#The Mirror Verse

[soulmaking]

"Mirror" by Rita Dove

[nic-is-the-worst]

T’hyla mayhaps???????????

It’s more likely than you think.

[i-ate-the-rats]

just think about it.

[pycth]

Happy Father’s Day to Gabe Shaw

You can really see who David gets his looks from :)

(I know I promised certain people this was gonna be a wholesome post, but the parasites in me always win—)

A lil fun fact, David had been growing out his hair since Highschool with minimal care, but after Gabe passed he cut it short (kind of like Gabe’s in fact) because his depression had begun to make it hard to manage while also taking on the role as Pack Alpha so much sooner than he had ever expected.

The first time he cut it was in the bathroom the night before Gabe’s funeral. He didn’t exactly know what he was doing, but he was desperate to rid himself of some kind of weight he carried.

It was a mess. At some point he stopped trying to perfect it and blindly cut here and there as tears fogged his vision of the miserable reflection in front of him.

When he finally allowed himself to breath and get a good look at the damage, he felt as if the man he had lost was staring right back at him, saddened by the sight of his son in dismay. He broke down, silently as not wake his roommate who had already spent several restless nights comforting his best friend.

The next morning, greeted by the sight of David’s attempt to cope, Asher managed to convince David let him take him to go get his hair touched up before the funeral—not that there was much protest on his part.

Seeing it cleaned up by the proper tools in the right hands made him feel little better. But the burden still sat heavy on his shoulders. He was the Alpha now, he needed to look like he had it together. He needed to have it together.

He’s gotten it cut that way ever since.

[catwyk]

i miss them so much dude its not funny :( video version below the cut

also just so it's part of the post. if you ship them this is not for you. you did NOT listen to the same podcast i did

(3 seconds, 8fps, 17 frames :p)

[asthedeathoflight]

Okay its time for the armand autism post.

Armand Interviewwiththevampire is autistic obviously in the very direct dsm v way what with the blenders but Armand is also like. Thematically autistic. Like you know how monsters are always a metaphor for something? The werewolf story is a story about puberty, or transness, etc etc. Armand's vampirism is about autism.

Like what if there was something wrong with you. What if there was something wrong with you that threatened the very fabric of reality for most people. What if your existence somehow challenged every social norm and rule and convention and you couldn't turn it off. What if everywhere you went everyone could see that there was something wrong with you and this being seen was your death because everyone knows what people do with things that are different.

So you pretend - right, you have to pretend. Only the thing that is wrong with you lives in every fiber of your body and every movement your body makes or doesn't make and everyone knows anyways. Everyone knows about the thing that is wrong with you because you are a bad actor (this, in some ways, is a direct result of The Thing That Is Wrong With You) and so you walk around with your shoddy mask and your bad lies and everyone turns up their nose but that doesnt mean you get to stop pretending, no, because you need to want them to like you. They will never like you but you need to want it, you need to want it like a dog. So you stand in the corner and you blink the right amount of times and you wear the thing somebody said once might be the right thing and it eats you up inside but you never get to drop the mask even for a second because THATS the monster, the monster is the thing that lives in your heart, its not the thing they've turned you into. Your rage, your sadness, your pain, your JOY is their monster and who even fucking cares if you can see yourself in the fucking mirror anymore.

You just walk around and nobody will tell you how they know theres something wrong with you and you have to imagine its just like fucking glowing in your eyes or some shit. Not that you would know.

[yeyinde]

oh my god, i was just rewatching mandela catalogue when i remembered you were into horror. and adding to my brainrot, i just had the biggest (worst?) idea shoot straight into my head, and i thought:

what if— doppleganger/skinwalker au! for the 141?

a mix of horror and just that feeling of are you truly who you say you are? or is it just another trick in your mind when he touches you oh so carefully, saying sweet nothings but the look in his eyes says otherwise?

goddddd i love analog horror! i haven't seen the Mandela Catalogue, but i'm huge fan of LOCAL58 and Midwest Angelica so i'll def add it to my list!

i really love this idea!!! i could do something similar to the concept art for Toothsayer by Tanya Tagaq—a walrus with a brain floating above it's head, attached by these tentacle-things. you're the only one who can see it, though. this mass clinging to them like a leech. but then the thing— the brain, the mass—opens its eyes and stares at you.

