#being forced to perform capitalism

[lunapwrites]

Crazy rough day today. Just trying to breathe through it. Thank fuck I have therapy tonight. Thank fuck I accepted an offer for help.

[piraytoro]

I also think these discussions make the mistake of taking 'anti-natalist' arguments at face value and ascribing to them their stated function rather than their actual function. I don't think that forced sterilization is actually any more about preventing the potential existence of a child than anti-abortion sentiment is about protecting it; it's about controlling the bodies of marginalized people—largely women—with the specific intent of furthering the infantilizing idea that they can't be trusted with the care of their own children; this is also the function of the welfare policies mentioned above. The system of child removal is a force of assimilation that also ultimately powers the prison industrial complex and other forms of slavery. Cutting these kids off from their communities both accustoms them to state control and shows that people like them have no recourse against the system.

I don't think eradication is really the end goal because eradication undermines the functions of the system as it exists and removes the source of labor. The incredibly loud minority who actually call for complete eradication are necessary even if that end goal is undesirable because. well. they're a minority. They don’t really have the power to push through the extremist ideal. The existence of these extremists is greatly beneficial to those for whom the current status quo is desirable and who need things to stay as-is: both because their rhetoric increases the number of people who are ambivalent or hateful toward disadvantaged groups and because they make this quieter majority seem reasonable and even generous in comparison, allowing them to push the narrative of unfitness as a gesture of apparent benevolence.

Again, the system wants marginalized kids removed from their communities. And so, the narrative must be upkept that marginalized people should not be allowed to have children, because they WILL have children, and then the people who benefit from this system can argue that, since these people are unequipped to and therefore shouldn't have children, it is in the best interest of the child to take that child away. They want marginalized people to have children because the subjugated class is necessary for the survival of the system that profits off their labor—they just want you to think they don't want those kids to exist. Because, if they can get you to agree that those kids shouldn't exist, then you've already dehumanized them and then they’ve won. Which is how the infantilization of people of color leads to their unchilding—another thing that seems 'contradictory' until you look into the mechanisms behind it.

If the system was really after eradication, marginalized groups wouldn't be disproportionately affected and targeted by abortion laws. Under capitalism, it's not ultimately about wanting to get rid of certain bodies; it's about wanting to be able to control them and their output, both in terms of children and in terms of labor (the former just to assure the latter). If the average white middle/upper-class person thinks marginalized people are a burden on society, no amount of forced or underpaid labor will seem unjust. And this forced and underpaid labor is what allows not only billionaires but also the middle/upper classes to live in the manner to which they have become accustomed. And everyone knows it! Everything I’ve just described is what allows them to know this and yet not see it as wrong, so that they’re never moved to do anything about it. They’ve been fooled (and incentivized) into seeing a meritocracy, and ultimately a just world, where none exists. This process underpins the entire system. It’s always been there, by design.

hiii caden, any chance you could simplify/reword this post? as written it is rather difficult for me to parse. <3

hiya, sorry, stuck this in drafts and forgot it was in there 🙈 let me try to rephrase

there's a common issue i see (not just on here) where people try to make blanket statements about how motherhood / parenthood / children are valued socially, but they're thinking only in terms of individual attitudes and misunderstanding why the relevant politics result in statements that might seem contradictory at first. so for example, someone observes that there is, broadly, pressure to have and raise one's biological children. however, someone else points out that this logic doesn't apply to all people equally: in particular, racialised people and poor people are actively discouraged from having children, including by overtly eugenic means like forcible sterilisation (this still happens today!) and welfare policies.

what i was saying in the post was that there is not actually a contradiction between these two positions, despite one appearing 'pro' natalist and one appearing 'anti'. the trick is that the politics that drives both positions (the state's efforts to manage and exploit its population; a politics of human beings as biological resources; hence, what foucault termed 'biopolitics') demands not just the reproduction of a labour force and military reserve, but also the designation of subaltern populations who are considered as a biological threat to the nation / race / national future, and who must therefore be discouraged from reproducing and ultimately eradicated. the politics that highly values one population (eg, the white / 'native born' / able bodied / straight / cis couple and their biological children) is the same politics that inherently also devalues all others (indeed, the attributes that are valued are defined in part through the process of comparison/contrast; these are political designations in the first place).

it's just a common frustration of mine that people try to discuss this as a matter of personal attitudes and are therefore unable to connect natalist and eugenic policies to the biopolitical logics that drive them. it leads to really pointless conversations where people just kind of throw up their hands and act like these attitudes are contradictory or internally inconsistent; they're not. the consistency is not in a uniformly 'pro' or 'anti' position wrt childbearing; it's in the logic that demands and prizes certain bodies and populations, and scapegoats and attempts to eradicate others.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Capital (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: You think you married the plainest woman on earth, and you look away for one second and suddenly she is not. Typical. At least, for Daemon.

Warnings: Mature language, sexual thoughts, canon typical violence.

Requested: Yes! But since I am particular about my aesthetic, I didn't answer there. Jealousy + arranged marriage. Brought to you by the seven deadly sins.

Gluttony /ˈɡlʌtəni/

​the habit of eating and drinking too much.

Claw Island is as good as getting vanished from the court. You know it. Your Lord husband knows it. Even the tenants know it. Why else would the King order your marriage to Daemon Targaryen?

It was not as much of a punishment as the King had hoped. The Celtigars are a prestigious family, one of the few left with Valyrian blood. While not ones to flaunt their riches or seek for great power, you led a luxurious lifestyle.

The finest wines. Myrish rugs. The newest books. And of course, the riches from the surrounding sea. Beautiful pearls, a fleet that, while small, sailed with speed. The best foods.

The small island was your perfect little world, sequestered away from the troubles of the mainland. What else could a person long for, when they lived in a paradise? Claw Island had it all. Miles and miles of tempestuous sea, soft sands and gorgeous wildlife not seen anywhere else. Humble, but good people. Natural riches enough to last a lifetime.

