#another calling capitalism has ruined for me

[callings]

Okay not to brag about my culinary prowess but was cooking dinner tonight and was given a recipe for tahini-squash pasta sauce by my roommate to make, and was half way through the recipe when I realized we didn't have any tahini, and was able to improvise and still make a scrummy dinner

[targaryen-dynasty]

REDAMANCY.

Cregan Stark x female Targaryen!Reader (Part 4 here)

From the very beginning on you’ve been hesitant to accept your younger brother’s offer to return to the capital for your child to receive his blessings. And when you‘re finally on the way, it’s your husband‘s duty to take care of you.

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MDNI; p in v, lactation kink, lactating, pregnant sex, pregnancy, slight breeding kink, praise kink, slight degrading, angst, fluff

WORDS: 3.3 K

NOTES: Redamancy means A love returned in full; an act of loving the one who loves you, and let me tell you: these two are in love. Thanks to @sylasthegrim, it‘s always good to know you help me with my zero grasp on English!

✖️ 𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

Ravens from Winterfell flying all the way down to King’s Landing has always taken quite some time. And therefore it was no wonder you were surprised that one of your younger brother’s ravens reached the castle not long after you'd informed him you were with child, inviting you to birth it in the Red Keep for it to receive the young king’s blessings.

Being the ever dutiful Lord of House Stark, there was no way your husband would refuse the offer, and once your pregnancy had crossed the seventh moon mark, a carriage and your husband’s entourage were sent south.

From the very beginning on you’ve been hesitant to accept the offer. Westeros’ capital has brought nothing but pain and grief to you, and you’re afraid coming back ruins the comfort and peace you’ve found far, far away from the castle in the North, in Winterfell. But a part of you misses and longs for your siblings and the part of your family that’s still left, hence it didn’t take too much convincing from your husband.

You’ve lost count of the days you spent in that damned carriage by now, solely accompanied by your maids as your dear husband rides at the front of his entourage, joining his men on horseback. But there’s one thing all days have in common: it’s you being exhausted beyond relief once night comes.

For the longest time you thought your unborn babe to be no-fussy and calm, which proved to be false just one week into the travel. It’s restless, kicking and moving especially when you finally find rest in the bed of the receptive inn you stay in for the night. Your feet are swollen, just like your breasts, and your body provides milk as though the babe has been long born already, and all you crave at this point is for the pregnancy to be over already.

As the wheelhouse comes to a stop, you rub your swollen bump with a sigh, looking toward the door with heavy footsteps approaching. Your beloved husband opens the door, and even though he won’t admit it, he looks just as exhausted as you do.

“Is it time?” you ask, slowly rising to your feet with another sigh. You place your small hand in his large one, allowing him to help you out.

He nods, bringing a hand to the small of your back. “Indeed. We have reached the crossroads. From here we are only ten days away from King’s Landing, which means the end of our journey is in sight,” he replies. “How are you and our son feeling?”

Cregan guides you away from the wheelhouse, escorting you through the crowd of his men towards a large inn sitting right where the river road crosses the kingsroad. And from old tales of your uncle you know it has to be the Bellringer Inn, a place where even your great-grandfather and great-grandmother have stayed at before.

“We do not yet know if this babe will be a boy or a girl, husband,” you chastise him in a teasing manner.

“You are right, we do not,” he says. “But I feel it in my bones. Just call it a father’s intuition.”

You roll your eyes at his words and nudge his ribs with your elbow, yet there also pulls a smile at the corners of your lips. He chuckles at that. “Careful, my love, I am not as nimble as I used to be.”

Shaking your head, you giggle softly. “Do not tell me that you are an old man now, Lord Stark.”

As you make your way through the courtyard and towards the inn, you can feel the curious glances of the passerby; a man of Cregan’s caliber always drew the attention toward him, just like your hair did. But you’re unbothered by it all. You carry a piece of your husband within you, and that thought fills you with a sense of fulfillment and pride.

He looks for the innkeeper as you reach for his hand, pulling it from your back around your frame, squeezing it softly. “Might you join me tonight? I know that you can not leave your men alone, but one night will surely do no harm. I must admit that I have hardly found sleep without your warmth for the past weeks.”

With a gentle, intimate gesture, Cregan brushes his fingers over your swollen bump, before pulling you against his side. “How can I ever be expected to refuse anything my beautiful wife asks of me? Of course I will join you tonight.” Leaning a bit closer toward you, he adds with a quiet whisper: “Your presence has been missed in my bed as well. The nights feel cold and lonely without you by my side.”

Heat crawls onto your cheeks at the proximity and the slight implication that comes with his words, solely interrupted when a stout man with a bushy beard but otherwise pleasant demeanor walks around the corner and welcomes you two.

Upon Cregan’s inquiry about the availability of a room, he hands over the keys and leads you toward your place of retreat for the night. More than once have you told Cregan you’re perfectly fine with sleeping in a tent with him, yet he always came back to your delicate condition, stating he only wants the best for you and his unborn child, and you eventually have given up and accepted it.

The room is decent. Not as big as your chambers at home, but still larger than what you’ve slept in for the last few weeks. Your maids already scurry into the room to bring some of your belongings and clothes to get you ready for the night, while Cregan leans in to kiss your temple. “Let me arrange for my man to sleep outside the inn for the night,” he mutters against your skin. “And then we shall spend the night in warm beds.”

Even with your maids bustling around you, you can’t help but feel a flicker of excitement at his words. The prospect of sharing the night with him is enough to make you forget the soreness of your swollen curves that has become a constant companion over the past few moons.

“I will freshen up in the meantime,” you say, leaning into his touch before he pulls away to take care of his men’s sleeping arrangements for the night. Once everything was adjusted in the chambers, your maids moved to help you out of your clothes, but you refused them, having planned something very special.

Standing in front of the small window, overlooking a stable with a thatch roof and a bell tower, you all but admire how quietly Cregan opens the door, and with the lock falling right into place behind him, the room grows even quieter and the atmosphere becomes charged with anticipation.

“Is everything sorted?” you ask, looking at him from over your shoulder.

“All set,” your husband replies with a low voice as he approaches you.

He comes to tower over your frame from behind, moving his hands over your hips up to your waist. Lifting your head, your eyes lock with his. “Alone at last, hm?” There’s a sultry smile on your lips now, and you gently reach behind you to cup his cheek with one hand. “Now you’re all mine for the night.”

You lean against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breaths against your back. Cregan seizes the opportunity and brushes your hair over one shoulder before he presses his lips to the crook of your neck. The touch makes you sigh, stirring something inside of you you have had to keep at bay for quite some time. When he brings his large hands to your swollen breasts, fondling them through the thick fabric of your dress, you can’t help but moan, the slight squeezing aiding against the heaviness.

But then his hands and lips leave your body, and he slightly leans around you to look at you – or rather your breasts – and you immediately know the reason why.

The gray fabric has become damp under his touch, two dark spots prominent in the front of it. While it brings a bit of shame to your cheeks, the low rumble that escapes his chest sends a fire straight down between your legs. “I should have warned you I started leaking a fortnight ago,” you admit ashamedly, biting your bottom lip.

“I quite enjoy the sight of it, you know,” he says, voice laced with a combination of awe, adoration and burning need. His hands shift to the lace in the back of your dress. “But let us put this to good use.”

The dress comes undone with ease, falling to the floor in a puddle around your feet. Damp spots are decorating your smallclothes, but this time you don’t mind the sight. Cregan’s hands now roam over your body, tracing the curve of your waist and your growing bump.

Although you know exactly what it is his words are meant to imply, you choose to tease him. “And what is it you have in mind right now, hm?”

His gray eyes briefly flicker to the bed close to you, before meeting yours again. “I have a few things in mind. But for now…” He cups your chin, tilting your head up so he can claim your lips in a slow, deep kiss that’s full of desire and passion. It makes you feel as though the air is sucked right out of your lungs by him, as if you can’t survive without his lips on yours. “How about we make the most of this night, my love?”

“I’m all yours,” you breathe against his lips.

His large hands roam your curves, helping you out of your undergarments, until they settle at your thighs, wrapping around them to effortlessly hoist you up. Although Cregan is quite the bull of a man and appears to be a brute, he possesses a tenderness you wouldn’t expect from him, gently keeping your body against his and lying you down on the bed not far away just as carefully.

Soft, gentle kisses are pressed to your collarbones, igniting a fire within you that has been smoldering for too long. As his fingers glide over your skin with featherlight touches, leaving a burning trail behind, he finds his hands drawn to your full breasts, cupping and holding them, and eventually squeezing them.

More droplets of your milk trickle into his calloused palms, wetting his skin, but he does not care–not when he has you writhing and whimpering beneath him at just the faintest of touches.

Your husband’s eagerness would have almost made you chuckle, watching him rise from the bed to rid himself off his clothes hastily, if it wouldn’t match your own desire and greediness. With his breeches falling to the ground, his cock stands to full attention, hard enough for it to almost seem painful.

His hungry gazes devours your bare form, tall frame slightly hunched forwards as his chest rises and falls with heavy breaths.

“Will you just stand there and watch, my wolf?” you tease, propping yourself up on your elbows. “What happened to ‘let us put this to good use’?”

It’s the teasing lilt in your voice that pulls him out of his stupor like a wave, the chuckle he releases low and throaty. “You are a temptress, my love,” he replies. “You are lucky I am a man of my word.”

“Then touch me,” you whine, words coming out more desperate than actually intended.

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. Slowly approaching the bed, Cregan bows forwards and grabs one of your feet. He lifts your leg and starts to trail sloppy, open mouthed kisses along the inside of your leg, occasionally nibbling on the skin of your inner thigh.

Your back slightly arches off the mattress, body thrumming with desire. Entangling your hands in his dark curls, you use the grip as reigns to where you want him most, but your husband acts completely unfazed, not allowing you to tug him higher up.

He takes his time, kissing and nibbling your thighs, before he boldly presses a kiss to the apex of your legs, tongue briefly dragging through your folds. It elicits a shudder in its wake, and you can’t stifle a moan.

Making his way up, he licks your navel, and eventually traces the curve of your full breast, circling your hardened bud. Cregan laps up every drop of milk that oozes out of your bud like nothing else than a starved wolf, the edge of his teeth applying just a faint pressure to the sensitive skin to stimulate the flow.

But when his other hand comes up to fondle and squeeze your other breast, that’s the moment you lose your composure, shamelessly smothering him with your breasts. “Gods, Cregan…” you whimper, immediately bringing you relief. There isn’t even time to waste a thought about the indecency of it all, not when it feels just so right.

It’s your mewls, your whispered whines and moans, the sound of you saying his name in such a desperate manner that drives him to continue. “You make me ache for you,” he rasps against your skin, voice thick with desire. Your husband never falters to ignite a fire inside of you with his words, especially when there’s an innuendo hidden between his praises.

Bringing his hand from your breast down between your bodies, he aligns himself with you, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds in a way that makes you bite back a moan and grind against him. You grip his dark curls harshly as he finally eases inside, pushing into you inch by inch, agonizingly slow to make sure you feel him enter you.

His suckling falters with the tightness of your walls embracing him, overwhelmed by pure bliss and a feeling he’s missed for the past few weeks.

Every gasp and whine that escapes you only serves to embolden him further, continuing to tease and taste your breast with unrivaled enthusiasm. It juxtaposes the slow, sloppy thrusts of his hips, and brings you two different kinds of sensations at once.

Cregan has made himself home between your legs, rocking his hips leisurely back and forth. He has dropped his weight on one elbow and leant his upper body to the side, determined to not put any weight on your swollen bump. His lips are firmly wrapped around your bud while his hand teases the other, pinching and squeezing it between his fingers. The proximity is unmatchable, feeding into your constant desire to be as close to him as possible.

You can practically watch him lose every ounce of self control, his suckling becoming more intense and the thrusts growing in determination. His groans and grunts are muffled, and droplets of your milk trickle idly down his chin, getting lost in the dark, coarse hairs.

You fully expect him to say something when he releases your bud, but he’s far too eager to get his fill again. Pinching the perky bud of your other breast harshly, droplets of milk run down the curve of it, only to be traced by his tongue, liking a flat stripe over your skin. He chokes on a groan as the sight has you clenching tightly around his hard cock.

“Please– do not stop,” you whimper, applying a bit of pressure to his head to urge him towards your breast again. “... not yet.”

Dark-blown eyes suddenly flicker up to meet yours, and a shuddered breath leaves your lips. “My my, what a greedy wench I have for a wife,” he chuckles to himself. You don’t take offense, but the statement does make you duck your head and bite your bottom lip sheepishly. “I do not intend to.”