but i've also been kinda wrapped up in the winter soldier au, so maybe a doppelganger version of that would be fun!

like, maybe they go missing in the mountains and you mourn them, visit their empty graves. but on the anniversary of their disappearance, you visit the mountain they went missing on, staying in a hunter's pass/cabin.

the forest is strange. it makes you uncomfortable. you close the curtains over the windows and pretend it's just to keep the chill from getting in, and not the prickle on the nape of your neck that sometimes rears when you know you're being stared at. odd things. unexplainable things, but you make excuses for them, anyway.

until there's a sound in the dead of night. a familiar smell on your pillow. you call out into the dark, but nothing answers you back. just the muted rustle of bushes in the opposite direction of the wind. another excuse: elk. moose. bear. you close the door but it has your voice now.

(you try not think about that. why did you think about that? the thought is foreign and wrong in your head, and you can't deny that it doesn't sound like your own. it chisels in like a pickaxe, something else whispering into the hole—)

there's a knock on the door next. something says not to answer it. leave it. hide. run—

you move to the sound like a moth to a flame, and pretend there's surprise when you see that it's him.

he doesn't speak for a long time, just stands there and stares. but when he finally does, you wish he hadn't because what he says is this:

"did you miss me?"

but it comes out like a cartoonish ransom note. cut up words from a magazine glued down on the page. strung together in sequence but they don't belong. something is missing.

did you. miss me. it's said in three different tones. terror. fear. anger. a recording spliced together.

and that—

that scares you to your core. chills you to the bone.

but it's him.

and when he says let me in—firmer this time, sounding more like himself now (excuses, excuses—he was missing for so long; he's thirsty, he needs to something to drink—)— you step to the side and let it (him him him) pass.

he's back, after all. he finally came home. grief and shock and the cold are all just getting to you. you just need to lay down, he wants you to lay down with him. tugs you toward the bedroom on fawnlegs, stumbling around the room like he forgot how to walk. come, he says. sleep, sleep—

everything will be fine in the morning.

(just ignore the way he walks. talks. and how he stares at you sometimes with a naked, primal hunger on his face like he's trying, with all his might, not to tear you apart—)

[valtsv]

i've been thinking about why the way carson interacts with and talks about VAL makes my stomach churn so much (apart from the fact that their relationship is essentially that of frankenstein and his monster, if frankenstein commissioned other people to actually do the dirty work of crafting the monster for him and then took the credit for their creation anyway) and the conclusion that i've come to is that it's such a horrible parody of a certain kind of father-daughter relationship. carson talks about VAL with the same cloying, condescending pride of a father who sees his daughter as his property (which, according to existing attitudes and policy regarding saints, she is, legally speaking) and reproaches her for committing unsavoury war crimes - from a comfortable, safe distance - like a parent gently scolding their young child for being contrary. he doesn't even actually care that she's killing civilians, he just cares that he can't sell it to the public, or the more openly liberal members of his war cabinet.

and VAL, i think, recognises this. It'd be hard not to, even if you'd never had any previous experience dealing with abusive parental figures. but she also realises that it's the only way to get carson's attention, to negotiate with him. as long as she plays along, and reassures him that she can follow orders - that he still has control - he'll let her get away with a slap on the wrist. a little verbal humiliation. and what's that, really, to a woman who can alter the shape of reality with a sentence? so she plays along, "acts out", restrains herself from biting the hand that promises it will grant her everything she asks for, inbetween cloying admonishments and insufferable self-aggrandizing demonstrations for current and potential investors. takes the indignity of it all and expresses her own frustration on others. just another turn in the same cycle of abuse she's known all of both her lives, except that now, she has a hand on the wheel.

until, of course, she doesn't.

[floodonthefloor]

can i interest you with a rhaenicent au where rhaenyra is a football player who injured her ankle post season and had to see a therapist which turned out be alicent... AS A SUCKER OF SPORTS AU AND RHAENYRA IN CLOTHING APPAREL

ok i wrote a one shot for u rated T

~

It's one thing to get injured mid-game; there's a sense of nobility to it, a sense of look at me, limping off the field, brave and unbothered, cheers from the crowd for Rhaenyra simply hobbling away. It's another thing entirely to twist your fucking ankle during a fucking friendly.

