#also the news are abhorrent today

[erika-xero]

Boosty stopped accepting payments via PayPal, they say that they're going to fix this issue, but I am nervous AF. It still accepts bank cards and I still have EasyStart, which is comfy and reliable, but my commissioners rarely agree to using it.

I AM SO F-ING TIRED am I going to lose my job

[matan4il]

In today's edition of "The UN is complicit," we now have proof that this "respectable" organization has been sweeping under the rug a crucial report on the situation in Gaza.

On Jun 5 this year, headlines based on false statements from the UN released on that day were still being published, claiming that by mid Jul over 1 million people (about half the Gazan population) could be facing the highest level of starvation if the war continues. This was when we've been going through 8 months of war, in which the UN constantly made claims of imminent genocidal starvation, now, right now, truly, any moment now, if the war doesn't stop.

Except, it turns out that on Jun 4 already (a day earlier than the UN's starvation claims were being made and published), the IPC (an organization made up of several NGOs and UN bodies) has had to admit that there is no reliable evidence of starvation in Gaza, or that its existence is even plausible. This is particularly significant because it was actually the IPC's own Mar 2024 report that many of the claims regarding starvation relied on!

(please read the linked article if you can, it also links to researchers like Mark Zlochkin, quoting the findings of the Famine Review Committee, which are compelling in showing that there is no starvation in Gaza)

This means the UN has known for two weeks at this point (in an official capacity) that there is no starvation, but proceeded to ignore and even contradict its own people on this.

It means Israel has been slandered by false accusations of causing intentional starvation when there is no evidence that there even is one for EIGHT AND A HALF MONTHS, it means that the "clearest piece of evidence" of the supposed genocide in Gaza has never been substantiated, it means every Israel supporter accused of being pro-genocide has been deeply wronged, it means every antisemitic abuse of a Jewish person attacked over the situation in Gaza has been based on an antisemitic libel, it means countless anti-Jewish crimes have been justified using a lie that the UN has been actively enabling for two weeks (if we only count the time they've known about this on an official level, but since the UN has 13,000 employees on the ground in Gaza, it surely knew even before the Jun 4 report)...

And I find it particularly gruesome that I found out about the IPC report on the same day I learnt a 12 years old Jewish girl in France was gang raped as an antisemitic hate crime. This is the second time a Jewish female has been raped in France due to antisemitic motivation in recent months, when during the first rape (that we know of) the rapist was clear about his anti-Israel motivation. And we all know where the inspiration came from, to rape women just because they're Jewish, and knowing they will be victims who will not be listened to, or worse, whose rape will be justified as "resistance"...

IDK how anyone can have a conscience and not be bothered by this. All of it.

The UN is complicit.

The international NGOs are complicit.

The news sources that have not published the report are complicit.

The people who didn't believe rape reports from Oct 7 just because they came from Jews are complicit.

They all prove that Jews are NOT protected, or even just treated with basic human decency, as we should be.

My heart breaks for this girl. I wish I could do something for her, but there is nothing, except to scream here over this abhorrent injustice, and to beg people to raise their voice. Our sister's blood is calling out to us from the ground, and we CANNOT be silent.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[contemplatingoutlander]

In the 1920s, a series of greed-based, racially charged murders of members of the oil-wealthy Osage Nation occurred in Oklahoma. (The linked article is a gift 🎁 link, so anyone can read the entire article, even if they do not subscribe to The New York Times.)

The article's authors, Jim Gray and David Grann, also point out how legislatures in red states like Oklahoma have created laws that are being used to prevent the teaching of significant racist incidents in American history for fear that it could be implied that students are being taught that they "'should feel discomfort, guilt, anguish or any other form of psychological distress' on account of their race or sex." Consequently, teaching about the Reign of Terror against the Osage Nation is being stifled in some Oklahoma schools.

Here is a video about the murders.

.Below are some excerpts from the article:

During the early 20th century, members of the Osage Nation in Oklahoma were systematically murdered by white settlers. Yet outside the Osage Nation, the history of this racial injustice — one of the worst in American history — was distorted and then largely erased from memory. “Killers of the Flower Moon,” a film directed by Martin Scorsese, shines an extraordinary light on these events and provides a long overdue opportunity to restore them in our consciousness. But ironically, at the same time that the film is being released, there is a new attempt to suppress the teaching of this very history in the state where it took place. In 2021 the Oklahoma Legislature passed a bill prohibiting teachers in public school from instructing several concepts, including that “any individual should feel discomfort, guilt, anguish or any other form of psychological distress” on account of their race or sex. The vagueness of the law has caused teachers to censor themselves, for fear of losing their licenses or their school’s accreditation. In a high school classroom in Dewey, Okla., copies of “Killers of the Flower Moon,” the nonfiction book behind the film, were left unread because the teacher worried about running afoul of the law. Another teacher confessed that she was uncertain if she could refer to the settlers who murdered the Osage as white. At stake in these fights is not only factual accuracy. It is also how new generations will be taught to record and remember the past — both the good and the bad — so that they can learn to make their own history. The story of what’s now called the Osage Reign of Terror is essential to understanding America’s past. After vast oil deposits were discovered under their lands, the Osage were suddenly, by the 1920s, among the wealthiest people per capita in the world. In the year 1923 alone, the roughly 2,000 Osage on the tribal roll received a total of more than $30 million, the equivalent today of more than $400 million. As their wealth increased, though, it unleashed an insidious backlash across the country. The U.S. government passed legislation requiring many Osage to have white guardians to manage their fortunes — a system that was both abhorrently racist and widely corrupt. Then the Osage began to die under mysterious circumstances: There were shootings, poisonings and even a bombing. [color emphasis added]

I encourage you to read the entire article. It is tragic that red states are so afraid of their racist past that they are making it extremely difficult for children in those states to learn about the racist underbelly of American history, and how that history continues to reverberate in our society.

_______________ Video source for gif (before edits/caption) Originally posted 10.21.23; last edited 01.20.24

[scotianostra]

August 1st 1834 saw the abolition of slavery, an abhorrent thing, and something Scotland can't just wash its hands of.

Many of you will have walked through St Andrew's Square in Edinburgh, and some, myself included will have taken the obligatory pics, most of which will be dominated by a sort miniature Nelson's Column, but atop is the statue of Henry Dundas, 1st Viscount Melville, the 'Uncrowned King of Scotland'. You can just see him in the pic. Your eyes will fall also on several buildings that would have been homes or business premises of Scots who made their fortunes in the transatlantic slave trade. Many of the houses in the New Town were owned by people with investments in the slave trade.

Back to Mr Dundas, with his immense power he held at the end of the eighteenth century, he was able to use his influence to almost single handedly delay the abolition of slave trade a further 15 years to 1807 and the subsequent abolition of British slavery in 1834. He was impeached in 1806 (then acquitted) for the misappropriation of funds, and he never held office again. Who knows how much more suffering was inflicted on African people in the Middle Passage during those 15 years?

There has been much controversy recently about his statue. What words on his plaque would be appropriate to reflect this unsavoury side of his legacy and give necessary context to his role in Scottish society?

The magnificent Royal Bank of Scotland’s headquarters, Dundas House, was the original home of Lawrence Dundas, cousin to Henry Dundas. His brother George Heneage Lawrence Dundas owned plantations in Grenada and Dominica.

The 4th Earl of Hopetoun, the nephew of Henry Dundas’ second wife, and the vice governor of the bank, is immortalised in the bronze statue outside the bank. He was second in command to fellow Scot, Ralph Abercromby, commander-in-chief of the British forces in the West Indies. Together, the men helped to end the two year slave revolution led by French-African Julien Fedon in Grenada in 1795-6 in the fight against the French for islands in the West Indies. Fedon was a highly skilled strategist, and his men executed 40 British, including Scottish governor Ninian Home at his home in Paraclete.

After 15 months of fighting the rebels were captured and executed in the Market Square. Yet Fedon was never found. Legend says he escaped to a neighbouring island on a canoe, aided by either the Amerindians or ‘Black Caribs’ in St.Vincent.

The suppression of this revolution resulted in slavery continuing for almost another 40 years in Grenada.

And when the eventual abolition came it was Dundas and his cronies who profited further with compensation deals running into what today would be billions of pounds.

I'm turning of commenting on this as it can attract some comments that I would end up having to delete, you can vent your opinions through emoticons

Read more on this despicable man and the trade helped lengthen here. https://historycompany.co.uk/.../henry-dundas-lofty-hero.../

[theroyalsims]

"A DISGUSTING INVASION OF PRIVACY" PALACE CRIES FOWL OVER ANYA AND GUS PHOTO LEAKS

Our favourite newlyweds are currently on their secret honeymoon, but it looks like it's not so secret, after all!

Last night multiple paparazzi photos showing Anya and Gus on a beach were posted by a Champs Les Sims tabloid on their website and social media accounts. The photos also predominantly feature on the gossip rag's latest issue, out today.

The photos were released with the headline:

"SEE ANYA AND GUS' TROPICAL LOVE FEST!"

Snippets of the article are reproduced and translated below:

"Brindleton's future Queen should reconsider and ditch her dowdy long dresses and stuffy coats, especially since the whole world now knows what she's hiding underneath her grandma outfits. Maybe flash some more cleavage! She should throw a palace pool party and wear that tiny red bikini again so her royal subjects can get a better look!"

"Brindleton need not wonder why Anya waited so long to marry so she could track down Gus - look at him! Wonder what he's hiding under his flashy green shorts?!"

A total of five different photographs were published by the tabloid. The grainy snaps, clearly taken using a long-range lens, show the couple enjoying what should have been their private vacation. Included in the released photos are intimate pictures of Anya and Gus kissing and hugging.

The article claims that the photos were taken on a private island, off the coast of Enamorada. The tabloid also admits to using high-power telephoto lenses from a yacht to capture the photos.