But as of late, your breathtaking lands did nothing to bring you peace. Sometimes, in truth, as you walked along the shoreline, you wished for a tremendous sea wave to swallow you whole.

It would be better than this. Among the crabs, the sea life and wreckage of old ships, you would feel at ease. At home, even. And finally, finally untroubled. But things were not as you wanted them to be. With your Lord Father at court, someone had to mind the island. And no one knew the lands as you did.

You shuddered to think of something happening to you. In that case, the island, and its people, would go to your husband. Considering how much he hated it here, Prince Daemon would make a poor ruler.

You glare. He glares right back. Remembering your manners, you serve him a cut of spider crab seared in butter. The meal is rich and decadent, a show of the best Claw Island has to offer.

“Crab, Lady Wife?” Daemon raises both eyebrows. “Again?”

“What else does the Prince wish to eat?” You do your best effort at keeping your tone even. You try hard to not raise your voice at him, remembering the rumors about what happened to his last wife. So far, it seems to be working. Despite being older than you, the man behaves as a child. You have found he benefits from being managed as one, too.

Ever since you got married, he has been desperately trying to rile you up. The Prince always seemed to deflate when you refused to engage. He was clearly itching for a fight, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“You seem too willing to indulge in cannibalism for my tastes.” Daemon, in what he surely believed to be the absolute demonstration of cutting wit, smirks. You smile at him, sedate. You have heard enough remarks about crabs to last a lifetime. “It’s worrying.”

You could answer him. Perhaps make a mockery of his inability to perform in bed and the behavior of the female praying mantis. You do not. Instead, you force yourself to give him a tight smile.

“Don’t worry. I will ask the servants to bring you fish.” You took your napkin out of your lap and placed it on the table. Dutifully, you rang the bell to call for a servant.

“Again?” Daemon complained, sounding much like a petulant child. You smiled and went back to your seat. Your crab was getting cold, and it would most likely be by the time your husband’s fish was served. But good manners dictated you could not start eating without him. You resigned yourself to another night of eating a cold dinner.

“You should write to the King, my Prince. I would serve you venison, were it not for the fact that your dragon has nearly extincted the population here.” While you were by no means poor, feeding a dragon was an expense you didn’t care for, especially one so picky as Daemon’s was showing to be.

While a dragon was a marvelous creature, and having one guarding your lands was a great perk, it was also hard. Caraxes ate the same as five grown men in a day, if not more. He didn’t eat just anything you served him, either. Much like his owner, he was picky. He had come with dragon keepers, and needed to be built a shelter.

You had hoped that his serpentine appearance would mean that he would eat a lot in one sitting, then hibernate, but no such luck. Your island couldn’t keep up, no matter how hard you tried. Animals didn’t reproduce at the pace required.

“Of course, my Lady. Of course.” Daemon says, in a dismissive tone. It’s then, when a servant comes in with his fish.

Your crab is cold. Again. Daemon is not pleased with the fish, but seems wary of extending dinner even more. For once, he doesn’t complain.

Dinner is eaten silently. In your head, you make plans for tomorrow's meals. Perhaps oysters, served cold, will withstand the wait better. You finish dinner and settle down to read some before bed.

When the time comes for it, you close your book. Daemon departs with a cold kiss to your cheek. You go to your bed, just as cold and empty as the kiss was, and fall asleep.

It’s around the witch's hour when he comes back to you, getting into the bed next to you. He stinks of cheap perfumes and oils. As he pulls you closer, to be able to hide his face on your neck, you can feel the smell of sex and alcohol induced sweat. It comes from the clothes Daemon hasn’t even bothered to shed before getting in bed with you.

You don’t like him drunk. He gets sloppy. You do better when he hides his indiscretions, the proofs of your failure as a woman. As a wife. He seeks his pleasure from other bodies, never yours. With you, he is unable to perform to completion.

Perhaps the same happens to him with others, on nights like these. That thought soothes you, and it’s the only reason why you allow Daemon to seek comfort in your arms. Sometimes, he has nightmares. It’s expected then, too, that you are the one to soothe him back to sleep.

Shifting in his grip, you rub his back, gently. You card your other hand through the matted strands of blonde hair, as a mother would do to his child. In many ways, you guess he is one. You pity him, your husband. A man with a void so deep, not even all the vices in the world could fill it.

You are unable to fall back asleep. You lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling. When you hear the rooster’s first crow, you roll out of bed. Sleep is not coming for you. Daemon, unperturbed in his slumber, only sprawls more. You tuck him in.

When you get to your vanity, you catch the servants leaving the correspondence for the day on it. She giggles when you point at the bed and the mess of clothes, gesturing for silence. It makes you feel better, that they think your husband comes from the pleasure houses straight into your arms for more than just cuddles.

One of the letters catches your eye. It’s written in the strange alphabet used for High Valyrian, bearing both the royal seal and the King’s name. You don’t mean to pry. In fact, you open it because you are worried your husband has upset his brother even more.

Marriage is like being tied to a ship. When the tides are good and the ship strong, you soar above the sea. But no one wants to be tied to a sinking ship. It’s that fear what leads you to heating a knife on your candle’s flame and lifting the seal.

You read as you brush your hair, unrushed. You know Daemon won’t be awake for at least six more hours. But the more you advance, skipping polite greeting, the more your stomach sinks, and you jump from sentence to sentence.

“And while I understand your dislike of Claw Island, it is a less harsh punishment than you deserve. Much you complained of wanting a Valyrian bride, and now the opportunity presents itself, ripe for the taking. Yet, you do not seem keen on it. Is it, again, the lack of a throne you find off-putting? Perhaps, the lack of a child bride you can manipulate? Your Lady Wife might not have purple eyes or silver hair, as you mention, but she is a maiden in the bloom of youth. Tales of her beauty have graced the court, shared among the eager mouths of her family and previous suitors. Both Lord Velaryon and Lord Mooton agree that the woman is a delight, well-mannered and easy on the eyes. She has impeccable breeding and education. I will not grant you the annulment. I will not allow you to go back to your whore.”

