#I don't know what else I can do with them

[dukeofankh]

If your vision for the deradicalization of right-wing men begins and ends with "other men telling them that that's gross and to stop it" then I'm sorry, you do not understand how masculinity works.

"Men who hold patriarchal status" and "men who are feminists" are two groups who overlap less than you want them to. I'm sorry. That's not solely because men are so happy with patriarchal status that they don't want to risk it by policing misogyny/queerphobia/racism, It's because being misogynistic, queerphobic, and racist, end expressing other forms of toxic masculinity(and often abusively so) are part of how people establish and maintain patriarchal status. The men who have the ability to stop this via nothing but peer pressure are the very people who are doing it. That's by design. And engaging in feminist intervention is, in and of itself, usually the abrupt end of that status and its associated power to persuade misogynistic men.

Like, I have worked in blue collar jobs as a notably queer person. It was pretty much a constant deluge of verbal abuse. In my experience, most blue collar work environments are exploitative, abusive, and bigoted, and very gleefully so. On the occasions I have spoken up about someone saying something that was super fucking out of line (asking me which of the girls walking by was hottest. We were installing a portable classroom at a middle school), believe it or not, they completely failed to be shamed! Because nobody else on the crew gave a fuck. *I* was the weird one. They ghosted me. A full blown company ghosted me. I suddenly didn't have a job anymore because they just straightforwardly stopped telling me where the next job site was.

Like, this doesn't mean that it's your job to do it, but this vision you have of these big groups of men where everyone is on the fence and there is precisely one shit stirrer who can be shut down by a brave feminist man who can single handedly set the example for all these other guys...you are high. You are describing an "everybody clapped" level absurd scenario. Most of these truly virulent misogynistic guys either have zero friends, because, you know, our society is atomized to fuck, or they are in a group where the feminist guy is actually the weirdo who can be shut down and ostracized much, much easier than the misogynists, because there is no such thing as a man misogynists respect who stands up for women.

You might be saying "well, we're talking about longstanding personal relationships, actually. Like, they need to have to want to spend time with you and then, as a side effect, you can mind control them out of being a threat to us."

Problem with that being:

1: Many feminist men also have no friends, see the atomized society above.

2: Feminist men already stopped hanging out with men who make rape jokes because why the fuck would we want to spend time with them.

3: That isn't just because we respect women so hard. We are in many cases talking about men who are also deeply queerphobic, heirarchical, violent and abusive to other men. What initially drew me to feminism and women was a lack of heirarchical squabbling and constant bullying, and the ability to be openly queer. A lot of men who came to feminism did so because they knew that the patriarchy was not a place they would find success or acceptance. These are not the men who are gonna be able to change right wing minds.

4. Men do not view themselves as a monolith. There is no universal brotherhood of men. The actual meaning of the term "Fragile masculinity" is that men are constantly expected to prove that they are deserving of the status of being a member of their own gender. There are large swathes of men--including most of the men who you'd look to as examples of good, feminist men who you want to undertake this project--who are considered failed men, sissies, f****ts, soyboys, ect. They are. Not. Going. To. Convince. These. Men. Of. Jack. Shit. Much less successfully *shame* them. Jesus.

I know all of this sucks. I know it would be cool to be able to just point at a group and have them be responsible for the work. But nah. It's gonna have to be a societal project, one that will probably outlast all of us. Sorry. The thing you want these men to do is, absolutely, the morally correct thing to do. But presuming that it would be effective is, and once again I am so sorry about this, just ignorance of how these social groups function.

[faggotisaacfloofs]

the person who helped today when I fell out of my wheelchair actually did a really great job, so I want to share in case other people wonder what to do. [Note: this is not universal, this is merely a suggestion from one person, every wheelchair user's needs are different! I am a person who uses a manual chair usually pushed by someone else who is also disabled.]

Scenario: you see someone in a wheelchair fall out of their chair, and you have the ability to help.

1. Approach and ask "are you okay?"*

2. Next question if they say no, are vague, or open to continuing conversation** is, "is there anything I can do to help?" Or "what can I do?"

If they say no to help, then that's the end, just leave and go do whatever you were doing!

If they ask for help or say they are mildly injured, ask "what would you like me to do?" And wait for an answer before doing anything! If they seem dazed or confused, they might have hit their head or had another medical event*, or they might just be like that due to regular disability. Be patient.

Do not touch the person unless they say to, or they are like, unconcious in the middle of the road, ya know?? Wheelchair users usually have conditions that mean being handled improperly can severely injure us, you could cause much more damage than the fall.

Some things they might need you to do:

Bring their wheelchair closer (mine went about 5 feet away after it dumped me)

engage the brakes of the wheelchair

hold wheelchair steady if it's an unsteady surface (mud, hill, ramp, wet, etc)

offer an arm for them to hold onto to get up (them grabbing you, not you grabbing them) or move another solid item closer for them to use (i.e. a chair) [only do this if you physically have the ability to!]

If the terrain is rough (i.e. a parking lot), they *might* ask you to push their chair to a more stable area once they are back in their chair

nothing

Something else

Do what they ask, NOT what you think would be helpful. If for some reason you have to do something (i.e. you can't stop oncoming traffic and need to get them out) ASAP, tell them what you plan to do

Keep in mind they might also be D/deaf, have a communication disability, be stunned after the fall, have a head injury, not trust other people, etc. Be patient and treat them as a person with autonomy and agency! They might need to just sit on the ground for a few minutes to recover before trying to get back in their chair. They might want everyone to leave them alone. They might ask you to call someone specific. Their chair might have broken and that can be extremely distressing. All of this is like if your legs spontaneously stop working when you're out and about!

A lot of wheelchair users (NOT ALL) have ways to get into their chair on their own once the chair is close enough and brakes engaged (but it's hard from the ground!). Here's what brakes look like on a lot of manual wheelchairs, in case they ask you to lock the brakes. They're levers on each side and pushing the lever pushes a bar against the wheel to hold it still.

ID: A manual wheelchair with the brake levels circled in red and labeled "user brake levers"

*There is also the possibility of course that a person fell out of their chair due to a seizure or other medical event, so that is why it is important to ask if they are okay. If you saw them hit their head, tell them so. If they had a medical event, follow protocol for that, I'm not gonna get into it here (thought I could).

**sometimes a person will be clear after the first question i.e. "I'm all good thanks" clearly means they do not need you to ask another question, you can just leave them alone. Keep walking and don't stare. A lot of the time people will be a bit banged up but be totally fine and able to manage on their own.

TLDR: Ask the wheelchair user if they're okay, then what they need, and then do exactly that, including leaving them alone. Thanks!

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

Ranking the Veilguard companions Hookup Potential based on the kind of bed situation they have going on in the Lighthouse

(im in early act 2 so have no idea what further romance scenes are actually like, this is just jokin time without any romance spoilers. just pics of how their respective rooms in the lighthouse look and some basic characterization we know about them)

Taash: 8/10

In another game or the real world I would only rate this a 5 because they have no pillows or addition blankets. however they do have a real bedframe AND it's big enough for 2 which means the they are doing better than 90% of the rest of the Veilguard so this score gets boosted. And while there's not many blankets, there are plenty of braziers around the room to keep you warm, and Taash is probably their own miniature furnace to cuddle up to. Crucially, they also have a whole wheel of cheese next to the bed, which means you don't even have to leave the covers to get a snack after.

Lucanis: 1/10

Oh no. I'm not even going to comment on the pantry angle because everyone else asks him about that to begin with, so this is just about the bed. Unfortunately the bed is a cot made of uneven wooden planks with some blankets on top of it, and is only wide enough for 1. This is because Lucanis hates sleeping and doesn't want to do it, so the less tempting his bed is, the better for him. Unfortunately this means sleepover potential is dreadful and you will have to find alternate solutions. He does at least have another blanket to go over him and one that's presumably being used as a pillow, so, he gets a 1 instead of a 0, but I am still planning on gifting him coupons for a back massage for Satinalia.

Bellara: 4/10

This setup is perfectly fine for sleeping. It's the lighthouse standard little bed couch thing, has a mattress/cushion, is elevated off the floor, has a pillow, and she's got her blankets folded below. Perfectly serviceable for getting a good night's rest which we know Bellara is not because she forgot to sleep again. However, it's very much a one person sized setup. You might be able to cuddle for a while but if one of you unconsciously tries to roll over you are going right to the floor. Ouch.

Lace Harding: 5/10

You might be wondring "why is sleeping on the floor rated higher than bellara's" and the answer is because this means you are not rolling off the bed onto the floor. it's not going to be comfy but we are not ranking comfort here we're ranking sleepover potential. Harding has managed to make this space look homey and the canopy gives the illusion of being in a tent or canopy bed to help with that illusion. There are rugs down on the floor plus the blankets and pillows--we know Harding is used to sleeping on the ground due to her career as a scout, and I'm sure she can scrounge up more blankets to make the cushioning big enough for the both of you. Your back WILL hurt in the morning but you'll get to have a fun night first.

Neve: 3/10

Girl I know you can do better than this. Which means you're not trying to on purpose, so, live your life I guess. I will say this cot IS bounds nicer than Lucanis's--you can see its a stretched canvas or hide on a frame rather than wooden planks, so it will have a little more give. However they are not THAT much comfier which I know having slept on this modern equivalent many times. Neve also apparently has 0 pillows or blankets so you're out of luck there, as well as the problem of it only being wide enough for 1 again. This woman has too many other things going on to think about romance so your Rook is going to be the one improvising on that matter I think.

Davrin: 10/10

Now here is a man who has his life together. Double or queen size mattress, rustic bed frame he probably lovingly carved and assembled himself by hand, and not only are there sheets AND blankets AND pillows, they are are full on matching set and this knight in shining armor dutifully makes the bed every morning. There's also enough pillows for two! While the remains of a giant corpse is hanging above you all night, the spacing of the ribs still gives you lots of room above to manouver, so just don't worry about that. As a bonus you'll probably even have a baby griffon come to cuddle in the night which is such a cute thought we're going to ignore how much worse getting stepped on by a griffon foot would be than even the biggest fattest housecat trying to stand on your stomach at 4:30am. My one criticism of the setup here is that due to the bed's positioning if the person on the inside needs to get up in the night they'll have to awkwardly crawl over the person on the outside, however everyone else's bed situation is so dismal I'm not even going to subtract a point for that. Great work Davrin.

Emmrich: ???/10

Where... does this man sleep. Peepaw I KNOW you can't be sitting in that armchair all night you need your beauty rest!!! There are 0 beds or cots or floor blankets in this man's room. HOW am I supposed to break his pelvis if he has nowhere for us to lie down??? We can't risk that old man's spine on the cobblestone.

Wait... unless. No, surly not. I mean--jk. Unless...? 😳😳😳

is daddy necromancer gonna fuck me on the sacrifice slab... 😳😳😳🥵🥵🥵

Bonus:

Solas 11/10

does not matter where he actually slept bc once my inquisitor Gets Him again they WILL be fucking on top of the piano in front of the mural in his Yearning Room

[verysadlesbian]

Now that I have sat with my thoughts for a couple of days, I want to talk about some things:

There are too many people trying to defend Caitlyn's actions, so I have to say: NOTHING, and I mean absolutely nothing, justifies fascism. "Oh but she's grieving and blahblahblah" you know who else was grieving?! The mother of the kid Jayce killed in season 1. You know who else?! Vi and Powder that saw enforcers murder their parents, just like many other children from Zaun. Caitlyn destroyed her mother's legacy in the police brutality™️ operation, you understand how fucked up this is? Her mother's recording is saying "the people from Zaun deserve to breathe," and she did it anyways. If you sympathise with Piltover, you're either part of the problem or naïve enough to fall for fascist propaganda.

Ekko is the only real one. Not a single slightly evil bone in his body. Everything he does, he does for his people, not in a persuit of power, or revenge. He's genuinely good, so much so that he's willing to hang out with not only Heimerdinger, but also Jayce just so he could protect his community. He deserves so much better and I'll be heartbroken when he finds out that Vi was involved in Caitlyn's operation.

I don't know how Vi can forgive Caitlyn after what happened. I know I wouldn't. It just goes to show that you cannot trust that privileged people are going to be different just cause they were nice to you. Viktor found that out in season 1 and Vi is finding this out now.

Do you guys think the black rose is gonna pretend to be Mel?! I don't play LOL, but it is to my understanding that the black rose can make clones, so it'd be obvious that they're gonna take Mel's identity

Saw some people on twitter and tiktok (of course they were there) denying that jayvik has heavy romantic undertones by stating "they're friends! They're like brothers! Why everything has to be gay now?" and EVERYTHING HAS TO BE GAY CAUSE I SAID SO, NOW SHUT UP! But seriously though, I understand that to cishet viewers, their relationship might seem strictly platonic, 'cause they lack the eye that we, queer people, have for these things. And that's okay. Not everyone needs to understand the nuances of a homoerotic friendship. But in the same breath, they're quick to say that "Viktor was thinking about Sky, so obviously he's straight" and that pissed me off, cause: 1 - have you looked at him?; 2 - He feels responsible for her death (cause he was)! He's thinking about her because he feels GUILTY! that man was not interested in Sky whatsoever; 3 - it's so heteronormative to think that a man and a woman can't be friends, they're so adamant in denying jayvik cause "they're friends!" but they do the same fucking thing!; and finally 4 - HAVE YOU LOOKED AT HIM???

Anyone that sides with Piltover would probably be a zionist as well. I don't have to explain this.

The trio "Sevika, Jinx and Isha" is probably my favourite thing in Act 1, I just can't get enough of them.

[loveless-arobee]

The answer to aspecs asking you to stop assuming [thing] about all aspecs is not to start assuming [opposite of thing] about all aspecs btw.

"Stop assuming all AlloAros have a lot of sex (or "are sluts")" does not mean "Start assuming no AlloAro has lots of sex" and also not "No AlloAro ever feels comfortable calling themselves a slut (or whore or w/e)" and vice-versa.

"Stop assuming all aros are loveless and non-partnering" does not mean "start assuming all aros do love ("in non-romantic ways") and are always partnering" and vice-versa.

"Stop assuming all aces are sex-repulsed" does not mean "start assuming all aces are sex-favourable", and vice-versa.