The Palace is reportedly outraged, and a well-placed source claims:

"There are now serious talks about what legal remedies the Prince and the Crown Princess may seek against the magazine. They have spoken to The Queen and their legal team.

Their Royal Highnesses feel betrayed and disappointed at this disgusting invasion of their privacy. After a very public wedding, they were hoping they could finally privately enjoy their new life together, even for just a little while."

Several women's groups have also shown their dismay and called out the rag for being "demeaning and utterly misogynistic."

Side note - look, we know that Gus has tattoos but we didn't know he had this many! Is that a massive pair of wings on his back!?

Okay, back to the important matter - we're hoping TRHs sue the crap out of this tabloid because this is so abhorrent and incredibly upsetting! Leave these two be! They're on their honeymoon, for crying out loud! They already gave us a very public engagement and wedding - let them enjoy each other's company in peace!

[monicahar]

the wanderer despises the day of love; valentine's, was it? whatever, it's just a foolish mortal event that he swears to never participate on. he finds each nook and cranny of sumeru completely abhorrent when the day comes. sucking each other's faces in public? are you serious? handing each other cheesy flowers and gifts? what? and the irritable songs he'd heard that were sung to people perched on their windows and balconies—not much unlike a pathetic attempt of some animal's mating call? disgusting. absolutely puke worthy material.

which is why you're led to nothing but disappointment when he doesn't even mention the name of the special occasion you've looked forward to.

“it's today, huh?” he says airily to no one in particular, as if he could care less when his eye catches onto the fact that there were more flowers and bouquets around than usual, and there's a lot of those heart stuff around, much to his dismay and unfortunately keen observation.

red ceramic mugs, heart shaped candies, heart balloons, tulips and other florals with much more vibrant colours than the normalcy of contrast he's used to seeing around the city. it grates his nerves.

he hates this. all of this.

“hey—wanderer!”

[name].

he says the sacrilegious name in his mind, turning around to meet your approaching form whilst struggling to keep his lips from creeping up a smile.

his solemn and hate-filled day is immediately better with your appearance, but he'll never mention that outloud.

“and what's got you here, pipsqueak?” the former harbinger eyes you up and down, finding the whole conversation immediately suspicious with that nervous smile on your face. he'd also be an idiot not to notice the slight shake in your voice when you called out to him. fortunately for him, he's far from one.

although, all that ferocity and harshness of his—gone in an instant.

a bouqet messily bunched up with pink and red flowers is shoved onto his face before he could even add another insult to his less-than accomodating greeting—his eyes widening as he stares at the petals that seem to somehow also stare back with how small the proximity is.

wait, don't these colours mean...ugh! the power you hold against him is demeaning! he curses mentally as he tries to pull down his hat to quickly hide the rising of temperature that would show on his pale face.

in a split second, meeting your bashful face behind the main focus of his line of vision, which is hilariously slowly turning into the same hue of the flowers you're gripping. he wants to laugh at something—your face, the whole ordeal of foolish gift giving, the evident and embarrassing romanticism laced in your actions—but instead, he finds himself utterly speechless. unfathomably impossible to let out words at the moment.

no one had ever done this before, and he had never expected anything from anyone at anything at all.

muttering a near silent gratitude towards you, he gently accepts your generous gift, his first instinct being to put the flowers onto his face to have a small whiff. he deliberately ignores the cute and expectant look you have on your face, probably trying to search for a new reaction from him.

aha, as expected. he smirks against the flowers, hiding his smile in the bouquet. they're fake and scented, that much he could pick up, but he couldn't bring himself to return it to you and complain. he knows it's within your capability to get real flowers, but you probably got these fake ones because you both know that he'd just forget to water them.

it's the thought behind it that counts, even if he preferred something real. i mean...it's not like he'd water it everyday for your sake or something, right? pfft. who does that anyway? haha...

...?

staring at the bouqet for a second and then back to you—he promptly pats your head gently. once, twice, before he runs off once again, leaving you to melt in a puddle after his small act of affection.

he's a certified and avid hater of this type of love and whatnot but perhaps...valentine's isn't so bad after all when it's with someone he cherishes.

just a short drabble for my man lel happy valentines everyone!

[luxe-pauvre]

I don’t need these people’s psychodramas in my head anymore. The closest thing to a political point I want to make is that I’ve dedicated far too much brain-space, in recent years, to marinating in the psyches of the angry, cynical and damaged men currently ascendant in our politics – which is basically what you’re doing when you spend time on Twitter, idly surf online media, or consume most TV news. I’m not talking about people in general here. We’ve lots of work ahead to try to understand how large swathes of the population – people like us, in so many ways, who love their kids, and so on – could embrace viewpoints we find so bewilderingly abhorrent. And we’re going to have to be willing to accept the possibility that some of the failings might be, at least partly, on us. But these tasks won’t be aided in any way by remaining addicted to the feuds and fragile egos of the demagogues at the top, or their hangers-on in the commentariat, and the shocking things they say for attention and money. We can’t ignore the deep societal problems that have fuelled their rise. But we absolutely can choose to excise from our lives all their distracting psychodramas, their whiny podium speeches, social media bloviating and related bullshit (which includes, by the way, the output of many of those building media empires by railing against them, too). And we can do it right now: click “log out” on the relevant app, and they’re gone from your world, just like that – leaving you better placed to address those deeper problems anyway, while also making progress on your other goals. At a minimum, I think this means drawing way back from social media, and probably heeding Cal Newport’s advice to get your news weekly, ideally in print. As Cal suggests, why not “use the stress of this election to be the final push needed to step away from the exhausting digital chatter that’s been dominating your brain”? But mainly today I just wanted to articulate the intention, and the doability of it. May all those angry attention-seekers one day find effective therapists! But in the meantime: screw them. Every single person reading this has better things to be doing with their limited time on the planet.

Oliver Burkeman, How not to freak about about the US elections, part two

[eretzyisrael]

by Dion J. Pierre

Granting a request for injunctive relief filed by Jewish students who sued the university, US Judge Mark Scarsi of the District Court for the Central District of California grated UCLA’s defense of its role in supporting the encampment — which argued, in his words, that it “has no responsibility to protect the religious freedom of its Jewish students because the exclusion was engineered by third-party protesters” — and described what took place there as “so unimaginable and so abhorrent to our constitutional guarantee of religious freedom.”

He continued, “The injunction does not mandate any specific policies and procedures UCLA must put in place, nor does it dictate any specific acts UCLA must take in response to campus protests. Rather, the injunction requires only that, if any part of UCLA’s ordinarily available programs, activities, and campus areas become unavailable to certain Jewish students, UCLA must stop providing those ordinarily available programs, activities, and campus areas to any students.”

Scarsi, who formally assumed office in 2020 after being nominated in 2018 by former President Donald Trump, also affirmed the plaintiffs’ contention that Zionism is an integral part of their Jewish faith. The ruling is the first to address directly how university administrators handled pro-Hamas encampments on their campuses, which, across the country, descended into proclaiming support for terrorism, threatening a genocide of Jews, and unobstructed vandalizing of school property and assault.

“Shame on UCLA for letting antisemitic thugs terrorize Jews on campus,” Mark Rienzi — president of the public interest law firm Becket, which represented the plaintiffs — said on Tuesday, praising the decision’s defense of religious liberty. “Today’s ruling says that UCLA’s policy of helping antisemitic activists target Jews is not just morally wrong but a gross constitutional violation. UCLA should stop fighting the Constitution and start protecting Jews on campus.”

A slew of lawsuits filed by Jewish students and against their universities over their handling of antisemitism after Oct. 7, when Hamas invaded Israel and launched the ongoing war in Gaza, have been decided this summer or remain in the courts.

Earlier this month, a Massachusetts federal judge “in part” denied Harvard University a motion to dismiss a suit which accuses it of failing to respond to numerous antisemitic incidents during the 2023-2024 academic year, clearing the case to proceed to trial. Throughout the summer, Columbia University and New York University (NYU) settled two lawsuits, with NYU paying an undisclosed sum of money to avoid further discovery and litigation.

[astrobei]

prompt from @strangeswift: "literally anything madwheeler. them bonding, them in the future being besties, them arguing... whatever you want. just them."

It might only be her first week of high school, but Max is already so over it. 

It meaning everything. The cramped desks, the giant textbooks, the smell of the locker rooms after third period gym. The way that there had been some plausible deniability, in middle school, about the inherent repulsiveness of teenage boys– and now any minute trace of that is gone, because holy fucking shit, it’s like all of a sudden, deodorant has just totally ceased to exist.

Which isn’t great for someone like Max, by the way, who stands a glorious five-foot-three– also known as the perfect armpit height for the average pubescent boy.

Yeah. She’s so over it.

If walking the hallways hadn’t been abhorrent enough because of this and this alone– which it is, mind you, it’s plenty bad enough– there’s everything else. Everything else meaning the looks. The stares and the glances and the whispers following her as she walks from first period English to second period Geometry, trying her hardest to not get violently lost in the hallways like a total freshman. It’s embarrassing enough being a freshman, right, because you don’t know where your classes are and you have to run to the cafeteria to get a good seat and you’re not completely jaded yet, so people can one hundred percent tell that you’re new.

Max is used to being the new girl. She’s used to holding her head high and marching down the hall like she knows the school like the back of her hand, when in reality, she’d never stepped foot in it before that morning. So the being a freshman thing is a certain kind of clumsy spotlight that she doesn’t mind.

What she does mind, however, is the dead brother thing.

Stepbrother, technically. As if that makes it any better, the way that her mom won’t look at her and suddenly there’s beer in the fridge where her mom never used to keep any before. If that makes the pitying glances and whispers as she passes by any better. As if that takes away from any of it.

She knows what the girls, especially, are thinking. So few casualties at Starcourt, and Billy Hargrove– the cool new boy from California, the one with the cool car and the charm and the hair and the lifeguard job at the pool– Billy Hargrove had to be the one to die.