She should have known, really, that it would end up like this. The pitch is damp, there are patches of mud from cleats trampling the grass, and Coach Tyrell is running them to the bone, and Rhaenyra’s in a foul fucking mood.

Still, she plays like winning will erase every mess she's ever made off the field, which — yeah — talk about setting yourself up for failure, considering she's made a lot of fucking mistakes, and the defenders are closing in, and Laena's in the center with her hand raised signalling for a pass, but Rhaenyra gets distracted, thinks about how Viserys is probably at Aegon's training right now, because Aegon plays men's football, and it's just much higher stakes, you see, my dear—

And Rhaenyra shifts her weight to the left to feint one of the defenders, but then her cleat slips on the fucking mud and she feels her knee twist awkwardly, and feels the pain shooting up her leg before she goes down hard.

Rhaenyra tries to get up immediately — pride, stubbornness, embarrassment, whatever — but the pain lances sharp, she grimaces before she can stop it. Laena sprints towards her.

“You alright?” Laena extends a hand that Rhaenyra reaches for.

“My knee,” she grits out. “I — fuck —” she hisses when she rises. “I think I’ve fucked it up.”

“Okay. Alright.”

Coach Tyrell does a half-jog over to them. 

“Targaryen?” she asks, frowning. “No need to play for a foul here, just a friendly —”

“Yeah, no,” Rhaenyra grumbles, putting an arm around Laena as Laena guides her off the field. “No, it’s real.”

“Take it slow,” Laena murmurs. 

They get into the changing rooms, where Laena calls over one of the first aid attendants.

“Think she’s fucked up her knee,” Laena says as the attendant gets Rhaenyra to extend her leg, which hurts like fucking hell. 

“Could be a sprain,” the attendant says, her face a little concerned. “Maybe worse. We’ll need to get it checked, but you should stay off it for now? I’ll get you some ice?”

Rhaenyra nods, leans back against the wall, huffing. “Fucking great. Just great.”

“Cool down, Targaryen,” Laena says, sitting beside her as the attendant goes into the office. “Not the end of the world.”

“Terrible timing,” Rhaenyra says, referring to the fact that post-season is over in, like, two months, and sprains take forever to heal.

“It’s always terrible timing,” Laena says. “You’ll be fine. Stubborn streak, and all.”

Rhaenyra lets out a frustrated breath, staring at the opposite row of lockers. “Just feels like another thing I’ve fucked up,” she says quietly.

“Rhaenyra.” Laena’s voice is quiet, serious, bereft of the playfulness from before. “You didn’t fuck it up. It’s just shitty luck.”

The attendant returns, handing Rhaenyra an ice pack. 

“Fifteen minutes,” she instructs, “I’m going to go contact the physiotherapist -”

“I don’t need physio —”

The attendant gives Rhaenyra a look, then turns to Laena. “Would you mind spotting our dear friend here while she tries to stand on it?”

Fine. Fuck you. 

Rhaenyra glares at the attendant, pushes herself off of the bench, only to immediately have to grab onto Laena as the pain flares hot and sharp, her knee almost buckling underneath her. 

“Yeah, you seem fine,” Laena deadpans as the attendant just quirks her brow and goes back into the office. “Let’s get back out there.”

Rhaenyra groans, feels pain and defeat — she can already see the look on Viserys’ face when she tells him.

Oh, that’s just fine, my sweet— injuries happen, rest is good, while if Aegon ended up with a similar injury, Viserys would be flying in physiotherapists from all over the globe in order to find the perfect one, since Aegon is the one who plays professional men’s soccer and is paid millions a year —

The attendant returns, holding a piece of paper. “Alicent Hightower is fantastic at her job,” she says, passing it to Rhaenyra. “If anyone will have you in tip-top shape before your first match, it’ll be her.”

Rhaenyra takes the paper, folds it, twists her mouth.

Horseshit. This is all such fucking horseshit.

*****

PAIN IS TEMPORARY. GREATNESS LASTS FOREVER.