"Stop assuming all aplatonic people want to make friends" does not mean "start assuming no aplatonic people want to make friends" and vice-versa.

"Stop assuming all [aros or aces, mostly*] experience no [romantic or sexual, mostly*] attraction" does not mean "start assuming all [aros or aces] experience some form of [romantic or sexual attraction]" and vice-versa.

[Continue ad infinitum; these are just some examples and listing all things like that would be impossible.]

Just stop making assumptions about people based on one part of their identity. If they decide they want you to know, they'll tell you. If you want to know, you can ask, and maybe they'll give an answer (don't act like you're owed one, tho).

Accept that all people are different and even people under the same queer identity are going to have a vastly different experience; especially vast umbrellas like the aspec-identities. Instead of taking what one aspec person says about their identity as true for everyone under that same identity and then taking everything else as a "contradiction" to that label, or as something that needs another or a different label, simply accept that different people are going to have a different experience even if they use the same words to describe them.

It's really not that hard.

[*I think this may also apply to other aspec-identities (aplatonic, afamilial, atertriary, etc), right? I see these takes mostly inside of and directed at aro- and ace-spaces; but it also seems like it just applies across the board, non-aro and non-ace aspec-identities are just lesser known and thus not discussed as often.]

[osakanone]

Speaking as someone with a traumatic brain injury, I'm not sure that PSAs alone will never be enough. I do have an idea, and I am curious about your thoughts.

If you want effective change you have to reach out to the people either do not remember PSAs or more likely, don't read PSAs, who think they are good people but are actually terrible in ways they cannot accept and thus cannot grow from -- who chase respectability as social clout instead of making babysteps needed to get things done.

So here it is:

Your alternatives don't work for sociolinguistic reasons

Your chosen word of interest is an adjective form of a verb.

R-word can be used easily, interchangably and with little effort when someone is stressed because every form of it is grammatically correct and socially incorrect, which is what is usually craved in an insult.

Language is an ecology: A space of predator words and prey words based on which words replace each in their fashionableness.

As with any ecology, there are niches: pockets of success where a need exists and a word slips into the gap to fill it.

In Europe we didn't get your word of interest until the mid 2000's, and it was occupied by a form of the word spastic (the medical condition) shortened to the slur "spaz" (which I've been on the recieving end of many times).

Consequences create martyrs and those seeking to differentiate themselves will adopt waning or discouraged language to differentiate themselves (PSA culture got us edgelord culture).

When a word goes out of popularity is when another word which is significantly cleverer takes its place, which is more biting and more cutting.

A great example is how "the slur beginning in F ending in T" in many progressive circles is front-loaded with the expectation of one word, and then instead people say "fascist" and everybody smiles.

It is one of the ways of controlling language:

You take the second-association added to an instrinsic thing eg, the "other" meaning of gay used on xbox live) and you attach it to something else

You outsource sentiment to a different target.

You retire one word, and inject another which better aligns with your sentiment and intentionality.

You MUST do this in a way which punches up instead of down, or you risk watering down the perception of a word -- and you must likewise be able to answer the question "how is that <other word>?" on the spot with a single sentence and shut down a conversation.

Back to this context, I genuinely use

"mentally redacted",

This replaced my previous go-to

"mentally retired",

which I felt licked of ageism and made me uncomfortable.

Meaning, that something was censored or removed or deleted intentionally. I make this about thoughtless intentionality of action, not intrinsic nature of a person or their situation or whatever has happened to them.

It shifts from medicalism to mentality.

The imperfectionism of it is the scar-tissue of culture as words fall out of favour.

Maybe that's not good enough for Americans? I don't know!

Does it just read of hiding the word and playing slight of hand instead? Does it have some third other reason? There's no good answer here, I feel.

But it makes me personally feel one hell of a lot better about my slowness instead of slipping up when talking about myself and throwing a slur at the person I'm talking to.

I'd genuinely like to know your thoughts!

e:

There's a great bit in the notes by op about how swearing disrupts civility; disruption is the only way to make any protest get noticed. I will say, a slur is often just a culturally acceptable swearword, which again is miserable. I hate to say it but we do need to get meaner if we're gonna survive. We do need to invent our own words about the people who oppress us that are robust descriptors with ride recognition.

e2:

I came very close to using dysthymic as an insult to describe "I need more" greedy "more lanes bro" VC/corpo-brain types before realizing good people would be caught in the cross-fire despite the fact dysthymia is one of the major medical roots of their behavior and damn that is a hard one for me to figure out. The great thing about medicine is it gives us lots of great complex descriptors that are easy to look up. The downside is when we use medicalization as a callout or attack there is always friendly fire. An oppressor will never care about friendly fire, which means we are always stuck playing defense and its fucking bullshit and makes me so mad.

e3:

I really wish there was a way to make words which disrupted civility without... disrupting... civility... okay that's a paradox. Fine, then are there words which can disrupt anti-civility? I want those.

e4:

Found one. The crushing response. "human pet guy"

Since the r-slur is making a comeback (you know, the word that starts with R, has six letters, and ends in D), I'm gonna make a little PSA:

Yes, it's an ableist slur.

Terms like "asshat," "head-up-ass," "up their own ass," and "high on their own farts" exist. There's also words like crap, dogshit, half-assed, assclown, and chucklefuck. And on the less vulgar side, there are terms like ridiculous, nonsense, train wreck, pointless, insipid, self-absorbed, pretentious, annoying, boring, contemptible, vile, and disgusting.

Substituting words like restarted, poptarted, brain damaged, smoothbrain, etc. is still ableist, because either 1. you obviously still mean the r-word, or 2. you're still using disability as an insult.

[mrmeowski]

˚✧𝐂𝐚𝐧 𝐈…?✧˚

Synopsis: Curiosity often pushes us to seek answers to the unknown, but sometimes, those simple questions lead you down unexpected paths. What seems innocent at first can stir deeper emotions, and what’s shared may reveal more than anticipated. The question is, are you ready for them?

CW: Slight angst [Boothill], slight 2.5 spoilers [Jiaoqiu], suggestive

Word Count: 5.5k

Characters: 🧡༻✧ Blade [668] 💜༻✧ Boothill [627] 🧡༻✧ Dan Heng • IL [628] 💜༻✧ Dr. Ratio [880] 🧡༻✧ Jiaoqiu [776] 💜༻✧ Jing Yuan [993] 🧡༻✧ Sunday [935]

⋇⊰BLADE⊱⋇

"Can I… help you with the bandages, Yingxing?" His eyes shift toward you, a flicker of irritation crossing his gaze as he starts unwinding the bindings on his arm.

You stand in the doorway, watching him. He sits silently on the edge of the bed, half-turned toward the wall, his top discarded. Shadows play across his scarred skin, deep lines from past battles marring his form, history of his trials and rebirths.

To anyone else, this sight of him unguarded would be fleeting, barely a moment before he'd forcefully shut them out. But you aren't just anyone, and for you, he’s left the door ajar, though he denies it.

"I’ve told you not to call me that." His words are gruff, but they lack the bite he'd have with anyone else.

Ignoring his protest, you step inside, letting the door slide shut behind you as you settle beside him on the bed. The mattress dips slightly under your weight, and he tenses, though he doesn’t move away.

"So I take that as a yes?" A playful smile tugging at your lips as you leaned your head on his shoulder.

He huffs but doesn’t pull his arm back.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he mutters.

Feigning a pout, you slipped your arms around his waist, feeling the subtle hitch in his breath as your hands brushed over his skin.

"Oh, come on," you teased, nudging him gently. "Can't I care for my dear husband?" For a moment, he was silent, his jaw clenched as he stared at his hands, as if trying to decide whether to give in.

With a reluctant sigh, he handed you the bandages, though his voice still held a touch of exasperation.

"Fine. But make it quick." With a smile, you took the roll from his hand, your fingers brushing against his for a brief moment longer than necessary.

His warmth radiated under your touch, and as you began to carefully wrap the bandages over his scars, your movements were gentle, almost reverent, tracing the lines of his past with a tenderness only you could offer him.

"You know," you murmured, "You don't have to do everything alone." He tensed, his gaze flicking to you.

"I don't need help," he said, but his tone had softened significantly.

You only smiled, pressing lightly on his shoulder to make him hold still.

"Maybe not," you replied, "But that doesn’t mean you can’t let me help anyway." A rare softness flickered in his eyes, and for a brief moment, he let himself lean into your touch.

Silence settled between you, a comfortable, unspoken understanding. And as you continued your work, you could feel his heartbeat—a steady rhythm beneath layers of pain, guarded by walls he let no one else cross.

When the last bandage was secure, you paused, fingers lingering on his skin.

"See?" You grinned proudly. "Not so hard to let someone in every now and then., hm?"

He huffed, turning his gaze away to hide the faint blush that crept onto his cheeks. But he couldn't deny his heart any longer, nor the warmth that had stirred within him since you'd come into his life.

Taking a breath, he lifted his hand, the wedding ring that decorated his finger gleamed faintly in the soft light of his room—a reminder of the promise you’d both made, binding him to you more deeply than any scars ever could.

His hand found its way to your cheek, rough and calloused from battle, yet gentle as it cupped your face. You leaned into his touch. There was a vulnerability in his gaze that is only known to you. Slowly, he leaned closer, his lips capturing yours in a tender, lingering kiss that spoke more than words ever could.

You melted into his embrace, responding to the quiet passion he’d held back for so long.

Between breaths, his lips hovered close to yours, and in a whisper that trembled with sincerity, he said, “Thank you… for staying by my side all this time.”

⋇⊰BOOTHILL⊱⋇

"Can I... wear your hat?" You asked, unable to keep the curiosity out of your voice.

You knew what they said, curiosity killed the cat, but really, it was just a cowboy hat, right?

You’d seen him without it on a few rare occasions, but never anyone else wearing it. Boothill was... particular about that hat—almost as if it was an extension of himself.

So when you found yourself sitting close to him on the old, worn sofa, his metal arm resting around your shoulders and pulling you in just a bit closer, the question slipped out before you could stop yourself.

For a moment, he was silent. You could see the faintest trace of color rise to his cheeks, darkening his usual calm expression with a blush you’d never quite seen before.

He chuckled, his hand reaching over to tousle your hair playfully, “Well now, darlin’,” he drawled, an easy grin spreading across his face, sharp teeth glistening, “What’s got ya so interested in this ol’ thing, huh? Don’t tell me you’ve gone and developed a taste for a dusty cowboy hat...” You rolled your eyes, fighting the smile that tugged at your lips.

“Oh, come on, I just want to see what all the fuss is about. It’s not like it’ll bite.” He tilted his head, watching you with a mix of amusement and something softer, almost hesitant.

“Ain't no ordinary hat, ya know," he muttered, that faint blush deepening as he looked away for a moment, “But if ya really wanna wear it... who am I to say no to a pretty thing like you?”

You watched as his hand came up slowly, taking the hat from his head. He held it for a moment, as though second-guessing himself, then handed it to you with an almost reverent care. The weight of it settled in your hands, and as you gingerly placed it on your head, his gaze lingered on you, his eyes softening.

“There,” he murmured, his tone lower, “Looks like you’re all set to join the rodeo now.” You laughed, adjusting the brim so it sat just right, feeling a rush of warmth at the way he was looking at you, like you’d just stepped right into his heart.

He shook his head, grinning as he leaned back, his arm still around your shoulders. “Enjoy every second now, sugar—ain’t every day I let someone else wear that ol’ hat of mine.” You turned to face him, feeling bold, your gaze meeting his.

“Guess that means you trust me, huh?” He chuckled again, that easy, lazy grin spreading across his face as he looked back at you with a glint in his eye.

“Trust, interest… somethin’ like that.” Pulling you in a little closer. His fingers trailed down your cheek, slow and lingering, as he let his thumb trace along your jaw. “Just means you might be in for a bit of trouble now,” he whispered, his voice low and warm, his gaze flickering to your lips.

The brim of his hat dipped, casting a shadow over your faces, and you felt his lips brush against yours. The kiss was gentle at first, but quickly deepened as his sharp teeth grazed your lower lip, pulling at it in a way that made your heart race.

Deep within something weighed heavy in his chest—a deep, unspoken grief that seemed to tug at the very core of him. The moment you wore that hat of his... it reminded him of her, of a time long ago, when he was still human, when he had something to protect—someone to care for. His daughter. The one he had lost, the one he would never get back.

His heart, once broken, was mended only by one thing: you. He pulled away slightly, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath ragged.

"I ain't the man I once was... but I’ll protect you, darlin'. With my life, even if it goes against everythin' I ever knew. As long as it's you... I'll do it."

⋇⊰DAN HENG • IL⊱⋇

“Can I… touch your horns?" Your voice barely above a whisper.

The very moment Dan Heng shed his human form to reveal the graceful, imposing figure of Imbibitor Lunae, an undeniable curiosity had settled within you. Those glowing horns, the soft fur trailing along his tail—they all seemed to call to you, sparking a fascination that you just couldn't ignore.

He glanced up from his book, his calm demeanor briefly faltering as a faint blush colored his pale cheeks.

“Excuse me?” His tone was guarded, but you could see the faint flicker of surprise in his eyes.

It was as if he needed you to repeat it, to confirm you’d actually asked what he thought you did.

You had always urged him to embrace his true Vidyadhara form. At first, he resisted, but your persistence wore down his resolve. Eventually, he relented, but only within the privacy of his quarters or the quiet of an empty Astral Express.

“You heard me,” you said, inching a little closer, fingers itching to reach out. “I just… wonder what they feel like.” Your gaze drifted to his horns, mesmerized by the gentle glow that radiated from them, casting a warm light across his features.

For a moment, he looked away, his shoulders tense. “It’s not... something I’m accustomed to,” he murmured, his voice low. His gaze returned to you, a quiet understanding in his eyes. "But… I-I suppose I can allow it."

He leaned down, bringing his face closer to yours, giving you an unspoken invitation.

With a him, you raised your hand, reaching out to trace the gleaming, curved horns that adorned his head. The moment your fingertips brushed against their smooth surface, he inhaled sharply, and a low, involuntary growl escaped his lips.