Max supposes she can’t really blame them either. It’s easy to get caught up in someone from afar. Easy enough to get too caught up on the ridiculous amounts of body oil and the gross open front shirts and the hair they spend hours on every day to really see the small stuff.

Like how they’re an asshole, maybe. An asshole who caked the whole house up with the stench of cigarette smoke and stale beers and sweat. An asshole who liked to push people down to lift himself up. An asshole who bullied little kids just to make himself big again, who–

The girls didn’t see any of that, of course. Max is happy for them, despite the glares and the whispers and the pity. No one deserves to see that. Let them remember Billy as a hero. The king of Hawkins High.

Don't speak ill of the dead, et cetera. It's fine. This is a secret she can shoulder on her own.

Max swings the locker door open, shoving her Geometry textbook into her bag with a soft grunt. Another reason to hate high school– or maybe love it– is that she’s going to get so scary jacked by the end of the year.

“You’re not going to tryouts today?”

The voice behind her makes her jump, even though the hallway is just as crowded and cacophonous as it always is. Mike Wheeler is looming over her, one hand clutching tight at the strap of his backpack, looking, for all intents and purposes, like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

Max frowns. “Tryouts?”

“Lucas has tryouts today,” Mike explains, slow and condescending like he’s trying to explain long division to a toddler. “Remember?”

“Of course I remember,” Max says immediately, which definitely makes her sound guilty of not remembering. But she had remembered. Of course she had remembered. It was all Lucas talked about for the last month. Basketball tryouts for the high school team. He’d said high school team like it was the big leagues that were personally recruiting him, as if he weren’t going out for JV.

“Right,” Mike says. Predictably, he doesn’t sound like he believes her. “You’re really not going?”

Max bristles. “What’s it to you?”

“Because Lucas is my friend,” Mike huffs, “and I’ve had to listen to him mope all week about you being too busy to see him at tryouts.”

“Yeah, so?” Max leans down to zip her backpack closed, the zipper catching momentarily on a stray notebook corner. She heaves it onto her shoulder and tries to pretend like it’s not as heavy as it is. Jesus H. Christ. “I can’t help being busy, Wheeler.”

“You’re not busy.”

“Yeah? How would you know?”

“Because you don’t do anything,” Mike scowls, falling into easy step beside her as she speeds down the hallway to class. The bell is going to ring any moment and– damn it.

She’s definitely lost.

Whatever, it’s fine. Geometry is, uh. It’s here somewhere. She just has to get Wheeler off her trail and then she’ll be free to be lost and confused in peace. Do not engage, she thinks. He’ll never shut up if you engage.

“You– I do things,” Max protests, despite herself. “I– I have homework.”

“Bullshit,” Mike scowls some more. He’s been scowling a lot lately, ever since summer ended. It doesn’t take an idiot to figure out why. El isn’t talking to him and the For Sale sign in front of the Byers’ just got taken down and replaced with an obnoxiously happy Sold! sign, and now Mike Wheeler’s got a dark little cloud of rain and gloom following him around like a lost little puppy. “It’s the first week of ninth grade. We have no homework.”

Max grits her teeth. “What do you want me to say? You want me to get down on my knees and grovel for forgiveness? I’m allowed to be busy, okay, Mike, I don’t owe Lucas anything, we’re not dating anymore–” 

“Yeah but you’re still his friend!” Mike exclaims, throwing his hands up and nearly smacking someone walking towards them in the face. The boy scowls. Mike ignores him.

Max looks away. Was it a right down this hallway or a left? Whatever. She goes right.

“Whatever,” she says. “Of course we’re friends.”

“Friends show up.” Mike jabs her in the shoulder with one finger, and she bats his hand away. “Friends show up. You know he’ll be so sad if you don’t–”

“Yeah?” Max spins around to face him, and jabs him in the chest with one finger, just for good measure. Mike makes an offended noise and rubs at the spot with his other hand. Not so nice, is it? “Yeah? Well if friends show up, when was the last time you went to Will’s?”

Mike blanches. “That’s– different,” he gets out. Max feels a guilty rush of satisfaction at his expression, at striking a nerve. Not so nice, is it?

“Friends show up,” she parrots gleefully. “But I know you’ve been avoiding him, so why can’t I avoid–”

“Me and Will aren’t you and Lucas,” Mike splutters, face going from a ghostly sort of white to a splotchy red all in the span of one and a half seconds. “Me and Will aren’t–”

Max waits, raising an eyebrow. “You and Will aren’t what?”

Mike ignores her. “Don’t turn this around on me,” he says. “This isn’t about me.”

“Feels an awful lot like the pot calling the kettle black, Wheeler,” Max says anyway. “What is this? Some sort of intervention? Did Lucas put you up to this?”

“No way. He doesn’t know.”

Max lets out a sigh, not bothering to hide her frustration. “Then why do you care? Why can’t you just screw off?”

“Because Lucas is my friend,” Mike presses. The scowl on his face has given way to a stubborn, almost-pleading look. “And you know how much this means to him, and–”

“Well, tough shit, okay?” Max snaps, and Mike’s mouth falls blessedly shut. “I can’t do this right now. I have to go to class and– you can stop following me now, by the way. I don’t need another stalker.”

Mike’s upper lip twitches. “We have second period Geometry together, asshole,” he says, yet somehow not unkindly. “I literally sit next to you.”

Oh. Maybe he does. Max feels a little bad for not noticing, but she hasn’t been noticing a lot of things lately. She’s spent most of the first week focused on drawing as little attention to herself as possible. Getting in and out of class as soon as she can. Running home before anyone can corner her and– God forbid– rope her into hanging out or whatever.

And see, that’s the thing, is that a different version of herself– months ago, when things were good and simple and fun and wonderfully uncomplicated– would have gone. Of course she would have gone. She can’t remember the last time she had friends like this. Definitely not back in California, definitely not right before the move. The summer had been some of the best weeks of her life. Before the– you know, before the shit had totally hit the fan and Billy died and Hop died and El was moving away and she and Lucas broke up. Again.

They’d broken up before too, and they’d always gotten back together, but it seemed like a finality this time. It wasn’t the sort of thing he could make up to her with jewelry and teddy bears and chocolate from Melvald’s with the price sticker scratched off (and Mrs. Byers’ employee discount no doubt utilized).

It was different this time because he didn’t need to make things up to her. Because it wasn’t his fault, and she wasn’t dumping his ass because he’d been immature and loud and thoughtless in typical thirteen-year-old fashion.

He’d been the opposite, actually.

She turns away from Mike before he can see her face.

Lucas had been so composed about it, so mature. He hadn’t rolled his eyes or scoffed or been frustrated when she’d said it. He’d been– quiet. Sad. Accepting. If that’s what you want, he’d said, and she’d nodded quietly before stepping off the bleachers and walking away. 

It was what she wanted, because it was easier this way, but something still made her frustrated and keyed up at the way he’d said it. Quiet and sad and without a fuss. 

More than anything, Max wants it to be April again, when things were simple. When he’d win her back and deep down she’d be secretly pleased that he hadn’t gotten tired of this inane push and pull. That he wanted her enough to spend his allowance on that teddy bear or those roses. She’d never really been mad at him. That’s just who she was– someone who pushed and pulled on the slightest of whims. Someone who dragged everyone else along with her, just because she could.

“Max?” Mike prompts. “The bell’s going to ring, and we’re in the wrong wing, so–”

The scowl has disappeared from his face a bit. He looks strangely contemplative.

Not angry. Not pitying. Just– looking.

Max takes in a deep breath and crosses her arms. “And you didn’t tell me this before?”

“You were all– all angry and stomping around and– it didn’t seem like the time!”

“Like you’ve ever cared,” she huffs, then spins on her heel and sets off in the opposite direction.

“No, Max– go left.”

“Oh. I knew that.”

She didn’t know that of course, but it’s not like she’s going to say this out loud. Mike catches up to her in three long strides, his bag bouncing obnoxiously against his back. “So?” he prompts, and Max wants to slam her head into the wall and yell. “Are you going?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re insanely persistent? Like annoyingly so?”

Mike grins. “I consider it one of my better qualities.”

“You remind me of poison ivy,” Max grumbles, as they turn the corner into the east wing. The bell rings sharply, the sound shrill and tinny through the hall, and she startles. “Oh shit–”

“So you’ll come, right?” Apparently Mike Wheeler doesn’t care about racking up tardies in his first week here. It’s not like Max does either, but she does like to hold the moral high ground.

She shakes her head, almost smiling despite herself. “Why do you want me to so bad?”

“It’s important to Lucas,” Mike insists, “and he’ll want you there. I don’t know how many more times I can say the same damn thing.”

“I don’t think Lucas wants to see me, Mike. I broke up with him, remember?”

At this, Mike stops abruptly, right in the middle of the hallway. Max collides roughly with his shoulder with a shocked gasp.

“Hey! What’s your deal?”

Mike grabs her shoulders, frustrated. “It’s because we– I’ll kill you if you repeat this to anyone, Max, I swear– but we miss you, okay? All of us. We miss you. It’s not that complicated, seriously.”

We miss you.

If she’s being honest, Max hadn’t been aware that there was anything to miss. She visited El, sometimes, after school when the trailer park got dark and lonely and way too quiet. It wasn’t the same as before, though. Things were heavier, sadder. Too many things unspoken, hanging in the air. 

El lived with the Byers now, and sometimes Will would be there too. There was something heavier and sadder about him too, but Max couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. But surely there was nothing to miss in her absence. The four of them did just fine before she came along– Lucas and Dustin and Mike and–

She glances down at his hands on her shoulders, and gets a brief flash of phantom pain– hands gripping her wrists, too tight, angry. Being pushed against walls, wrestled and manhandled and shoved into the car. Road rage.

So much anger. God, there was so much anger.