Despite the teasing, it’s obvious your pleas fall upon eager ears as he heeds your command and closes his lips around your bud again. Every hungry pull of his lips draws more and more milk from you, and while relief makes itself known in your breasts, a different kind of pressure starts to settle in the pit of your belly.

Squeezing him so well, you make it impossible for Cregan to move on his own accord, and quickly take over, rolling your hips against his. It’s a race for completion, making your pearl throb with anticipation.

The coarse hairs of your husband’s beard drag over your sensitive skin with his eager suckling, tickling you and causing you to arch against him even more. You have your arms wrapped around his neck at this point, keeping him tightly against you.

A string of yesses falls past your lips like a chant, and the pace of your hips increases as far as your bump allows you to. Your mind grows hazy with pleasure, until your peak washes over you with a loud gasp.

You haven’t noticed Cregan watching you through it all, too focused on the sensations coursing through your body. His gaze is mesmerized, clearly relishing in the relief that’s etched onto your features and the way your walls flutter around his cock.

He pulls back, droplets of milk resting in the corners of his lips, and lifts his body to tower over you. The thrusting of his hips grows sharper now, determined to help you through your pleasure.

“That’s it,” he rasps, one hand resting on the mattress next to your head while the other gropes at your now relieved breasts.

“Once this pup is born,” he emphasized the words by rolling your sore bud between his index finger and thumb, drawing out just a few more droplets of milk. “I shall put another in you to keep you round with my seed.”

Your head grows dizzy, lightheaded even, and you can’t do more than whimper and whine through your peak, not fully comprehending what he’s said.

Cregan snaps his hips into yours once, twice before he topples over the edge with a loud groan, his throbbing cock spending itself deep inside of you. Cupping your breast, his fingers dig harshly into your flesh.

You continue to roll your hips against his, prolonging his pleasure. Switching roles, it’s now your turn to milk him for every drop, taking everything his cock spills inside of you. Every muscle in his body tenses, until eventually, he collapses to the side, careful not to put his weight on your swollen bump.

With his cock slowly becoming flaccid again, the sensation of his seed leaking out of your cunt is more apparent, causing heat to spread throughout your body. If it wasn’t for you carrying his child already, you would have mounted him to make sure his seed would bear fruit.

Cregan eventually lies down on his back, and you seize the chance to rest your head on his chest. It’s hard to keep your eyes open as his hand softly entangles into your hair, scratching your scalp in the manner that usually lulls you to sleep. His breath is slower now, his chest rising and lowering your head.

“I can not bear to spend another night without you by my side,” you all but whisper, bringing a hand to his stomach.

Your finger trails the contours of his muscles, before following the dark trail of coarse hairs down.

“You needn‘t worry about that,” he says. “We shall not stay in King’s Landing for too long. And I highly doubt that anyone could get me out of your chambers during the time we stay there. Once we arrive, we shall stay together.”

Nodding your head slowly, you hum a ‘mh-mh‘, too engrossed in the feeling of his hand in your hair and the other rubbing soothing circles over your back. Having trouble staying awake, you’re hardly able to process his next words, already drifting off to sleep.

“Let us sleep now, my love. We have another tiresome day ahead of us.“

Cregan Taglist: @nats-whore @aemondsbabe

[pucksandpower]

I’m a Feminist

Franco Colapinto x team principal!Reader

Summary: everyone knows that Franco has a thing for older women, okay … so when his team principal turns out to be a (stupidly attractive) older woman, he can’t be held responsible for his actions

Franco sprawls in the chair, arms crossed over his chest like he’s holding court instead of facing an emergency meeting. His grin is wide, cocky even, and wholly unapologetic. Across the desk, you pinch the bridge of your nose, willing patience to come like some kind of divine miracle.

“Explain,” you say, voice flat, your tone giving nothing away. You refuse to let him see how utterly exhausted you already are by this conversation.

“I sneezed,” Franco says with a shrug, “and liked all your pictures. Really, it was — how do you say — an accident.”

You stare. No, you glare. "And commented damn mommy on all of them?”

Franco falters — barely. There’s a half-second where his grin wavers, his bravado cracks, but then it’s gone, replaced by another shrug. “I-I have the flu?”

Your exhale is sharp, just shy of a growl. “Franco.”

“What?” He leans forward now, feigning innocence. “Is it so bad? You look muy guapa in your photos. Should I not celebrate my team principal’s beauty? This feels sexist, no?”

“Sexist?” Your eyebrows climb so high they might leave your face.

“I’m a feminist,” he announces, as if that explains everything.

“Do feminists call their bosses ‘mommy’ in the comments?”

“Only the hot ones,” he shoots back without missing a beat, then quickly adds, “Joking! I’m joking.”

You slam your palms down on the desk, the sound sharp enough to make him flinch, but the smile doesn’t leave his face. If anything, it widens. “Do you even understand how unprofessional this is? I have sponsors asking me if I’ve been hacked! The CEO of Dorilton Capital called me himself this morning!”

Franco’s face lights up like you’ve just paid him a compliment. “Darren! He likes me. He said I was charming.”

“He said you were a walking HR violation!”

His grin falters again, but there’s something annoyingly endearing about how quickly it returns. “Well, at least he talked about me.”

You sink back into your chair and drag a hand through your hair. God, you’re tired. “Do you even know how this looks? You went through every single photo I’ve ever posted. Franco, that’s-”

“Dedicated?”

“Obsessive,” you snap. “Creepy. Insane.”

“Romantic,” he offers, leaning back again like he’s just solved a puzzle.

“You are twenty-one years old!”

“And you’re …” He trails off, letting the sentence dangle in the air like bait.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

He smirks. “I was going to say timeless.”

“Franco, enough.” Your voice is sharp enough to cut through his bravado, and for the first time, he looks a little serious. “Do you have any idea what kind of position you’ve put me in? If this gets out-”

“It won’t.”

“It already has! You didn’t think people would notice when every post I’ve made since 2016 suddenly has your username in the likes and comments?”

Franco shrugs. “I’m a fan.”

“A fan?” You throw your hands up. “What are you even a fan of? My press conferences? My sponsor meetings? My ability to yell at you when you ruin your tires on lap seventeen?”

His grin returns, this time with a little more sheepishness. “How sexy you look doing that last one, mostly.”

Your head falls into your hands, and for a moment, there’s silence. You think — foolishly — that maybe he’s finally run out of things to say.

But no.

“You never answered my DM,” he says, voice lighter, teasing.

Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

“Last week,” he says, tilting his head like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “I sent you a DM. Very respectful. Very sweet.”

“I don’t even check my DMs!”

“Well, now I’m offended.” He places a hand over his heart like he’s genuinely wounded.

“I’m going to lose my job,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Franco says, waving you off. “You’re too good to lose your job. Everyone knows that.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “You’re the one who’s dramatic! I can’t believe I’m sitting here having this conversation right now.”

“I can’t believe you’re not flattered,” he counters, leaning forward again. “I thought women liked grand gestures.”

“Grand gestures?” You bark out a laugh, humorless and sharp. “Franco, this isn’t a romantic comedy. You don’t win me over by cyberstalking me!”

“Cyberstalking?” His mouth falls open, mock-offended. “That’s harsh, no? I think of it more like … research.”

“Research?”

“Sí. I’m just a very dedicated employee.”

“Dedicated?” Your laugh this time is louder, more incredulous. “I swear to God-”

“Would it help if I apologized?” He interrupts, holding his hands up like he’s surrendering.

“Yes,” you say immediately.

He doesn’t. Instead, he tilts his head, watching you in that unnervingly focused way he sometimes has, the one that makes you feel like he’s cataloging every detail of your expression. “You wouldn’t believe me, though. Even if I apologized, you’d think I was lying.”

“Because you would be lying.”

“Touché.” He grins again, but this time it’s softer, less of a weapon and more of a shield. “Okay, so maybe I’m not sorry. But I didn’t mean to cause problems for you.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you mutter.

“I mean it,” he says, and for the first time, there’s something like sincerity in his voice. “I thought it was funny. I didn’t think-”

“That’s the problem, Franco. You didn’t think.”

There’s a beat of silence. For a second, you think you’ve finally gotten through to him. His expression shifts, the grin fading into something that almost looks like remorse.

Then he says, “But if I had thought about it, you’d still be mad, so really, why bother?”

“Franco!”

He laughs, bright and unrepentant. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop. I promise. No more liking your pictures, no more comments, no more DMs. Contenta?”

You eye him warily. “You swear?”

“On my life.”

“Franco.”

“On my seat,” he amends, holding a hand to his chest.

You sigh, long and heavy, but you nod. “Fine. Just — keep your head down for a while, okay? Don’t give anyone else a reason to call me about this.”

He stands, smoothing his shirt with exaggerated care. “Anything for you … mommy.”

“And don’t call me ‘mommy,’” you snap as he heads for the door.

He pauses, hand on the handle, and glances back over his shoulder, smirk firmly in place. “Not even in private?”

“Franco!”

He’s laughing as he leaves, the sound echoing in the hallway long after the door closes behind him. You sink back into your chair, exhausted, and wonder — not for the first time —if this job is going to kill you.

And if it does, you think grimly, it’ll probably be Franco Colapinto’s fault.

[novaursa]

A Fire Worth Burning

- Summary: Aegon loved you since you were children, but your father, Daemon, would never let him have you. Not while he lived.

- Pairing: cousin!reader/Aegon II Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: ruins of an empire

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The halls of the Red Keep gleamed beneath the midday sun, its stone corridors bathed in a bright light. The air buzzed with dark kind of charged energy that always seemed to accompany your family’s visits to the capital. Your father, Prince Daemon, was as unapologetic as ever, striding down the corridor with a gait that left courtiers pressing themselves against the walls. You followed close behind, draped in Targaryen silks—black and red, colors befitting the blood of Old Valyria that ran in your veins.

Despite the grandeur of the day, you could feel a pair of eyes on you. A familiar weight—a presence that had never quite left your side whenever you visited King’s Landing.

Aegon.

Prince Aegon Targaryen, your cousin, stood at the far end of the corridor with his arms crossed, leaning casually against the stone. The light caught on his pale hair, and though his posture was relaxed, his smirk was nothing short of intentional. He had always been this way—charming and infuriating, equal parts arrogance and allure.

“You should take care where you stop, Aegon,” your father’s voice rang out, sharp as the edge of Dark Sister. Daemon glanced briefly at the prince before continuing down the hall without sparing another thought for his nephew.

“I’ll catch up to you, Father,” you called lightly, earning a knowing glare from Daemon. He did not like leaving you behind—certainly not when Aegon was involved—but he allowed it, though not without muttering something about “Hightower games.” His footsteps eventually faded.

Now alone with Aegon, you crossed your arms, mirroring his stance. “Must you always be lurking?”

“Lurking?” Aegon straightened, pushing away from the wall with feigned offense. “I prefer to think of it as watching over you.”

You snorted, though his easy charm tugged at something deeper. “I have no need of your protection, cousin. I am my father’s daughter.”

“And your father is dangerous,” Aegon replied with a crooked grin. “Yet here you are, walking unescorted, left vulnerable to my… charms.”

“I wouldn’t call them charms,” you shot back, though your tone lacked the bite you intended.

He stepped closer, his violet eyes locking onto yours with a rare softness, a glimpse of something that wasn’t mere jest. “I would.”

You hated how your breath caught. Aegon had always been handsome—he knew it, the court knew it—but it was the rare glimpses of sincerity that unsettled you most. As children, he had been the boy who tugged at your braids and chased you through the halls. Now he was a man, and the mischief in his gaze had taken on a different weight.

“Did you follow me to flatter me?” you asked, your voice measured.

“I followed you because I’ve missed you,” Aegon admitted, his tone quieter now, stripped of its usual arrogance. “It has been years since we last saw one another, and yet, I find you still manage to haunt me.”

Your brows furrowed. “Haunt you?”

He chuckled, stepping closer still until you could smell the faint scent of wine and cloves clinging to his tunic. “You’re all I see, Y/N. When I sit at court and the lords drone on about banners and allegiances… when I ride Sunfyre across the skies. Even in my dreams, I see you.” He tilted his head, searching your face for a reaction. “Do you ever think of me?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but another voice cut through the air like a blade.

“Aegon.”

Daemon’s presence filled the corridor, the echo of his boots drowning out the unspoken words between you and your cousin. He looked furious at Aegon for still lingering near you—though with your father, anger was often a quiet, smoldering thing. He didn’t need to shout; his glower was enough to freeze Aegon in place.

“Uncle,” Aegon greeted, though his confidence had faltered. He turned toward Daemon, his lips twitching into a ghost of a smile. “We were merely speaking.”

Daemon’s gaze swept to you, checking for any hint of unease before settling back on Aegon. “Speaking? I saw no words worthy of my daughter’s time spilling from your mouth.”