His book snapped shut in his hand, and his whole body seemed to shiver from the contact, the sensation reverberating through him. Surprised, you flinched, your fingers halting as you pulled back.

“A-Are you alri—”

He let out a strained sigh, his hand darting forward to gently capture yours and place it back on his horns, “Why’d you stop?” His voice was rough, with a hunger you’d rarely heard from him.

Wait... is he purring? Half-lidded, his gaze locked onto you, eyes softened by the warmth that has always there when you're around.

His horns weren't usually so sensitive to the touch, but perhaps it was because it was you—the one person who had grown so close to him, the one person he felt tethered to in a way he couldn't fully explain. His body seemed to respond to even the slightest touch, and the very air you breathed seemed to send him spiraling.

As you resumed tracing his horns, the low rumble of a purr rose in his chest, almost too soft to catch. You blinked, your breath catching as you noticed his tail slowly curling and swaying behind him, giving away his pleasure. The purr deepened, reverberating through him as he leaned into your touch, his control slipping.

And then, before you could react, he pushed you deeper into mattress of his bed. You felt his chest press against yours, his tail curling possessively around your waist, pulling you closer as he buried his face against the side of your cheek, his purr vibrating against your skin.

He brushed his nose along your cheek, purring with an intensity that left no doubt about his feelings. You felt his heartbeat echoing in rhythm with yours, and his arms encircled you.

There was no mistaking it now. He knew the moment you stepped foot into the Astral Express, the moment you entered his life.

His head rested against yours, the glow of his horns casting a soft light between you, whispering into your ear, “You’re mine...”

⋇⊰DR. RATIO⊱⋇

“Can I... touch your arm?” The words slipped out before you could even process them, and by the time you realized, it was too late.

You were constantly drawn to the unknown, to things that fascinated you—and today, Dr. Ratio’s arm, the one exposed by his rather bold style of clothing, had caught your attention.

You could feel eyes shifting to you, a mix of shocked and bewildered looks coming from the students surrounding you both. Among them, you could practically feel his sharp, glaring stare boring into your skull.

He sighed, clearly irritated, before passing the clipboard he held to one of the astonished students. He grumbled something under his breath, clearly struggling to keep his composure.

“Excuse us for a moment… continue with your project,” he ordered through gritted teeth.

Before you could react, he had his arm around your shoulder, guiding you swiftly out of the room and into a quiet, secluded hallway.

Once out of earshot, he released you, crossing his arms and fixing you with a stern, no-nonsense glare.

“Do you realize the kind of attention you’re attracting with those questions?” His brow arched.

You gave him a sheepish grin, scratching the back of your neck as you looked away.

“I didn’t mean for it to slip out,” you admitted, your voice light. “At least… not in front of everyone. But really, it’s tempting.” You glanced back at him, letting the playful curiosity seep back into your gaze.

He sighed, shaking his head slightly as he studied you.

“I can never truly understand what goes on in your head, [Name]. Nor how someone like you manages to be one of the best researchers here,” he muttered, sounding exasperated but almost... begrudgingly impressed. “You were always like this, even back when we were students.”

It was true. Back then, you’d always ranked either at the very top or just below him, your carefree demeanor had led him to believe you didn’t take anything seriously. You had an uncanny ability to get under his skin, and no amount of stern lectures ever seemed to change that.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover, right?” You shrugged, clicking your tongue playfully, adding, “So, is that a yes or a no?” He gave you a hard stare, brow furrowed.

“You’re serious about that?” His frown deepened, and for a moment, he seemed genuinely perplexed.

You were a puzzle he could never quite solve—a Rubik’s cube with infinitely shifting sides, always challenging, always just out of reach.With a heavy sigh, he finally relented, unfolding his arms and extending one toward you.

“Fine,” he said, his voice resigned. “If this will put an end to your pestering, then go ahead.”

You couldn’t hide your delight as you grinned and reached out, fingertips brushing against the firm curve of his arm.

The instant your touch met his skin, a subtle shiver that ran through him, though he tried his best to keep his expression steady. His poker face remained composed, yet you sensed the faintest twitch in his jaw.

Every time you were near, there was this unexplainable spark between you, something that always lingered just beneath the surface.

He’d told himself countless times that he kept it well-hidden, convinced that his practiced, stoic mask shielded him from your perceptive gaze. But there were whispers—others had noticed how he’d look at you, and sometimes he wondered how long he could keep this under wraps. At least, he reassured himself, you hadn’t noticed… yet.

His arm was exactly as it's displayed—defined, solid, with the firmness of something sculpted. As you trailed your fingers along his bicep, you looked up at him, caught in that same sense of wonder you often had when encountering the unknown, that glint in your eyes like a spark of discovery.

He held your gaze, his own expression softening against his will. Somehow, the realization that he could inspire that curiosity in you made something inside him stir—a quiet pride, even if he’d never dare admit it.

“Done?” Arching a brow, though there was something almost gentle in his tone.

You couldn't resist giving his arm a playful squeeze—only for a surprised sound, almost a groan, to slip from him. His cheeks flushed a faint pink as he shot you a glare, yet neither of you moved, frozen in place.

A second passed in that charged silence before you broke it with a shaky laugh.

“A-Ahaha… I-I think that settles it,” you said, flashing an awkward smile as you tried to compose yourself.

He muttered something under his breath, flustered, “This is the last time I’ll indulge any of your whims.” Yet he wasn’t certain he could keep that promise.

“Oh, well, at least I enjoyed my privileges,” you teased, grinning as you attempted to brush past him to rejoin the others.

But before you could slip away, his hand gripped your arm, halting you.

“Since you’ve had your fill… I expect you’ll indulge my curiosities as well,” he murmured, voice low.

You tilted your head, looking up at him, but he didn’t move back. His hand lingered as he traced the curve of your cheek with a feather-light touch, his gaze intent.

“So?” he asked softly, his voice almost a whisper. “Is it a yes or a no?”

⋇⊰JIAOQIU⊱⋇

“Can I… touch your tail?” It was out of the blue to suddenly asked him fot his.

But really, who could blame you? His tail was just there, brushing against your legs with that irresistible fluffiness. It was practically begging to be touched!

Jiaoqiu’s ears perked at your request, and though you couldn’t see his expression entirely, you caught a glimpse of his grin hidden behind his fan. He had been waiting for this, teasing you by letting his tail drift closer until you could no longer resist.

“Oh my, aren’t you bold?” He purred, his tail slowly winding around your waist as he leaned in closer. “You do know it’s quite… rude to ask a Foxian such a thing, hm?” His tone was light, yet playful, and his words left you flustered.

Your face heated up, and you scrambled to apologize, “I-I’m sorry, Jiaoqiu! I didn’t mean to—”

“—For strangers,” he interrupted, his voice soft as his free hand reached out, fingers gently brushing against your cheek. His thumb traced a small circle, grounding you with his touch. “But you… you are no stranger to me.”

His voice was a low whisper now, an invitation that made your heart skip a beat. “Go on… touch it,” he urged, his words making your nerves flutter with a mix of excitement and hesitation.

You hesitated, fingers trembling as they moved closer to the soft, salmon tainted fur. Finally, you brushed your fingertips over his tail, feeling its warmth and softness.

His breath hitched, his fan lowering just enough for you to see his lips part slightly.

Each movements sent a shiver through him, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his ears twitched with your every touch. As your hands roamed deeper into the soft fur of his tail, he didn’t try to hide how much he enjoyed it.

But then again, he never really had been hiding it from the start, had he? It was you who had been oblivious to how he truly felt—how close he had always been to you.

His tail curled further around you, brushing against your body as if drawing you in. It wasn’t just his tail; his scent had already imprinted on you, marking something only the other Foxians could understand.

Even after he was gone, that trace of him stayed with you, lingering on your skin as if to remind others that you belonged to him.

“Feel free to touch me…” His voice was low, inviting, with a grin that never wavered. “I don’t mind.”

Was this what heaven felt like? You wondered, your fingers still lost in the softness of his tail, your heart racing as his words settled in the air between you.

Your gaze drifted to his ears, noticing the faint flush at the tips. You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips at the sight.

Curious, you cautiously reached up, your fingers brushing gently against the soft, white fuzz inside his ears. His reaction was immediate—a slight quiver running through his body as his grin deepened.

“So this…” you murmured, your fingers lingering near the sensitive spot, “Is alright?”

His breath caught again, and he gave a slow nod, allowing you the freedom to explore. “That’s perfectly fine,” he purred, the words dripping with a quiet satisfaction.

He leaned into your touch, his cheek brushing against your arm as you ran your fingers over his ears. A contented purr vibrated through him, but then you felt something... wet?

You froze, confusion flickering across your face as you glanced down. He was nipping at your arm, leaving soft kisses on your skin.

"Jiaoqiu...?" Your heart raced, pounding in your chest as you tried to process what was happening.

He chuckled softly and for a moment, you couldn't tear your gaze away from his eyes. Though his vision was obscured, his golden irises seemed to meet yours through the half-lidded gaze he offered. Even without seeing, there was an unmistakable intensity in the way his eyes stirred with deep and raw emotions.

"When I spoke, you can touch antyhing... I was hoping for something else... [Name]," he whispered, his lips pressing a delicate kiss into your arm again, this time lingering just a fraction longer. "I suppose I need to be a bit more clear, hm?" His tail unwound from around your waist, and the warmth of his hand moved, sliding down from your cheek to gently grasp your hand.

His fingers intertwined with yours, his grip firm yet gentle, his touch holding an unspoken promise. The playful edge in his voice deepened.

"Why don’t we go to your residence, my little bunny?"

⋇⊰JING YUAN⊱⋇

"Can I... pet Snowmoon?" You ask, your gaze fixed on the lion sprawled lazily beside Jing Yuan’s desk.

All the while the general is hunched slightly over the mountain of paperwork. It’s rare to see him actually working, and you’d be lying if you didn’t occasionally wonder if he just pretended to.

Hechuckles, his eyes lifting from the stack of documents as he props his chin on his hand, watching you with that familiar, teasing smile.

“It’s not me you should be asking for permission… that decision lies with her.” He pauses, giving her a fond glance. “You know she has a mind of her own.” You grin, shrugging with a spark of confidence.

“Oh, please—she only acts so aloof because she’s around you,” you tease. “Animals tend to mirror their owners, after all.” He raises a brow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, though he lets out another soft chuckle, his gaze warm as it lingers on you.

“Fine,” he relents, a playful warning in his voice. “But don’t go running to me if she growls.” You roll your eyes, standing from the sofa and making your way toward the lion.

The first time you met her, you were admittedly a bit nervous—after all, it’s not every day you come face-to-face with a lion—but any hint of fear quickly melted into awe. Her coat is as pristine as freshly fallen snow, her gaze a clear, serene blue like the depths of the ocean.

As you crouch down beside her, you reach out a tentative hand, stopping just before her nose. She sniffs your fingers curiously, then surprises you by licking them before leaning in, her soft fur brushing against your fingertips.

Her fluffy coat is even softer than you imagined, and you can’t resist a small, quiet “Aw” as you scratch the side of her neck. Her eyes half-close, and you feel the gentle vibrations of her purr against your touch.

“See?” You call over your shoulder, unable to hide your grin. “She’s just a big, fluffy kitten.” She leans in closer, enjoying your attention.

He leaning back in his chair with a feigned huff of indifference, “Hmph, don’t get too comfortable now." You can’t help but notice the slight pout in his features as he watches the scene unfold.

She is notorious for growling at him when he tries to get close. And yet here you are, someone who only occasionally visits his office, getting all the affection.

It’s unfair! But there’s also something undeniably heartwarming about it for him. As he watches you, a faint smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Two of his favorite things, together right before him. If he could freeze this moment, hold onto it, he would.

Time slips by unnoticed as you sit there, nestled against her, your hands combing through her fur. The big kitten has dozed off, her steady breathing and occasional soft purrs filling the quiet room.

You’d intended to move at some point, but every time you lift your hand just an inch away, she lets out a tiny, sleepy whine and nudges closer, demanding more affection. It’s hard to say no to her.

The thought crosses your mind that she really does resemble her owner in some ways. There are rare moments where he gets... needy. Although her insistence on cuddles is much cuter than his endless, persistent begging.

A low, familiar voice pulls you from your thoughts. “I think that’s enough." Arms crossed as he looks down at you, trying to maintain a serious expression.

There’s a slight frown and a hint of jealousy in his gaze. You smirk, raising a brow.

“Oh? I didn’t quite catch that. What was it you said?” You reply, a playful challenge in your tone.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, and steps closer. “Don’t make me repeat myself, [Name]. I think I’ve given you more than enough time with her.” She stirs, looking up lazily before resettling against you, as if she’s decided you’re staying right where you are.

With a soft chuckle, you glance up at him, “She seems to disagree, General.”

“Well then, I’ll just have to insist." He takes a few steps toward you, but his progress halts when a low, warning growl rumbles from the lion.

He stops in his tracks, momentarily caught off guard, a rare look of surprise flickering across his face.

You chuckle, shaking your head as you tease, “Aw, poor General. Looks like I’m staying here after all—”

Before you can finish, he moves in a flash, sweeping you up in his arms and lifting you away from Snowmoon’s side. His grip is firm, yet gentle, holding you securely against his chest. How can someone who naps so much move with such speed?

She rises and lets out another displeased growl, her tail lashing slightly as she watches you being spirited away from her side. You glance back at him, and it almost feels like a silent battle between a man and his lion.

His arms tighten around you possessively, and he huffs, “[Name] is mine!”

The lion stares for a moment, then flops down with a disgruntled sigh, clearly deciding the effort isn’t worth it.

He chuckles in triumph, settling back in his chair with you still cradled in his lap. Without a moment’s hesitation, he leans in, nuzzling his head against your neck, his warm breath tickling your skin. You shiver, feeling the softness of his hair brushing your cheek.

“Are you actually jealous of her?” you ask, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice.

He pauses, his gaze meeting yours with a glint of playful mischief.

“Jealous? Me?” He lets out a low chuckle, drawing you even closer, his arms tightened around your waist. “Maybe. But can you blame me?” His voice drops to a whisper, lips now close to your ear. “After all, I’d rather be the one keeping you all to myself...”

