heavily against the wall behind you, hair mussed, lips red and swollen, eyes closed. You looked absolutely exquisite.

When you opened your eyes and found him, the black of your eyes nearly engulfed the blue, and Maekar found himself completely and quite happily, subjugated to your spell. He found he was quite content to see you so moved by his efforts, movements slow and languid.

You smiled then, a wide, giddy grin, and reached up to wipe your hand around Maekar’s mouth a beard. He ducked away from your hand, catching both your hands as you tried to get to him.

“No,” he murmured, amused.

“You’re soaked,” you stated, voice teasing as he pinned your hands to either side of your shoulders, slowly leaning forward, not able to help himself moving closer to you.

“And whose fault is that?” he asked, letting himself gaze unabashedly at you now, studying every minute detail of your face. You had a tiny freckle on your right jaw. He moved closer and kissed it.

“Yours,” you stated confidently.

He had to chuckle at that.

“True enough,” he agreed.

Once he’d started to kiss you, it was hard to stop. His mouth moved down your neck, leaving a trail of your pleasure on your own skin, wanting there to be no doubt about exactly how well he’d taken care of you.

“And what now, my Prince? What of my honor?” you teased after a few blissful moments.

Maekar raised his eyes to meet yours, finding himself smiling for the first time in a long, long while.

“What of it, my lady? We’ll be married in a fortnight,” he stated, feeling bold and careless and too good to give a damn.

He knew he was right when that damned smirk alighted your features anew.

[thediaryofclio]

Me logging into HBO tonight

[abbysbenchpr]

18+ minors dni

ser duncan the tall uses his size to his advantage. he doesn’t press up behind you while you’re reaching for something out of your reach, far too respectful to impose on your space.

instead he uses those broad shoulders to shield you from the pushy, jabbing elbows of the tourney audience. dips his head low to hear you better, utterly unaware of how your cheeks flush when his hands fall to your hips to gingerly angle your body away from the crowd. inadvertently drawing you closer—only so he can better keep you safe, of course.

follows a short ways behind as you and egg make your way through the market. jaw set and eyes narrowing at any leering glance thrown your way. his frame looms in your periphery — a hulking, watchful shadow while you exchange coin for supper.

he takes the bundle from your arms easily, hushing your protests with a hand on the small of your back as he guides the three of you back to camp. you try to listen to egg’s excited chatter, humming in all the right places but all you can focus on is the splay of his long fingers on your cloak.

night falls, and your tent is left empty after egg runs off to play with the other squire boys. dunk remains glued to his spot in the corner, hunched instinctively under the low ceiling, watching — waiting.

he stares from across the short distance, as you let your hair down and unlace your dress. it’s pavlovian, the way his breeches tighten and his fists curl into his knees. even so, he remains still, only his eyes tracking your every move until you’re standing between his spread thighs and your dress is pooling at your feet.

he takes you then, letting you settle atop his lap and sink down slow. one rough hand rests on your hip, the other pawing at the fat of your ass as you drag yourself against him at a torturous pace. still, dunk stays good.

doesn’t buck, doesn’t thrust when gods know he wants to, because the urge to be good wins out. he pants, open mouthed and near slobbering on your tits as you pick up the pace.

you’re mewling so pretty in his ear, clawing at his back when his fat cock bullies that spot inside that makes you choke on a gasp. your fingers drift to his arms, nails digging into his biceps when he takes a nipple in his mouth, blue eyes rolled back at the heavenly heat sucking him in with every shaky jerk of your hips.

you whimper, face tucked into his thick neck when your thighs begin to burn from the effort. “please, dunk–”

he nods, eyes half-lidded as he draws your face to his, catching your lips in a messy kiss. dunk locks those brawny arms around your waist, plants his feet and begins to fuck you in earnest, just like you asked.

the wicked sounds of slapping flesh meet your ears, and when you try to squirm away from the blinding pleasure, dunk drags you back to his lips with a pleased grunt.

“‘re you close, m’lady?” dunk has the mind to ask, like he can’t already tell, with your eyes clamped shut and your walls fluttering erratically around his length. there’s a hint of teasing in his breathless voice, so you clench tight on the next stroke.

dunk’s answering groan, punched out and broken is worth the way he slides a hand down between your bodies and flicks at your clit. the surprise of it has your high cresting, burying your teeth in the meat of his shoulder as your body trembles atop him.

dunk cums like that, with you locked to him and his skin between your teeth. the sharp sting in his shoulder throbs in time with his cock spilling inside you.

when you draw back, spent and hazy-eyed, you see the twinkle in dunk’s own, just a little too proud for a knight. the lazy, satisfied smirk on his lips only grows when your knees buckle as soon as you stand.

dunk’s all too happy to carry you to bed.

[lo-vearchive]

um, so yeah.

[vhagars-dementia]

Baratheon Overstimulation Tent™️

[darkkittyart]

“I sought and longed for something I could not quite name. But in you, I found it…”

🪐🌒🫀

[phyrexian-mama]

Actually I'm not done thinking about Frankenstein sorry

The fact that Harlander only saw Victor's science, his creation, as a means to preserving himself. His own name.

The fact that Victor had only thought so far as the creation itself, and not what comes after. That the perfection in his mind began and ended with the act of creation.

How men only see (pro)creation through the lens of carrying on their legacy.

And when told no, that the creature will not be Harlander and his legacy? He seeks to ruin it all. And when the creature seems too slow, too difficult, too painful for Victor to deal with? He tries to destroy him.

Because to them, if what is borne from that isn't a perfect vessel to carry on their name, if it does not serve them, then the only answer is violence.