“Is it such a crime to pay her compliments?” Aegon countered, the bravado returning to his voice. “She’s deserving of them.”

“Her worth does not require validation from you, boy.” Daemon stepped forward, placing himself between you and Aegon. The unspoken threat loomed in the air—Daemon may have been Aegon’s uncle, but he was also a man who had brought kingdoms to their knees.

Aegon smiled, though it was thinner now, strained beneath Daemon’s scrutiny. “Perhaps I should have asked your permission first, then. Or would you prefer I not look at her at all?”

Daemon’s expression darkened. “Do not test me.”

“Father—” you began, trying to intervene, but Daemon raised a hand to silence you.

Aegon’s gaze darted to you then, his eyes softening as if to reassure you. “I’ve only ever admired her, Uncle,” he said more earnestly now. “You cannot fault me for that.”

Daemon narrowed his eyes, looking as though he were considering whether to draw his sword then and there. Instead, he turned to you. “Come, daughter. You have indulged your cousin’s foolishness long enough.”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering to Aegon. “We will speak again,” he said softly, his voice for your ears alone.

Daemon shot him a glare that could have scorched steel. “No, you will not.”

Without another word, your father took your arm and guided you away, his grip firm but not unkind. You didn’t dare look back, though you could feel Aegon’s eyes lingering on you until you disappeared around the corner.

“He is trouble,” Daemon said under his breath, more to himself than to you.

“And yet you let me speak with him for a moment,” you replied.

Daemon’s gaze softened slightly as he looked down at you. “You are my daughter, Y/N. The fire of dragons runs in your blood, but there are flames that burn too hot.” He exhaled, as though tired by the day’s events. “Aegon is no match for you.”

“Perhaps not,” you murmured, though your thoughts betrayed you.

You couldn’t shake the image of Aegon’s violet eyes, nor the words he had spoken. Do you ever think of me?

The truth was, you did. Far more than you cared to admit.

Aegon lingered in the corridor long after you and Daemon had disappeared, his smirk having faded entirely. His hand ran through his hair in frustration, disheveling it further as he let out a low sigh. He’d said too much. Or perhaps he hadn’t said enough. Either way, it hadn’t mattered—not with Daemon looming like the shadow of some vengeful god.

“Sulking, brother?”

Aegon’s head snapped up at the sound of the voice, sharp and edged like the speaker himself. Aemond stood at the end of the corridor, cloaked in his customary black leathers, his posture as rigid and unyielding as ever. The younger prince’s single eye fixed upon Aegon with a knowing gleam, the sapphire that replaced his other eye catching the light like a shard of ice.

“I don’t sulk,” Aegon muttered, forcing himself to straighten as his brother approached. “I drink. There’s a difference.”

Aemond smirked, though his version of a smile was a far colder thing than Aegon’s easy grins. “From where I stood, it looked very much like sulking.” He glanced back down the hall, where Daemon had led you away. “Ah. I see now. Her.”

Aegon stiffened at the casual derision in his brother’s voice. “Mind your tongue, Aemond.”

Aemond’s brow quirked, an infuriatingly calm expression plastered across his face as he came to stand before Aegon. “Careful, brother. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were in love.”

Aegon scoffed, though his laughter rang hollow. “What of it if I am? Does the notion unsettle you?”

“Not in the slightest,” Aemond replied coolly, his voice quiet and deliberate. “Though I find it amusing. You’ve spent years drowning yourself in wine and whoring your way through Flea Bottom. And yet here you stand, mooning after the Rogue Prince’s daughter like some lovesick fool.”

Aegon’s jaw tensed, a flicker of anger flashing in his violet eyes. “Careful, little brother. I’m in no mood for your japes.”

Aemond stepped closer, his tone hardening. “It’s not a jest. She is Daemon’s daughter—his prized daughter. She is not for you, nor will she ever be.” He tilted his head, a cruel edge to his smile. “Do you think Daemon would allow it? Or perhaps you dream of wedding her, of proving yourself to her. Is that it? Pathetic.”

Aegon lunged forward then, shoving Aemond back a step with enough force that the younger prince stumbled. “Watch your mouth, Aemond!” Aegon’s voice was a low snarl, his face flushed with anger. “You speak as though you know what it is to want something you cannot have. But you don’t, do you? You don’t feel anything. You don’t care for anyone.”

Aemond straightened slowly, smoothing the front of his leather tunic with deliberate poise. “On the contrary, I care about many things. Duty. Honor. Our family’s survival. But love?” He sneered the word like it was poison on his tongue. “Love is for fools, Aegon, and it will ruin you if you let it.”

“And yet you’ve never had it,” Aegon shot back, his voice quieter now but no less bitter. “What do you know of ruin?”

Aemond’s smile disappeared entirely, replaced by a look as cold and sharp as a drawn blade. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence between them thick with unspoken resentments. Finally, Aemond turned, his boots clicking against the stone floor as he began to walk away.

“You’d do well to remember this conversation, brother,” Aemond said over his shoulder, his tone flat and final. “Daemon will kill you before he ever lets you have her.”

Aegon stood there long after Aemond had disappeared, the younger prince’s words lingering in the air like smoke after a fire.

Daemon will kill you.

He let out a shaky breath, his hands curling into fists at his sides. Perhaps Aemond was right. Perhaps you were not for him, and perhaps he had no right to dream of you. But gods help him, he couldn’t stop. He had loved you since you were children—since you had first laughed at him when he fell from Sunfyre’s saddle, and since you had looked at him with something other than judgment or disdain.

No, he would not stop. He could not.

“Daemon be damned,” Aegon muttered under his breath as he turned away, his mind already racing with plans. He would find a way. Whatever the cost.

[lupuslikethewolf]

in honour of being promoted to Deputy Stage Manager in my school's theatre department, top gun high school/sixth form au:

Dr Kazansky rules the drama department with an iron fist. always wearing black turtlenecks. never seen without his glasses, his coffee, and his terrifying glare (which earned him the moniker Dr Iceman). do not show up to rehearsals if you don't know your lines. death be upon the poor students who fuck around during tech and dress, because they will find out. he loves the crew tho.

Mr Call-Me-Mav Mitchell is the head of sports. you name it, he's played it, and he could absolutely give you pointers, also, do you want a protein bar with that? it's chocolate flavoured :) even the kids who Hate (capital H) sports love him. he is sunshine and adrenaline in human form. endless energy. no one knows why he is called maverick, but even the principal does it, so.

Mr Kerner is the principal. he is also the only person who can interrupt rehearsals and survive. dr kazansky loves him. inexplicably, maverick hates him. nough said.

Jake Seresin is the school's golden child, not even because he's Kazansky's nephew. he’s head boy. he’s on the school’s football/rugby team. he writes regular articles for the internal magazines. and this year, he’s playing Orpheus in the school’s production of Hadestown. everyone thinks it’s nepotism. it is and it’s not, jake just lost a bet to his Uncle Tom, and must now reap the consequences to said uncle’s delight.

Bradley Bradshaw has been stage crew since he was thirteen and an overworked runner, thank you very much. it’s his final show, he’s the DSM, and if fucking seresin ruins this for him, he will riot. dr kazansky should never let that happen. however, this is the same man who, last year, laughed when revealing that a screen on stage had turned off and bradley had to go on stage during the show to fix it. hm. maybe bradley should have re-thought his life choices. also: the turntable. the goddamn turntable.

other characters include: phoenix as eurydice, bob doing lighting, payback and fanboy as ASMs who flirt over the comms to everyones misery, cyclone as another drama teacher/stage manager,

maverick keeps turning up to rehearsals and trying to help because his favourite (cough only cough) godson and his favourite player are both interested in this stuff, so he should at least try, right? kazansky hates it until he doesn’t. kerner thinks it’s all fucking hilarious. bradley is embarrassed but its kinda endearing do NOT tell him i said that.

kazansky and maverick both bare witness to A Moment between their respective pseudo sons and decide the two simply must get together for their sakes and also so they never inflict that on another person ever.

bradley and jake both bare witness to A Moment between their respective pseudo fathers and decide the two simply must get together for their sakes and also so they never inflict that on another person ever.

kerner is cackling. Cackling.

[housederiva]

Shadow Dragons Blurb anon - YES that's exactly the one I mean! The little backstory bit when selecting the faction?

Fantastic! (I put the og question in this for anyone else who's confused)

I'm going to break down every part of it because I'm not sure how long you've been playing Dragon Age or how much preexisting lore you know, and I'm wording this like you've never played a DA game before (sorry for any redundancy) Also this is just my take on it so keep that in mind xx

Rook risked everything to liberate the incident people of Tevinter, even though it would anger the ruin elite -> Tevinter was built on and functions upon the back of their slaves' labor. Without it, the empire is nothing. This makes the Shadow Dragons as a concept and an organization a threat to the empire's power

The foundling Rook was adopted into a military family and joined the Shadow Dragons to fight from the shadows for change in Minrathous. -> A foundling is someone who was abandoned as an infant or a very young child and then cared for by the people who found them (which gives the 4 race options an explanation as to why they're in the city...or at least the player the ability to infer one themselves) Minrathous is the capital and largest city in Tevinter and where all the big decisions get made. The military aspect of the Mercar family to me implies Rook's adopted family are Soporati, which is one of the lower classes in Tevinter - members of this class often serve in the military. (The family's rank would be higher if any of them are mages, how many generations of mages the Mercars' have would raise the rank even higher. Personally, I'm interested in what happens if you play as a mage Rook and if no other Mercar has magic and if any of them will be seen outside my AO3)

While guarding a visiting dignitary who was investigating a slavery ring in the nearby city of Nessus, Rook concluded that the mission would fail without throwing caution to the wind. -> Rook was on a job for the Shadow Dragons where they were ment to act as a bodyguard for an unknown man of high rank (my fingers are crossed that it was Dorian) I believe Nessus is a typo and it's supposed to be Nessum, the city featured in Absolution. Whoever the dignitary was, he wasn't able to get the information he needed to uncover/stop the slave ring one way or another so Rook overstepped themselves, disobeying orders to just guard the dignitary to get him to the information he needed by putting him in danger

Alone, they snuck the dignitary deep into Venatori-controlled zones and brought him back, along with the rescued slaves. -> Venatori are blood magic and red lyrium (both not good) using mages which are rotting Tevinter from the top down, They're the main antagonistic force against everything the Shadow Dragons stand for. So, not only did Rook disobey their orders, they led this important official through very dangerous spaces that, if they had gotten caught, would have gotten both of them killed and compromise a part of if not all of their faction. However, the risk of getting the dignitary closer to the ring paid off and every slave was freed, and the dignitary was returned unharmed

These actions brought Rook to the Venatori's attention, and the Shadow Dragons decided to keep Rook out of sight. -> Rook's on a shit list now. The opposition knows what they look like/who they are and has been effectively taken from the shadows and put under a spotlight. I'm assuming the Viper, the leader of the Shadow Dragons, made the call to shelve Rook so no other job would be compromised by them being recognized

[differentnerddiplomatopera]

ok work with me here, see my vision

*At Clytemnestra’s and Agamemnon’s house*

*Achilles and Patroclus open the door*

Patroclus: Hey, sorry we are late. We brought th-wait, where is everyone?

Achilles, chuckling: Don’t tell me we are actually early. Oh I am gonna-

Clytemnestra: KILL YOURSELF, YOU ASS!

Agamemnon: RIGHT BACK AT YOU SWEETIE!

(Incoherent Yelling)

Patroclus: What in the actual-

(Whispering) Menelaus: If you don’t get under here right now…

Achilles: Where are you, who was-

(Odysseus and Diomedes drag Achilles and Patroclus under the kitchen counter)

(Helen, Menelaus, Odysseus, Penelope, Diomedes, Hector, and Andromache are all hiding under the table)

Achilles: So why are we hiding under the table?

Diomedes: Do you not hear didgeridee and didgeridoo screaming and yelling like their chi-

Hector: Maybe we shouldn’t mention the “C” word right now.

Penelope: I swear if I never hear them argue again-

Helen: I need alcohol

Patroclus: Could someone-

Menelaus: Helen, no-

Patroclus: please tell us-

Helen: Alcohol, neow

Patroclus: Ok! Can someone explain what the fuck knuckles is going on with these two?

Odysseus: Of course darling. We found ourselves-

Diomedes: Ok, nope quick version. We came over for a house warning party, and in the middle of that-,

Odysseus: Cutting me off when I am trying speak. You know you can be a real bastard, right pet?

Diomedes: Bastard loves bastard, darling. Anyway, in the middle of that, Clytemnestra showed us a custom puzzle she made of their daughter. Very cute, very nice. Weirdly detailed. However Agamemnon has to be Agamemnon, and ruin good things in life. A tiktok account called ArtemisDares had a challenge to break something of your partners, something they loved to see their reaction. So Agamemnon made the asinine decision to break the puzzle she spent— how long did she say?