⋇⊰SUNDAY⊱⋇

“Can I... see your wings, S-Sunday?” you ask, feeling the name catch slightly on your tongue. After all the time you’ve spent calling him ‘My Lord,’ addressing him by name still feels foreign, as if you’re crossing some unspoken line.

His gaze lifts from his desk, and his eyes meet yours, expression unreadable. It's only been a few months since the two of you moved past mere formalities and into something deeper, but sometimes you still feel like a servant asking for a favor rather than a partner making a simple request.

“Pardon?” His tone is calm, yet curious, those small wings behind his ears twitching slightly.

“Your… other wings?” Your voice barely above a whisper. “I-I mean, if it’s alright with you, of course. I wouldn’t want to—” You stop yourself, feeling the awkwardness bubble up, regretting how impulsive your request had been.

He smiles, a faint chuckle escaping his lips as he observes you. “My dear,” he says, his voice soft and soothing, “Never feel shy to ask anything of me.” Slowly, he rises from his desk, each step deliberate as he approaches you. “Whatever you wish, I am yours to command.” There’s a quiet confidence in his steps, his gaze never breaking from yours.

His fingers tilt your chin up slightly, and his eyes soften, lips curling into a smile that always leaves you a little breathless. And as if it were the most natural thing, he shrugs off his coat, draping it neatly on the sofa beside you.

“Uh... w-what are you doing?” You stammer, trying to keep your composure as he slides out of his outer layer with a practiced ease.

“I thought it was clear,” he replies, voice rich with amusement. “You wish to see my wings, yes?” He finishes folding his coat, his gaze never wavering.

In a single, fluid movement, his two hidden pairs of wings unfurl, and you find yourself awestruck at the sight before you. Each feather fades from an ash-blue at the base to a rich midnight hue. That last pair was far darker, the outermost tips tinged in a shadowy, ashen black.

Though darker than expected for a Halovian’s wings, they exude a potent aura—divine, yes, but laced with an undertone of something almost… sinister. It’s mesmerizing and daunting all at once.

As you sit there speechless, he lowers himself onto the edge of the sofa, his thighs bracketing yours, his wings forming a slowly enclosing cocoon around you. His gaze is unwavering, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile.

“Well?” Voice smooth as butter, his eyes glinting with intrigue. “What do you think?”

“T-They’re… beautiful…” You manage to whisper, captivated by the midnight elegance of his wings.

Almost instinctively, you lift a hand, fingertips itching to trace the delicate lines of his feathers, but you hesitate, unsure if your touch would be welcome.

Noticing your hesitation, his expression softens, and he tilts his head slightly.

“Go on,” he says quietly, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Feel free to touch them.” You reach out, hand trembling just slightly, and your fingers make contact with the nearest feather.

It’s softer than you imagined. You let your hand glide down one of the dark feathers, marveling at the subtle gradient of color and the warmth radiating from his wings.

As your fingertips brush against the soft feathers of his wings, a shudder ripple through him. A low sound escapes his lips, and you glance up, a hint of surprise crossing your face. His grip tightens around the cushion behind you, his knuckles whitening as if he could tear it apart at any moment.

You don’t notice the intensity of the effect your touch has on him, too caught up in the sensation of his wings, twirling your fingers around the delicate feathers.

Halovian wings are known to be sensitive, fragile even. But his wings, especially these two pairs that had been hidden away for a long time, are more so.

They’re darker than most, a reflection of the weight of his past actions, and he’s always kept them concealed, ashamed of what they’ve become.

When you asked to see them, a quiet surge of happiness stirred within him. To have someone, someone he holds so dear, ask to see this part of him… It was something he didn’t expect but longed for. And even more, when you found them beautiful, it filled a void in his heart that had been empty for far too long.

"My dear..." His voice drops a few octaves, darker than usual, as he watches you with half-lidded eyes.

You glance up at him, finally noticing the slight hitch in his breath, the flush creeping across his features. A sudden wave of concern floods you, and you start to open your mouth to ask if you’ve hurt him in any way.

But before you can speak, he leans in, his lips crashing onto yours in a kiss that is anything but gentle. His hands move to cradle your face, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens, his wings fluttering slightly

You’ve always known Sunday to be a gentleman, always composed, always polite. But you had also know that there’s a side of him that’s far more… chaotic. His kiss is desperate, hungry, as though he’s been holding back for too long.

The moment his lips part, the air around you seems to grow thicker, charged with an unspoken tension. His breath, warm and steady, brushes against your skin as his voice, barely a whisper, slips from his mouth.

"My dear... do you wish to see something more.. pleasing?"

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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 1: Bruises and Bloodlines]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else's protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm's End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), Aemond stressing everybody out, Aegon hating his life even more than usual, RIP lil Luke Strong, don't touch bats in real life or you will get rabies.

Word count: 6.3k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @mrs-starkgaryen @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus

🦇 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🦇

Cannibal, a noun: one that devours its own.

~~~~~~~~~~

He’s back, you can feel it: a sensation like falling, the impact of Vhagar’s claws against the earth. You get glimpses like this, unpredictable flashes of intuition, a window into the contents of his mind or the scenery he is draped in like how branches hang from a willow tree. You set Blueberry down on the windowsill, where he skitters to the edge and swoops out into the night, chasing white specks of moths and lacewings. Then you leave your bedchamber to meet Aemond in the hallway.

One of the maids is there, trying to be patient as she paces with Maelor in her arms. He’s just like you were at that age: a demon who never sleeps. His white-blonde hair is disheveled, his eyes rheumy and pink from crying in protest. But then they brighten.

“Red Red!” Maelor swipes at you with tiny, grasping hands.

“What are you doing awake?” you coo at him, beaming. “It’s nighttime. You aren’t a bat. Are you a bat, huh? Are you hiding a pair of wings somewhere?”

He giggles as you pretend to inspect him. The maid smiles.

“If you don’t have any wings, I’m afraid you’ll have to go right to sleep. That’s the rule for humans.”

Maelor trills in his toddler lisp: “Then I want to be a bat.”

“Okay! I’ll find some bugs for you to eat.”

“No!” he squeals, dismayed. “No bugs!”

“In that case, I guess you’re a human after all. If you go to bed now, you can help me collect seashells tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Maelor agrees grudgingly, and the maid ferries him away. From the Godswood, great horned owls hoot. One of the knights of Aegon’s Kingsguard, Sir Willis Fell from the Stormlands, passes by on his patrol and gives you a quick nod, polite but a bit avoidant, awkward truths he pretends he can ignore. He doesn’t ask if you need assistance or why you’re awake at this hour. He already knows. He vanishes again, his white cloak swishing behind him like the tail of a wolf or a jackal.

You lurk at the top of the Grand Staircase shrouded in shadows and shifting firelight, feeling night wind skate over your cheek like children playing on a frozen lake, and that breeze is not here but outside where Aemond must be trudging across the courtyard towards the royal apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast. You drum your fingertips impatiently on the stone banister. When at last he appears—first only a silhouette in the darkness, then rippling into color under the torches, black leather and silver hair—Aemond is drenched with rain and ascending swiftly, two stairs at a time.

You grin as you take a step down to him, slinking, conspiratorial. He told you all his plans before he left; he tells you everything. “How was Storm’s End?”

But Aemond doesn’t answer. He blows past you and stalks towards Criston’s chambers, rainwater dripping from his hair and littering the floor with tiny, transluscent pools.

You turn to watch him leave, mystified. “Aemond?”

He says without stopping: “Go wake Aegon and Mother. Tell them to meet me in the small council chamber. I’ll get Criston and Grandsire.”

“Why?” Again, Aemond ignores you. This is unusual. You bolt after him, closing the space between you until your fingers catch his wrist. “Aemond, what—?”

He grabs you and pins you to the wall, the stones cold against your belly through the crimson velvet of your robe, Aemond’s hips braced against yours, domineering, demanding, promising what he will do for you after. You close your eyes and sigh shakily—a savoring, a surrender—and then he is tender, turning your face so he can kiss the apple of your cheek. He murmurs, warm and low: “Do as I ask.”

You nod. “Okay,” you agree in a whisper. Aemond releases you and vanishes to rouse Criston. You break for Aegon’s chambers.

There is a woman in his bed, snoring softly and with long auburn hair spilling over her bare shoulders. He has endeavored to spend less time drinking and philandering since becoming king, and yet…it is so rare for a creature to change its spots or stripes or scales. Aegon has always been this way. Without his vices, you would not recognize him.

You kneel beside the bed and rest a palm lightly on Aegon’s damp forehead. You have to be careful when you wake him; he flinches, he startles, he has too many memories of being ripped from sleep by bruises and crescent-moon indentations of fingernails. “Aegon? I’m really sorry, I know it’s late.”

He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know it’s you. “Fuck off,” he groans into his pillow.

“Aemond’s back from Storm’s End, but something’s wrong. He wants you to meet him in the council chamber.”

Aegon looks up and blinks drowsily. Moonlight spills into the room through gaps in the curtains. He smells strange, like lavender; that must be from his companion. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“He didn’t tell you?”

You shake your head.

Now Aegon is alarmed. The dark, cloudy blue of his irises is rapidly clearing. “Alright. Give me five minutes.”

“Wash the girl’s perfume off you so Mother isn’t quite so disappointed.”

Aegon chuckles, rubbing his eyes; something about the way he does this reminds you of Maelor. They are both just boys; they are both so incendiary and yet so vulnerable. “Get out, whore.”

You tousle his hair roughly, smack a kiss onto his sweat-salted temple as he tries to shove you away, snicker as he hurls pillows at you. You are slipping through the doorway when you hear the woman in bed mumble: “Huh? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Aegon says. “Thank you very much for your company, your skills were more than adequate, now kindly find your way home…”

You hurry down the hall to Mother’s chambers. There are seven-pointed stars on the walls and the furniture, green tapestries everywhere. She will always be a Hightower, averse to Valyrian oddities and suspicious of that sinister, ancient magic. She does not understand it; she tries to overlook it in her children. It’s the only way she knows how to love them. You sit beside the indistinct shape beneath the blankets, sinking into the goose feather mattress, and nudge what you guess is her shoulder. “Mother?”

She stirs, and then her face fills with concern when she sees you in the dim light from her candles. “What’s happened, darling? Are you ill?” You are prone to headaches and chills and nausea, you always have been, maladies of the flesh that are either a blood inheritance or a curse from bad stars. Once when you were very young, Aemond pushed you into a cold stream during a royal progress to the Vale, and you had been laughing when Criston leapt in and dragged you from the water; but two days later, you began burning up with a fever so hot they thought you might die. Aemond had slept on the floor beside your bed, and when you shivered so violently your bones ached he climbed in beside you and held you until you could sleep again; and later when his eye was cut out on Driftmark and he was half-mad with pain, you did the same for him.

“No, Mother, I’m fine. It’s Aemond.”

She sits up and studies you. “Aemond?”

“He’s back from Storm’s End, and he wants to talk to you.”

“To me?”

“And Criston and Aegon, and Grandsire too.”

She doesn’t understand. “Now? Why? What’s wrong?”

“I have no idea.”

“What did he say?”

Everyone expects you to already know, but you don’t. “I think he wants to tell all of us at the same time. In the small council chamber.”

“Now?” she says again, puzzled, still half-asleep. “What is so important that it can’t wait until morning?”

“Mother, there are only so many ways for me to express that I don’t know. If I had any indications at all, I’d share them.”

“Alright.” She’s smiling; you have amused her. She throws off the covers and touches her bare feet to the floor. “Pass me my robe. It’s on that chair over there.” And of course, the swath of velvet you hand her to wear over her nightgown is a deep emerald green: the color of fertile fields, not blood or beasts.

By the time you and Mother arrive together, everyone else is already taking their places in the council chamber. Aegon is at the head of the table, spinning his stone—a black sphere of volcanic glass—and peering around boredly. Grandsire and Criston are greeting Mother and yawning into the backs of their hands. No one has woken Helaena, and yet she is here, settling nimbly into the chair beside Aegon. He gives her a brief, fond glance, noting that she is fidgeting with a small oak dragonfly he once made for her. Aegon carves wood, Helaena embroiders, you shatter seashells with tiny hammers and use the shards to make mosaics, miniscule yet unladylike violence. Aemond has books and swords in place of crafts. And Daeron…you assume he must have cultivated some artistic talents while away in Oldtown—he was always so imaginative as a boy—but you would not know them. You see him so rarely now. You sit across the table from Aemond. He is the only attendee not dressed in nightclothes. His black leather tunic is still layered with a sheen of rain.

Grandsire lowers himself gingerly into his seat, grinding arthritic bones that pain him. The nights have grown chilly, even here in the south. Winter is coming, the maesters warn. His gaze passes over you and Helaena—the two of you aren’t really supposed to be here, but you’ll be permitted to stay if you cause no trouble—then he smirks humorlessly at Aemond. “So you failed.”

“No,” Aemond says, and you think as you look around the table: No Orwyle, no Lannister, no Wylde, not even Larys Strong. What does Aemond not want them to know? “Lord Baratheon has agreed to marry his youngest daughter to Daeron in one year’s time. He was very enthusiastic about the match.”

“Great!” Aegon declares. “Although, personally, I am of the inexpert opinion that this could have been discussed over bacon and honeycakes at breakfast…”

Grandsire snorts, derisive; he disapproves, though perhaps he is not surprised. He says to Aemond: “You were sent to negotiate your own marriage, not Daeron’s.”

Aemond shrugs, as if it happened by coincidence. “That was Borros Baratheon’s preference.”

“It was your preference, you mean.”

Aemond is careful not to reveal any emotion. “Daeron is young, but he already has a reputation. He is known to be handsome and chivalrous and…” A wave of the hand as he searches for the right word. “Unmutilated. It is not so difficult to imagine why a father would believe him to be a more worthy son-in-law.”

“It doesn’t matter to me, one Targaryen is as good as the next,” Aegon says, and of course nobody pays much attention.

“Perhaps Borros Baratheon’s judgment has been contaminated by certain disturbing and disgraceful rumors,” Grandsire counters and glares at you. You don’t reply; there’s nothing you can say that would help. Everyone knows, but it rarely spoken of aloud, as if it is a ghost nobody wants to inadvertently conjure. All your life there has been this perpetual rebalancing of scales: someone mentions a diplomatic match for you, you stall and Aemond makes excuses, Grandsire and Mother try to convince him, Aemond is immoveable and they aren’t willing to invoke his wrath. Vhagar is the subtext of every dispute. They need her, they are terrified of her.

Criston attempts to deescalate. “Aemond’s task was to ensure the Baratheons’ loyalty to the crown, and he has accomplished that. Perhaps it would be wise to move on.”

“Fine, what else?” Grandsire snaps. “You assembled us here for some reason, I presume. It must be urgent to merit a meeting now. It better be urgent, or I’ll be paying people to shake you awake during the hour of the wolf for the next month.”

“It is urgent,” Aemond says softly, then pauses, gazing down at the ball in front of him, white quartz dappled with blue. Everyone watches him. You share a glance with Aegon; he is curious, but you have nothing to offer him. You turn back to Aemond with bewilderment in your face, furrows in your brow.

“Aemond?” Mother prompts.

He looks at you, only for a second, but you’re thunderstruck by what you see in his remaining eye. You have never known Aemond to be afraid, but he is right now. What happened? you think, horror making the blood in your veins cold and slow and heavy. What did he do?

Aemond begins: “Luke Strong was at Storm’s End too.”

“What?” Grandsire says, more baffled than worried. “That runt? Why?”

“He’s a weasel,” Aegon mutters, spinning his ball again.

“Rhaenyra’s son?” Mother asks. “She sent him there all alone? How peculiar. The way she was always hovering over him while they were here, I’m amazed she let him out of her sight for that long. How old is he now? With that plain, ever-anxious, pug-nosed face, he looks like a little boy—”

Aemond says: “He was sent to remind Borros of his old pledge to uphold Rhaenyra’s claim. But Luke had no incentives to offer.”

“And so Lord Baratheon rejected him,” Grandsire surmises.

Aemond nods, though perhaps halfheartedly.

“Well, good,” Grandsire says, surveying the table for agreement. “That’s good, right? With every house that refuses to aid her, Rhaenyra will be more likely to accept our terms, and we can resolve this question of succession without any bloodshed.”

“Meleys and the Dragonpit,” Aegon reminds him.

“Without further bloodshed,” Grandsire amends.

Mother and Criston concur, but you’re watching Aemond. He hasn’t responded yet. Mother’s gaze flits between the two of you. She is somewhat sympathetic to the affinity you share, but she doesn’t understand it. More than anything, you get the sense she believes it is something you must be saved from. The Hightowers could stomach Aegon and Helaena’s match—Viserys was still healthy enough to insist upon it, and the couple so seemingly platonic it was easy to forget they were married at all—but they have no appetite for a desire that defies political expediency, that burns scorching and wild.

“Aemond, did you quarrel with Luke?” Mother says, her tone patient in an I-won’t-be-mad-if-you-just-tell-me-the-truth sort of way. “I know…your eye…” She touches her own face, wincing at the memory of how he suffered. “Did you seek restitution of some sort from him? Did you make accusations?”

“We…exchanged some words,” Aemond admits. “And then…when Luke left on Arrax…” There is a lull, and everyone stares at him. “Vhagar and I followed.”

“What?!” Grandsire exclaims. “You threatened Rhaenyra’s son?!”

“I…” Aemond closes his eye, then after a moment opens it again and continues. “It was my intention to frighten him, that was all.”

“Idiot,” Grandsire hisses. “You know better. You’re too well-educated to act like you don’t. Now, that one…” He jabs an accusatory finger at Aegon, who is caught off-guard, what the fuck do I have to do with this?

Criston says, more gently: “That was very dangerous, Aemond.” Mother covers her mouth with one hand and shakes her head. Her long coppery hair hangs in uncombed waves, still tangled from sleep.

“So what happened?” Aegon asks. “Where’d you chase him to? All the way back to Dragonstone? You must have scared him to death.”

Aemond chooses his words with great care and agonizing slowness. “Everything was under control. Then Arrax…he unleashed his flames on Vhagar, and she…she attacked.”

Everyone is silent. After a moment, Grandsire says: “What do you mean she attacked?”

“She…” Aemond gestures vaguely with open hands, hands that have held you, caged you, dragged you, pleased you until you were forged to him like a blade to a hilt. Again, he looks at you, and what is he asking for? Help, empathy, compassion, forgiveness? “She bit Arrax.”

“She wounded him?” Aegon says.

“She devoured him.”

Criston blinks. “So…Arrax is dead, and where is Luke now?”

Aemond laces his fingers together on the table like he’s praying. “He’s…he’s gone.”

“Gone?” Mother echoes.

“Did you look for him?” Grandsire demands. “I mean, did you even bother to search for Luke, or did you just leave him in the Stormlands somewhere? Did he fall into the sea, could he be wandering around in a forest? If Luke is injured, we should send out people to find him. We could hold him as a hostage.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Aemond’s voice is frayed. And now for the first time tonight, you finally know what he’s going to say. Your eyes snag on Aegon’s, and he reads the terror there, and then it hits him too. “There is nothing to search for.”

Mother is gaping at him, the unwanted knowledge seeping in like rain through earth. “Nothing?”

“There is no body. Pieces, perhaps.”

Unspeakable, suffocating dread fills the room, and then Grandsire leaps to his feet and slams his fists down on the table. “Useless!” he roars at Aemond. “Worse than useless, a saboteur, a curse, a plague, you have ruined everything your Mother and I worked for, Rhaenyra was considering our terms and now you’ve condemned us all!”

“You killed Lucerys Velaryon?” Mother says, stunned. Her large dark eyes glisten with unpardonable betrayal. She’ll never look at him the same way again. “You murdered Rhaenyra’s son? A prince, the heir to Driftmark?”

“It wasn’t murder,” Aemond pleads. “It was…it was combat, it was a battle—”

“A battle with that child?!” Grandsire thunders. Helaena begins to cry, and Aegon places a hand on her wrist as his wide eyes dart around the table. “Everyone’s seen him, it’s no secret, and not a single person in the realm would be delusional enough to believe a clash between Vhagar and Arrax was anything but a slaughter!”

“Aemond,” Criston says quietly, appalled, astonished.

Aemond can’t meet his eyes. He peers down at the table, and despite everything—what will happen to us, what will happen to me?—there is an ache in your chest like cracked ribs trying to heal, a profound lightless distress, a ricochet of the pain he’s feeling. “It wasn’t my intention to harm Luke.”

Grandsire shouts: “Did you give Vhagar the order or not?!”

It feels like a long time before Aemond answers. “No.”

“Oh gods,” Criston says as he sinks down in his chair, turning to Alicent. She has hidden her face with both hands and seems to be weeping.

“So you can’t control Vhagar,” Grandsire seethes. “You ride the largest and most dangerous dragon in the world and you can’t stop her from eating people.”

“I never would have purposefully—”

“But you created the situation! You pursued Luke, you tormented him, and surely somewhere in your sick brain you considered that you were endangering his life! And now… now…now Rhaenyra will be merciless, she will never submit, she will endeavor to destroy us all!”

“It will bring more allies to her side,” Criston says. “They will believe she was wronged, and she will wield that weapon to great advantage. She is cunning.”

“What about your family, Aemond?!” Mother sobs, her face a hectic, bloody pink. “You and your brothers will have to go to war, you might be maimed or butchered, and your sisters and I…we could be taken as prisoners, we could be executed for treason!”

“That will never happen,” he swears; but his pale blue eye is misty, and he bites his lips together so they won’t tremble.

Mother is desperate, tears streaming down her cheeks “What can we do, Father? How can we salvage this?”

Grandsire points to you. “She must be wed immediately. We’ve already waited too long.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Aegon says, but no one is listening.

“Mother,” you beg. “Please don’t let them—”

“She will be married to whoever can help us in this,” Grandsire says. “The Lannisters or the Redwynes or the Swanns, perhaps the Butterwells or the Mootons if that will coax them to our side—”

“Then the realm will burn,” Aemond replies darkly, leaning over the table. “But I’ll come knocking on your door first, Grandsire.”

Grandsire looks at him, startled. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Shall we find out?”

“Otto, please,” Criston says, holding up a palm. Then he considers how to dissuade him. “All things considered—the military strength that Aemond has brought to our side, the devotion that he has shown this family, present circumstances notwithstanding—he has never asked for much.”

“He asks for the one thing we cannot give him,” Grandsire replies, then turns to you. “What do you think about what Aemond has done? This recklessness, this monstrous error?”

He rarely asks for your opinion about anything. This is not a question but a summons: you are supposed to disavow Aemond. You are the one who can hurt him best. Instead you say, though it’s not what you truly feel: “Luke was an enemy. He perished in combat.”

Grandsire, Mother, and Criston all begin yelling at once. Helaena shrinks into herself, her dragonfly made of oak wood clutched to her chest. Aegon whispers something to her—you can leave, you believe he says—but she shakes her head no. You are stoic as the adults berate and implore you, and perhaps it’s strange that you still think of them that way since you’re an adult now too, and yet…their gravity seems so much heavier than yours, their tethers to the earth overgrown with weeds and moss.

“I’ll gut you myself!” Grandsire screams at Aemond, empty threats woven from helpless terror. “I’ll lock you in the Black Cells, I’ll have you banished to Dorne—!”

“I’ll throw a feast!” Aegon says suddenly, and the others go quiet.

“You’ll what?” Grandsire snarls.

“Little Luke Strong is dead and that’s a victory for our side. There’s no other way to look at it.”

“You intend to celebrate this calamity?”

“What else should we do?” Aegon asks. “Apologize? Go crawling on our bellies to Rhaenyra for forgiveness? No, she’d burn us alive. If it’s done, we must embrace it and use it to bolster our cause as much as possible. It was a battle and a victory. Aemond is a war hero. Onto the next objective.”

“What a disaster,” Criston mutters, rubbing his forehead. “Yes, that might be the only option we have.”

Mother clasps the small seven-pointed star that hangs from the gold chain at her throat. “I must go to the sept. I must pray for our survival.”

Grandsire glowers at Aegon. “You are a humiliation.”

“I am the king. I want a feast.”

Grandsire sighs deeply, pushing his chair away from the table. “I suppose I have letters to write.” And then, to Aemond: “When your sisters are captured and enslaved and married off to whichever Black loyalists will pay Rhaenyra and Daemon the most for them, I trust you’ll remember who’s responsible.”

Aemond gets up and storms out of the small council chamber. Mother mops the tears off her face with the sleeves of her green robe. Criston takes one of her hands and is murmuring promises, assurances, perhaps lies. You, Aegon, and Helaena say nothing. None of you can defend what Aemond has done, but you won’t denounce him either.

Then Grandsire grins at you, a cruel bestial flash of his teeth, an old grizzled animal tough from too many winters, icy wind shrieking through the chambers of its heart. “Oh, are you pretending that you’re not about to run after him?”

You don’t reply. But you rise from the table and flee as Mother watches you, her vast eyes swimming with misery.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a game with five pieces: the green snake, the yellow butterfly, the blue wolf, the red bat, and the purple shadowcat. They chase each other around the board, and if one of the other pieces lands on the same spot as yours then you have to go all the way back to the start.

Daeron is the youngest, but he almost always seems to win; some people are like that, luck flows like a river in their veins. Helaena enjoys playing even if she finished last. Aegon feigns disinterest but never declines an invitation, sliding his snake across the spaces with his index finger between slurps of wine. And sometimes Aemond is ruthless, taking every single opportunity to land on your spot and send your bat hurtling back to the beginning, sawing your legs out from under you, shattering your hopes like glass again and again until you are so frustrated you can feel embers glowing dry and searing in your throat.

But other times, Aemond pretends to misread the dots on the dice so he lands either too close or too far away and you are spared, and if you win he lies and says you deserve it.

~~~~~~~~~~

He is waiting at your bedroom door; when you are close enough to breathe him in, you taste rain and soot. Perhaps—if it isn’t your imagination—you can even detect the coppery tinge of blood, splatters of little Luke Strong soaked into the black leather of his tunic or his coat. You remember that boy you barely knew, more a phantom than flesh, a wraith who stole Aemond’s eye and then was spirited away to Dragonstone to escape retribution, a tiny god who Viserys worshipped from afar the same way he never stopped loving Rhaenyra. All you knew of your father was absence, and this was a sadness but a relief as well, because you could not escape the sense that if he was there you would only disappoint him.

“What is wrong with you?!” you whisper savagely. Aemond smiles and reaches for your face, but you swat his hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me. You’re insane, you’re going to get us all killed—”

He drags you into your bedchamber, kicking the door shut behind him. He’s lean but wiry, all muscle, and when you fight him—although you both know you want him to win—it is in vain. He tugs your hair out of its braid and hauls you across the room, pushes you down on the bed, rips off his coat and tunic and then follows you onto the mattress. You clamber away until you hit the headboard, your spine flat against the wood. As he closes in on you, your palm cracks across the blind side of Aemond’s face, and he grins. You have often thought that it should have been reversed, you wed to Aegon and Aemond to Helaena. You would not be so scandalized by Aegon’s vices; Aemond would be chivalrous with a meek, compliant wife. But alas, Helaena was born first, and the arrangement was set in stone long before any of your natures became apparent.

Aemond unfastens your robe and reaches under your nightgown of white cotton. “Open your legs.”

“No.” It is always this way with him; it always has been. You fight and he vanquishes, and both of you enjoy it.

He forces your thighs apart and you moan, the resistance bleeding out of you, you muscles going soft and yielding, Aemond radiant with this clandestine conquest on a night when nothing else is under his control. He can only love you when you’re tamed and tractable. Sometimes you think he likes that you don’t have a dragon, that your egg never hatched, that all of the unclaimed beasts denied you. You will always be vulnerable, powerless, at his mercy.

You cling to Aemond, your arms around his neck. He knows exactly what you need because you’ve already done this, more times than either of you could count: everything besides what could get you pregnant, and not just because Aemond would rather slit his own throat than have bastards like Rhaenyra’s. It’s something you’re both saving until at last you are married, and no one except The Stranger can separate you.