She was tired of the anger, but now she doesn’t know what to do without it. Maybe that means there’s something wrong with her. Normal people don’t think like this.

She pulls away sharply. “Don’t touch me.”

Worry flashes across Mike’s face, a split second and then it’s gone. His hands fall limply to his sides. “I– sorry.”

Max feels bad. Really, she does. She wants to go. Really, she does. She wants to laugh and tease Lucas as he misses free throw after free throw, and then congratulate him when he inevitably makes the team anyway, because of course he will. He's a shoo-in, and she wants to run down to the gym after school and shake the nerves out of him and tell him that. She wants to go.

She wants–

Mostly, though, she just wants to be left the hell alone.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and Mike’s face falls, ever-so-slightly. The guilt swells up inside her and she looks down at her shoes. They’re getting even more late with every second she waits here, unmoving, and yet– “I really can’t.”

Mike doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he sighs, and reaches for the handle of the door to the classroom, pausing for a moment before opening it. “Next time?”

It’s weirdly hopeful. Max swallows the guilt back down. “Next time,” she lies, and follows him inside.

[jaimeslanisters]

the pawn in every lover's game (part three)

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

When you're ten, your father sends you to King's Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince. A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 6.2k notes: my dog is doing much better today and he's finally home so new chapter in celebration! minor time skip which leads us right up to driftmark...

On the boat ride to Driftmark, Helaena pulls you by the sleeves away from the railings of the ship, leading down below. You follow her obediently, eager to see what had been wrong with her for the past few days. She had been even more quiet and taciturn than normal, retreating inwards. Her strange ramblings had grown more frequent and there were times when she would burst into tears, soft and quiet ones as if she wanted no one to hear. Nothing you said pried it out of her so you instead had to be patient, waiting and biding your time for her to open up to you.

Admittedly, you had tried to drag it out of Aemond. You had cornered him after he was leaving the practice yard, demanding if he knew what was wrong with his sister. His eyes had widened and he had shaken his head before speeding off. On the one hand, you admired his loyalty to Helaena and how he wouldn’t even tell you, her companion and his friend of two years, a single thing. On the other hand, you wanted to chase him down and force him to tell you.

You had elected to avoid him instead.

Helaena leads you into your’s and her’s shared room, closing the door behind her. She turns to face you and her amethyst eyes glow in the darkness of the chamber.

“Are you alright, Helaena?” You ask, wanting to lean in to take her hand but resisting the urge. Over the years, the two of you had grown close, sisters in all but name, but she was still odd about touch. You would always wait for her to initiate it, never attempting to force it save for a few brushes of the arms. “Is something wrong?”

She simply stares back, eyes shining. “There will be no choice,” she whispers and it sounds like a promise in the silence.

You blink. “What do you mean by that?” You press, uncertain if this was one of her episodes or if she was telling you something.

Her face flickers and then it's Helaena again, not the eerie sprite of a girl. She’s calm. “My mother has decreed I’m to marry my brother.” Your heart freezes in your chest. “When I reach the age of majority, I will be wed to Aegon in the light of the seven.”

You’re ashamed to admit that your first feeling is relief. For a horrid, horrid moment, your brain had jumped to the conclusion that she would marry Aemond and the thought was so abhorrent, so sickening, that it felt like you couldn’t breathe.

Quickly, however, that feeling fades and you’re left with your rage.

“Aegon?!” You hiss, mind flashing with pictures of Aegon drinking at dinner, of Aegon whispering to serving girls as they walked past, of Aegon her brother. “She cannot be serious? The Queen is making a mistake!”

Helaena shakes her head. “It won’t be bad, not truly. It’s my duty as a Targaryen to keep our bloodline pure. He wouldn’t harm me or any children I bear him.”

You snort derisively at that. “No, he wouldn’t. He’ll just shame you by parading his whores around.”

“I don’t mind,” she shrugs. “He can keep to his practices and I’ll keep to mine.”

“Your practices are catching beetles in the garden,” you reply, a tinge of desperation entering your voice. “His are laying with anyone with a pulse. You deserve better than that, Helaena. You deserve someone nice and kind who will not embarrass you the first chance he gets.”

She smiles. “A lioness protects her pride,” she teases before her eyes fade dully. “And there will be no choice.”

You wait until she snaps back before shaking your head. “Surely this isn’t set in stone. Maybe you can persuade her otherwise? One of my father’s bannermen must have a son that is virtuous. I also hear the heir to Winterfell is also chivalrous enough though I doubt they use that term in the North. Your mother could write his uncle a letter or-”

“The King had given his permission,” she says, her voice firm as she cuts you off. “It’ll be announced when we return to King’s Landing and we’ll have a betrothal ceremony sometime after. I’ll be okay,” she promises. “I’m not like you. I don’t have grand ambitions that I need a loyal husband for. I don’t want a husband but if I must have one, one of my brothers is preferable so I can stay home, in the Red Keep where I’ve always been.”

You want to keep arguing. You want to convince her that she’s wrong and that there must be a perfect match somewhere for her, but for all of Helaena’s gentle nature, she is steel when she wants to be.

Instead, you nod your head, choking back an argument.

Helaena simply watches you with unblinking eyes.

——————————–

The funeral of Laena Targaryen is boring if you’re being honest with yourself. Perhaps if you spoke High Valyrian, you would understand the long speeches but years spent at Helaena and Aemond’s side had lent you little in terms of learning the complex language aside from the bare necessities. All you can think is that you’re cold and miserable. Winter had begun - last week, a white raven had arrived at the Red Keep and had seemingly brought with it icy winds and dropping temperatures. You had severely underestimated how cold it would be at Driftmark and all you can think as you watch Laena Targaryen’s coffin drop into the frigid Narrow Sea is that you wish you had brought a thicker cloak.

Following the funeral, everyone is directed to a courtyard overlooking the sea. You head directly to a firepit set up and tug your furlined cape close to your body, repressing the urge to shiver. You can spot Helaena, crouched by a dirt pile and undoubtedly playing with some bug she found, and you sigh, thinking back to your conversation on the ship.

It isn’t fair.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Princess Rhaenyra make her entrance and you look up, watching her. It had only been two moons since Ser Harwin Strong had been dismissed from King’s Landing for assaulting Ser Criston Cole. Aemond had told you that Criston had insinuated that the Princess’s sons were bastards sired by him and Harwin had snapped, beating the kingsguard bloody. His father, the Lord Hand, had even resigned in shame and they had all but fled back to their seat of power, Harrenhall. Tragedy, however, had followed and the two Strongs had perished in a fire, leaving their house to rest on the shoulders of Larys Strong.

Harwin’s attack on Criston had been a terrible miscalculation and Rhaenyra fleeing right after had been an even worse one. Even in her short absence, support for her had waned. Uncle Tyland had told you that people were whispering that the rumors of her sons’ dubious legitimacy had been all but confirmed by her actions. Truthfully, he hadn’t needed to tell you. Even just walking through the halls, you could hear people gossiping about the oath-breaking Rhaenyra and cuckolded Ser Laenor. During lessons, your septa had even pointedly lectured you and Helaena about the importance of remaining loyal and faithful to your lord husband.

You also had eyes. Aside from the clear lack of resemblance to Ser Laenor, even now, you can spot Prince Jacaerys standing by another fire pit, face sullen and sad as he looked into the fire, oblivious to the world.

You feel a flash of pity. Jace was a bully and, more often than not, he would join in on Aegon’s cruel tricks on Aemond. Still, no one deserved to have their father taken from them like that.

Sighing deeply, you turn back to the firepit, stepping closer and closer. There’s a rustling next to you and you glance over to see Aemond join you at the fire.

“Tired of Prince Aegon’s whinging?” You ask, looking over at where the other prince was, rolling your eyes when you see him down an entire goblet of wine in one gulp.

He lets out a huff. “It’s our duty,” he murmurs. “We marry who our parents tell us. There’s no point in complaining and there’s honor in obeying.”

You laugh sharply. “I’d normally agree with you,” you reply. “But if my mother were to tell me to marry one of my sisters or, even, my uncle, I certainly wouldn’t obey that order.”

Aemond shrugs. “We’re Valyrians. It’s our custom.”

“And I am the blood of the First Men,” you retort. “Our marriage customs used to include the Lord’s First Right to a woman on her wedding night. Perhaps there are some customs that aren’t worth protecting.”

He smiles wryly. “Of course, my lady. Even still, it is done. Helaena isn’t upset. Aegon will do what Aegon does. There is nothing to be done at this point.”

You frown mutinously. “She could always run.”

“We’d have to chase her,” Aemond points out and you give him a sideways look.

“Allow me this fantasy, my prince,” you say softly. “I know Helaena would never run and I know I could never drag her away. I just… I have six sisters I’ve never met,” you confess quietly. Aemond simply watches you, waiting for you to finish. “My father has three mistresses. They live in a kept home in Lannisport and we all simply pretend that they don’t exist. My father shames my mother and she has to live with that. I’m under no illusion that most marriages are happy and loving but both people should keep to their vows and I do not believe Prince Aegon will do so. Helaena and any children she may have do not deserve that humiliation.”

You had never told anyone about your bastard sisters. It’s a shameful thing to confess and it fills you with anger and resentment. Your mother bore your father’s insults well, still performing her duties perfectly and never showing her true feelings about the gaggle of girls in Lannisport, but sometimes you would see flashes of contempt in her eyes whenever she looked at her husband.

“The world would be a better place if everyone did their duty,” Aemond replies. “Shame that so few want to.”

You nod sullenly, more upset than angry at this point. “It’s not as if it’s difficult. My mother is a Westerling and their words are ‘Honor, not honors’. I was raised to value my honor. I’m a Lannister but I am also a Westerling.”

“So you’ll be underhanded but you’ll feel bad about it?” Aemond asks, a teasing lilt in his voice.