Penelope: She said “2 hours to find the perfect picture, 5 hours to put in her order because the commission site kept collapsing, and three days to put it together.” It was 2,000 pieces, and she was going to put it in a frame. I can’t even imagine..

Odysseus: Sweetheart, I-

Penelope: Yes I know you would never do that, you are leagues above him. We know this.

Diomedes: Do we?

Penelope: Not now darling. What can we do to-

*I SHOULD HAVE KILLED YOU WHEN I MET YOU, YOU WHORE*

*IF I WAS EASY TO KILL, YOU WOULD HAVE DONE IT ALREADY YOU FUCKING PUSSY*

*OH I AM GONNA-*

“COME AT ME BITCH*

*More incoherent screams, breaking of glass, grunts of pain*

Hector: We need to stop them before Iphigenia grows up without her parents.

Andromache: Right. You can go first baby. Tell us how that works out.

Helen: Sometimes I just want rip out Agamemnon’s vocal chords, and shove them down his ass.

Diomedes: A capital choice. Would you like help?

Odysseus/Penelope: No.

Hector: Ok, ok, but we have to do something before we have to talk to the police about-

Iphigenia: Aunty Pen, what is a va-vacuous moron?

Achilles: ……

Patroclus: …….

Diomedes: …….

Odysseus: ………

Penelope: …..

Hector: …….

Andromache: ……

Helen: ……

Menelaus:……

Achilles: Ah shit.

Menelaus: Oh come on, Achilles

Penelope: Honey, how about we talk…outside?

Iphigenia: Why? Mommy and Daddy loudly talking is normal. They turn on the tv for me and loudly talk. Sometimes they forget to turn it on and I hear everything.

Odysseus: Ice cream. That is the only way to fix this. And a good therapist. Let’s start with ice cream

Diomedes: Ok, everyone we have to time this perfectly. I think we aren’t in the mood for taking sides. Everyone good?

(The group nods)

Diomedes: Ok…wait…NOW!

Agamemnon: Oh look, Hector would you-

Clytemnestra: Shut up, Helen please tell him-

Odysseus:sorrywearekidnappingtyourchildbecauseyoubotharetoxictoeverybodybyeeeeeeeeeeeee

*They make it out the door*

Iphigenia: sooooo, what is a vacu-vaco-

Penelope: Let’s just get ice cream ok honey?

Diomedes: Can’t wait to do this shit next year.

Achilles: Another housewarming party? They just got this one.

Helen: They also get run out of every neighborhood they stay in due to the noise complaints. Two months, max.

Achilles:

Patroclus:

Helen: Welcome to the family.

[sweeter-than-teafood]

Texting

AN: I was inspired by the artifact for Amy and Sitri’s card, and thought up the silliest thing lmao.

Tw: A lot of swearing from these devils. Also, this is going from what we’ve seen from Day 3 of the Unsightly Guy event. So it may be ooc in the future. Or not. Yeehaw.

✨—————————————————————✨

-3am, Gehenna’s Palace-

Bzzt!

A new message? Sitri glared at his phone as the lit screen illuminated his entire bedroom. Who could be texting him at this ungodly hour?

————————————————

-Hell-Oh Talk: 1 new message-

Amy (Online now)

Status: Ew 2 drinking tea. Can’t b me, I’m manly as fuck.

————————————————

Sitri rolled his eyes at the violent devil’s status. Of course he’d think that, he has no patience to enjoy sophisticated hobbies. He probably couldn’t even pour from a teapot if the instructions were written on the bottom.

He opened the message, expecting to see some pathetic diatribe of how canned coffee is superior and that tea-making yields zero-rizz.

Amy:

Lol, maybe MC would lyk u if u weren’t 2 busy 😭 over their dead gramps. Solomon! Solomonnnnnn… Wot a loser u r! Enjoy ur left hand, buddy! 😂

…

Crunch!

Sitri ground his teeth, pissed off by the message. How dare he! The Descendant of Solomon liked him just fine! Who was he to comment on their relationship, when he hadn’t even met them yet?!

Fingers started typing away with a fury that wasn’t usually displayed by Sitri. He hit send, and decided to head to the tearoom for a cup of black tea to calm down.

-Meanwhile on the outskirts of Gehenna-

Amy smirked at the message he had just sent to Sitri. Sure, he would block his number because that fancy prick had nothing useful to say to him, but sometimes it was fun to unblock him and send an insult just to ruin his day.

Bzzt!

Oh? A reply so soon? Well, whatever it said, Amy was certain that it was complete and utter angelshit.

————————————————

-Hell-Oh! Talk: 1 New Message-

Sitri (Online now)

Status: Only a fucking idiot would use a stick as a weapon. Have some diversity, you caveman

————————————————

Amy scoffed at Sitri’s status. Of course he’d think that! He thinks he’s hot shit just because he trained in many weapons! But nothing bashes in angel skulls better than what he uses! Sometimes simple is better!

He opened the message, ready to read some sad sob story about Solomon.

Sitri:

What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch?

I'll have you recall that it was I who graduated top of our class in the Gehenna Military Program, and how I am an esteemed alumni of the Hades Intelligence Student Program, I've been involved in numerous secret raids on Heaven, and I have over 666 confirmed kills.

I am trained in guerilla warfare and I'm the top pistolier in the entire Gehenna Miltary Forces. You are nothing to me but just another measly target.

I will wipe you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before in this Hell, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me over a simple text? Think again, fucker.

As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across Hell and your GPS location is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, you lowly maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life.

You're fucking dead, loser. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that's just with my bare hands.

Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed and armed combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the Gehenna Capital Military Force and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the country, you little shit.

If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little "funny" comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn't, you didn't, and now you're paying the price, you goddamn idiot.

I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. I’ll use your tears to steep my tealeaves in, because nothing will bring me greater satisfaction than to see you snivel and beg for mercy. You're fucking dead, you cowardly bitch.

Amy let out a harsh laugh. Did this dickhead get ahold of some dank shit from Abyssos? The levels of delusion were incredible. His finger hovered over the textbar, before he decided against it.

“I have better things to do than to entertain this butler wannabe. Maybe later.”

-Sometime later, in the Palace of Gehenna-

That damn bastard.

>>Seen 16hrs ago

Sitri grits his teeth in annoyance at the ever increasing hours on the small bar. First that meathead talks shit about him, and now he can’t even form a response?

‘He’s probably masturbating to this, that fucking asshole.’

Sitri shuddered in disgust at the mental image and quickly threw himself into his paperwork as a welcome distraction.

-Gehenna’s Outskirts-

Amy decided to finally reply to Sitri’s lengthy text. He ponders for a second; there are so many things he could say to further fuel this tea-drinking bastard’s aggression. But he opts for something simple that will infuriate him.

-Palace of Gehenna-

Bzzt!

Sitri looks up from his paperwork to see his phone light up. He immediately grabs it and clicks on the notification.

—————————————

-Hell-Oh! Talk: 1 new message-

Amy (Online Now)

Status: Bitches b mad lmao

Sitri chose to ignore the devil’s pathetic status for now. He opened the message.

Amy:

Nice CV, loser. Still get no bitches tho.

Sitri stared blankly at the text, before he closed his phone. What a waste of time.

“I’m not even going to reply to that.”

Little did he know, he would pick up his phone ten minutes later to start typing away.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Tech workers and gig workers need each other

Catch me in Miami! I'll be at Books and Books in Coral Gables on Jan 22 at 8PM.

We're living in the enshittocene, in which the forces of enshittification are turning everything from our cars to our streaming services to our dishwashers into thoroughly enshittifified piles of shit. Call it the Great Enshittening:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/09/lead-me-not-into-temptation/#chamberlain

How did we arrive at this juncture? Is it the end of the zero rate interest policy? Was it that the companies that formerly made useful things that we valued underwent a change in leadership that drove them to make things worse? Is Mercury in retrograde?

None of the above. There have been many junctures in which investors demanded higher returns from firms but were not able to force them to dramatically worsen their products. Moreover, the leaders now presiding over the rapid unscheduled disassembly of once-useful products are the same people who oversaw their golden age. As to Mercury? Well, I'm a Cancer, and as everyone knows, Cancers don't believe in astrology.

The Great Enshittening isn't precipitated by a change in how greedy and callous corporate leaders are. Rather, the change is in what those greedy, callous corporate leaders can get away with.

Capitalists hate capitalism. For a corporate executive, the fact that you have to make good things, please your customers, pay your workers, and beat the competition are all bugs, not features. The best business is one in which people simply pay you money without your having to do anything or worry that someday they'll stop. UBI for the investor class, in other words.

Douglas Rushkoff calls this "going meta." Don't sell things, provide a platform where people sell things. Don't provide a platform, invest in the platform. Don't invest in the platform, buy options on the platform. Don't buy options, buy derivatives of options.

A more precise analysis comes from economist Yanis Varoufakis, who calls this technofeudalism. Varoufakis draws our attention to the distinction between profits and rents. Profit is the income a capitalist receives from mobilizing workers to do something productive and then skimming off the surplus created by their labor.

By contrast, rent is income a feudalist derives from simply owning something that a capitalist or a worker needs in order to be productive. The entrepreneur who opens a coffee shop earns profits by creaming off the surplus value created by the baristas. The rentier who owns the building the coffee shop rents gets money simply for owning the building.

The coffee shop owner can never rest. At any moment, another coffee shop can open down the street and lure away their customers and their baristas. When that happens, the coffee shop goes bust and the owner is ruined. But not the landlord! After the coffee shop goes bust, the landlord's asset is more valuable – an empty storefront just down the street from the hottest coffee shop in town.

Capitalists hate capitalism. Faced with a choice of retaining their workers by paying them a fair wage and treating them well, or by saddling them with noncompetes that make it impossible to work for anyone else in the same field, and obligations to repay tens of thousands of dollars for "training" if they quit, bosses will take the latter every time. Go meta, baby.

Same for competition. Faced with the choice of competing to win the most customers with the best products, or merging so that customers have nowhere else to go, even the bitterest of rivals find it remarkably easy to intermarry until our corporations landscape is so interbred the dominant firms all have Habsburg jaws. Think: Facebook-Instagram. Disney-Fox. Microsoft-Activision:

https://locusmag.com/2021/07/cory-doctorow-tech-monopolies-and-the-insufficient-necessity-of-interoperability/

Enshittification has complex underlying dynamics and a reliable procession of stages, but the effect is quite straightforward: things are enshittified when they become worse for the people who use them and the suppliers who makes them, but nevertheless, the users keep using and the suppliers keep supplying.

There are four forces that stand in the way of enshittification, and as each of these forces grows weaker, enshittification proliferates.

The first and most important of these constraints is competition. Capitalists claim to love competition because it keeps firms sharp: they must constantly find ways to improve products and cut costs or be swept away by a superior alternative. There's a degree of truth here, but that's not the whole story.

For one thing, competition can "improve" things that we would rather see abolished. Critics of the GDPR, the EU's landmark privacy law, often point to the devastation that enforcing privacy law had on the European ad-tech industry, driving small firms out of business. But these firms were the most egregious privacy offenders, because they had the least to lose, lacking the dominant position of US-based Big Tech surveillance companies.

Having the least to lose, they were the most reckless with their privacy invasions – but they were also the least equipped to pay expensive enablers from giant corporate law firms to hold off European enforcers, and so they were obliterated. The resulting lack of competition is fine, as far as privacy goes: we don't want competition in the field of "who is most efficient at violating our human rights":

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/04/fighting-floc-and-fighting-monopoly-are-fully-compatible

But there's another benefit to competition: disorganization. A sector with hundreds of medium-sized, competing companies is a squabbling mob, incapable of agreeing on the site for an annual meeting. An industry dominated by a handful of firms is a cartel, handily capable of presenting a unified front to policy makers, and their commercial coziness provides them with vast war-chests they can use to suborn governments and capture their regulators:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/05/regulatory-capture/

Competition is the first constraint. When there's competition, corporate managers fear that you will respond to enshittification by defecting to a rival, costing them money. They don't care about your satisfaction, but they do care about your money, and competition hitches their ability to satisfy you to their ability to get paid by you.

Competition has been circling the drain for 40 years, as the "consumer welfare" theory of antitrust, hatched by Reagan's court sorcerers at the University of Chicago School of Economics, took hold. This theory insists that monopolies are evidence of "efficiency" – if everyone shops at one store, that's evidence that it's the best store, not evidence that they're cheating.