Rhaenyra glares at the cheesy fucking poster— it’s of a determined-looking athlete mid-stride, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. She’s been here a handful of times already for smaller injuries, and this won’t be any different, it won’t— she’ll be back tomorrow, if she can help it, and it doesn’t matter what this physiotherapist has to say, because —

“— Rhaenyra Targaryen?”

She looks from the poster to see who she can only presume is Alicent Hightower, waiting for Rhaenyra. Her dark red hair is pulled up into a ponytail, arms crossed, sharp eyes, really fucking fit, what in the fucking shit —

(Their last physiotherapist was a lovely old man named Mellos who always smelled a little bit like mothballs and loved to rubber-stamp them.)

Rhaenyra rises slowly, her knee still smarting, but she doesn’t show it, because she doesn’t have to, she’s fine.

“...That’s me.”

“Nice to meet you. I've heard a lot,” Alicent says, though not quite warm, like she’s not someone who’s impressed by things like reputation or fame. She gestures with her chin for Rhaenyra to follow.

“Good things?”

Alicent doesn’t turn around as they walk down the hall. “Things.”

The fuck —

“Oh. Good.” 

Alicent shuts the door behind her as Rhaenyra takes a seat, drops onto the table. 

“I’m sure this will be quick,” Rhaenyra says casually. “Just need you to give me a few exercises to get me back on track.”

This doesn’t get her a response; Alicent’s scrolling through something on her iPad before she sets it down, grabs a clipboard and pulls up a chair to sit directly in front of Rhaenyra.

“When does the pain flare up the most?”

Rhaenyra clenches her jaw. All the time.

“Just when I put weight on it.”

“Any swelling or bruising?”

“Some swelling. Bruising’s mostly gone, though -”

“- And the pain? How would you rate it, on a scale of one to ten?”

“…Depends,” Rhaenyra replies, nonchalant. “Walking— a three. Running, more like a six. But I can handle it -”

“Any pain at rest? Or only during activity?”

Rapid-fire.

“Sometimes at rest. When I wake up in the mornings.  But, again— it goes away, it doesn’t last that long.”

Alicent just looks at Rhaenyra like she doesn’t believe her. “…Right.”

She asks a few more questions— enough that it almost feels like she repeats a few, which Rhaenyra realizes a little too late that she’s doing to try and get the truth out of Rhaenyra.

Fucking physiotherapists. 

"Okay— I'm going to take a look at it— okay if I touch?"

Beyond fucking okay —

"Yep. Sure. Mhm."

Rhaenyra is only a human being with eyes who is being touched by literally the most beautiful woman she's seen in ages, and Rhaenyra feel the warmth of Alicent’s skin through the thin fabric of her shorts, can’t help but notice how the light catches the few loose strands of auburn hair framing her face —

This is ridiculous, you’re being sodding ridiculous, you just need to get laid because it’s been forever —

She tries to focus on literally anything else, but the room feels suddenly smaller, the air charged, and it’s hard to pretend like she’s not hyper-aware of every inch of space between them.

But Alicent is focused, her gaze steady as she lifts Rhaenyra’s calf, guiding it carefully to the right angle. 

“Tell me when it starts to hurt,” she says, her voice calm, professional.

Rhaenyra clears her throat, willing her brain to cooperate. 

“Uh, yeah, yep. It’s… fine right now.”

Alicent’s hands linger for a moment longer, adjusting Rhaenyra’s position. Her touch is deliberate, almost impersonal, but something about it sends a small jolt up Rhaenyra’s spine, and she can’t help the hitch in her breath — fuck —

Please tell me she didn’t hear that —

Alicent glances up, frowning slightly.

“...Everything okay?”

Shit, fuck —

“—Fine,” Rhaenyra replies too quickly, voice tight. “Totally fine.”

Alicent arches an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. Instead, she presses gently on Rhaenyra’s thigh, testing the range of motion. “Let me know if it gets too uncomfortable.”

Rhaenyra tries to steady her breathing.

This is physio, not whatever the fuck you think it is, Alicent Hightower is your physiotherapist, and Alicent Hightower is in close proximity, and her brows are furrowed in concentration, and I think I smell citrus in her shampoo —

“You’re tense,” Alicent observes suddenly, her voice breaking the silence. “Relax, please.”