You smile over at him, feeling a rush of warmth in your bones. “Admittedly, my sense of honor may be different from the rest of my family.”

He opens his mouth to say something else when you hear the tapping of a cane approaching. You look over and see King Viserys, nearly bent over at the waist, approaching the two of you, and you hurriedly hasten to curtsey.

“Your Grace,” you murmur, and next to you, Aemond echoes your words. You straighten up and spot Queen Alicent at her husband’s elbow, Aegon behind her with glazed and reddened eyes. Even the Princess Rhaenyra stands with them, hands held in front of her delicately.

“Aemond,” Viserys calls and a few more people turn to observe. You share quick glances with the prince. In two whole years, you had only seen the King approach any of his children by Alicent only a handful of times and even then, it was limited to quick words as if he couldn’t wait to get away from them. “I’ve discussed it with Rhaenyra and she tells me Syrax has recently laid a clutch of eggs. You are welcome to claim one of them or any hatchlings that emerge. We will travel to Dragonstone soon for you to try.”

Aemond’s face is still but his eyes are burning with resentment. You want to reach over and pinch him to remind him of his manners, that this was the king, but you force your body to stand perfectly still.

Behind the King’s back, Alicent raises her eyebrows at her son and Aemond finally bows his head in thanks. “I’m grateful for the opportunity, Father.”

“Of course,” Viserys continues. “You will have to prove bold enough to do so.” He laughs, clearly thinking it a joke and your breath catches.

Aemond’s face takes the strangest combination of sheer rage and humiliation and you want to push Viserys to the ground and hit him with his own cane for putting that look on his face. Behind the King, Alicent looks as if she’s been slapped and even Aegon, who normally would never miss an opportunity to tease his brother, looks stone-faced with displeasure.

But Princess Rhaenyra… She smiles, clearly seeing the humor in her father’s ill attempt at comedy.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Aemond grinds out, his rage clear in his voice, and the King gives his son a wan smile, completely and utterly clueless. As Viserys walks away, you pray to all the Gods that he will trip.

——————————–

The roar of a dragon wakes you and you scramble to a sitting position, heart in your throat. Across the room, Helaena slowly stirs underneath her mountain of blankets. You open your mouth to call to her when another roar is set loose and you freeze, eyes wide.

There’s something primal about hearing the roar of dragons. It’s easy to imagine your ancestor, King Loren, high up in Casterly Rock, hearing that sound and knowing that, no matter what he did, there was no way to defeat the beasts demanding his throne.

“Do you think something has happened?” You ask as you crawl out of your bed, heart beating hard in your chest as you make your way to stand next to Helaena. She stares at you, unblinking.

“The trade has been made,” she whispers softly. “An eye has been closed.”

Something inside of you stirs at that, a vague memory screams at you, but you can’t remember it, not now in the middle of the night.

You sigh. “I hope whatever trade was worth it. Scoot over,” you gesture at her and Helaena smiles, shimmying over to make room for you. You dive under the covers with her, letting out a shriek when the princess immediately puts her cold feet on you. “I thought the blood of the dragon ran hot,” you snark.

Helaena rolls her eyes. “Even a dragon can get cold. Silverwing refused to fly beyond the wall.”

“Smart dragon,” you reply, snuggling into the blankets as best you can. Helaena doesn’t reply, turning on her back to stare at the ceiling. After a few moments, you close your eyes and try to find sleep. It doesn’t come easily. The dragon's roar is still shaking in your bones, filling you with such dread that it’s hard even to attempt sleeping.

It turns out you don’t have to.

After a few minutes, the door bangs open and you squeak, jumping up. Next to you, Helaena lets out a whimper at the sudden noise.

“My princess, my lady,” Ser Lorent Marbrand says as he marches in, his kingsguard armor gleaming even in the low light of your room. “Your presence is demanded by the Queen.”

“What happened?” You ask, pulling the blankets off you as you rise to your feet, heading towards your trunk to fetch shawls for both Helaena and you. “Is something wrong? Are we in danger?”

Ser Lorent clearly seems to be debating if he should say a thing before he exhales sharply. “There’s been an incident. Prince Aemond is injured.”

You freeze, turning to fully stare at the Kingsguard with wide eyes.

Aemond? Aemond is hurt?

Helaena moves to your side and reaches for your hand. The contact startles you and you turn to stare at the princess.

She’s crying.

You had never seen her cry before.

“The trade,” she says, eyes like glass, and you breathe in sharply, panic filling your lungs.

Neither you nor Helaena is anywhere near decent when you rush behind Ser Lorent, dressed in your nightgowns with only shawls to protect your modesty, but you find that you don’t even care. He leads you into the great hall, crowded with people. You vaguely register Uncle Tyland whispering fiercely with Otto Hightower and the Velaryon boys huddled together but your eyes are glued to the figure of green by the fireplace.

Queen Alicent, dressed in a simple gown, hair loose and wavy around her face, is crying bitterly as she kneels by a chair. An old maester is seated in front of the chair, eyes narrowed in complete concentration as he works on something. Aegon stands by them, his face distraught as he wrings the corner of his tunic in his hands.

Breath caught in your throat, you approach the fireplace, half led and half dragged by Helaena. The sickly sweet smell of blood and milk of the poppy grows stronger and stronger the closer you get and, when you reach it, you look towards the chair, petrified of what you’ll see.

Aemond stares back, his one eye dull and glazed. His other eye is a mess of blood and sinew, a long gaping wound slicing through his face, red and angry. The maester’s hand, amazingly steady, is sewing together his skin, closing the wound bit by bit, but you can see, clear as day, the eye completely destroyed in its socket.

A gasp rips itself out of your throat and your hand flies up to your mouth. Tears cloud your vision but you rapidly blink them away, unwilling to look away.

A trade.

You squeeze Helaena’s hand and she squeezes back and you know.

An eye has been closed.

“What happened?” You whisper and Aemond blinks as if he hadn’t noticed anything outside his narrow field of vision. His one eye swings to look at you and, nauseatingly enough, the muscles in his other socket twitch as if the eye is still attempting to find you. Even still, he doesn’t react as if he recognizes you. You clear your throat, trying to will strength into your voice but you can’t. “What happened? Who did this to him?” You repeat, a tinge of hysteria tainting your words.

“They did,” Aegon answers and you look away from Aemond in time to see Aegon’s hand point an accusing finger at the huddled Velaryon boys. You can see now that their faces are bloodied, both of their noses seemingly broken. Behind them, the Targaryen twins stand, holding each other. They’re not as hurt as their cousins but specks of blood cover their faces and clothes. When they see Aegon and you watching them, they all curl up even smaller, shrinking as much as they could to avoid your damning gazes. “Aemond claimed Vhagar and they took his eye for it.”

“Why?” You ask and Aegon merely shakes his head bitterly. Equal measures of anger and sadness rise up in you and you turn back to look at Aemond.

You’ll claim a dragon you remember saying, hands clutching his. You’ll claim one and you’ll show them what ‘Fire and Blood’ really means.

The memory tastes like ash in your mouth as you stare at an addled Aemond and you curl your free hand into a fist, digging your nails into your palm.

“That wasn’t a fair trade,” you say, half to yourself, but Helaena hears you anyways, turning towards you. “That wasn’t their price to extract. They took his eye. They owe him an eye,” your voice dissolves into a whisper, coming dangerously close to breaking.

“A debt,” Helaena replies simply, and you nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

Aemond suddenly lets out a hiss and you startle, almost rushing to his side. The Queen Alicent lets out a cry and her hand flies to cradle his unwounded cheek.

“My boy,” she sobs. “My Aemond.”

He looks back at her, still partly dazed, but there’s more awareness in his eye as he takes in his mother in disarray. The milk of the poppy must be wearing off. “Mother,” he murmurs, and Alicent nods, forcing out a weak smile.

“The maester is working on healing you,” she says and somewhere near the Driftmark throne, you can hear the tale-tell sound of the King’s cane hitting the ground as he approaches. Behind you, you can hear people stop milling around to bow quickly and decorum demands you do the same.

You stay rooted to your spot, staring at the Queen and Aemond instead.

“Can his eye be saved?” Alicent asks the maester, desperate and hoping against reason, and his silence is the only answer she needs. The King begins to shout, demanding answers and explanations, but you find you don’t care to hear them.

There’s only one thing to be done.

A debt was incurred and it had to be paid in full.

Your fingers tingle with the desire of springing at the Velaryon boys, at beating them as savagely as they must have beat Aemond, at snatching an eye each from them, for surely Aemond was worth the two of them. You weren’t there to defend him but you’re here now. If vengeance was tempting you, you can’t imagine the King and Queen feeling any different. You were his friend but they were his blood. Your parents would demand the heads of anyone who dared to harm their children in such a brazen manner and surely they had to be the same.

Except you’re wrong. You’re so very wrong.

At first, you don’t notice Princess Rhaenyra’s approach. You’re too caught up in watching the maester finish his work, too caught up in watching how Aemond grimaces, holding back pained noises, as the needle digs into his flesh, each stitch surely agony. But Rhaenyra’s voice carries, even in the crowded room, and you turn to watch as she approaches her children. The once-cowed Velaryon boys explode with accusations, somehow even louder than the rest of the room speaking, and Aemond’s face twists with rage as he turns in his chair to face his sister and nephews.

“They attacked me,” he spits even as the Velaryon boys and the Targaryen twins begin to scream about stolen dragons and insults. You clutch Helaena’s hand even harder, eyes glued to Jace and Luke, both boys hanging off of their mother’s sleeves. There’s no hint of the cowering boys they once were - now they stand with confidence at Rhaenyra’s side, voices fierce as they declare their innocence.

Your blood boils at the very sight.

Bastards, you think fiercely as you stare at the dark-haired boys, your eyes stinging with unshed heartbroken and furious tears. They’re bastards and they dare to take Aemond’s eye.