For 40 years, we've allowed companies to violate antitrust law by merging with major competitors, acquiring fledgling rivals, and using investor cash to sell below cost so that no one else can enter the market. This has produced the inbred industrial hulks of today, with five or fewer firms dominating everything from eyeglasses to banking, sea freight to professional wrestling:

https://www.openmarketsinstitute.org/learn/monopoly-by-the-numbers

The endless and continuous weakening of competition has emboldened corporate enshittifiers, who operate on the logic of Lily Tomlin in her role as an AT&T spokeswoman: "We don't care. We don't have to. We're the phone company":

https://vimeo.com/355556831

But the drawdown of competition has also enabled regulatory capture, by converting cutthroat adversaries to kissing cousins. These companies have convinced their regulators not to enforce privacy, consumer protection or labor laws, provided that the gross violations of these laws are accomplished via apps.

This is where tech exceptionalism is warranted: while the bosses that run these companies aren't any nobler – or more wicked – than the Robber Barons of yore, they are equipped with a digital back-end for their businesses that let them change the rules of the game from moment to moment.

Think of labor law: as Veena Dubal writes, gig-work companies practice algorithmic wage discrimination, turning your paycheck into a slot machine that pays out more when you are more selective about which jobs you take, and which then docks your pay by tiny increments as you become less discriminating about answering the app's call:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

This is a plain violation of labor law, but the fiction that gig workers are contractors, combined with the opacity and speed of the wage discrimination back-end, lets the companies get away with it.

But the monsters who hatched this scam are no worse than their forebears, nor are they any smarter. Any black-hearted coal-boss memorialized in a Tennessee Ernie Ford song would have gladly practiced algorithmic wage discrimination – but there just weren't enough green-eyeshade accountants in the back office to change the payout from second to second.

I call this "twiddling" – turning the knobs on the back end to continuously adjust the business logic that the firm operates on:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

Twiddling is everywhere, and it is only possible because "it's not a crime if we use an app" has been accepted by (captured) regulators. Think of Amazon's "pricing paradox," where deceptive search results – which Amazon makes $38b/year on – allow the company to offer lower prices, but charge higher ones:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/06/attention-rents/#consumer-welfare-queens

The first constraint on enshittification is competition – the fear that you'll lose money when a disgusted customer take their business elsewhere. The second constraint is regulation – the fear that a regulator's punishment will eat up all the expected gains from an enshittificatory move, or even exceed those gains, leading to a net loss.

But the less competition there is in a sector, the easier it is for the remaining companies to capture their regulators. Say goodbye to that second constraint.

But there's another constraint – another one that's unique to technology, and genuinely exceptional. That's self-help. Digital technology is infinitely flexible, which is why managers can twiddle the business logic and change the rules on a dime.

But it's a double-edged sword. Users can twiddle back. The universal nature of digital products means it's always technically possible to disenshittify the enshittified products in your world. Mercedes wants to charge you rent on your accelerator pedal via a monthly subscription? Just mod the car by toggling the "subscription paid" bit and get the accelerator for free:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

HP tricks you into installing a "security update" that sneakily disables your printer's ability to recognize and use third-party ink? Just roll back the operating system and you won't be forced to spend $10,000/gallon to print out your boarding passes and shopping lists:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/11/ink-stained-wretches-battle-soul-digital-freedom-taking-place-inside-your-printer

Self-help – AKA "adversarial interoperability" – isn't just a way to override the greedy choices of corporate sadists. It's a way to hold those sadists in check. It's a constraint.

Imagine a boardroom where someone says, "I calculate that if we make our ads 25% more invasive and obnoxious, we can eke out 2% more in ad-revenue." If you think of a business as a transhuman colony organism that exists to maximize shareholder value, this is a no-brainer.

But now consider the rejoinder: "If we make our ads 25% more obnoxious, then 50% of our users will be motivated to type, 'how do I block ads?' into a search engine. When that happens, we don't merely lose out on the expected 2% of additional revenue – our income from those users falls to zero, forever."

Self-help is the third constraint on enshittification. But when competition fails, and regulatory capture ensues, companies don't just gain the ability to flout the law – they get to wield the law, too.

Tech firms have cultivated a thicket of laws, rules and regulations that make self-help measures very illegal. This thicket is better known as "IP," a term that is best understood as meaning "any policy that lets me control the conduct of my competitors, my customers and my critics":

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

To put an ad-blocker in an app, you have to reverse-engineer it. To do that, you'll have to decrypt and decompile it. That step is a felony under Section 1201 of the DMCA, carrying a five-year prison sentence and a $500,000 fine. Beyond that, ad-blocking an app would give rise to liability under the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act (a law inspired by the movie Wargames!), under "tortious interference" claims, under trademark, copyright and patent.

More than 50% of web users have installed an ad-blocker:

https://doc.searls.com/2023/11/11/how-is-the-worlds-biggest-boycott-doing/

But zero percent of app users have installed an ad-blocker, because they don't exist, because you'd go to prison if you made one. An app is just a web-page wrapped in enough IP to make it a felony to add an ad-blocker to it.

This is why self-help, the third constraint, no longer applies. When a corporate sadist says, "let's make ads 25% more obnoxious to get 2% more revenue," no one says, "if we do that, our users will all install blockers." Instead, the response is, "let's make ads 100% more obnoxious and get an 8% revenue boost!"

https://www.theverge.com/2023/6/16/23763227/uber-video-advertising-ads-taxi-food-delivery-apps

Which brings me to the final constraint: workers.

Tech workers have historically enjoyed enormous bargaining power, thanks to a dire shortage of qualified personnel. While this allowed tech workers to command high salaries and cushy benefits, it also led many workers to conceive of themselves as entrepreneurs-in-waiting and not workers at all.

This made tech workers very exploitable: their bosses could sell them on the idea that they were doing something heroic, which warranted "extremely hardcore" expectations – working 16 hour days, sleeping under your desk, sacrificing your health, your family and your personal life to meet deadlines and ship products ("Real artists ship" – S. Jobs).

But the flip side of this appeal to heroism is that it only worked to the extent that it convinced workers to genuinely care about the things they made. When you miss you mother's funeral and pass on having kids in order to meet deadline and ship a product, the prospect of making that product worse is unthinkable.

Confronted by the moral injury of enshittifying a product you care about, and harming the users you see yourself as representing, many tech workers balked at the prospect. Because tech workers were scarce – and because there were plenty of employment prospects for workers who quit – they could actually prevent their bosses from making their products worse:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/25/moral-injury/#enshittification

But those days are behind us, too. Mass tech worker layoffs have gutted tech workers' confidence. When Google lays off 12,000 tech workers just months after a stock buyback that would have paid their wages for the next 27 years, they deliver two benefits to their shareholders. It's not just the short-term gains from the financial engineering – there's the long-term gain of gutting worker power and stripping away the final impediment to enshittification:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/10/the-proletarianization-of-tech-workers/

No matter how strong an individual tech worker's bargaining power was, it was always brittle. Long before googlers were being laid off in five-digit cohorts, they were working in an environment where harassment and predation were just part of the job. The 20,000+ googlers who walked off the job in 2018 were an important step towards replacing the system where each tech worker's power was limited to their moment-to-moment importance to their bosses' plans with a new system based on a collective identity.

Only through collective action and solidarity – unions – could tech workers hope to truly resist all the moral injuries of their bosses enshittification imperatives. No surprise then, that tech unions are on the rise:

https://abookapart.com/products/you-deserve-a-tech-union

But what is a little surprising – and very heartening! – is what happens when techies start to self-identify as workers: they come to understand that they share common cause with the other workers at the bottom of the tech stack. Think of Amazon's tech workers walking out in solidarity with Amazon's warehouse workers:

https://gizmodo.com/tech-workers-speak-out-in-support-of-amazon-warehouse-s-1842839301

Superficially, the bottom rank of the tech industry is as different from the tech workers at the top as you can imagine. Tech workers are formally employed, with stock options, health care and theme-park "campuses" with gyms and gourmet cafeterias.

The gig workers who pack, drive, deliver and support tech products aren't even employees – they're misclassified as contractors. They don't get free massages – they get AI bosses that monitor their eyeballs and dock their paychecks for peeing:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/11/robots-stole-my-jerb/#computer-says-no

Gig workers desperately need unions, but they also derive extraordinary benefits from self-help measures. When an app is your boss, another app can make all the difference to your working conditions. Take Para, an app that fights algorithmic wage discrimination by allowing gig workers to collectively and automatically refuse any job where the pay is below a certain threshold, forcing the algorithm to pay everyone more:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/08/tech-rights-are-workers-rights-doordash-edition

Para is fighting a grim legal and technical battle against companies like Doordash, whose margins depend on atomized workers with atomized apps, prohibited from countertwiddling. This is a surprisingly effective tactic: in Indonesia, gig workers co-ops create suites of "tuyul" apps that modify the behavior of their bosses' apps', unilaterally securing concessions that they lack the bargaining power to secure by other means:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/08/tuyul-apps/#gojek

Tuyul apps and other forms of countertwiddling aren't a substitute for unionization, they're an adjunct to it. The union negotiator whose rank-and-file are able to modify the apps that monitor and control their working conditions operates from a position of strength. "Please give my members more bathroom breaks" is a lot weaker than, "If you want my members to stop hacking their apps so they can piss when they need to, you're going to have to give them official bathroom breaks."

This is where solidarity between the high-paid tech workers at the keyboard and low-paid tech workers on the delivery bikes comes in. Together, they can wring more concessions from their bosses, sure. But unionized coders can give their unionized delivery riders the apps they need to countertwiddle and increase the bargaining leverage of all the workers in the union. And when unionized coders' bosses force them to put enshittifying anti-features in the apps they care about, unionized front-line workers can run counter-apps that disenshittify them.

Other sectors are already working through versions of this. The ouster of the old corrupt leadership of the Teamsters ushered in a new, radical era that produced historic wage and working condition gains for drivers and the abolition of the two-tier contract system that eventually destroys any union that tries it.

That change in leadership was possible because the Teamsters organized the Harvard Grad Students, and those Harvard kids memorized the union rulebook. At the historic conference where the old guard was abolished, it was teamwork between the union rank-and-file and the rules-lawyers from Harvard that turned the proceedings around:

https://theintercept.com/2023/04/07/deconstructed-union-dhl-teamsters-uaw/

We are deep into the enshittocene and it is terribly demoralizing. But by understanding the constraints that kept enshittification at bay, we can rebuild them, and shore them up. Labor organizing among all kinds of tech workers isn't just a way to get a better deal for those workers – it's key to the disenshittification of all our lives.

I'm Kickstarting the audiobook for The Bezzle, the sequel to Red Team Blues, narrated by @wilwheaton! You can pre-order the audiobook and ebook, DRM free, as well as the hardcover, signed or unsigned. There's also bundles with Red Team Blues in ebook, audio or paperback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/13/solidarity-forever/#tech-unions

[preet-01]

I was listening to a podcast episode on Dollar Princesses, who were wealthy American women who married into British high society. Much of the British aristocracy's wealth was tied to the castles/homes, and little was liquid capital. So, some members of the nobility faced financial ruin until nouveau riche American industrialists brought their daughters to England, exchanging wealth for social standing

All of that led to a Dosh fic with aristocrat Daniel and heir to an American farming fortune Josh meeting at a ball. This was written in the span of like an hour with very minimal editing

“There will be American heirs at the ball,” his mother says softly as she fixes Daniel’s coat. 

“Moth-” 

“I know it is not what you wanted, and it certainly is not what I wanted for you, but you must understand the position we are in,” Lady Grace Ricciardo, the Marchioness of Hastings, had always wanted the world for her son. 

However, wants were not always the same as needs. And currently, they needed an influx of money more than they needed Daniel waiting around for the love of his life. If they were to survive, then they would have to do as so many other nobles had begun to do – marry a wealthy American. 

“We will go to the ball and you will dance with all the wealthy Americans until there is one that is somewhat tolerable. Perhaps you will come to love them one day,” she continues. 

“I highly doubt it,” Daniel replies, but nonetheless, he prepares himself for the ball and hours of dancing, making conversation, of pretending that he wants to be there. 

With the turn of the century, it had become evidently clear that the nobility was dying due to financial troubles and a stagnation of new monetary sources. The turn of the century had also brought upon the shores of Great Britain wealthy Americans with more money than sense and a desire to be seen as the upper echelon of society – a thing that was only achieved through generations of noble breeding. 

Three hours later, Daniel wants nothing more than to sneak out the backdoor and make his own way home, or to the nearest pub for a proper drink. But the watchful eye of his mother keeps him in place. 

It’s when he’s at the bar that he lays his eyes on the most perfect specimen. 

Tall, broad, brown-haired, and so undeniably American in his slightly too-big tuxedo. Drowning the whiskey he’d been nursing for the better part of an hour, Daniel saunters towards the American. 