Rhaenyra’s laugh comes out strangled. 

“Hard to relax when—” She stops herself, the words almost slipping out — when you’re touching me like that or looking at me like that while looking like that —

What the fuck is wrong with me—

Alicent looks up, curious. “When…?”

Rhaenyra swallows, her mouth dry. “...When I’m thinking about how long this is going to take.

Alicent’s eyes narrow, as if she’s not quite buying the deflection. But she only nods, her tone matter-of-fact.

“Well. That depends on how well you listen.”

“Right,” Rhaenyra mutters, feeling slightly relieved that the moment passes without further comment. “I’ll try to be a better student, then.”

“Good,” Alicent says, but there’s a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she shifts her grip and continues the stretch.

“…It’s looking like a ligament tear, and not a sprain,” Alicent murmurs finally, setting Rhaenyra’s leg down and writing notes down.

Oh, fuck.

Rhaenyra shrugs. “I mean— probably not, those are bad, and this doesn’t feel bad— it’s temporary, it’ll be fine —”

“Just because it’s temporary doesn’t mean it won’t impact you long-term,” Alicent says, looking up at Rhaenyra with a furrowed brow.

“Yeah,” Rhaenyra mutters, “Got that from the posters.”

Alicent’s lips press together, as though keeping herself from laughing, and she shrugs, looks back down at her clipboard. “…Those are pretty terrible, yes.”

It’s a nice moment of levity that Rhaenyra tries to take advantage of. 

"A woman with taste."

Alicent snorts. "Bar seems low, if that's your idea of good taste."

"...My bar is quite high, actually."

Alicent looks up, eyebrow quirked, and Rhaenyra decides to be bold and meets her eyes, knows that sometimes, if she flirts just enough, people will generally be a bit more lenient.

"That so?" Alicent murmurs, looking back down at her clipboard, though Rhaenyra doesn't miss the slight pink that appears in her cheeks.

"That's so. I'd say you clear it, though."

Alicent's pen stops writing for a satisfying moment, and Rhaenyra waits for her rebuttal, but she just clears her throat and keeps writing, doesn't respond.

Rhaenyra continues, a little flustered. "Okay, but— long story short, it’s fine. I just need you to tell me how to stretch it and I can go, you don’t have to —”

“— Are you any good at football, Rhaenyra?” Alicent asks, not looking up from her clipboard.

“…I’m sorry?”

Alicent finishes writing whatever notes she was jotting down and sets her pen on top of the clipboard, giving Rhaenyra a hard glare. 

“Are you good at football.”

“I mean — captain of the national women’s team, so— I’d say I’m pretty good, yes -?”

“— Mhm, right. You’d say you earned it, though, yes? Years of training, practice, et cetera.”

Okay— she’s fit and rude —

Which is an unfortunate combo, really, because Rhaenyra's always had a tendency to try and impress women who are fit and rude —

“…Yes?”

Alicent nods, resolute. “I’m a physiotherapist on retainer for three premiere leagues — ones even bigger than yours, mind you —”

“— Oh, I doubt any are bigger than mine,” Rhaenyra quips back, only to turn bright red immediately because what the fuck are you doing making dick size jokes in front of this physiotherapist, what the fuck are you doing —

“…Anyway,” Alicent says, clearing her throat, and Rhaenyra does notice her ears turn a little red, which is interesting, to say the least — “I’ve earned my keep. Same as you. If you want to get back on the pitch, you need to listen to me.”

Rhaenyra’s still trying to push down the flush in her cheeks, trying to focus on anything but the fact that she just made an accidental dick joke to a woman who is both fit and determined to put Rhaenyra in her place. 

“...Fine,” Rhaenyra mutters, half a grumble. “What do I have to do.”

Alicent leans back slightly, crossing her arms, clearly not swayed by Rhaenyra’s attempt at compliance. “First, you’re going to stop thinking you know better than me. You may know how to play football, but I know how to fix you so you that can play it. Understood?”

Rhaenyra clenches her jaw again, nods once.

“And second,” Alicent continues, casual, “You need to accept that you might not make it back in time for the season opener.”