Alicent starts to demand justice for her son, as uncaring as you are about any words leading up to the fight, but Rhaenyra is quicker to the point. “My sons were attacked,” she says, voice firm, and you freeze, finally looking away from her sons to stare at her in disbelief. “Their legitimacy was put to question. This is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders.”

Your breath catches in your throat and your body grows cold. Next to you, Helaena exhales sharply and Aegon swears under his breath.

A memory floats to your mind. You had been reading about Maegor the Cruel and his ascent to power and you had asked Aemond about the death of Prince Viserys.

His mother refused to bend the knee or hand over her other son, he had said, looking disturbed. So King Maegor ordered the torture of Prince Viserys and the prince was interrogated for nine days before he was finally permitted to die. The king staked his body in the courtyard of Red Keep to mock the Dowager Queen Alyssa and tempt her into returning to claim her son’s remains.

And the maesters wrote down sharply questioned, you had replied, staring down at your book and at the damning sentence. What a pretty way to say torture.

No, you think wildly, suddenly wishing for the first time in your life that you had a dragon at your beck and call. They will touch him over my dead body. I will see them all burned to ash and dust before I let them harm Aemond again.

Alicent looks horrified, shaking her head. “Over an insult?” She sounds dazed, struck dumb by the horror of what Rhaenyra was asking. She looks as if her worst fears were being realized in front of her and she’s helpless to stop any of it.

The princess does not respond, face stony and determined.

You want to scream and, when King Viserys turns towards his son, you want to screech at him to do the right thing, to protect his son from his daughter’s lies.

He’s owed an eye. Take the eye.

The King, however, has never done what you wanted him to, not when it came to the children of Queen Alicent.

“Where did you hear these lies, boy?” Viserys asks, his voice steady for once, and your hands begin to shake. Not even Helaena’s warm presence at your side helps. Aemond stares down at the ground, refusing to look at his father. “Aemond, look at me. Your king demands an answer.”

You’re his father you think as you stare at them, feeling lightheaded and nauseous. You’re his father before you’re anything else. Why won’t you protect him?

When Aemond does look up, his face is so twisted with hatred that you think if he had the power to, he would strike Viserys down then and there. You find yourself wishing that he did.

For a moment, you don’t think Aemond will answer since he must also see the truth of it all. There is only one answer that King Viserys and Rhaenyra would truly accept. They want him to name Queen Alicent. They want him to finally give them a reason to attack the Queen and take from her all the favor she had accrued amongst not only the court but the smallfolk.

But Aemond is cleverer than that. He has always been.

“Aegon,” he says in a clear and calm voice and the prince starts on the other side of Helaena, looking stunned.

The king approaches his eldest son with more speed than you’ve ever seen him show. He roars in Aegon’s face with even more strength, suddenly seeming a man decades younger as he demands answers. Aegon flinches, eyes flashing with fear, and you hold your breath.

For a moment, you fear his response. Jace and Luke were his friends and he had no great fondness for Aemond. He could just as easily turn on Aemond and his mother and maybe, for once in his or any of his siblings’ lives, secure some affection from his father.

Aegon, however, smashes any expectations you may have had of him. Even half drunk, he’s smarter and more loyal than anyone has ever given him credit for. “We know, father,” his voice is steady and if you weren’t near enough to smell the wine and ale coming off of him, you never would have suspected him of having drunk his weight in liquor earlier. “Everyone knows. Just look at them,” he all but spits, eyes shooting daggers at his nephews, hungry for retribution.

You almost want to smile when you follow his gaze to Jace and Luke. The once confident boys have shrunk down once again, all but hiding behind their mother, their faces marked by fear. Rhaenyra herself looks stunned. It is the very least they deserve.

But even that small victory is snatched away.

You watch with disbelief as the King asks for a mere apology to make up for Aemond’s eye. You shake your head fiercely, unable to stop yourself, and Helaena squeezes your hand sharply. You freeze, trying to rein in your emotions, your grief, your fear, your rage, when Queen Alicent speaks up, her voice carrying across the room.

“There is a debt to be paid. I shall have one of her son’s eyes in return.”

You look towards her, feeling something like gratitude bubble up inside of you. Aemond had been attacked, had been half blinded, and yet half the room seemed content to make him the villain. Half the room seemed desperate to declare the Strong bastards the victims, all too willing to trample over one of their princes to protect Rhaenyra’s illegitimate sons. Queen Alicent wasn’t a Targaryen. She didn’t have a dragon or any real power outside of the little she had built for herself and yet here she was, standing in front of the King of Westeros and demanding recompensation. She was stronger and braver than any of them and your chest squeezes at the sight.

Even without Viserys, she is a Queen.

“This matter is finished,” the King spits out as he turns to face his wife. “And let it be known: anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra’s sons should have it removed.”

You want to laugh. The King was willfully blind when it came to his daughter but surely he wasn’t dumb. Such a proclamation would only ensure that the whispers against Rhaenyra grew and grew. Right now, the gossip was limited to the nobles of King’s Landing. After this, you would be surprised if there would be a soul left in Westeros that didn’t know of the bastards in line to the throne.

There’s a moment of silence, as the King’s words sink in, and you almost think that there is where it’ll end.

But then Alicent moves and the world shifts on its side. The Queen attacks the Princess, her dearest childhood friend, and you don’t care. Rhaenyra bleeds and you know even then that years in the future, you’ll look back at this moment as the moment everything fell apart and there was no hope for reconciliation and you don’t care. You can’t find it in yourself to care since even if Alicent had somehow managed to receive the eye that Aemond was owed, it was not enough.

What could pay back this humiliation? It was not just an eye Aemond was stripped of. The Strong bastards and their mother had taken any illusion of their father’s protection away from Aemond, Aegon, and Helaena. Even little Daeron, far away in Oldtown, completely unaware, had lost something far bigger than just a brother’s eye.

What was a father’s love worth?

The air feels still as the room watches Alicent and Rhaenyra, as the princess’s blood drips onto the floor.

But your eyes are on Aemond.

Quietly, he pushes up from the chair, ignoring the maester’s feeble attempt to push him back. With shaky legs, he walks to his mother, standing proud even though he must be in agony. He looks at his half-sister, at the woman so eager to leave him to rot, and your heart breaks.

Rhaenyra has never once shown interest in her siblings. You know this. Helaena had never complained to you about it, let alone Aemond, but you think of Cerelle as you watch Aemond stare down his older sister. Cerelle who always stood steady under the weight of the Lannister legacy and Casterly Rock. Cerelle who, no matter how busy her day had been, would always say good night to all her sisters, taking her time to talk to every single one of you, no matter how draining her day had been.

Cerelle would never betray you like Rhaenyra had betrayed her siblings. She would never dream of it and you want to cry at the injustice of it all.

Eventually, eyes turn to Aemond, and even bloody, even as a child, he looks more regal than his father had ever been.

“Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange,” he says, voice steady as he tries to calm his mother and shield her from the war that was brewing, and you want to reach out to him if only to draw some of his strength. “I may have lost an eye but I gained a dragon.”

He goes to his mother, curling up into her side, seeking the comfort he had thus far been denied, and you finally allow your tears to fall.

——————————–

Before the sun fully rises over the horizon, you sneak out of your room, quiet as a mouse. You hadn’t managed to sleep at all and it could only have been a few hours since the events in the great hall. Helaena had managed to pass out after a time but you had stayed awake, pacing through the room.

Once you had felt certain that most of the castle was once again asleep, you enacted your plan.

The halls are empty but you still take care to avoid any sound, all but tiptoeing to your destination. When you reach it, you take a deep, fortifying breath before you push the door open gently, poking your head in.

Propped up on his bed by a mass of pillows and lit by dying candles, Aemond stares back at you, his one eye narrowed in irritation before he realizes it's you.

“You should leave,” he murmurs even as you make your way to him, your hands behind your back. “It’s not proper and besides, you shouldn’t be seen with me if you want any chances of being liked in this court.”

You frown at him as you settle down on the edge of the bed, close enough that you can reach out to him but far enough that there was some sense of propriety in a decidedly improper situation. “What do I care about being liked? I’m a Lannister - people like me just because they hope my father will toss some coin their way someday.”

Normally, Aemond would at least crack a smile at that but he doesn’t this time. He keeps his gaze down, looking at his blanket. From this angle, you can see his wound clearer than you had in the great hall. It’s gnarly and even you, with your lack of knowledge, can tell that there’s no way it will not scar. No maester in the world could prevent it. Jace and Luke had left an unerasable mark on him and with that in mind, you pull a golden box out from behind you.

“I don’t know if your mother read the same stories to you that mine did,” you start as you hand it to Aemond. The prince looks up at you, face unreadable even as he opens the box to reveal the necklace your father had given you when he had declared you were to claim a prince. The sapphire gleams even in the dim light. “But my favorite story was Symeon Star-Eyes. He was in Watchers on the Wall, remember? He was blinded in battle but then he put sapphires in his eyes. Even without his eyes, he could fight better than any man at the Nightfort or on the Wall.”

Aemond shakes his head, scowling. “If that’s supposed to make me feel better, y-”

“It’s not,” you cut in, hand flying out to touch his marred cheek. He freezes and you lean in. “Symeon Star-Eyes was a legend. They still tell tales about his exploits and you’ll be the same. In a hundred years, no one will know the names Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon. They will know yours.”

He looks back at you, scanning your face carefully before he reaches up to grasp your hand.

Feeling emboldened, you soldier on, moving your body closer and closer until your legs are pressed up against his, your face so close to his that you can feel the warmth of his breath on yours. “My mother used to tell me another story too. She used to tell me of how the Lannisters became the richest kings in Westeros. It wasn’t through our gold or our mines. It was through collection, through loans and debts. The old kings would lend out our riches and we would always ensure that we received what was rightly ours in the end. If they couldn’t pay, we would take something else from them, something of even greater value for the trouble of making us be the one to extract the cost. We never missed a collection. We never forgot to pay back what had been taken from us.”