“I believe the point of these sort of events is to socialize,” Daniel says. 

“Unfortunately for my family, I am not much for socializing at these sorts of events,” the man replies. “Would it be my lord or your grace?” he questions in afterthought as Daniel laughs. No one else at the ball had asked how to address him, they’d all gone with some amalgamation of courtesy forms of address. 

“Your grace is reserved for the dukes and duchesses, which I thankfully am not nor ever will be. Courtesy and rank would dictate that one refers to me as ‘my lord’ but I’d rather prefer if you called me Daniel,” Daniel replies. 

“Josh,” the man, Josh, says. “So, as only one of us has spent the entire night socializing, how does it go?” Josh questions.

“Have you been watching me all night?” Daniel asks in response. 

“Guilty as charged.” 

“Hhm, well it would start with one of us walking up to the other and introducing ourselves,” Daniel begins as Josh cuts in with, “done and done. What’s next?” 

“Typically it would involve my mother's incessant staring and glaring before I asked for a dance. Though she seems rather busy with my father at the moment,” Daniel continues. With a nod of his head, he motions over to the side of the room where his parents are. The Marquess and Marchioness of Hastings are completely enthralled with one another as they laugh over pastries. 

“Care for a dance, my lord?” Josh asks. 

“I would like nothing better, Mr…” Daniel replies, trailing off at the end. 

“Allen.” 

They make their way toward the center of the ballroom where others are dancing as well. 

“So we dance, do we talk?” Josh inquires, allowing Daniel to lead despite being bigger than Daniel. 

“Yes, although sometimes that is a rather unfortunate aspect of it.” 

“And others?” 

“Most enjoyable,” Daniel responds, “though in my experience only one conversation has been most enjoyable.” 

Dancing at balls has historically been one of Daniel’s least favorite activities, but in the company of Josh, he could get used to it. Something about leading a man larger than himself and having a fun conversation throughout it all really does it for him. Who would’ve thought? 

“And after we dance, do we sneak off for a moment alone? I’ve been told on semi-good authority that balconies and gardens are all the rage,” Josh says. 

“Semi-good authority?”

“My sister’s books.” 

As Daniel guides Josh outside to the garden for some “fresh air,” he catches the eye of his mother who grins at him and mouths ‘handsome.’ 

“So if you are not a duke, then…” Josh trails off. 

“As of now, the Earl of Moira and hopefully I will remain as such for a very long time,” Daniel says, he didn’t like thinking of what would need to happen for him to become the Marquess of Hastings. 

The garden is surprisingly empty for the time of night it is, but Daniel isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“Moira? Where is that?” Josh asks as they take a seat on one of the stone benches near the fountain. 

“In Ireland, but we do not live there. Home is Donington Hall, approximately 3 hours from here,” Daniel says, “and you?”

“A small town in California,” Josh replies, “There’s not much there, but my family made its money in farming so it’s home.” 

“Farming?”

“Peanuts.” 

It continues like that. And before either of them know it, guests are beginning to leave. 

“It seems our night has come to an end,” Josh states, “what would the next step in socializing at a ball be?” 

“I would take your hand,” Daniel says, doing as his words indicate, “and place a kiss on it.” Not necessarily required, but Daniel wanted to. “And then ask if I may call upon you tomorrow morning,” he continues, “may I call upon you tomorrow morning, Mr. Allen?” 

“I look forward to it,” Josh replies as presumably Josh’s family nears them. 

“Now I bid you goodbye,” Daniel says, walking backwards with a smile on his face. 

“How will you know where to come tomorrow morning?” Josh calls out. 

“It’s London, Mr. Allen, and the mamas are notorious gossips!” Daniel answers, “They learn everything!” 

Daniel is quick to return to the family carriage where his parents are waiting. Usually, Daniel would be the first to return to the carriage, but for once, they are waiting for him. 

“Lady Haversby told me that Mr. Allen is set to inherit a sizable portion of a farming empire,” his mother says once they’re all sat in the carriage. His parents are on one side as Daniel sits on the other, undoing the bowtie he needed to wear with the tuxedo.

“Did Lady Haversby happen to know where the Allens are staying for the season?” Daniel inquires. Lady Haversby, with three sons and three daughters, was a gossip and a half. She tended to know something about everyone. 

“No, but Lady Stoneworth did. As it turns out they are neighbors. The Allens bought the Bridgewater house.” 

“Shame about the Bridgewaters needing to sell their home, I recall it being beautiful. But I suppose wonderful for us as it brought the Allens here. Shall I have Johnson order a bouquet for the morning?” his father asks. 

“No,” Daniel replies, “I would prefer to choose the flowers myself for Josh, as well as his mother and sister.” 

"Is he tolerable?" his mother asks, referring back to their conversation from before the ball.

"More than tolerable," Daniel says truthfully. Josh had been the most engaging conversationalist with whom the hours just flew by. Daniel wouldn't call it love just yet, but he could imagine it happening easily if they were to spend more time together - which Daniel hoped would happen.

_____

currently realizing that most of my recent fics have been Dosh because they endear me and just give happy vibes. but also because every other Daniel ship fic I've written recently has been going down the angsty road

[riveracheron]

eh. might as well post this now. a few of these are wish fulfillment rather than actual theorizing but explanations under the cut

i have an alchemy hyperfixation and all the alchemy stuff in tmagp makes me very excited so a lot of my theories are related to that

spoilers for the pilot btw

main character gets an eye injury - the image will not leave my head. in the magnus institute ruins statement there was this whole thing about redcanary having some kind of encounter with or experience with eye trauma and that feels like something thats just. gonna come up again

another mechanisms va - self explanatory, we need to complete the set. would love to hear kofi or rachel.

gwen has trauma related to something that happened with elias - this is going on the theory that she’s not elias’ counterpart, but a relative of some kind. something spooky happens to him and that pushes gwen to research the paranormal.

character referencing nicholas flamel - all the main characters have names that reference alchemists, and nicholas flamel is probably the most famous alchemist of all time. i doubt he’ll be given the smirke treatment because that kinda already happened with the transphobic wizard books, but someone could be sharing his name.

mag 114 statement is relevant - thats the. hill top road statement that deals with other realities, and anya (the statement giver) could be from the protocol verse. we could totally hear about the aftermath of her departure

alice/sam/gwen = three primes - the three main alchemical symbols on the OIAR crest, and a good sort of symbolic trio sorter. the three peimes are salt, sulphur and mercury, and are the basis for alchemy. the down to earth, reliable salt, the firey, unpredictable sulfur, and the adaptable, easygoing mercury. i think these could apply i just want to have it called out in universe

lena is a good person - i don’t think they’d pull the evil boss thing twice. i just think lena’s weird mannerisms are from her autistic swag

celia is related to or is agnes - (related to as in. her story involves agnes, not that shes like. a sister.) this comes from a theory by @/pinklotjeart, i think. basically: through the way her death was described (spark returned to the lightless flame) and some timeline discrepancies and general avatarness making it weird, agnes might not be Dead dead. and celia’s counterpart, lynne - well, she saw a fire ghost. also, both her and agnes are the only non one-off characters who have shakespeare names afaik. agnes MONTAGUE, celia from as you like it…

annabelle cane is related somehow - self explanatory, she was at hilltop road when everything went down. might have been pulled in.

a famous alchemist is robert smirke’d - self explaining, give me more canon historical figures jonny

another kitty cat - i want more kitty in podcast is that a crime

augustus is not jonah - we hear jonah’s voice as ben meredith in 193, so im skeptical that tim fearon’s character is jonah for that reason.

oiar group has a messy moment that devolves into actual physical violence - mmm angst i think they deserve to smack eachother around a bit

bonzo cult - yeah.

oiar found family - we got the group of coworkers that hate each other angst last time gimme the “hurting one to get to the others” and self sacrifice angst this time

colin dies early - mmmm i cant say much about this bc its based on one throwaway line at the MCM panel where jonny doesn’t mention colin in the main character group. so . death flags.

oiar is containing the entities scp style - this was a super early theory of mine, either this or theyre using them for power or energy in some way. even more heavy handed capitalism metaphors yay

someone gets ushanka’d - its computer horror: the podcast. that’s all

cookbook statement - a few clues in the ARG had to do with cookbooks, and alex and jonny have already said they’re getting weird with the statement formats (they mentioned an insurance report!) so. cookbook doesn’t seem too far-fetched

tiktoker/influencer character - archives was 2010s and they had a podcaster and youtuber, which were like. the big things. whats the hip trend now??? instagram and tiktok baybee

protocol editors va a small role a la mag 100 or the wtgfs cult - those characters were voiced by other rq team members (ie helen as laverne and martyn as robin) and the team has since expanded!! some editors dis stuff for cry havoc, so im guessing nico, annie, april and others will get a small role!

a villain’s goal is creating the philosopher’s stone or other alchemical thing - tmagp is heavily inspired by alchemy, and the philosopher’s stone was the main goal of alchemy!! it would grant you eternal knowledge snd the ability to turn lead into gold- which seems like a good. evil dude’s ambition

the desolation gets more focus - the institute burned down, the oiar crest has a lot of sulfur symbols (the fire element), alchemy as a whole having to do with fire, celia and her connection- it paints a very. lightless flame picture

trip to germany - a lot of the arg was set in and around berlin, and there was that exchange between sam and colin about german in the pilot! i could see a germany trip happening in the same way jon took a trip to china and america.

[poraphia]

OKAY THIS IDEA HAS BEEN BOUNCING AROUND IN MY HEAD FOR AWHILE SOOO

So basically reader is a vigilante and for one reason or another they end up in a fight with Wilbur. Reader is really cocky about it and ends up flirting with him the entire fight. Wilbur is amused and a bit shocked but most likely unaffected.

After a couple fights where the flirting does not stop he decides flirt back thinking reader would also be unaffected because they've been actively flirting the entire time. But reader gets Flustered with a capital F. Like, they're face is all red and everything

"Let's Make Music, Honey Voice."

pairing • siren x vigilante!music!reader 1289 • 9.25.23 containing • continuous flirting and teasing, one HEAVILY SUGGESTIVE FLIRT, depictions of fighting, bits of cursing :) my masterlist ~! ღ mrs. mania ღ on Tumblr

"It was so easy winning against you in a fight, but flirting back? You have my knees weak."

♡♡♡

Okay, maybe I got a bit carried away with this one.

But what could I say? It’s not every day you can beat a supervillain senseless.

I stared down at Siren from an elevated rooftop. With a cocky grin, I plucked gently at some tunes on my bass, taunting him with my upbeat melody. He got up from his ruined state, scoffing at my victory lap around the edge.

“Aw, what’s the matter?” I mocked, exaggerating the tilt of my head as my torso nearly bent. “You look so cute when you’re flustered, sweetheart! I guess somebody forgot to do his vocal training today.” I giggled. He only smirked in response, letting his coat flutter with the soft wind that was picking up.

“Yeah, yeah,” He brushed off. “But I’m still standing. Give me some credit here, Strings.” He shrugged. I rolled my eyes before holding my guitar in position. The moon played as our light above us. The street lights below barely illuminated the villain’s strong jaw and curly locks. My hair swayed with the midnight breeze as the moon’s reflection highlighted my axe bass hybrid. I took a deep inhale, a near-enamored sigh escaping my nostrils.

“Fine, I’ll give you another chance, but only because you’re cute!” I chimed. With my thumb, I strummed hard at the steel strings, aiming to knock Siren down again with my sound waves. But instead, Siren dodged out of impact, making a B-Line straight toward me. I quickly hopped off the ledge and onto another building. Siren was behind me, hot on my trail. Quickly, I ran as fast as I could before strumming down, boosting me off of the ground and into the air, leaving Siren breathless. I couldn’t help but let out a light chuckle.

“I know you’re obsessed with me, but come on now!” I called out. I gently strummed to glide my way through the winds. Siren searched around the building, retrieving a spare, lengthy rope. He fiddled with the material for a few seconds before forming a lasso and hooking me on. A sharp squeak escaped my throat as I was immediately pulled down. I clutched on my bass, bracing for impact, but instead, I landed straight into Siren’s arms.

Immediately, I smiled and stretched my limbs out. “Ahh, sorry babe, you can only hold me like this after our wedding.” I ruffled his hair and hopped out of his grasp, sliding against the concrete floor.

Siren clicked his tongue before rolling his head in a circle, cracking his neck while facing me. “You talk a lot of shit for someone who doesn't fight melee.” He commented. I hummed a bit, noticing the slight irritation in his voice. I gripped my bass by the neck, taking off the strap, and pointed the blade of the axe towards him.

“You sure you wanna fight melee? Don’t want to chop your head off.” I giggled.