There is a coppery taste in your mouth. Blood, you realize. From biting your tongue so hard to avoid letting out a scream of rage. It feels like being stabbed, countless times. In your back, and in your heart. Betrayal and deep, hurtful sorrow.

What have you done to deserve this? To be blindsided so? You have stood firm through all the humiliations your husband puts you through. Never once reproaching the way he goes out after dinner and does not come back until sunrise. Never complaining of his audacity to search comfort in your arms when he is drunk and stinking of whores. Never once raising your voice at the insults to your people, your home, your family.

But for Daemon Targaryen, it wasn’t enough. You would never be enough. Childishly, when you had first heard of your betrothal to him, you had hoped for companionship, if not love. At least, you thought, you would have a friend. But you hadn’t been enough of a woman to keep him in your bed, you had not been enough of the blood of Old Valyria for him to give you children, and you had not been enough for him to stay married to you.

He took from you, and took from your island and from your family, and not once was he satisfied. Not once, he was sated. And now, Daemon has done the unspeakable. Not satisfied with making a mockery out of you, with his constant unfaithfulness, he seeks to ruin you further. It’s only King Viserys who protects you and your family from further embarrassment.

You have underestimated him, pitying him while he planned your demise. The ruin of your house. You have been sharing your bed with the enemy. The thought frightens you and fills you with anger at equal parts. What will happen, when the King dies and the awful Princess with whom your husband was so taken ascends? Will you be put to the sword, accused of an imaginary crime to get you out of the way? Treason, perhaps? Hands shaking in anger, you fold the letter and reseal it as carefully as you can.

That is the day you decide you will retreat into your shell, like any good crab. You will close yourself over, put up walls and keep him as far away as you can. And you will wait for the day to stab at his heels until his physique reflects exactly the useless kind of man he is inside.

One day, this man might kill you. You will have to make sure he does not get away with it.

Envy /ˈenvi/

​the feeling of wanting to be in the same situation as somebody else; the feeling of wanting something that somebody else has.

It’s not often you are summoned to the court. But your father is about to be named Keeper of the Keys, a prestigious position often held by members of your house before being promoted to Master of Coin. The implication is clear. Soon, another Celtigar will be handling the finances of the Kingdom. It’s a ploy, to intertwine you further with the Royal Family. As soon as King Viserys dies, it will be your father who serves on Princess Rhaenyra’s council.

Hence, the need for a celebration. Traveling from Claw Island to King’s Landing is exhausting, especially considering that you do the journey by ship while your husband does so in his dragon. He seems overjoyed about it, but you can only think of how much the separate travel is costing your purses.

Daemon arrives early, because of course he does. Meanwhile, you spend your time preparing to put on the play of your life. You must be the most dutiful wife in the Seven Kingdoms, or else he might find a reason to get rid of you. Setting apart your most fashionable dresses, preparing gifts for the King and Queen and otherwise looking radiant.

Knowing Daemon, he is already whispering poison in his brother’s ear. You need to dazzle the King and the whole court, convince them you are not only an adequate wife but a perfect one. No stain must be perceived in your reputation.

You arrive punctually, just in time to prepare for the feast. It’s inside the Hall where you meet Daemon, and greet him with a kiss on the cheek. Chaste, but affectionate, performed under the King’s approving look. You are radiant in your house’s colors, with subtle references to Targaryen’s ones.

The feast is torture. Viserys, Daemon and Rhaenyra are all seated at the same table. They get along wondrously, while you, Queen Alicent and Ser Laenor are ignored despite being next to them.

The only thing that calms your heart is watching your father, sitting at the table of the Master of Coin.

“My Queen.” You say to her, hoping to curry favor. The Gods knew you needed as many allies as you could. “I brought you this.”

You take out a beautifully engraved rendition of the Prayers Book. It’s a gorgeous edition, with a gold finish. You hope that at least, if she doesn’t like it, she would think it is a gift to the babe she carries. It’s a thoughtful gift, the kind of thing you excel at.

“Oh, Lady Targaryen!” The Queen says, and takes it, admiring it in the light. Fortunately, she seems truly charmed by it. “It is the most wonderful thing!”

“I have one myself.” You tell her, as if you had not purchased it for exactly this moment. “When I heard you were from Oldtown, I couldn’t think of a better thing to bring.”

“It’s lovely.” Alicent says, as your husbands ignore both of you. Viserys and Daemon are too busy having their fun to care about what women are doing. “Will you join me in prayer tomorrow?”

“I would be delighted to.” It’s the first genuine smile you wear since your arrival. And it’s the first time that someone from the royal family smiles back.

You do attempts towards Rhaenyra and Laenor. They both ignore you, and so, you decide to keep strictly to conversing with Alicent. You decide to leave Viserys out of it, despite your gratitude to him because you would rather not look like much of a sycophant.

Your happiness at finally making a friend between your in-laws makes you oblivious to Daemon’s silence. During the whole dinner, he barely taunts you. None of the crab-based insults he so favors are present, either. That should have warned you. If you have learned something about your husband is that there is never a time when he is quiet.

He bides his time. The desserts are already served when Daemon delivers his greatest insult up to date. Some couples are even swaying to the rhythm of the music already, no matter if the tables have yet to be cleared.

“I wish to dance, I think.” Daemon says, getting up from his seat. You start to get up too, knowing you cannot refuse him, but he turns towards Rhaenyra. “A dance, niece?”

Rhaenyra preens under the attention and takes his hand. For a second, you stay frozen, hand falling uselessly by your side just when you were about to reach for him. You feel like you are being stabbed. Again.

The humiliation is so great you wish for some great disaster, perhaps one of the couples bumping against a table and overturning it, just to get the attention away from you. Half the hall has now seen you get rejected by your husband. In a celebration meant to honor your father, nonetheless.