You think about Vhagar, the greatest dragon alive, roaring in rage as her rider’s eye is taken, her scream shaking the foundations of Driftmark. You think of Aegon, defending his brother even after years of bullying, and Helaena, weeping as she whispers about the price of a dragon. You even think of the Queen Alicent, auburn hair a crown around her head as she alone fights for her son in a room of dozens, as she makes a crown princess bleed for her son.

And then you think of Aemond, of reading in the library, of books and stories, and of the warmth of his hand over yours, and your resolve is steel.

“An eye for an eye, Aemond, but you deserve even more than that,” you whisper and Aemond’s gaze turns sharp. “Not now and maybe not soon but Lannisters always pay their debt and I will help you do the same.”

He looks back at you, soft and gentle in the glow of the candles, before he leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours.

You stay like that until the sun begins to peek through the windows.

[vomitdodger]

In other news…Boeing 737s continue to fall apart in the sky.

The articles last paragraph is wrong though:

These are not “recent” incidents as the usual media collusion would have you believe with the 737 models. It officially started with two catastrophic crashes in 2018 and 2019:

Granted the 737 Max was the newest model and MOST nefarious but the pattern of intentional abhorrence to safety is manifest throughout Boeing for years if not over a decade as documented in the 2022 movie:

John Barnett who was recently arkancided plays a prominent role in the movie. The guy is brilliant.

And given todays constant barrage of distractions, psyops and coverups most didn’t hear of the latest Boeing whistleblower to testify to congress where he tells of retaliation and covert death threats after documenting the staggering safety violations. He even did this:

He also says he will not let his family fly ANY Boeing plane as the pattern of intentional recklessness is pervasive at Boeing. His testimony to congress was relentless in the violations. And given these problems took a decade or two to fully manifest the problems, it’s going to take a decade or more to address them. Especially since the lifespan of a typical airliner is 30 years.

Curiously, in 2021 the company Avelo was launched. So right about the time Boeing would have had to internally acknowledge they were facing a cosmic anal probe of investigations and it’s eventual consequences. Even if it’s the usual “whoopsie my bad” without any jail time or true consequences…because of the usual secret deals, payoffs and/or compromised investigators. Such as the current Boeing CEO stepping down by the end of the year.

Avelo is the latest in ultra low cost airlines. Basically Spirit but worse. Based out of the Carolinas where of course Boeing is based out of. Where Nikki Haley is based out of. Nikki Haley being a former Boeing CEO has never been question or commented on all of Boeing woes to the best of my knowledge. And she would have been there at the height of the violations. But the best part of Avelo…it’s an ALL Boeing airlines. Ha ha. Talk about your kickbacks and work arounds for pending investigatory anal probes!!! Hard pass on Avelo!

That’s it for now, until the next great and most certain Boeing disaster.

[mephinomaly]

[TL] Flashback/Epilogue 2

[ This post uses Ois~su ♪ ]

Kaoru: Grandpa was throwing a bit of a tantrum, saying he “hates complicated things”, so for the time being, we’ll just be going by UNDEAD.

Koga: Not much point in usin’ two separate brands. Besides, that criminal came up with HELLSING so I don’t wanna use it. Pisses me off.

Adonis: The delinquent most likely had his own ideas for UNDEAD, which was HELLSING.

Kaoru: Yeah. He was probably like “I can make the best version of UNDEAD!”

But we don’t need his idealised version of UNDEAD, we just need to shine brighter and brighter, as the real us.

Adonis: Easier said than done.

As Hakaze-senpai said earlier, both the radical immoral side and the variety programs side of us can be successful— It wouldn’t be superficial of us to do so.

Koga: It’s fine for us to get rid of one of them though. I, personally, think we should get rid of the variety programs.

Kaoru: You really hate those sorts of jobs, don’t you? …Like I said on stage yesterday, you can gain experience from anywhere.

You can’t grow big and strong if you’re a picky eater, you know?

Koga: Who do you think you are, my parents? Anyway, I get it, but I’m not gonna stop complainin’.

We need to eat everything, even if we don’t like it, so we can grow big and strong.

Kaoru: That’s the spirit ♪

Let’s do our best, ‘kay? The AIIE experiment was set up in order to trick us, nothing more to it—it almost felt like a dream.

We’ve seen real robots of ourselves and those kids from Ra*bits too.

The fakes were almost identical to the real us. At least, visually.

Technology and AI will only improve from here, and AI idols will become even more realistic.

Rei: Umu. That is how it seems to be progressing.

Kaoru: Oh? I didn’t see you so I thought you’d had an early morning bath? But then I didn’t see you in the bathroom either…?

Rei: Nay, I was enjoying the peaceful bliss of the early morning by taking a stroll.

I spoke with some neighbours who were also awake at this time, and once I grew tired, I basked in the sun on a nearby bench…

Kaoru: You actually act so much like an old man. You get more and more senile as the years go because of some character you force yourself to play.

Rei: Rather, I used to force myself to act young. I feel more comfortable now than I did back then. I am showing my true colours.

Of course, those who caught a glimpse of the previous me will have seen the immaturity in me, befitting of my young age at the time.

Anyhow. I apologise for interrupting, but I do believe you should keep Kaoru-kun’s worries in the back of your minds.

Humanity continues to evolve, scientific capability is growing ever closer to the abilities of a god.

Robotics, AI, VR— artificial idols will be comprised of those parts.

Then when non-human creatures rise in strength, and become stronger than humans, when monsters arise, when they become the new normal—

What value do humans have, other than being authentic beings?

Will we become pieces of art, displayed in museums for all to see, rather than something a part of your everyday life?

I do not know what the future holds, but that future is fast approaching.

We stand at a crossroads.

If we give up, we die where we stand. We must explore and search for what it means to be human.

We must demonstrate time and time again the value of being loved.

Otherwise, we can easily fall into the position our criminal was in.

A foolish, pitiful creature that can only look into the distance and envy how bright others shine.

What happens to one today may happen to another tomorrow. But I am not so pessimistic.

We are alive.

If we continue to live and grow, we have no reason to fear this lifetime.

That is the strength and beauty of being human.

Let us drive away our abhorrent past, and our anxiety-inducing nightmares alongside it. Let us step into the day with a smile on our faces.

～...♪

[ ☆ ]

Epilogue 1

Directory

[nnycore]

Hunger was one of those annoying, unavoidable things about being a human.

Even though Johnny C. was pretty confident that he could survive on sheer force of will if he had to, living hungry was uncomfortable, and while there were plenty of sacrifices Nny was willing to make for the sake of becoming a feelingless, empty husk, hunger (at this time at least) was just a pointless preventable discomfort. 

And so he took to the kitchen.

To say that Nny’s kitchen was barren was an understatement. His fridge contained exactly four items: a carton of milk that expired a month ago (why did he even buy that? he’s lactose intolerant), a tupperware full of something unidentifiable (he really didn’t want to know what was in it), a jar of pickles (great for snacking!), and a single cucumber. His pantry wasn’t much better; all he had there were some cans of tuna (also expired, he accidentally bought them in oil instead of in water and refused to touch them), a bag of chips (only the crumbs were left), and three cans of spaghettio-s. There was also the matter of his lack of tableware. And proper cutlery. He had the basics: ice cream scoop, pizza cutter, a fork, and of course, knives. Lots and lots of knives. Nny was like a magpie when it came to those things. Any time a new knife caught his eye, he just had to have it. Whether it was the design of the handle, the curve of the blade, or the way it caught the light, something about them just drew him in. Of course he didn’t need it. He knew that. His set of kitchen knives could get the job done just fine. Hell, he could probably do his job with a spoon if he had to (actually, that’s not too bad of an idea… maybe that ice cream scoop would come in handy? FUCK that’s why he bought it! damned memory problems…). 

That’s not the point, though. The point is, Johnny’s living space was absolutely abhorrent, and he had nothing to put his fucking spaghetti-o’s in and the screams from the basement were getting loud enough to be annoying. Fuck he didn’t have time for this, he had things to do! People to kill! Walls to paint! Well, one wall. Regardless, he was a busy man.

Nny grabbed a can and a knife and headed down the stairs. While he walked, he worked the blade of the knife around the edge of the can, cutting the top off with a horrible screeching noise. He really should just invest in a can opener. Once the top was hanging on by just a shred of metal, he ripped it off with his teeth and gulped the pasta down. A glob of sauce missed his mouth and landed on the stairs with a plop. 

“God… DAMMIT!” he screamed. 

“Are you gonna pick that up?” a high, croaky voice asked him.

Fuck, on top of this, he had to deal with a stupid disembodied rabbit corpse following him around, squeaking out useless suggestions. Well, not useless, he supposed. He just didn’t want to hear it. 

Nny glared at the floating head. “Fuck off, Nailbunny. I’m not in the mood today.”

“You’re never in the mood, Nny.”

“And why do I have to be, huh? Who am I trying to impress? Because it isn’t you, it isn’t the doughboys, and it sure as hell isn’t the people down in the basement.”

The rabbit pouted. “Alright, I see how it is… but what about that little kid, huh? What’s his name… Tom? Todd?”

“Squee?”

“Yeah, him. Don’t you want to be a good example for him?”

“If Squeegee is looking to me for an example of anything other than what not to do, he’s already too fucked to be helped.”

“Aw, come on, don’t say that! You have plenty of good qualities.”

“Like?”

“Well… uh…” the rabbit faltered. “You’re very polite.”

“I kill people, Nailbunny,” he deadpanned.

“Well, when you’re not killing people, you’re always very nice. Even when you are killing people you can be polite.”

“Like hell I am! Name one time I’ve ever been nice to someone I killed.”