“Drop your weapon and don’t pick it back up.” His voice rang in my ears in such an angelic way that if I had a choice, I’d probably drop my weapon anyway. My bass axe clattered against the ground, leaving me with my bare hands. I looked at him with puffed-up cheeks, annoyed by his superpower. In turn, he shined his cheeky grin at me.

“No fair!” I cried.

“Oh, it is very much fair.” Without a gap between his words, Siren lunged at me, forcing me to put my arms up in self-defense. I pushed him back by kicking him in the stomach. I aimed to punch his face with one first after another, but skillfully he ducked down and dodged both hits. He ran past me, gripping both of my wrists tight. I winced in pain, struggling for my freedom. With enough tugging, I was able to free my dominant hand, elbowing him in the stomach to loosen his grip on my other arm. I escaped his grasp, turning around so that I could face him.

“Y’know,” I huffed, swinging my leg to kick him in the face, only for him to narrowly avoid my attack with a crouch. He continued to aim punches at me as I struggled to move past his fists. “We could make a cute band together!” We tangoed under the stars as our legs guided us to safety. “Me, the cool bassist that steals your heart, and you, the singer, who would write countless romantic songs for me—!” Before I could continue on my words, Siren made a clean sweep with leg, nearly tripping me over. In one swift second, as I was about to hit the ground, Siren picked up my bass and hooked the two of us inside the strap. My back rested on the instrument as he held it behind me.

The supervillain towered over me in close proximity. I stared up at him, not sure if I could formulate the words to comment on our position. Slowly, he leaned his lips into my ear.

“Then how about we go back to my place and make some sweet, sweet music, hm?” He whispered. "Maybe I could get some lovely tunes out of you.."

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit.

Words refused to register in my brain. “I— Ah— mm—!” Suddenly I was a stuttering mess. The heat rising to my cheeks was nearly unbearable. Siren retreated from my ear and looked down at me a bewildered expression forming on his face. This may be the one time I regret choosing a masquerade mask to protect my identity. If my bashfulness wasn’t apparent enough in my voice, he could certainly see it from my glowing red cheeks!

“Strings, are you..—?”

“S-Shut up!” I interrupted him from continuing his sentence. I slipped out of our position, letting the cool air slap in my face as I turned my back on the blindfolded man. Never has Siren ever attempted to flirt with me back. My heart was racing out of my chest and my knees felt so weak. I wanted to run and squeal around this rooftop, but instead, I maintained my composure to the best of my ability.

As if to toy with me, Siren approached me, pressing his chest against my head. He lifted my bass over me, letting the strap fall onto my shoulder. “Carry your instrument.” He commanded. My arms flew up, immediately grabbing it by the neck and hip. I was too paralyzed and flustered to move and make any sort of remark. This made Siren hum curiously.

“I’ve never heard you this quiet.” He said, almost shocked. It took all my might to not turn around and bang this man in the head. Instead, I remained composed to the best of my ability. He began walking around me, now standing in front. With his hands behind his back, he leaned down with his face nearly inches away from mine. “Let’s call this a tie, I suppose.” His smile was wide and prideful, and rather than being annoyed, I felt my heart melt at such a sight.

“I-It’s whatever…” I mumbled, too shy to even look at him through my mask. Siren chuckled, tapping the tip of my nose with his index finger.

“I’ll be seeing you around then, my bassist.” With that, he waved me goodbye as he walked off, disappearing into the night. My heart pounded my ears, not even working up the courage to move my wobbly legs. I swallowed hard, feeling the lump in my throat go down. My eyes trailed down to my bass as my cheeks still tingled at the thought of him.

Fuck..

Ugh.. Fuck!

♡♡♡

a / n ~ was sooo excited to get this fic out when i saw the request a couple days ago! notes, reblogs, replies, whatever! are super duper appreciated! i saw all the little reblogs and replies about being excited for my siren content which is why i decided to push through writing this before i went to sleep! i hope yall enjoyyyy <333

[dailyanarchistposts]

When bacteria enter a person’s bloodstream, so that person’s health is gradually undermined.

It is the same with money as with bacteria. Since money has unlimited power in the world, the ways of the world are bound to be increasingly debased. Step by step, morality is bound to be ruined and human nature faced with corruption. In the end, society is driven to destruction.

There are people calling for the abolition of prostitution, waxing indignant over the depravity of the gentry, advocating the reform of popular customs urging that morality be improved ... and so on. Yet, it seems to me that at times like these, when money is needed even to get hold of a volume dealing with the subject of morality or to gain admission to a half-day course of lectures, all the endless chatter of their sermonising is utterly futile.

Nobody willingly becomes a prostitute. Nobody willingly sells their honour. There is nobody who does not want popular customs to be reformed or who does not want morality to be improved. Yet the reason why things work out differently is simply because of money.

Instead of people putting so much effort into overworking their tongues and wearing out their pens it would be better for them to give priority to demonstrating the omnipotent power of money. If one does not get rid of money, then one cannot destroy the omnipotent power which money exercises in other spheres. To put it another way, unless one abolishes the necessity for money in this world, it is quite impossible to improve the ways of the world or human nature.

Someone who has no money cannot live. This is the way the world is at present. Yet even in today’s corrupt society, no-one could say that this is right and proper. Truly, a person lives by other things than money. Over and above money, there is strength and there is honour. There is right and there is duty. There is bread and there are clothes. Yet nowadays, when money has unlimited power, is there any room for truth in the world? Can what is right be done?

If one fine morning it were put to the test, if money were abolished and the need for it completely eradicated, what a noble place the world would be! How peaceful! How happy!

Bribery, corruption, people selling their principles — all these would completely disappear. Murder, robbery and adultery would be greatly reduced too. There would be no need to call for the abolition of prostitution, nor to advocate the reform of popular customs. All at once it would be just like the Buddhists’ pure land and the Christians’ heaven.

It is natural that there should be any number of rises and falls in history but, if money had not existed in the civilisations of ancient India, Egypt, Greece and Rome, I believe that it would have been possible for them to have lasted several thousand years more.

But in days like these when money has such power, if we utter the words ‘Abolition of Money’, people look at us as though we are mad. Is it madness, though? Are you prepared to say that the modern European socialists who are spreading everywhere throughout the world (sic) are all mad, then? — because the socialists have the abolition of money and the suppression of the private ownership of capital as their ideals.

They take this position because they want to see the individual — and society as a whole — live by other things than money. In other words, they want to replace money by strength and honour, by right and duty. Indeed, truth and righteousness lie in doing just this. So if you agree that truth and righteousness really should be put into practice, then why should you think of socialism as being difficult to realise in actual life? Socialism is far from being an impossibility. Rather it is just that it has not been put into effect up till now.

Why don’t people who want to improve human nature and the ways of the world stop their petty squabbles and put their efforts into achieving socialism? If they did this, it would be the quickest way for them to achieve their objectives.

The nineteenth century was the age of liberalism but the twentieth century is about to become the age of socialism. All capable people need to wake up to this new trend in the world — and to this alone.

[shinycozytwistedglam]

Onyx Storm RECAP ch43

Bex decided to channel her inner Aaron Sorkin here so we get a chapter that's just...people talking. (Free fanfic idea: Xaden & Ridoc doing a White House walk & talk, with dick jokes, you're welcome.)

This chapter almost certainly contains a ton of FORESHADOWING that I may or may not have captured for your attention.

WTF is happening in ch43?

Quest squad regroups after the encounter with the irids.

Violet says there's no point in visiting the last inhabited isle, Loysam (dedicated to Loial, the goddess of love), because that island doesn't have an army. It's time to go back to Basgiath and see what's happened while they've been gone.

Will skipping the last isle be important? Is the secret to saving Xaden actually on Loysam? Or was this isle quest just getting too long? Guess we'll find out eventually.

Violet & Ridoc walk into the woods so she can come clean about the fact that Xaden has been venin for months. Ridoc says all the things a reasonable person who isn't in love with Xaden would say about the situation. (He's bonded to a powerful dragon, he's the Duke of Tyrrendor, AND he's a dark wielder. Great.) This is a fantastic moment for Ridoc and also a moment that makes me think he's doomed (sorry).

Violet admits she's selfish when it comes to Xaden, and maybe a little self-destructive these days. She says there's no rider alive who could stop Xaden even now, and admits that she won't/can't hurt him. (I feel confident that this will be put to the test eventually and it fills me with DREAD.)

Ridoc pushes Violet to define "the line" where he's not Xaden anymore, and Violet draws it at all the bad stuff we hope Xaden never does—kill civilians, hurt a dragon, hurt Violet. Ridoc seems satisfied, and gives her another round of "the four of us (Vi, Rhi, Ridoc, Sawyer) are stronger together."

Xaden is waiting for them and acquiesces to Ridoc's demand that the Scooby Gang be brought into the Xaden conspiracy to help protect Violet. He says that if it's between him and Violet, he chooses Violet every time, and to "kill the other guy I become." 😬

Ridoc leaves and Xaden tells Violet that he feels responsible for fucking up the conversation with the irids, that maybe if he hadn't been there things would've turned out better. (I'm never going to forgive the irids for calling Andarna the thing that they abhor so...fuck them.) Xaden is clearly full of guilt and self-loathing, and says he's the worst possible thing for the mission, for Tyrrendor, and for Violet.

--

Quest squad heads home but everyone's in a shit mood, especially Andarna.

Warm welcome on the flight field from Rhi & Sawyer, but of course General Aetos has to appear and ruin the moment. He hands Violet a letter from Theophanie, which is full of her usual creepy stalker vibes.

Chapter ends on a downer: while they were gone, the capital city of Poromiel, Suniva, fell to the dark wielders.

Queen Maraya is dead. That means Tecarus is king...for however long it lasts.

So, what did we learn on this adventure to the isles?

Violet stepped up as a leader on this journey, making decisions and setting priorities.

Xaden had a lot of good Wife Guy moments, including 2 that almost seemed like...a marriage proposal.

Mission to get allies = success. 40,000 troops from Zehyllna.

Mission to recruit the irids = failure.

I'd like to remind everyone, once again, that dragons aren't necessarily good or trustworthy, even the special ones.

Pay attention to the fact that we were shown, repeatedly, that less color=less magic, and more color=more magic

Unnbriel wants dragons. It's almost certain that they were the isle who helped the Krovlish rebels 200 years ago, then abandoned them when they didn't produce the promised dragons.

We got some good clues about Violet and the meaning of her silver hair. More on that soon!

Xaden's mom isn't a venin, but she sucks in an entirely different—and very human—way.

Asher Sorrengail knew a fuck ton about the isles, enough to write 4 (!!) books, one each for Deverelli, Unnbriel, Zehyllna, and (we assume) Loysam. How did he manage it??? When did he find the time?

[zaceouiswriting]

Fairy Prince - Hearts of Leviathans - Ch.40

Character: Sky x male reader, Riven x male reader, Brandon x male reader

Universe: Somewhere in Winx Club/Saga

Warnings: None

"Your Majesty!" I hear someone call out. This is nothing new because in my dreams (as in real life), the soldiers almost always call me that, even though I told them not to. Sometimes, they did it because they were supposed to, and sometimes, they did it to annoy me. It always got my attention. I ignored it and delved deeper into another dream, just waiting to be explored. "Your Majesty!" The persistent voice has grown louder, annoyed even, in a deep, crisp tone dripping with sarcasm and an aura of entitlement.

"Go away, Corey! Can't you see that I'm sleeping?"

“I see that, you idiot, but it’s morning, and classes start soon!”

I grit my teeth and crack my eyes open just a slit, hoping the older one wouldn't see it. But like the truffle pig he is, as soon as I do, his searching nose must have smelled the water in my eyes because his stupid face is immediately in mine. Irritated by his behavior so soon after waking up, I put my hand on his face and push it away, only to turn my head and lay it back down.

"Ouch!" I scream as I feel a sudden pain on my forehead. Reflexively, I open my eyes fully, only to be blinded by the piercing morning sun as if it were some beacon light shining directly in my face. As soon as I could see again, I stared straight into Corey's emerald eyes. Those eyes are the mark of the Jaton family. Our current capital in the Black Mountains is part of their territory and has only served as our vacation palace in the north until the catastrophe. But after our ancestral seat sank along with most of our world, we settled within this palace's walls. My family was just lucky that we were visiting the Jaton family, or the Jade Panther family, as they are known among my people. The Jade is their family stone, and beneath their capital is a cave containing a floating emerald stone that keeps their capital intact with an abundance of magic, while the mentioned Panther is the nickname of their founder, as he was as fast and vicious as a one on the battlefield. Few people could ever surpass the speed of a member of the Jaton family.