You struggle to keep your face emotionless, curved into a polite little smile. You have made a fool of yourself. Hot tears gather in your eyes, threatening to spill.

Noticing your despair, Alicent places a hand on your arm, softly.

“Thank you, Lady Targaryen.” She exclaims, loudly. “With the babe getting bigger and bigger every day, I find it harder to stand. You are very thoughtful.”

Her rescue, as she stands and walks down the dais, helps you save face. Your smile turns more genuine.

“It’s but good breeding, my Queen.” You answer, just as loud. “What kind of noble could see a Lady of your station and not aid her?”

Alicent smiles, and she cradles her stomach.

“Indeed. Only a savage, I would think.” Her glance at her own husband is unmistakable. But Viserys is too busy watching Rhaenyra and Daemon dance to help his pregnant wife. His eyes never leave his brother and daughter, his expression twisted into one of annoyance.

Alicent makes her way towards a table where a few knights sit. Most of them are from Oldtown, and you cannot help but smile at her doing the rounds her husband so neglects. But her rescue, and quick exit, leave you in an uncomfortable position. King Viserys and Ser Laenor are engaged in conversation, including you only when they remember your presence, which means once every half an hour.

Without Queen Alicent, you have no conversation partner. The only thing you can do is watch. Daemon twirls around the room as if he were not a married man, taking every eligible bachelorette in the room for at least one dance. He is enchanting, pulling blushes left and right. He dances twice with Rhaenyra and Laena Velaryon.

You play your part to perfection. Each time he glances your way, you give him an indulgent smile or a sweet tilt of your head. Even when he dances again with Rhaenyra, your expressions don't shift. Instead, you lift your cup to them and even find it in yourself to give a small clap.

It’s torture. It’s exhausting, having to play the devoted but never jealous wife, when he is doing his best to embarrass you. Finally, the King retires, but orders that the celebrations do not stop. You consider making your way towards your father, uncaring if leaving Laenor sitting on his own is rude.

Just as you are getting up, a knight, dressed in a fine green gambeson, steps in front of you. You look up at him, wondering what he could possibly want.

His voice is soft and eloquent, with the barest hint of an accent. His voice reminds you of someone, but you cannot quite place who.

“Lady Targaryen. You look beautiful tonight.”

“Thank you.” You answer him, politely. Is he about to ask you for a dance? Is this a ploy for your husband to embarrass you further?

The knight smiles. He is tall and slender, very different from your husband, yet handsome just the same.

“If I had a wife as pretty as you, she wouldn’t be sitting here.” He compliments, and startles a laugh out of you. It has been months since the last time a man complimented you so. Before marrying, you had quite the suitors, but no one dared practice courtly love with the Rogue Prince’s wife. And your husband never once spoke to you kindly.

It’s a thrill, to feel wanted and appreciated again. You love having his eyes on you. It fills you with a forgotten kind of confidence. As the daughter of the man whose star in court is rising, as a beautiful woman and as the wife of a Prince, you deserve to be admired. It’s not your fault your husband can’t see it, you are desirable. People should be currying for your favor. You shouldn’t be begging for the scraps of a man whose only interest is his niece.

“Would she be on the dance floor?” You tease the knight, falling back into the practiced flirtations that had made you so popular before. You feel like you are glowing again.

The knight shakes his head, a hint of mischief appearing in his brown eyes.

“I would forbid her from leaving my chambers.”

At that, you laugh again, blushing. Despite how charming he is, you are still a married woman. You cannot give anyone reason to suspect or judge you, else Daemon might have basis to rid himself of you.

“I am not your wife.” You say, politely. The knight gasps, as if wounded, making you laugh again. You do not realize someone is glaring daggers at you, entranced as you are by him. “But perhaps a dance might suffice?”

The knight gives you a cheeky grin. He takes your hand and pulls you to your feet, gently.

As he leads you towards the dance floor, you barely notice Daemon looking disgruntled on the edge of it. You look over and see Rhenyra dancing with some tall and broad knight. He is probably jealous of him.

“You must give me your favor, for tomorrow's tournament. We are, after all, celebrating your family.” The knight says, making you focus back on him. His eyes are brown and kind, so soft. They remind you of someone, but once again, you can’t tell who.

“Ah, I see you are a tough negotiator.” You tease, your tone turning slightly more girlish. This time, it is the knight who laughs.

“What can I say? It’s in my blood.” The man winks, as he starts to twirl you around.

“I think, my lord, you have yourself a deal.” You grin.

It’s only when a Hightower knight approaches the stands the next day and offers you his lanze, you realize the mistake you have made.

Wrath /ræθ/

​extreme anger.

Daemon can’t believe his ears. Out of nowhere, a sweet sound reaches him. It’s the sound of a Lady’s laughter, but something about it makes him turn his head.

Perhaps, the fact that the sound has managed to catch his attention at all, despite the loud music, chatter and other laughs. Perhaps it is that the sound is familiar to him. He doesn’t know what it is, but as the piece finishes, he steps aside and tries searching for the source.

It’s then he sees you. His wife. Glowing and laughing on that Hightower cunt’s arm. And no, it’s not Alicent he is referring to. Otto’s spawn seems to have a proclivity for you because this is the other one. The elder.

Gwayne. His hands all over you, a gentle touch to your lower back to guide you forward. And are your eyes brightening? For him? As you pass by Daemon, you barely spare him a glance. He manages to hear a piece of the conversation.

“Your favor, for tomorrow's tournament…” The man has the gall to ask, as if he could win you the flower crown! The nerve of that Hightower pup, to think himself able to win. It’s clear he doesn’t remember the last time he faced Daemon, and while he was already planning on entering, now he knows with absolute certainty he is competing. Gwayne Hightower seems to have forgotten his lesson. He needs to remember his place.