“There was that one guy… Almost a year ago, remember? You two had a nice chat right before you killed him. Very enlightening. I could see you being friends with him if things had gone differently.”

“Yeah, if things went differently. Which they didn’t. Now are you going to let me clean up my mess or what?”

Nailbunny said nothing and drifted away in response.

Nny sighed. Conversations with his head-voice-entity-things were always exhausting. Why were they so adamant on him questioning everything about his existence? Why did every conversation have to be deep and thought provoking? Was it not enough to simply chat about the weather? Or how ironic the death he planned for his latest victim was? Honestly, he put so much thought into the way he killed and there wasn’t even anyone around to appreciate it. But then again, he might just be talking to himself, and if that was the case, he didn’t even want to think about what subconsciously psychoanalyzing himself meant for his already nearly non-existent mental health.

“Nobody fucking helps me in this house,” he grumbled as he retrieved the cleaning supplies from under the kitchen sink.

Returning to the scene of the mess, Johnny realized just how small the glob of tomato sauce was. He had gotten his heavy duty stuff (yellow gloves instead of his usual black ones, a mop, and some windex) out for nothing. “I guess I’ll just…” He paused, dragging his hand down his face in exhausted frustration. “...get a towel then.” As he turned to slink back up the stairs, the steel toe of his boot caught on one of the steps, sending him tumbling down into the basement. Johnny C. landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, his mop and cleaning supplies scattered around him. He groaned, annoyed at the unexpected turn of events. As he struggled to get up, he heard a soft, timid voice from the corner of the basement. 

The source of the disembodied voice stepped into the dim light, revealing a young boy with wide, fearful eyes. It was none other than Squee, the kid from the neighborhood who always seemed to cross paths with Johnny in the most unfortunate situations. "Uh, hi, Mr. Nny. Are you okay?"

Johnny C. scowled, attempting to save face despite the embarrassment of his fall. "Of course, I'm fine. Just testing the structural integrity of the stairs, you know, for safety reasons. How did you get down here, anyways?”

Squee looked skeptical but didn't press the issue, instead fidgeting nervously with his fingers. "I-I heard noises, and I thought it was safer down here. But then you fell, and I didn't know what to do." He hesitated before asking, "Um, why were you screaming and making a mess upstairs?"

Johnny sighed, realizing that the evidence of his spaghetti-o mishap was still splattered on the stairs. "Just hungry, Squee. And those damn voices in my head won't leave me alone."

Squee furrowed his brow, clearly concerned. "Voices? Like, in your head?"

Johnny waved his hand dismissively. "Yeah, don't worry about it. Just annoying chatter. Happens all the time."

As Johnny started to gather his cleaning supplies, Squee tentatively approached. "I... I could help you clean up. If you want."

Johnny blinked, genuinely surprised by the offer. He was used to people running away from him or, at the very least, avoiding any involvement with his chaotic life. Squee, on the other hand, seemed genuinely willing to assist.

"Well, kid, you might regret saying that, but sure. Why not? Just don't get any blood on you," Johnny replied with a smirk.

Squee hesitated for a moment before nodding nervously. Together, they began to clean up the mess on the stairs, and Johnny couldn't help but notice the mixture of fear and curiosity in Squee's eyes.

As they worked, Nailbunny floated into view, watching the unlikely duo with a bemused expression. "Looks like you found a cleaning buddy, Nny."

Johnny shot a glare at the floating rabbit head. "Shut up, Nailbunny. It's just a one-time thing. I don't need help from anyone."

But deep down, as he glanced at the timid yet determined Squee, Johnny C. couldn't deny that maybe, just maybe, having someone around wasn't the worst thing in the world.

[loredwy]

OAS Press Release about Venezuela's situation

[Title] Notice from the Office of the Secretary General on the Electoral Process in Venezuela and Report from the Secretariat for the Strengthening of Democracy/Department of Electoral Cooperation and Observation.

[Date] July 30, 2024

Today, the Office of the Secretary General received the report from the OAS Department of Electoral Cooperation and Observation (DECO) regarding the presidential electoral process in Venezuela in 2024, which is attached to this release.

The worst form of repression, the most vile, is to prevent the people from finding solutions through elections. The obligation of every institution in Venezuela should have been to ensure the freedom, justice, and transparency of the electoral process. The people should had have the highest guarantees of political freedom to be able to express themselves at the polls, and protect the rights of citizens to be elected.

Throughout this entire electoral process we saw the Venezuelan regime apply its repressive scheme complemented by actions aimed at completely distorting the electoral outcome, making that result subject to the most abhorrent manipulation. It continues to this day.

The Maduro regime mocked important actors in the international community over the years and once again went into an electoral process without guarantees, mechanisms nor procedures to enforce those guarantees. The entire manual of fraudulent handling of the electoral result was applied in Venezuela on Sunday night, in many cases in a very rudimentary manner.

There has been talk of an audit or a recount of the electoral material that has not had the slightest conditions of security and control. Moreover, we must keep in mind that, regarding audits, the regime is at least 11 years behind, having committed to UNASUR (in a meeting on April 18, 2013 in Lima) to conduct a 100% audit of the electoral records from the April 14, 2013, election. It is obvious to say that it was never fulfilled. It is obvious that a new mockery would be unacceptable.

Considering that the opposition campaign headquarters has already presented the records by which they would have won the election and the Madurismo, including the CNE, has not yet been able to present the records showing they would have won, which at this point would be laughable and pathetic if it were not tragic; in this context, it is imperative to know whether Maduro accepts the records held by the opposition and consequently accepts his electoral defeat, thus paving the way for the return to democracy in Venezuela. Failure to do so would require new elections, but in this case with the MOES of the European Union and the OAS present, and a new CNE to reduce the margin of institutional irregularity that plagued this process.

The burden of injustice on the people of Venezuela continues, this people is once again the victim of repression, undoubtedly its most relevant government characteristic, as a result of an inefficient administration that has sown the most severe humanitarian and migration crises the region has ever known.

Not so long ago, Secretary General Luis Almagro expressed that "No revolution" "can leave people with fewer rights than they had, poorer in values ​​and principles, more unequal in the instances of justice and representation, more discriminated against depending on where their thoughts are or whats their political north."

The Secretary General also expresses that he regrets the lack of cumulative memory of actors in the international community, which systematically leads to repeating errors, as well as forcing the General Secretariat to reiterate pronouncements and concepts expressed for a long time.

Reference: C-046/24

[deedjre]

day 5 - redesign !! initially red was created as a stock generic anime boy in red because i was lonely in minecraft. so i made up a fake minecraft boyfriend. he was SUCH a bland love interest i literally wasn't even into guys like that? continuing after this brief aside of the fact i gave literally every character gray pants for whatever reason. red was so much a generic love interest character that i redesigned him to look more to my tastes (hence cropped hoodie and ponytail). and then at some point (honestly probably before 2024) i picked him up and gave him the MOST abhorrent personality. genuinely. he's now the farthest thing from my type somehow but i did realize i preferred women and femmes after his creation so. then i drew him again in 2024. honestly. 2018 red looks so puntable. new red could punt him ez

(prompt list) character ref below

his new personality is misogynist btw. but he's in high school. he can change. he's like. he's the popular guy who thinks he gets all the ladies but he only gets like. a quarter of them. and most people fucking hate him. but he's the principal's son AND the favorite. so. guess who taught him to be this way lmao also charcoal from yesterday's prompt is his cousin. it's a big family.

thought about doing his twin instead for today's prompt but he's a lil fucked up. idk if this is foreshadowing yet i haven't prepped day 12

[legacyshenanigans]

In a very HC information mood today, don't mind me 😊🤍

🐍Marvolo/Rowan🐺

A HC on information about them regarding the way they are.

(TW, I guess: Mentions of them being killers, but if you ain't new here, you already know that, haha)

Though they're friend's, and similar in some ways, Marvolo and Rowan are quite different.

Make no mistake of Rowans sometimes playful and silly ways, he's a killer, that's just facts, Rowans need to kill comes from of course instincts, but also his own personal trauma. Behind the mask he's filled with anger and resentment, and those feeling have to come out, it's not enough for him to just hunt animals in the woods, he enjoys the fear of others, he likes seeing it on their face, he likes hearing their screams. In a calm state Rowans personality would appear like he wouldn't hurt a fly, he can be very soft and affectionate, but agitated and worked up, Rowan is a violent man, and wouldn't think twice about ripping someone apart just for looking at him funny. It's an extreme "switch" situation for Rowan. His feelings burst, and that comes with every emotion, not just anger, and it can switch from one to another in the blink of an eye. Which is why you need to be careful around him. Though he's a killer, and weird as it may be to say, in general, Rowan isn't a "nasty person." But he CAN be when pushed or when driven by his intense flare-ups and mood swings, which can happen at any given time for seemingly no reason.

Marvolo, on the other hand, is a "nasty person" in general. He has a mean and malicious demeanour, which is constantly evident in the way he acts, carries himself, and talks, although he's VERY good at being incredibly charming with it. Though Marvolo can and will get extremely angry at times, he isn't so much filled with pent-up anger like Rowan. He's full of repugnance and abhorrence, which drives his 'want' to kill. He finds certain things and people DISGUSTING, which comes from his father, with him being a Gaunt (Ominis also carries similar traits but goes about things differently to Marvolo. It's just "Gaunt traits.") And in Marvolos fucked up and conditioned head, those things and people don't deserve to live, and he has no issues making it so. It's all a power thing with Marvolo, that's always the goal with the things he does, though he does thoroughly enjoy being "challenged" at times, he likes power dynamics and shows of power. Like Rowan, Marvolo does have a "Soft side" kept very private for those he actually cares about, which isn't MANY people, he has to REALLY like you for it to come out. When he loves, he loves HARD, He can be romantic, he can be sweet, but it still feels a little odd to him when he has these moments of love and sweetness, they were feelings he'd never really properly had..Before he met you.

~