Looking into those eyes, I can clearly see concern but also a form of disappointment. I couldn't believe it! How dare he be disappointed in me when he slaps my forehead! Just as I'm about to turn the fires of death on him, he does it again. Instead of reacting to the slap, I hit back where it hurts the most. Watching his eyes widen, a breathless cough escaping his mouth, and his knees hitting the ground has to be one of the most satisfying things I've ever seen or done. I was finally able to stand up to this good-for-nothing bully.

To make matters worse, my little friends, awakened by the ruckus around them, are staring at Corey, baring their fangs and hissing at him, ready to attack. I wonder if these creatures would make useful soldiers in my future army. Just the thought of them wearing tiny suits of armor with tiny weapons brightens up my ruined morning.

The whole time I keep my eyes on the suffering ass on his knees. Maybe I should kick Riven in the balls, too. But I'm afraid he'd enjoy that, like everything I do to him. What a sick, twisted psychopath. I once threatened to step on him, and his face will haunt my nightmares forever. Even though I think he does this shit on purpose, I don't want to risk it. Otherwise, he'll end up marking me like a dog or something, and I'll never get rid of him.

"I swear by our Leviathan, as soon as I can stand again-" Corey's threat was interrupted as the little critters jumped on him, biting and nibbling at him. "Get off me!" He was about to smack them away.

Furiously, I grab his hand just in time. Pressing my tongue to my teeth, I whistle to the animals. They immediately jump back to me, land on my shoulders, and rub their angry heads against me again.

"You may still be tired, old friend, but if you or anyone hurts one of them, I will kill you because these little animals are more important than almost any other being, living or dead!"

Seeing the confusion in his eyes, I remind him that they are Skerools, the back and bones of our planet. But it took a few moments for his head to snap back. His eyes widened, switching between them and me. He quickly lowered his head, apologizing to the animals, and I, as my ancestor who had discovered what these creatures could do, declared them sacred beings to our Leviathans. Since they were sacred beings, they were equal to the royal family and protected from anything and everyone. Not even one of the Jatons can dare to stand against them.

Although I can see the uncertainty in the animals' eyes, probably because they couldn't understand Corey's words, I explain it to them as best I can with a few whistles and clacks. I learned their way of speaking as a child when my best friends couldn't play with me. Back then, I didn't particularly like dealing with people, and my siblings were too small. So I went to the garden to play with the Skerools. They came right away, loving me being around. Even the first time, they treated me as one of their own.

Smiling, I rub the heads of some of the Skerools. They had their eyes closed when I did this, so I waited until they opened them again to stroke Corey's head as well and loudly accept his apology. The little ones quickly notice. But their incomprehensible chatter is interrupted when one of them, clearly their leader, steps forward; his status is evident because of his black fur with a white belly and a brown stripe that divides his head, while all the others are brown, some with faint black details. Little Skerool carries himself with dignity. He raises his little hand and strokes the side of Corey's head.

My honorable friend couldn't believe his eyes but said nothing or did anything about the insult. When I hold my hand out to my new little friend, though, he doesn't seem to want to let go of Corey's hair. Shrugging, I turn to the others and pet them, to my delight. It's not long before a furry butt sits on my face, and four pairs of eyes stare down at me in disappointment. Without hesitation, I grab him by the neck and lift him from my face. I sit back up and tell the others to leave me so I can put their leader on my lap and pet him as much as he wants.

"Why are you here, Corey? You would have sent my roommates if it was just because I was late."

I hear a sigh from my side before he explains that he already sent my roommates; however, no matter what they tried, they couldn't get over the wall. But when he tried, he managed it immediately. Speechless in the face of this information, I try to understand how this is possible until, a few moments later, the realization dawns on me. Shortly afterward, I jump up from my stone bed, where many of my new little friends are still sitting, and go to the wall. With my hand on the stone, I feel clear vibrations; a slight grin crosses my lips because my suspicions have been confirmed. No wonder no one else got through except Corey and me.

With a knowing grin, I turn back to the older man. Although his face is stern, I can still see a certain softness in his eyes. "Have you spoken to your little brat of a brother?" He immediately becomes tense, so his conversation has not gone well.

„He believes that you left him without even a goodbye,“ Corey mutters, averting his gaze. Just as I'm about to say something, Corey beats me to it and tells me something that stuns me, so I ask him to repeat it. "My brother doesn't even know he's dead."

Suddenly, my head is spinning, my eyes showing me once again the day I lost control—how my stone spikes impaled him, just timidly in the corner of my eye. I didn't even notice it then, not until it was far too late. I didn't even hold him in my arms when he died, not until his body was already cold. Now, I remember it clearly: I kept fighting, and only when the skirmish was over did I look for him to celebrate, only to realize what I had done. It was the only time I cried on the battlefield. But how could my and his best friend not know that he was dead? He was a war hero, even though we had to leave his body behind as the enemies received reinforcements.

Corey must have noticed my distress because he came to my side and held me so gently that I almost saw the old him again. Only to shatter my world even further. "Almost no one outside the lower classes knows about the war.“

It should be impossible, but the way Corey said it, I knew it wasn't a lie. But how could this happen? My men bled and died for this, and our people don't even know about it? While raging inside about this, I suddenly fall limp. Another realization hit me like a mountain. Were all these people just cannon fodder? No, no, that can't be; my grandfather wouldn't do that! Or was it an attempt to get rid of me? Why else was I the only high-ranking noble on the battlefields? My hands fly over my mouth, unable to hide my shock any longer.

“Corey?” I ask breathlessly.

"I think so too," he replies as if he can read my mind. "I only know about it because I eavesdropped on a conversation between your grandfather and my father. But there was nothing I could do to help you." There are tears in his eyes. Seeing them, I freeze in that moment. Just a second later, he starts crying. "And when I saw you at Red Fountain without hearing a word from you for years, I just couldn't stand it; I was so angry!"

"I send letters twice a week," I interrupt quickly. This silences Corey, although it doesn't stop his tears. "I actually wrote you and your stupid brother two letters a week."

We both know they were intercepted without either of us having to say it. And I thought my family couldn't sink any lower. Shaking my head, I grab his arm, ready to confront my best friend with this new information. If anyone can figure out who is to blame, it's him, with his endless network of acquaintances.

[Masterlist]

[kuroneko1815]

The Handkerchief

Okay, am I the only one who thought Penelope might have been slightly jealous when Callisto brought up the fact that the handkerchief was from another woman? It seemed to me like Callisto might have been angling for one from her. (And I’m disregarding the translation that says it was given before the hunt. Because what I remembered reading originally was before the war).

There’s a symbolism of accepting and keeping a woman’s hanky which means that you accept and reciprocate her feelings.

Callisto: I’ll give it to the Princess and maybe she’ll give me one as an indirect love confession.

Penelope, a bit jealous: Here, wash it up and give it back to her if you don’t want it.

Callisto: The Princess is cold but I love it.

(Callisto likes the chase)

It could be that the handkerchief was really Callisto’s and he was giving it to her, just hoping for an exchange as well because then she’d be obligated to keep it to wash it and she could conveniently forget it and give him a new one.

Meaning that they reciprocate each other’s feelings and want a relationship. But he also wasn’t sure how it’d be taken so he tells her it’s from another woman to gauge her reaction.

Because Callisto at 12 or 13 receiving a hanky and holding on to it without it getting soiled or stained, or just plain ruined while he was at war for almost ten years is nearly impossible unless he left it at his palace. In that case, how’d he even remember something like that? Like this man, I think also has a case of subjective memory… He purposefully forgot that he nearly killed her at the maze.

-

-

If you’ve read this far… welcome to the hidden side plot from the past.

Penelope at the age of seven was an independent child who had grown up practical and pragmatic but loved deeply by her family. Penelope was there with her mother and the caravan and runs into an older child who was about eleven or twelve. He was a pretty boy with hair like gold and eyes like the rubies the wealthier merchants traded.

She was unknowing of his real identity, of the Crown Prince that now holds her hands and takes in the streets of the capital, the narrow corridors of the slums that she’s taken to showing him around. He’s a wealthy child, she can tell immediately from the make of his clothes. The merchant in her can easily see that. The poor commoner child that she was felt some slight envy at the obvious luxuries he had. But more than that… he looked the very definition of rich and she loved looking at rich people. Especially when they were like this boy who was like a living jewelry. Gold and rubies.

She shows him the life of a commoner, of the children she’s learned to play with. And teaches him what it’s like, let’s him experience what her life is like. She calls him Cal and he calls her Penny.

Mother calls for her and she pulls him along, laughing happily. (She doesn’t know that the boy looks enraptured at the child with dark pink hair who laughs so freely). Mother pats her head and bends down to kiss her and give her a hug, inquiring over her health before turning to Cal who she introduces immediately.

Mother smiles at him and pats him as well. Gives him a small kiss on the forehead and a hug. “Any friend of my daughter is a friend of mine as well.”

The caravan, her family, all laughingly echo that. And they give him a place at their table. Invite some of the others as well and share a simple meal. Cal watches all this with a wistful longing smile, listening to their tales and happy teasing. (He nods to himself, resolute. He marches off to war soon and he knows what he needs to fight for now. It’s this tangible thing, this one happy family. This warm girl who smiles and laughs freely.)

When the sun dips low, Cal says goodbye. Penelope is used to this. Never has friends that she gets to keep, is used to hellos and goodbyes and reunions and distances but somehow she thinks it’s different with Cal, as if he’s found the answer to some question that’s been in his mind for so long. She wonders what it was but knows better to ask so she wishes him well.

She has nothing to give but a simple handkerchief. It’s not to the quality that he’s no doubt used to but it’s the best thing she has, it’s clean and new. Grandma had made it for her. Had woven it herself and created the patterns on it. She presses it to his hands.

“For you.” She says. “To remember today.”

He’s silent, looking at it with a frown but he nods.

“Have a good life, Cal. And be safe.”

The golden boy walks away into the distance and she returns to her family.

-

-

Callisto walks no more than twenty steps into the alley he’d turned into when he stops. Porter appears silent like a shadow along with three other men, his guards who’d been shadowing him from a distance. He knows they’d been following him since he snuck out but he just… he needed this moment.

Needed to understand the heart of the Empire, of this place that he was being sacrificed for. Needed to see why he was being sent off to fight in a war. Why he needed to bloody his hands, his mind, his heart; why he needed to taint his very soul.

But he’s found that answer. He wants to do it for her. This innocent little girl who welcomed him without another thought.

“Are you done, Your Highness?” Porter asked. Not commenting on the handkerchief he holds in his hands. Staring at the delicate fabric.

“Yes, let’s return to the palace now.”

If the Empire had more children, more families like that one… he wanted to protect them. He remembered the spike of jealousy at the way her family had so easily shown affection. At the open love her mother showered her with. His forehead feels warm from where the woman had given him a motherly kiss.

His heart has been closed for awhile now, after his mother’s death. After, the remarriage. After the assassination. But for a moment… even if he felt like an outsider as he ate that simple fare, he felt that he wanted to belong. Felt as though the food was the most delicious he’d ever eaten.

-

-

Callisto marches off to war not too long after that. He brings the handkerchief with him, cherishes it and keeps it practically pristine. Holds on to it only when his hands are clean. Washes it gently by hand when it gets even a single speck of dirt. Uses it to remind him of that one day when he got to act as a normal child with her; uses it to remind him of the innocence he wants to protect.

-

-

Time has dulled their memories of one another. Callisto no longer remembers her name or what she looks like. All he has is the simple handkerchief made of common cotton to remember her by. And the ghost of her laughter ringing in his ears, the feeling he felt when he held her hand and the warmth that spread through him when she looked him in the eyes bravely and gave him that sunshine smile.

-

-

Penelope’s memories are warped through all that she’s suffered from. The abuse has her lock those happy days away, knows that she’d shatter if she remembered them. The regressions don’t help. Now all she remembers is pain, humiliation, and death. Her soul cracks and shatters, forming anew in another world before she’s returned to this world.

-

-

Even after the war, even after the jaded, brutal thing that he becomes. He still keeps the handkerchief with him. He never offers it to anyone.

At least he didn’t. And then Penelope Eckhart came into the picture and he finds himself offering the handkerchief to her. Feels right to do it, even when she dirties it with soot and gives it back to him with an annoyed face.

He tucks it back into his pocket determined to wash it when he got back to the palace.

-

-

After all is said and done, Penelope finds the handkerchief again among his possessions. He doesn’t try to justify it. But she merely raises a brow. Penelope now remembers the child she’d been.

Touches the handkerchief and feels the fabric. There’s one feature to it that she knows deeply. A minuscule P is embroider there.

“I didn’t know you’d kept it all these years. I’m glad you remembered that day even after all these years, Cal.” She said.

His eyes snap up to her and he laughs, feels as though fate had been telling him where his heart and future lay all along with that handkerchief. “I’m glad I got to meet you again, my beloved Penny.” He pulls her in for a kiss.