“… Tough negotiator…” Your cheerful voice answers. Probably telling him he has to win if you do so because you are Valyrian and proud like him. Surely, the idea of getting crowned Queen of Love and Beauty appeals to you. You want a flower crown? Daemon will get you the damn thing.

When he was no more than a boy, his father used to have a particularly overzealous hound. Daemon had taken great delight in setting him free just when ladies were visiting. The dog loved sniffing beneath the ladies' skirts and humping their legs. The whole scene often ended up with Daemon getting yelled at, either by the ladies or their husbands. Now, as he looked at the proverbial dog humping his wife, Daemon understood why the ladies' husbands were so enraged.

He should cut his hands. Hightowers. No sense of shame at all, with their whorish ways. They were all the same. There went Alicent, throwing herself at Viserys when poor Aemma was not even in her pyre. There went Gwayne Hightower, placing his paws all over you and trying to charm you when Daemon was still in the room.

Couldn’t he tell you are his? It’s not that Daemon likes you, but it’s an affront to his honor. You are the wife of a Prince. The mere fact that a measly knight thought he could compare it’s outrageous. And the fact that he dared touch you! The nerve!

It’s Daemon who shares your bed, back in Claw Island. It’s Daemon you hold during the night, who pays for your silly little dresses. It’s for him you have clearly gotten all pretty today. How dare he, that Hightower fool.

He can’t have you. Gwayne Hightower is not allowed to just swoop in and try to steal his woman. You are meant to sleep by his side, be his solace. You are not the kind of woman for whom a simple knight would be enough. Just like him, you love the lush life. Could Gwayne Hightower buy you a dress like that? Could he use a dragon to protect your little island?

Daemon clutches at his cup so hard, he thinks he might bend the metal. You are his bride. He is the only one allowed to have you. If he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to, but it doesn’t mean someone else can.

Rhaenyra approaches him again, no doubt wanting another dance. But not even her allure, which is usually so hypnotizing to him, manages to get him out of his bad mood. He hates when other people touch what is his.

Daemon decides to retire for the night, before she can reach him. He needs to think. How he longs for your shared rooms back at Claw Island. At least that way, he wouldn’t spend the night tossing and turning, wondering if the Hightower cunt escorted you back to your rooms, and if so, at which hour.

Strange, isn’t it? Such a small act can cause such a big shift in perspective. So many months, he had spent thinking of Claw Island a prison, longing to be able to come back to court. Now, he sees it as it was. A shell made to protect the most valuable pearl the sea had produced.

Had Daemon known men at court would try to steal his bride, he would have never authorized this trip. Your father could have been named Hand, but you would have never stepped foot outside your castle if Daemon had known. You would not be taken with Gwayne Hightower if he had a say in it.

He had a plan. The knight would make a fool out of himself. Daemon just had to encourage him in the right direction.

Daemon is up and about as soon as the sun is. He strolls towards the space prepared for the tournament, armor in hand. He changes slowly, giving plenty of time for Gwayne Hightower to arrive.

The foolish knight does. So do you, sitting next to your father in the stands, all pretty and glowy under the sun. You wear a red gown that compliments not only your skin tone, but pays homage to both of your houses. After all, both House Targaryen and Celtigar have red on their coats of arms. A clear show that you were meant to be his, and his alone. What would you even look like, if you were married to a Hightower fool? Red and green would look hideous in a dress.

As the highest-ranking competitor, Daemon gets to make the first challenge. To no one’s surprise, he picks Gwayne Hightower.

Daemon waits with bated breath, already seated on his horse. Does the man dare? Oh, he dares! The Hightower cunt gallops towards the stands. You don’t rise, looking towards the Hightower whore. It’s then he realizes you must be truly innocent. You are either doubting the boldness of the man or are not aware of his house, and do not recognize him under the armor.

But as Gwayne Hightower reaches the stand, Daemon close on his heels, he takes off his helmet. You gasp.

The Hightower whore makes a move as if to get up. Her brother’s voice cuts her off.

“I was hoping to get a sign of your favor, my Lady.” The man says to you, and your eyes widen. You stand, shakily. You look at Daemon, then at the cunt, then at him, then back at the cunt. Daemon arches an eyebrow, visor lifted. “For you have already struck me with your beauty, and the fact that you cannot be mine. Allow me the consolation of placing a crown of flowers upon you, and soothe my wounded heart.”

You gasp at the bold declaration. Daemon has to admit it, the cunt has some nerve. Not only has he praised you in ways that are too bold even for a couple courting, but he has slighted Daemon in front of the whole court. He has made explicit mention of your marriage to him.

Viserys eyes him warily. Daemon scoffs. The distrust is unnecessary. Why would he slaughter the Hightower now, when he has the chance to plummet him into the ground without consequences in just a few minutes? Besides, it would be in bad taste, slaughtering the brother of his sister-in-law.

Your father urges you forward, with a forced laugh. You grasp one of the favors from your box, which has only two, and place it upon the Hightower’s lanze. The pretty ribbons sway in the wind. White and red from House Celtigar proudly displayed.

Daemon clears his throat, and presents his own lanze.

“How touching.”

You ignore him, as Rhaenyra approaches. Surely thinking how he will want to wear her favor, after his rejection of last night. Curse him, Daemon thinks. He should have danced with you. If he had known that up jumped son of a rat was going to try his luck, you would have not left Daemon’s arms the whole night.

“Thank you, niece. But today I fancy wearing my wife’s favor. For it would be a shame for her to be lacking her crown once her champion undoubtedly disappoints.” He loudly declares, uncaring if his niece’s face falls. Rhaenyra will get over it. But this has turned into a manhood competition. He can’t let Gwayne Hightower, of all people, win.

“Can I do that?” Daemon hears you whisper towards Viserys and his whore. “Can I have two champions fighting each other?”

Viserys, as if this is the most fun he has had in a while, answers cheerfully.