No.

Rhaenyra feels the air rush out of her chest.

“Excuse me -?”

“- If the damage is as bad as I think it is," Alicent says, and holds Rhaenyra’s gaze, unflinching. "Rushing recovery isn’t just dangerous—it’s reckless. You push too hard, too soon, and you risk re-injury. Maybe even worse.”

Rhaenyra’s throat tightens, her whole body going rigid. 

Not the fucking season opener, not after a fucking injury from a friendly, no no no no—

“You don’t— you don’t know that for sure.”

Alicent doesn’t flinch, doesn’t soften. “No, I don’t. But I know enough to recognize the risk. You have to let this heal properly, or you’re gambling with your entire career.”

Rhaenyra can feel her temper rising, hot and volatile. “You think I don’t know that?” Her voice is raw, a mix of anger and desperation. “You think I’m not aware of what’s at stake- ?”

“I think you’re scared,” Alicent says quietly, with an unwavering certainty. “And I think you’re letting that fear make decisions for you.”

Rhaenyra glares at her, eyes blazing. “You don’t know me -"

“No,” Alicent concedes, her voice low but still firm. “I don’t. But I know this injury. I know what it’s done to players who didn’t listen, who thought they could just push through it.”

She pauses, her gaze still locked on Rhaenyra, something different there, something like —

Enough, she's telling you bad fucking news —

“And... I don’t want that to be you.”

And Alicent sounds so sincere, so gentle that it cuts right through Rhaenyra’s anger and leaves just a raw and exposed wound —

I can’t miss the season opener, I can’t, Viserys was going to come and he never goes to my matches, ever —

“I can’t miss it, Alicent -”

“- I get it,” Alicent says, leaning forward, placing a reassuring hand on Rhaenyra’s knee, and it’s not clinical this time, it’s not practiced, it’s soft with a thumb rubbing along her knee and Rhaenyra might either cry or explode. “I really do. But sometimes— missing one game means you can play the rest, yeah?”

“I can’t just miss it -”

“— You have to see the bigger picture, here.” Alicent gestures towards Rhaenyra’s knee. 

“I can’t.”

Alicent leans forward, slowly, deliberately, and okay, there’s absolutely something here, Rhaenyra can’t be crazy— her heart is hammering a little too loudly, the air feels a little too thick. “Then let me see it for you, Rhaenyra. Let me help you get better.”

Rhaenyra remembers a similar conversation she’d had with Mellos, years ago— he’d told her she would have to miss semi-finals, and she’d yelled at him until he had to call Coach Tyrell to put Rhaenyra in her place, and even then Rhaenyra had refused, until Tyrell threatened to kick her off the team.

But Alicent Hightower looks up at Rhaenyra now like I’ll help you, just let me help you, and Rhaenyra came in here ready for a fucking fight, ready to tell whoever the fuck it is that tells her she needs rest to fucking fuck right off, but Rhaenyra looks at Alicent and thinks —

Yeah. Okay. 

She swallows, hard.

“Yeah,” she says, voice a little hoarse. “Okay.”

[mongeese]

Very small piece overshadowed by everything else but I full almost cried at Elgin's line here. Service to others and service to a cause you believe in as service to yourself. Not working for anyone else but dedicating yourself to your work and your community because you want to, because it matters to you. So fucking true. Anyway totally unrelated hc that definitely isn't me projecting I think Elgin's butch

[Image ID: A screenshot of The Silt Verses transcript. It reads

"PAIGE stares at her. She's genuinely touched.

PAIGE: Do you do anything for yourself, Elgin?

ELGIN: (Almost surprised by the question) All of this has been for me. You know that Paige, don't you?"

End ID]

[localechoes]

because nothing matters more than the performance

[orangexmachina]

I stand with my problematic wife

[474lyse]

I made this for twitter and I finally finished it! I tried to give each AU their own style based on @/SPFKymanCartyle (twt), @sleepyeule and @jolyonvane art (I love their content so much!).

I'm also happy I finished this for the kyman week 2023,even if is not part of the topics, I wanted to bring something for the kyman event

[bi-disaster-kirk]

[ddosq]

The First officer never fails

[catwyk]

huh. there's something on my face