You gasp and Aemond growls through your hair: “Shh. Hurry up.”

“I missed you.”

“I know.” He doesn’t have to say it back; if he hadn’t missed you, he wouldn’t be here right now, two fingers buried to the knuckles and the heel of his hand grinding against you, almost, almost, almost…

The bedchamber door bangs opens, and Aegon saunters in with a goblet of wine, emeralds gleaming on the rim.

“Stop,” you tell Aemond, but he knows you don’t mean it, not really; beneath your nightgown his hand works faster, more roughly. You sigh and kiss him, deep and messy, surrendering, very close.

Aegon takes a swig of wine, licks the stray drops from his lips, and frowns down at you both, slightly intrigued but mostly nauseated. He cannot fathom a hunger for his own.

Aemond looks to him and says casually: “Do you want something?”

“I do, actually,” Aegon replies. “Were you planning to thank me?”

“Thank you for what?”

“For what I did for you in the council chamber, obviously. For the feast.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“Thank you, Aegon,” you say, and you are sincere.

Aegon raises his goblet in a mock toast. “That’s very kind, Red, but I wasn’t asking you.”

You whimper against Aemond’s throat, embarrassed but in ecstasy, not able to hold off much longer. “Aemond, just thank him.”

“Well I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment.”

“That’s okay,” Aegon says. “I can wait.” He sits at the end of the bed, then bounces up and down a few times. “Oh, this is a great mattress! Very soft, like sleeping on a cloud! Why isn’t mine this nice?”

“Probably because you’ve ejaculated all over it five thousand times,” Aemond says.

“Oh, right,” Aegon jests. “Not quite that frequently, I think.”

“Aemond,” you plead breathlessly. “Just say thank you. Get rid of him.”

Aemond sighs and, with his hand still beneath your nightgown, turns to Aegon. “Thank you.”

Aegon smirks, mischievous. “And how will you repay me?”

“By overcompensating for your shortcomings in order to ensure the enduring success of our family, as I have done since birth.”

“Of course,” Aegon says, though a bit distantly.

Aemond glances down at you and then asks his brother: “Were you hoping to join us?” It’s not a serious question; if Aegon ever tried to touch you with genuine desire, Aemond would break both his arms. Fortunately, Aegon is the closest thing you’ll ever have to a real brother, and thus his limbs are safe.

Aegon chuckles and stands. “No, this is a bit unsavory, even for my taste.” He gulps the last of his wine and says as he leaves: “Enjoy, freaks.”

“Bye, Aegon,” you call, laughing. He waves and then closes the door behind him.

Seconds later—twenty, thirty, time evaporates like mist burned away at dawn—Aemond is making you come, and then you are yanking off his trousers and taking him in your mouth, and when you do this he always has to be touching you, smoothing back your hair, telling you how well you’re doing, and even though he warns you so you can pull away if you choose to, tonight you swallow every last drop of him and think of the sea that Lucerys Velaryon’s scraps tumbled into, the mineral bite of salt and metal and blood.

But when he finishes, Aemond doesn’t collapse like a dead man as he usually does. He throws you onto your back, licks and nuzzles his way down your breasts and belly, parts your legs and murmurs against the inside of your thigh before he begins again: “I want you, I want you, I want you, I can’t wait much longer.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s one of your earliest memories. You are in the garden, and it’s a blazing hot day, and a million varieties of blooms cut through the greenery: goldenrods, orchids, lilies, irises, daisies, bellflowers, red roses, blue forget-me-nots. Butterflies whirl in the air and land on Helaena’s outstretched fingertips. Grandsire is slapping Aegon and calling him an imbecile for trying to pet a bumblebee, and Aegon is wailing: But it’s fuzzy! Why can’t I hold it?!

You must not be very steady on your feet yet, because Aemond is pulling you up by both of your hands and asking: If I ran, do you think you could catch me?

Yes, you had said, and then you’d staggered after him as he darted into the foliage. Under the shade of blossoms and shrubs that towered so much taller than you, you tripped and fell and scraped your palms, one of them bleeding from striking a pebble. You cried out, but no one was there to pick you up: no Mother, no Criston, no Helaena or Aegon. You wept pitifully, thinking—as children do—that you would be lost forever, that you would never see your family again.

But Aemond came back for you, and he studied your bloodied palm, carefully plucking out every grain of brown soil; and then he kissed it, held it against his cheek, painted himself with the scarlet ink of your arteries and veins.