“Of course, my dear girl.” It probably is the most fun he has had in a while. Really. It must be very amusing to him, after hearing Daemon complain about you for months. Who would have known he would have to fight some Hightower for your attention? Laughable, really. A Prince groveling. “Double the chances for you to get the flower crown, is it not?”

“Of course.” Your father jumps in, clearly trying to prevent a scandal. “Go on, love. Give the other one to your husband. If more are needed, we will get more ribbons.”

You approach Daemon, pretty little favor on your delicate hands. You smile at him, pleasantly. But this close, he can tell you are shaken by the power play happening right in front of your eyes.

Daemon lowers his lanze as you stretch to place your ribbons. You give him a confused and hurt look. He stretches closer.

“Save that one.” Daemon says, as he places a hand on your hair and pulls out the red ribbon that holds it back. “I’m your husband, I get some privileges.”

His gesture makes you laugh. Daemon feels on top of the world. He gives a superior glance to the Hightower cunt, as if saying: Look at me, I do not need half your effort and get double the results.

Daemon is not so deluded as to think the laugh is more than half nervousness and half playing the part of the dutiful wife you are, but to Daemon is still a win. He can see why the other lords want you. With your hair loose, smiling and with your skin glowing from the sun, you are actually quite pretty.

He ties the ribbon around the pommel of the lanze.

“A kiss, for good luck?” Daemon knows he is pushing, but cannot help but be smug. His pretty wife gave him her hair ribbon to tie around his chosen weapon, for all the court to see. Smugness radiates out of his pores.

Without any expectation, the sweet peck you give him is even more of a delight. Even more sweet is the disgruntled look on Gwayne Hightower's face.

Safe to say, the man gets unseated so fast, it has to be the quickest defeat ever registered. The crunch he makes as he falls from his horse it’s the most satisfying sound Daemon has ever heard. The crowd gasps and cheers. The man does not get up.

That will teach him, he decides. Gwayne Higtwoer will never again even look your way. Daemon turns his horse back around, ready to face his next opponent, but it’s stopped by the pages.

“Ser Gwayne Hightower has requested to continue with the sword.” At that, his blood boils. He nearly jumps off his horse, discarding the lanze and unsheathing Dark Sister.

“What will it be, boy? First blood?” He saunters towards the man, and the sight of him this close only serves to anger him more. He shares Otto’s slender build, tall and slight. In Hightower armor, he even looks like him. Daemon is going to enjoy this.

“Why stop there?” The knight asks, hatefully. “Until one of us yields.”

“As you wish.” Daemon charges, forgoing his shield. He is just too angered for politeness. This is not jousting anymore, it’s his hate for Higtowers, and the fact that this man has tried to take something that’s his. He should have never looked your way. Never. And if it’s up to Daemon, perhaps he will leave the arena without the ability to repeat the feat.

The fight is quick and dirty, but even when he has disarmed and cornered him, Gwayne Higtower refuses to yield.

“What are you..?” Daemon asks, utterly confused because the little savage is grabbing Dark Sister with gauntled hands and pulling.

“Just as marriage is not an excuse for not loving…” He grins, teeth bared in a feral little grin, and Daemon lets go of his sword in surprise at the boldness of the fool. “No weapon is no excuse for yielding.”

He loses it, then. Later, he will only remember red. Daemon throws himself at him and starts punching him, until the asshole goes limp on his arms and has to be pulled away from him.

Only the fact that the Hightower fought back is what allows him to keep participating in the tournament, instead of being exiled again. The split lip and bleeding eyebrow do serve to build a case in his favor.

He wins the tournament without any opposition. With bloody hands, he places the flower crown on your head. Your horrified look is not as satisfactory as he would have thought.

Pride /praɪd/

the feeling that you are better or more important than other people.

Daemon manages to get a hold of you before you vacate the stands. You are trying to avoid the crowds, waiting patiently in your seat. He doesn’t allow it, urging you towards his chambers with a firm grip on your wrist.

Some other ladies titter and giggle, pointing towards the two of you. No doubt, they think he is about to ravish you. They are not wrong.

It’s not often Daemon feels desire for you. In truth, while you have a pretty mouth and a soft body, you do little for him. But today, you are enchanting. The flower crown still sits atop of your windswept hair, making you look like a forest nymph. There are a few red stains along your temple, left there by Daemon’s hands when he placed the crown on top of your hair.

Never has there been a woman more deserving of the title of Queen of Love and Beauty. As you walk with him down the halls, he feels a smug sort of satisfaction. Here is the woman half the court wants, Daemon wants to scream. Here is my wife.

The feeling is not unfamiliar to him, but it is in relation to you. His possessive nature so far has only extended towards members of his house. The lust is new, too. Daemon has experimented it many times, but never towards whom he should.

As soon the door closes after you, he kisses you forcefully, only for you to shove him away.

“What are you doing?” You ask, as you spit out some of his blood. You are remarkably strong, having been able to push him while still in armor. But what shocks him the most is the fact that you did it at all. Months of marriage and you have done nothing but smile, regardless of what Daemon does.

“Shh, Lady Wife. Nothing unusual, I assure you.” He pulls you back in, kissing along your neck. This time, you push him even harder.

Daemon stumbles and blinks, hard. Are you rejecting him? He sits down on the bed and takes off his helmet. He has beaten the Hightower fool half to death and won you the silly flower crown. Why would you reject him?

“You prefer him, don't you?” That has to be the answer, surely. You must be having an affair with the cunt. Why else would you reject him? It’s not allowed. While Daemon is not particularly keen on forcing you, you are his wife. He has a right to your body, and you shouldn’t deny him. You know it. Never before have you refused him, due to the same reason. So this must be something else.

“What nonsense are you on, now?” You barely lift your eyes from your work, busy with pouring some water in a bowl and taking out clean linens. Efficiently, as if a seasoned healer, and not a soft lady from Claw Island, you rip them apart.

“Don’t play daft, wife.” Daemon reproaches, scowling. Your innocent act is starting to tire him. You can’t possibly believe him so dumb. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“If this is about Ser Gwayne…” You start and he feels the urge to scream. He can’t help but cut you off.

“Of course it is! Of course it is about that fucking Hightower.” Daemon’s voice goes high-pitched, imitating yours. “Ser, Ser.” He rolls his eyes. “How easily they hand titles now. Is every scum in this realm a knight?”

Your face doesn’t even twitch. That is one of the things about you that drive him to insanity. No matter what Daemon says, he never seems to get a reaction. It’s infuriating. You are all manners and dimples, even in the face of the most vile insults he throws your way. You either have no honor, letting him stomp all over you, or you think him right. Pathetic. Even the Bronze Bitch bit back.

His nostrils flare. Softly, you step between his parted legs and dab at the cut on his brow with a soaked linen. Ever dutiful.

“You do know adultery is a crime.” Daemon says, in a low, threatening tone. You give him a pleasant smile, squeezing water out of the cloth. It runs red and fast down your wrist.

“So is incest.” Your voice is far too cheerful for someone who just got accused of a crime that’s punishable by death if he so chooses. And not only that, but you have the nerve to threaten him.

“I am a Targaryen.” Daemon practically growls. You glare at him. He should be angry, but instead, his loins seem to heat up. Who can fault him? Any man would feel the urge to take you over and over, when faced with those eyes and those lashes.

Surely, after it, you would understand you were his and not Gwayne Hightower’s. It was not such an ambitious plan. Perhaps a lesser man would have trouble with it, but not Daemon. Give him ten minutes between your legs and you would be singing his praises.

“And I am a Celtigar.” His pause has allowed you enough time to form a retort. You press down on the cut on his brow with a viciousness that startles him. Daemon winces in pain. No getting distracted, he notes. Less you murder him when he is not paying attention. “To stifle the blood flow.” You explain, but Daemon can see the bloodlust in your eyes. You want him to hurt. The past few months have not gone in vain, it appears.

“Mine, you are mine.” He replies, gruffly.

You let go of the cloth, hands on your hips. Your mouth opens and closes, astonished.

“You don’t have any right to speak those words to me.” How he longs to grab you and show you exactly who is in charge. There you are, screaming! You! The woman who Daemon doubted knew how to make sounds louder than polite conversation. “Am I not the bride you never wanted? Your chain? Well then, sail free. Go!” You scream, and Daemon needs to pick his jaw off the floor because never has he seen you this angry.

Are you screaming at him? He feels the urge to pinch himself, to see if he is dreaming. But the way you are pointing your finger towards the door seems very real. Still a bit confused by the sudden personality change, Daemon does not obey.

It feels like a dream. Like stepping into a parallel world. The words that come out of his mouth are spoken by a stranger, and he can only watch as you turn more and more furious.

“No. Come here.” Daemon grabs at your gown, trying to pull you into him. He doesn’t really know what he is going to do if you budge. Place you in his lap and placate you with a kiss? He doesn’t get to find out. Grabbing you has clearly been the wrong move.

You slip out of his grip with a harsh jerk. Daemon is not as young as he used to be, but the sight makes his lust bubble up. You are alluring when angry, all passionate lines, and bloody temples. Valyrian, in a way you had never been before, with your darker coloring and soft manners. Yet, when mad? You are a conqueror goddess made flesh.

“No! I will not. I am not yours. We might be married but I will…” You stomp your foot at him, all angry little crab. For the first time, he sees fire in you.

Such a shame this is the moment you chose to grow a spine. He couldn’t understand where you had been all this time. So many months wasted with the meek little wife, when he could have had you instead.

Why had you decided to show you had a personality now, of all times? It was not fair, if it was for that Hightower cunt.

“Why Gwayne Hightower? Out of all the men on earth?” Daemon mutters, clearly not low enough because you answer him.

“This is not about Gwayne Hightower.” You glare, crown of flowers balancing precariously on top of your head. As you move, a few petals fall down. Angry little dryad that you are, you bat them away.

“If not, what is it about?”

“You!” You scream at him. It’s hateful, it's rage filled, it’s everything you are usually not. A true Valyrian goddess, letting mere mortals feel her might. Daemon would have enjoyed the display more if he wasn’t the mortal in question. “I forgot what it felt like to be wanted. To be looked at as someone who was desirable. Do you know how I have felt? Begging for scraps of attention, trying to make this work?”

“Wife…” He pleads because now there are tears in your eyes, and while Daemon doesn’t do begging, he doesn’t do comforting either.

“Do not call me that! Didn’t you petition for an annulment?” And how had you found out about that? While he had not been exactly secretive with his correspondence, he didn’t believe you to be proficient in High Valyrian. He has no time to ponder on it because you intend to go further. “Well, you are in luck! I will make my own request!”

“Viserys will not allow it.” Even if Daemon has to go beg him on his knees to not grant it, you are not annulling this marriage. Not when he is just starting to see the real you.

“Fine! Then I am going back to Claw Island. Stay here.” You scream, and you look so determined it scares him. For a second, he actually thinks you have the power to ban him from the island and force him to stay, giving you plenty of time to receive visitors. Male visitors, all surrounding you, courting you, as if he were already dead and not just exiled.

“Look. I’m sorry. Can we start over?” Daemon offers, in his most pleading tone. He has not apologized since… Gods. He barely remembers how to do it.

“You made me forget I deserved more than scraps.” You laugh at him, as his first apology to someone in more than ten years is the funniest joke existing. Then, enraged. “It will be a cold day in the Seven Hells, when I give you another chance.”

Hurt. He realizes, as you throw the flower crown at his feet and slam the door. Hurt. You are hurt, not angry. He has done the worst thing a man can do to a woman. Damage her pride.

Lust lʌst/

very strong sexual desire, especially when love is not involved.