See? he had said, smiling so you knew everything would be okay. Now we’re both red.

~~~~~~~~~~

“How are the babies?” Aemond asks when he arrives, dressed for the feast in a green tunic embroidered with shimmering gold threads in the shapes of dragons, flying, shrieking, breathing fire. Helaena made it for him, of course. Each of you have wardrobes full of garments she’s sewn, a collection of Aegon’s woodcarvings scattered around your rooms, seashell mosaics hanging from walls: insects for Helaena, Sunfyre for Aegon, heroes from myths for Aemond.

You grin over your shoulder. “Come see them.”

It’s dusk now, so they are leaving the roost you keep in one corner of your bedchamber, covered with dark velvet to blot out light and sound as they slumber. Aemond kneels beside you and holds out his hand so River can scurry from your palm into his, clawing with his hooklike appendages. All of your bats are named after blue things—Blueberry, Sailfish, Clear Sky, Bluejay, Misty, Dragonfly, Lagoon, Lightning, Kingfisher—just as Aemond’s hawks and war horses are given names like Fox and Rusty and Cherry and Pomegranate. He is the only one who defends your pets when Mother threatens to banish them back to the Godswood or the seaside cliffs. You have no dragon; you must find solace with some other creature that inspires dread and revulsion. But you think they’re beautiful, and strange, and fearless, and wrongly unloved.

“Let’s move things along,” Aegon says as he appears in the doorway, wearing all green except for the Conqueror’s crown. “No one can dig into the roast boar until the guest of honor enters the Great Hall. So I need Aemond to show up immediately.”

“Almost ready,” Aemond replies without looking away from River, who is now scrambling up his forearm. Lighting takes flight and attempts to land on Aegon’s shoulder; Aegon yelps and flings him away.

“No, you can’t!” you say, rushing across the room to scoop up Lightning and cradle him in your arms. Fortunately, he is unharmed. “I told you, Aegon. They have tiny bones, you have to be gentle or you’ll hurt them.”

Aegon shudders. “They’re fucking disgusting. Rats with wings.”

Aemond sets River on the windowsill, goes to his brother, shoves him hard; Aegon’s back hits the wall. His crown is knocked from his head and clatters against the floor.

“I’m not apologizing,” Aegon insists. “I’m a victim of grave injustice. I was attacked. That thing could have bitten me.”

You say to Aemond in High Valyrian: “Should we do this for a while to annoy him?”

Aemond smiles. “Yes. We should talk a lot. A great amount, we should talk. Very much talking.”

“Hey, hey, stop that,” Aegon says.

“Aemond, what else will they serve besides boar?”

“I heard something about pies.”

“What kinds of pies?”

“Who knows. Maybe apple, or cherry, or plum…”

“Oh, I adore apple pies. Perfect for autumn. I could eat them all day.”

“I could eat you all day.”

“Don’t tease me, or we’ll never make it to the feast.”

Aegon is distressed. “I mean it! Stop!”

“They aren’t saying anything important,” Helaena assures him as she swishes into your bedchamber wearing a butter yellow gown. In her hair are gold pins shaped like ladybugs.

“Okay, but what are they talking about?”

Helaena says matter-of-factly: “Sex and pastries.”

Aegon groans and rolls his eyes. “Why did I ask. Okay, time to go.”

You walk together to the Great Hall, where Helaena and Jaehaera and Grandsire will dance in the center of the floor, and you and Aemond will whisper in shadowy corners, and Mother will peer around worriedly with her large watery eyes as Criston yearns to console her, and Aegon will smile patiently and never scold Jaehaerys when he gets underfoot or spills his pomegranate juice.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s another game, or maybe it’s a ritual; you are a little girl again, and every once in a while, without any warning, Aemond will shove you into a closet or a heavy wooden trunk and lock you inside. You will scream and pound on the door, but no one will hear, and you will spend what feels like hours alone in the darkness, wondering if this will be the time when you are not discovered until you have died of thirst and hunger, until there is nothing left but bones.

Then you hear approaching footsteps and Aemond lets you out, and when you strike and scratch at him he embraces you fiercely, like he’s a soldier who’s been away for a year or more; and he holds you until you stop fighting it and your heartbeat goes quiet in your chest.

[alchemistc]

He's drunk when he sends it. Pissed because Buck won't just let this die. Tired of seeing his name flash across his screen, texts full of anger and sadness and hurt.

I suspect you've already met your last and it's not me he sends, and then turns off his phone and reaches for the bottle of whiskey on his top shelf.

---

If he'd been sober he would have known better. It's not even like it's been a pervasive thought - just an inkling at the start of things that seemed to be completely off base once he got to know everyone better, but looking back... He can see it. The built in life. The steadfast support. The knowledge that they'd always, always have each other's back. The kid who hero worshipped him.

The thing is he's fielding texts from Eddie, too, checking in and then circling around to being so goddamn judgmental that it's like they've coordinated their attacks to give Tommy no room to breathe.

He ended it to save himself from slipping so far under the surface he wouldn't make it back.

The fact that he's lost them both to his own fear is icing on the cake for the demon on his shoulder that keeps trying to remind him that once upon a time he'd fully thought Eddie and Buck were amicable exes.

---

He has to blink to figure out who's standing on his doorstep. The mustache is gone.

"If you meant who I think you mean, you're dumber than you look," Eddie says, and shoulders past Tommy before Tommy can even muster an affronted expression.

Tommy wanders after Eddie into his own kitchen, immediately annoyed that he looks more at home there than Tommy has felt in weeks. He'd gotten used to the loft - the space, the echoes, the lights of the city. The smell of his own aftershave on Buck's pillow.

They never spent much time here. The loft was closer - to Harbor, to the 118, to all the things in the city that tempted them out for a night. And staying at the loft meant he wouldn't have the echoes of Buck in every room, around every corner. (The echoes are in him, instead, and he still feels the absence like a lanced wound.) Tommy has always been good at making other people think he's good at putting distance between himself and them.

Eddie digs in a drawer, pulls out the bottle opener shaped like a cow and pops two tops. Holds one out for Tommy and scowls when Tommy wrinkles his nose at the Corona.

"Absolutely screw you if you think I'm driving halfway across town for you just to get the ones you like, right now."

Tommy can't argue that. He takes a drag and swallows. Stares. Is everyone else experiencing whiplash seeing him without the mustache? It looks fine but it'd taken so much fucking work to get used to it and now it's just gone. Clean shaven, an acre of skin he hasn't seen in months.

Tommy blinked and the entire world was different. Tommy freaked and the world changed.

"What are you doing here?"

Eddie's eyebrows both lift, a frank Are You Fucking Serious look on his face that makes Tommy want to take him to the mats and have it out in the garage instead of over beers.

"Buck may be spinning his wheels trying to figure out what the fuck you meant but I know damn well what you were implying."

That seems unlikely. Eddie always seems to be the last person to have a single clue what was going on, with Buck scraping in just before him. It's a tight race.

He used to find it charming.

(He absolutely does not still find it charming, he tells his heart, and wonders if he could hire some tiny asshole gnome to go stomp around in an atrium or two and get it to stop doing what it's doing. Fucking traitor.)

"Do you actually believe that, or is it some dumb excuse because you're terrified of being happy?"

Oh, that's fucking rich.

Tommy opens his mouth to tell him exactly that but Eddie just steamrolls right by him. "You don't have to point out the hypocrisy, jackass. I'm well aware of my own issues. Thing is - you're like, almost right. Buck does make me happy. Next to Chris there's no one else in the world I'd rather have by my side, rain or shine, good or bad. I love him. He's my person."

Tommy rolls his jaw. It's not a vindication to hear it.

"Except I'm not gay, Tommy. And I don't want that. I never have. And neither does Buck, just in case that argument was about to hit the airwaves."

"How do you know?"

Something sparks in the back of Eddie's eyes. Understanding. Triumph.

"You want an itemized list or a demonstration?"

Which is when Tommy knows he's stepped into an absolute minefield. No markers. Just free balling his way through a conversation that could explode with even the slightest pressure.

Eddie's got his phone out.

None of this is ideal.

When he looks up, his eyes land squarely on Tommy, who would like in this moment to be able to curl so far in on himself he gets sucked clean through the other side. "First of all, Buck may have just been improvising his entire journey of sexuality but for once I was trying to get ahead of the curve so that whole starry-eyed newly not straight vision you have of Buck is bullshit. You let him pull you along by the shirt strings for months without pressing pause and then you freak out when he thinks his speed and your speed are the same speed?"

This is feeling a whole lot like an ambush, now.

"Did you ever even try to slow him down?"

Tommy has some choice words that aren't remotely appropriate to say to someone who is at least tangentially still his friend, so he takes another swig of shitty beer. God, this shit is awful.

"You wanna know how I know I'm not his one? How I know he's not mine?"

Tommy really, really doesn't. Honestly he'd like to kick him out.

"Because he went at our friendship at the same warp speed pace he took your relationship and it never fucking scared me."

Proof in the pudding, for Tommy. He's not the sort of jackass who actually thinks he can make a different judgement call on someone else's sexuality than the one they've made themselves, but come on.

"Shannon's been dead for half a decade," Eddie says, voice dropping so suddenly Tommy feels it like an icy draft. "And maybe one day I'll make my peace with that. Maybe one day I'll get out from under it. The point is I've lost them both and the loss wasn't the goddamn same."

"Buck came back," Tommy argues.

Eddie scoffs. Wrinkles his nose. "Jeez, he wasn't kidding about how weird that sounds." His phone buzzes on the countertop, and Tommy wonders what the hell that look on his face means. "Don't change the subject. I'm not here to talk you into anything. I'm just here to drink a beer with you and tell you how goddamn stupid it is to think that an uncertain future with Evan Buckley isn't worth every second of terror it causes you."

"You don't know me as well as you think you do."

Eddie tips the bottle against his lips. Swallows. God, why hadn't Tommy just pursued the self-proclaimed straight guy for a couple weeks before he scratched the itch somewhere else and kept a friend, instead?

"Maybe." Eddie tips his head. "Maybe I do, though. Maybe in the months and months you were invited to all my mopey nights in with Buck and all the crazy crap we end up involved in at the station and all the times you couldn't shut up about him when he wasn't around and all the times I got to see you falling ass over teakettle for my best friend, I learned a fucking thing or two about Tommy Kinard." He wags his head back and forth. "Maybe."

"Is there a point to this?"

Eddie tips his eyes to his phone, and it's probably too late at this point for the suspicion to begin to creep in.

"I mostly just came to confront you about your completely off base bullshit excuses, but there's actually a pretty simple solution to at least one of your multitude of issues, so. Now we're waiting."

Tommy doesn't like the sound of that at all.

"Chris is mad at you, by the way."

It's a distraction. It's fully a - "Why is he mad at me?"

"I should actually thank you, because it's the first time he's actively talked to me in months," Eddie continues, like Tommy hadn't asked a question. "He's pissed because Buck is sad and there's literally nothing in the world that gets a rise out of the Diaz boys like sad Buck."

"You can just say you're pissed at me and go, Eddie."

"Oh I'm angry. Don't think I'm not. Mostly I'm just sad for you. You had six months to get to know Buck and never thought to yourself 'hes going to love me and it's going to hurt' until he skipped too far ahead in the program."

And that's - kind of the final straw. He's let Eddie get his licks in. He deserves it, he knows he does. Honestly it's a little cathartic to hear - to know exactly what Buck has spent his time dissecting post-Tommy. "That's all I ever thought about. Do you think I didn't know going in? I tried to put a stop to it before it even started and he just doubled down! Do you think for a second I wasn't viscously aware that I was setting myself up for -."

No. He's not gonna say it. He's not giving that to Eddie when he couldn't even give it to Ev-Buck. When he couldn't give it to Buck.

Eddie looks victorious anyway.

"And for six months you thought it was worth it."

"For six months I was too much of a coward to stop thinking about it."

Eddie drains the rest of his beer. "I'm not gonna lie. You screwed up pretty bad. Like. Astronomically bad. Giving up your location in a firefight bad."

Tommy does everything he can not to wince.

"It's salvageable, though. If you want it to be. If there's anything I know about Buck it's that second chances are his bread and butter." He's been dancing around saying anything of substance about Buck's feelings, in all of this, but the hints are there. As if the bouts of angry-depressive texts from Buck weren't clue enough.

"And what if it's not what I want?"

Eddie's eyes dart to his phone one more time. "Then you can make it a clean break in about ... three and a half minutes."

Tommy nearly tosses his beer across the room.

[ace-of-bass]

Also: Building community is not just an outreach tool. It is a tool of keeping ourselves safe and keeping resources available to all. Offering things on social media like rides to abortion clinics, or diy hrt, or anything else that is perhaps not-totally-legal in all places, is not a great strategy. For one, you shouldn't trust strangers on the internet with information that sensitive, so those you are offering those services to would do well not to trust you. If you want to meaningfully contribute to providing things such as the above, or even more legal-but-logistically-complex things like feeding a large number of people, handing out narcan, etc, you need to organize in person. How do you organize in person? By meeting people in person, aka building community.

If this is your goal, you can start with people who are very similar to you! You don't have to start by reaching out to Alt Right David or even Annoying Uncle Bill - you can start by going to a local show or a group that meets at the library or hanging out with your D&D group when you're not actively playing D&D. Then, you have friends that you can rely on to take care of you, and who you might be able to plan some cool mutual aid shit with. I've been working on building community for awhile, at first not intentionally and lately very intentionally, and here's how I met the group of friends I started a monthly free store with:

1. Met Friend A at a choir thing since I like to sing and was looking for friends after moving somewhere new. Friend A ultimately left choir but we stayed friends, and at one point I told Friend A I'm ace.

2. Friend A said, "oh you'd love my friend B, who's also ace! She's doing a comedy show, let's go see her perform together and then you can meet her!"

3. Friend B and I become friends, and start a local peer support group for aspec people, based mostly on Friend B's existing communities and our sheer determination.

4. Fast forward a year and a half, Friend C comes to our aspec peer support group and I become friends with her.

5. Friend C and I are talking about activism, and Friend C says a lot of the things I'm interested in aligns with what Friend D has talked to her about. Friend C introduces me to Friend D.

6. Independently, I have been building a community space on my street, in the rough neighborhood of where Friend C, Friend D, and I live.

7. Friend D and I want to create a solarpunk future but decide to start small. Friend D ropes in several of his friends, one of whom I happen to know from the community space mentioned in 6.

8. This group of friends runs a free store once a month in the community space, open for all to donate to and all to attend. As we find out about others who are doing/want to do similar things, we try to join forces. In this way we've expanded from just a free store to a free store + clothing swap, and we're only on our third time hosting it.

All of these friends are lefty, and all of them are queer in some way or another. The free store friends are explicitly anarchist, like me. I think OP's point is useful for deradicalization and for growing the movement, but if you are alone and you are scared, encouragement to build community is just as much about finding your people in person as it is about forming coalitions with those different in you.

Another important note is that finding people like you should be a starting point, not an ending point. The goal of this is not to find friends, though that's a good start. The goal is to build dual power, which is done by working together with others and having open doors to join the movement. Once you've found some friends or communities, work to ensure that they are open to all, that you are reaching the people who most need the work you are doing, and that you are not simply making yourself feel good or just having a good time with your friends.

Activism is not cold-calling.

Activism is not cold-calling, and this is critically important to understand.

I'm seeing a lot of posts on here about 'building bridges' and 'finding community,' and then (extremely valid) response posts saying "BUT HOW??" And I'm going to explain something that can be very counter-intuitive: there is strategy involved in community.

As a longtime volunteer labour organizer, I’ve taken and taught many trainings on the strategy of talking. Something that surprises a lot of people is the very first thing you do in a union campaign. You sit down with your organizing committee, take out pen and paper, and literally map it out. You draw a physical map of the workplace: where are the entrances, exits, break rooms, supervisor offices. Essentially, ‘where is it safe to have a union conversation.’ Then you draw another physical chart of your coworkers. You sort out who is union-friendly, openly hostile to unions, or somewhere in the middle, and then you plan out very deliberately and carefully who talks to whom and in what order.

Consider: If Vocally Leftist Jane walks up to Conservative David and says "hey what do you think about unions," David is going to shut down immediately. He's not inclined to listen to Jane. But if Jane talks to Moderate Jason and brings him into the fold, then Jason is a far more effective strategic choice to talk to David, and David may actually hear him out without an instant reaction.

IMPORTANT CAVEAT: If Conservative David turns out to be Alt-Right David, and could be dangerous to follow organizers, we write him off. We are not trying to reach Alt-Right David. We are trying to reach Conservative David, who may actually be persuaded to find solidarity with other employees as fellow workers. Jason is a safe scout to find out which one he is. It does no one any good if Leftist Jane (or even Moderate Jane who is a visible minority) talks to Alt-Right David and puts herself on his radar. Not only has she done nothing to convince Alt-Right David to join a union - she's probably actively turned him against the idea - but now she's also in danger and the entire campaign is at risk. NOBODY WANTS THIS. Jane was NOT a hero for doing this. The organizing committee was foolish and enacted a terrible strategy to everyone's detriment.

Where you can make a difference is with people who will listen to you. You having a conversation with your well-meaning but clueless Centrist Democrat Auntie, and maybe gently helping her understand some things the media has been glossing over, is way more strategically useful than you marching up to MAGA Neighbour You've Met Once and trying to "build community" or "understand" them. They don't care. They're impervious, dangerous, and cruel. But maybe your beloved auntie will think about what you said, and then talk to her friend Anna who IDs as "fiscally conservative" but didn't vote because she can't bring herself to get on board with Trump. Then perhaps Anna talks to her brother Nic who has MAGA leanings but isn't all the way there yet. Proto-MAGA Nic would not have listened to you, nor would he have listened to Centrist Democrat Auntie, but he might absorb some of what his sister is saying.

This is not a cop-out or an echo chamber. This is you spending your time and energy strategically and safely. You are not a useful activist to anyone if you’re dead. Anyone who is telling you to hurl yourself directly at MAGA assholes like cannon fodder has no understanding of the strategy behind community building, and you should feel comfortable writing them off.

Last point: If you are tired, emotionally devastated, and/or in danger: take a break. This post is for people who would feel better jumping into action, not for people who are too overwhelmed to even think about it right now. You are worth so much even if you’re not actively Doing Activism, and your rest is worth more than “a break period so you can recharge and Do More Activism.” We all deserve the individual dignity of being worthy of comfort, rest & safety just on the basis of being human, outside of whatever we're doing for others' benefit. To deny ourselves that dignity is to devalue ourselves, and that’s the absolute last thing any of us should be doing right now.

[sharoo]

Self-knowledge as a theme in STP messes me up so bad, bros.

This all starts with how little the Princess can tell you if you ask her about herself. How little you can say about yourself, more often than not. Most of the time Quiet doesn't even know what they look like!

The Narrator makes it a point to make the Princess' cluelessness, her lack of self-knowledge, into deception, but really, both the protagonists don't know themselves. How could they?

The concepts of bounds, of something that isn't you, the distinction of "self" and "other", "you" and "I", the concept of something being not like yourself... this is the first time this deity which is now two has ever experienced it.

The Shifting Mound and the Long Quiet did not exist until the Narrator tore a whole into parts.

Now, this deity in twain has to reorient. It has only begun existing, it's not yet known itself. A toddler has to develop a self-concept, and the concepts of others.

Now imagine, for the first time in your solitary existence, that there is something that you are not. Unknowable, foreign.

What are they like, you think? Are they a friend? Should I get to know them? Are they a foe? I do not know them, I cannot trust them... Or can I?

This brings to mind, of all things, Contrapoints' video on Twilight, where she speaks about the concepts of Union and Division in relation to love. And while she speaks of it in terms of eros, it can apply here just as easily, romantically and platonically.

Love is the union of two beings. We love because something outside of us allows us to be more than ourself. In others, many seek that which they lack. We seek out people so that we may develop through our similarities and contrasts with them, to change an be changed.

We seek out people because there can be no I without a You. To exist in a void is not a fulfilling experience.

We cannot discover ourself if he have nothing that allows us to compare ourself. The mirrors elude us throughout the game, always leading to the princess - she is the only way we may know ourselves, the mirrors tease as they disappear. And at the end of the route, only then, can you see yourself, now that you have a complete knowledge of yourself in a given scenario, with a given persona.

Was the princess someone you decided to trust? Or to betray? Was she a foe? A friend? A nightmare? A victim?

You both try to find out who you are through your relationship.

The princess assumes many faces and attitudes in response to you, you assume voices and attitudes in response to her. You're two batches of clay shaping each other at the same time. It's almost like knowing someone your entire life, seeing them go through different phases as they try to find out their identity in the world, their place. The 5 routes, whatever they be, are your "adolescence".

And growing means you will hurt each other, intentionally or not. There will be fights, disagreements, there will be heartache, and comfort and love.

And everything will pass.

Shifty, before she's complete, before she discovers her godhood, makes this point so clear.

How could she not be kind to you? You are the only thing in this place that is not her. What reason could she have to hate you? To make the only friend she could have into an enemy?

That's why, at the end of every route, all hurts are forgiven. All the heartache is acknowledged, understood, and then she moves on. So that you may continue being together, so that she may see what else you do.

Even godhood can become a phase. The Shifting Mound recognises what you both were, but it need not be you unless you accept it. Because self-knowledge is unending. You are always changing, and you can always change.

You can accept being a god, and that becomes you.

You can reject being a god, and that becomes you.

You are by that point an "adult". The figure trying to dictate who both of you are is gone, and you can decide for yourself.

I think this is partially why I love the Leave with Stranger ending the best of all the endings. You begin it by avoiding knowledge of yourself and of another. The self can only exist as far as it is not like the others.

And you meet the Stranger, this being who knows so little about herself, because she too has been deprived of another. The route is quick. It really cannot amount to much, because if you don't know yourself, it's so hard to build a relationship.

But at the end, they've matured. You gave each other time to become fuller beings. You met this person again and they seem so much happier with themself than they were in youth.

I love how they say "We're just a stranger.", and the voices point out how it needn't be sad that you don't know her, unless you make it out to be. You can get to know them, the real them, and they can do that with you.

The way the Stranger speaks if the position of a God only underlines how much the heart of the Shifting Mound can understand self-knowledge.

They speak of how they feel themself be pulled towards taking the position of godhood, of being everything, yet find it confining. Restricting.

"We want more. We want whatever might be on the other side of this door. Something new, that we'll experience together. With someone who exists outside of us. Someone who can see us in a way we can never see ourself."

Self-knowledge through relationships and reflection on how you impact other people.

[hairmetal666]

Eddie stands at the edge of the ruined, stinking field, heart somewhere down by the soles of his feet. He watches the grey vines creep across the rotten earth, bracketing the blackened and split pumpkins.

"This can't be happening again," Steve says next to him. There's nothing in his voice, in his expression.

And Eddie doesn't know what to say because it is happening, the Upside Down is creeping into Hawkins, Vecna defeated or not.

"We have to tell the others," is Eddie's response. He doesn't know how he sounds normal when his heart is breaking, when Steve's blankness is killing him.

They walk back to Eddie's van in heavy silence. He can't read what Steve is thinking and that's--they're not something, not yet, but they spend all their time together and it's right there, under the surface, and--

He always knows what Steve is thinking, now. Can read his face like Tolkien wrote it, no matter what's happening, but right now it's empty, unreadable, unfathomable, untouchable King Steve risen from the grave.

The drive back to Hop's cabin is silent. Eddie doesn't even turn on music, his brain can't take it.

Cars fill the cabin's driveway, everyone in attendance, everyone waiting. On the porch, they hear the TV, the tinny whirr of lightsabers. It all stops when they push open the door, movie paused, conversations broken off, every face turned in their direction.

Neither of them speaks. Looking at all these faces, the kids, Nancy, Jonathan, Robin, Hop and Joyce, the hope and trust, and he can't--he can't.

"Well?" Joyce prompts. She's working a kitchen towel between her fingers.

He nods as Steve says, "it's back."

Eddie expects an outcry, horror, an explosion, but it's quiet. Quiet enough he can hear Steve's soft breaths next to him. Quiet enough he gets to watch as the news hits on each face in the room. It's like a punch every time.

It's so much different from planning the fight against Vecna. There was so much energy, drive, to get it done, to defeat the Upside Down forever. There wasn't silence, not ever, no faces painted with grief. Even when things were at their worst, an undercurrent of hope buoyed the group.

"Are you sure?" It's Nancy who breaks the silence, of course it is.

"It's the tunnels all over again," Steve answers.

"El?" Hopper asks. "Have you--?"

Will and El are looking at each other, Eddie's sure that no one else in the room exists for them.

"We haven't felt anything." El finally says.

"Nothing?" Mike's eyes flick between them.

"Not since Vecna," Will says.

"It's--it feels--" El waves at the back of her neck.

"Blank." Will finishes.

"Blank isn't gone," Erica says.

Dustin hums, eyes distant. "So, it went dormant."

That gets all the kids going, arguing and shouting over each other, and it isn't long before everyone is involved.

Eddie throws himself into it, grateful to be back in a familiar place of planning, discovering what they're up against, fighting. They're at their best like this, all of them, and it takes the edge off the fear eating up his insides.

He doesn't really get a chance to talk to Steve one-on-one, but Eddie's aware of him always, catches the moments in between bickering with Mike and shouting with Dustin and whispering with Robin where he goes distant, empty, just like at the field, just like in the car.

Eventually, everyone trickles home for the night, Hop's cabin emptying until it's just the Byers, Hoppers, and Steve. And since Eddie goes wherever Steve is--

Steve stands at the window in their room, back to Eddie. His shoulders are rigid, and Eddie is--he's scared in a whole new way. Steve is--he's strong, he keeps them together, he. They look to him to be brave, to be the first to jump, and--

"Steve?" Eddie comes up next to him.

His eyes are squeezed shut, fists clenched.

"Sweetheart?"

Steve opens his eyes, tears track down his cheeks. "I don't think I can do this again," he sobs. "I don't think--" He presses his fists to his eyes, like he's trying to force the moisture back inside.

Eddie grabs his wrists, gentle, murmurs, "it's okay, it'll be okay, I've got you."

"How can it be okay?" Steve asks. His face is wrecked and Eddie's heart shatters. "This was supposed to be over, Eddie. We were supposed to be done with fighting, we beat Vecna. So, tell me how it's going to be okay."

He freezes, unsure how to respond. In the end, "you're right," he says. "it's not okay. And I don't want to pretend that it is. It fucking sucks. We did the work already. We shouldn't be right back here like it never happened."

"But we are," Steve sniffles.

"But we are. And you know what?"

"What?"

"We're going to get through this. Just like we did the last time."

"We almost lost you last time, Ed. We almost lost Max. What if--what if--" Steve's eyes fill again. "I can't do this without you," he sobs.

Eddie doesn't hesitate, pulls Steve into his arms, holds him as tight and close as physically possible. "You won't." Eddie soothes. "You won't. I'll be right here with you. I promise."

"How can you know?"

Again, there's only one answer for that. "I don't. But I know I'll never leave your side willingly. None of us would. And I know that we're going to fight--all of us--like we always do."

"How can you have so much hope?" He asks. "After everything?"

"It's hard," he answers. "I'm terrified. But I know I have you, and Robin, and Dustin, and Wayne, and--everyone. We fight for each other, you know?"

"We keep going because we have to," Steve says.

"Yeah, sweetheart. We protect each other and this godforsaken town, no matter how much it sucks."

Steve's laugh is husky and short. "It sucks so much."

"Real trash heap of a place."

"And that's without the alternate dimension and monsters."

"I think we've got a really strong ad campaign for the Hawkins tourism board." The giggle that escapes from Steve is the sweetest thing Eddie's ever heard.

Later, the lights off, Steve pulls him close. "I'm so glad I have you," he whispers, fingers trailing through Eddie's curls. "You give me something to hope for."

[knightofwounds]

Tournament

For @adelarsims event.

Okay, I didn't bring the guy first, like was planned, but I still took the leap of faith as recommended. So, after silent first year in the community I am ready to introduce the two young participants of the tournament.

Is she li'l or is he tall? Yes.

Although… Miss Gemma Charm needs no introduction. The youngest daughter of the Charm family, an ancient magical lineage, she is set to make her 16th birthday debut at this year's magical tournament.

Traits: Goofball, Art Lover (+Creative and Perfectionist with mod). Aspiration: Spellcraft & Sorcery (in this family she had no choice, to be honest). Skills: Charisma, Comedy, Logic, Mischief, Painting. Likes (in the game process): Pranks, painting, comedy, new age, argumentative sims, silly behavior. Dislikes: Fitness, egoistical sims.

Her mother Minerva Charm is a powerful and respected witch, her brother Darrell is a famous duelist, she herself has been reminded of who she is almost every day since childhood - all of this is definitely exerting some pressure on the young witch, especially now. Oh, the status obliges.

It's no wonder that behind her carefree facade, Gemma is secretly afraid of not living up to the high expectations of her family and the magical community.

And perhaps the big event would have been an equally grandiose nervous breakdown and she would have given up before it even began if it wasn’t for Glenn O'Malley.

Gemma's stubborn and unpredictable school friend simply stated: "It's dangerous to go alone, take this! And by “this”, I mean “me”. Eh, shut up, Gem, that's not a suggestion, but a declaration."

Traits: Mean, Erratic (+Hot-headed and Loyal with mod). Aspiration: Renaissance Sim. Skills: Dancing, Writing, Painting, Mischief, Fitness. Likes: Red color, funny sims, writing, dancing, gemology, potty humor. Dislikes: Complains, physical intimacy, discussing hobbies, ginger hair (yeah, actually his own hater #1).

You might be a tough street guy, who dare not be teased for an old-fashioned name or anything else, but if your friend wants an one paired outfit for an important event and gain access to your face with her questionable makeup skills… okay then. But just one!

But who the hell is he and what happened?

To be honest, he wasn't even a spellcaster until recently: just a rather unpleasant person who, nonetheless, cared deeply for his small circle of people important to him.

And Glenn got used to the fact that usually in their duo, he was the always annoyed (and annoying) creature with a short temper, but not Gemma. And this time it was hard for him to say "okay, keep your little secrets."

Of course, his friend always had some weird secrets, but she never was so tense and blue because of it. And it was going on for a while, so…

He was smart enough to put together a certain number of details into a whole picture and crazy enough not to try and rationalize the strange result, but just to test the theory.

And a month before the tournament, he met Gemma in the magical dimension with the words "don't you want to tell me something at least now, girl?"

Does Glenn have decent magical skills? Not yet.

Does he have decent physical form and the ability to improvise and adapt skills from one area of ​​knowledge to an unrelated one, compensating for his lack of experience or tools, without worrying about how strange or contradictory it looks? Hell yes.

A guy with the behavior of a delinquent and dirty mouth of a sailor but the cultural background of artsy kid and vocabulary of a poet, he once applied his many years of dancing experience to the football field (also for another favorite person btw), developing unexpected tactics to deal with his opponents.

What will he come up with for magic? Who knows.

Anyway, now it's not so scary to be ashamed together, right? Maybe two Neophytes with a couple of entry-level spells, a pack of cheap cigarettes, creative brains and pockets full of love for shenanigans won't win, but now it's going to be a fun adventure.

(At least for them: this duo of unruly teens can’t vouch for those who meet on their way, oops).

[ailelie]

The Wolf now is Concerned. He isn't invested. He refuses to be invested in humans. Humans are food, not friends.

And yet. This utter sad sack needs help and Hairy McLumberjack is too busy fussing around with trees to do more than look in and tut occasionally.

And, it isn't like the Wolf can roam much. He had a serious surgery to get Steven out of his stomach. He needs recovery time.

It only makes sense that he recovers at Steve's. It's all Steve's fault anyway, if you think about it.

Steve is still mourning his relationship with Denise and dealing with his recent near-death experience. The latter would be easier if the cause of said-near-death experience hadn't decided to take over Steve's bed.

The Wolf is a demanding and infuriating roommate, but the more time they spend on bickering, the less time Steve has to feel sorry for himself. He ends up developing a new passion for cooking out of pure spite--he will prove to the Wolf that there are many better options for eating than 'raw human.'

"So raw my heart was literally still beating, Wolf."

"The better to warm my stomach, Steve."

It is when Little Red is visiting again, more than a week after the Wolf last felt a twinge of pain in his torso, that everything changes again.

"Mama said to invite you to dinner, Uncle Steve," Little Red says. "You can come, too, Uncle Wolf."

Steve and the Wolf meet each other's horrified gaze as they both realize the domestic comfort they've found and created in each other.

That night, long after Little Red has returned home, the Wolf says he's leaving and he goes.

For the first time in weeks, Steve doesn't have to share his bed.

(After the first few nights when the Wolf had claimed his bed, Steve decided he was not going to be forced to the couch again. They each dared the other to leave the bed if they were 'too uncomfortable' to share. Neither left. Neither ever admitted, in the weeks that followed, how nice it was to have someone else there.)

He can't sleep.

In the morning, he eats some berries for breakfast. Lunch is a leftover soup. Dinner is more of the same.

Cooking is less fun on his own, less fun when he doesn't have the Wolf stealing his ingredients and making sly comments from the side.

Meanwhile, the Wolf is in the forest and utterly refusing to admit that his rabbit is a bit gamey, that its flesh would be better shredded with a spicy sauce and served over whipped potatoes. He is a Wolf. He doesn't need cooked food. He doesn't want it.

The flesh and blood are warm in his mouth, but they do not heat his belly like one of Steve's stews. The forest is so unreasonably cold.

And lonely.

"He tried to eat me, Laura," Steve complains to his sister, Little Red's mother.

"From what I understand, he successfully ate you. That lumberjack cut you free, no?"

"The lumberjack! Now, he would make sense. He's handsome, right? Saved my life even. If I had to-- why couldn't I have--" the words won't come out. Steve's never been attracted to anyone male before.

Until the Wolf.

His face flushes bright red and his sister sighs. "You could do worse than that Wolf, Steve."

He buries his face in his hands.

The Wolf goes by the cabin when he knows Steve will be in town, attending the dinner Little Red had invited them to, the dinner that ruined everything.

The ice box has no ice and the plants inside are limp and shriveled. A stew pot, crusted with the dried remnants of broth, sits on the stove. Another pot is half-full with congealed oatmeal.

The Wolf refuses to feel guilty. He is a wild creature. He is not meant to live within four walls like some domesticated dog.

He washes the pots and tosses the ruined vegetables and herbs. It is during this last task that he runs into the lumberjack.

"Glad to see you're back" the Lumberjack says. "He's been missing you."

I'm not back, the Wolf wants to snarl, and, What business is it of yours? Instead, he says, "I don't belong here."

The lumberjack shrugs. "Well, I don't know about that. I think we belong wherever we love and are loved."

"So, what, you're having a love affair with a hundred trees? Do you chop them down after you break-up?" It isn't his best line, but the lumberjack laughs anyway.

"My love was turned into a tree and hidden in this wood. Someday I will find and free him from his curse. Until then, my job gives me more than enough time to search."

"So you're saying it could be worse," the Wolf says. "I could be in love with a tree."

The lumberjack's smile broadens and he nods. "Instead you're only in love with a man."

It is only then that the Wolf realizes what he'd said. The truth of it warms him inside out. "I'm going to go back inside."

He doesn't say he's going to stay. That's what he means anyways.

The next morning, carrying a basket of leftovers, Steve returns to his cabin. He is dreading being alone again, but he cannot live in his sister's house.

He wants the Wolf. He doesn't understand how or why the Wolf has become so important to him, but maybe that doesn't matter. He just wants that strange and frustrating beast back in his kitchen, his bedroom, his life.

He has decided to track down the Wolf just as he's opening his cabin door.

And the Wolf is there.

Glass shatters as the basket falls from his hand. The Wolf's coat is warm and musky under his hands and cheek. His snout presses cool against Steve's neck. His claws prick lightly along his back. Steve can barely think for the utter relief flooding through him.

"I'm back," the Wolf says, unnecessarily. He is holding Steve as tightly as Steve is holding him.

Neither can quite feel embarrassed by their reactions to one another given the other is reacting quite the same.

"Good," Steve says. "Stay."

"Wild creatures don't belong indoors," the Wolf warns. He wants to stay, but some fear lingers. He can only promise now, not forever.

Steve, though, is unconcerned. He steps back, looking his Wolf in the eye. He lifts a hand to his Wolf's maw and traces a thumb along the seam of his mouth, the same mouth and sharp teeth that had once devoured him. "Since when," he asks, "have you cared about arbitrary rules?"

The Wolf flicks his tongue against Steve's thumb. "Since when, indeed."

inspiration struck in a really, really weird way

[iamanartichoke]

I don't know who needs to hear this, but as a creator -

I am fine with "the audience" -

downloading my fics

printing my fics

copy/pasting or screenshotting my fics

sharing your saved copy of my fics with anyone else who might want them in the unlikely but never impossible case that my fics are no longer available on ao3

making a book of my fic(s) and running your fingers across the pages while lovingly whispering my precioussss

doing these things with anything I create for fandom, such as meta, headcanons, au nonsense like 'texts from the brodinsons,' etc

I am not fine with "the audience"

doing any of the above with the purpose/intent of plagiarizing my work or passing it off as their own in any capacity

feeding my work into ai for any reason whatsoever

Save the fandom things. Preserve the fandom things. Respect the fandom things.

Enjoy the fandom things.

[egophiliac]

do skully have pokemon?

Pumpkaboo is the obvious one, but y'know, sometimes the obvious one is the right one! (we'll say SUPER SIZE Pumpkaboo, just for fun. big pumpkin for big skeleton boy.) and another person actually also suggested Greavard, which I somehow hadn't considered, but feels so perfect that I feel like I should have. dangit.

(they can also have little Nightmare Suit costumes :D)