Much to your dismay, every time you try to speak alone to the King, you are swiftly intercepted. If it’s not Corlys Velaryon asking you to help him pick a book in the library, it’s your Lord Father summoning you to his chambers. It seems like the whole palace is in it because even Princess Rhaenys asks you to stroll with her through the gardens when you lurk too close to Viserys’s chambers.

Daemon was smarter than you thought. He had taken to using your own weapons against you. The need to be polite kept you from rejecting all these new invitations, and so, you often ended up stuck an entire afternoon with nonsensical plans.

As time passes, your rage starts to subside. Much to your disgust, it morphs into shame. You cannot believe how you lost control in front of Daemon. Everything you have worked so hard on could vanish for a single afternoon pf foolishness.

You would rather not be his enemy. When the time comes for the two of you to go back to Claw Island, Gwayne Hightower is still bedridden, despite it already being days. Daemon is a dangerous man to cross.

Strangely enough, he doesn’t seem angry, or even resentful. In fact, your husband has never been more attentive. With the talent of existing just at the right moment, Daemon appears at your side each time there is a door to be opened or a chair to be pulled.

“No one has ever seen him like this.” Queen Alicent marvels, as he watches him go fetch you a blanket in case the room is too cold for your liking. “Whatever you did to him…”

“Nothing, I assure you.” You answer, sternly. You don’t want her getting funny ideas, like that you are dabbling in witchery or the Seven knows what. It’s not something you can afford. Already balancing on a tightrope after the fight, any accusation could be your ruin. You do not trust Daemon’s change of heart. He is probably just biding his time.

Noticing something is amiss, Daemon comes back with the blanket, wrapping it around you. Alicent falls quiet.

Daemon stares at you, his hands lingering on your back more than necessary. He seems to be taking you in. His eyes fixate on your bosom a tad too long before you realize what he is doing, and you cover yourself more with the blanket.

Your cheeks heat up. You cough. Alicent’s brows raise.

“You are so beautiful, wife.” Daemon says, a bit dumbly.

“And you are a fool.” Your response is heated, and stupid, too. But you feel too embarrassed to care. Alicent is still sitting there, with a scandalized look on her face. Anyone would be ashamed to be the object of such obvious ogling, much less when they have never been exposed to it.

You are unused to this side of your husband. At most, when trying to consummate, Daemon would glance at you with disdain and proclaim it was all your fault. His eyes would never watch the heaving of your chest as you breathed, or the sway of your skirts when you walked. Were you superstitious, you would have thought him a man possessed.

Daemon laughs, either at your comment or your expression. It’s good, you suppose. At least he has not taken offense. You would have thought he would be angered, never one to suffer affronts to his pride without reacting.

“Your fool.” He leans down and places a kiss on your forehead, before walking away.

You stare at him. Alicent stares at you. Neither says anything. You are not sure what to make of it. It’s strange. It’s him now, who serves you dinner. The choicest cuts of meat, the sweetest of wines and meads, never asking for anything in exchange.

He has gotten unusually affectionate. Or possessive. Whatever it’s going through his mind, you don’t know. Daemon has never been open about his thoughts and feelings with you, unless they stem from displeasure.

Perhaps it’s a burst of boastfulness. He flaunts you, a hand on your waist, lower arm, whatever he can get away with. He is suddenly interested in the dresses you wear, commenting on them and gifting you new ones just because he thinks they would suit you. You do not miss the fact that the dresses are always in his house’s colors or styles he personally favors, with intricate needlework and embroidery.

It’s interesting. Once again, his testing of boundaries seems to come back. His hands are always playing with the curls at the nape of your neck, or the folds of your skirt. You have even caught him toying with the buttons of your bodice. It borders on the inappropriate.

“You are pushing it.” You say to him when his hands curls around yours as you dance. He is supposed to keep his hand extended for this step. He doesn’t seem to care. The other guests give him amused looks. No one is about to chide a Prince for his lovesick behavior towards his wife. Especially in a goodbye feast for the couple.

In truth, you are starting to think most of the fathers at court are relieved. If the Rogue Prince is chasing after his wife, then he is not chasing their daughters.

“Holding your hand is pushing it?” Daemon holds your hand more securely, as he makes you spin. This is another new and unexpected development. Now, he only dances with you. No heated looks at Rhaenyra, no longing glances towards Laena. You are not sure how you feel about it.

“It is. You are inconveniencing everyone.” You say, as he spins you again with a flourish. Despite wanting so badly to keep being cross with him, you cannot help but laugh with childish delight. What girl doesn’t want to be twirled around and made to feel special? “You are supposed to exchange partners.”

The balance of the dance has been thrown off by his refusal to let go of you. Any time there needs to be a switch, the couples flounder around the two of you. It’s childish on his part, but he seems unwilling to let you dance with another man.

“Oh, you haven’t seen me pushing it yet.” Daemon laughs, and pulls you in until your body is flush against his. It’s improper and probably not allowed. Scandalous, even. Yet again, no one is about to say anything.

Much less you, suddenly realizing that being pressed so close to Daemon is quite enjoyable. He smells surprisingly clean this evening. No trace of alcohol on his skin, or other women’s perfumes. Instead, he smells of the soap he usually favors and some sort of aromatic oil.

“Will you push further, then?” You raise your brows. It’s sort of amusing that Daemon is trying so hard. You would have not taken him for the seducing type, not when he had been so keen on dissolving your marriage.

“I will.” Daemon leans in, to whisper in your ear. His voice is low, thick with desire. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “I want you. I burn for you. I need you in my bed, on top of me, under me, any way you will let me have you.”

You give a scandalized little gasp, softly hitting his shoulder. Daemon grins, pulling you in even more. The two of you are so close, you imagine you can feel his heart beating against yours.

“I’m not done.” He chuckles, leaning in to kiss your jaw. Daemon’s lips trail kisses towards your ear, teasingly blowing some air against it. “I want to spend the nights feasting between your thighs, on the valley of your breasts…”

“Stop it! We are in public.” You squeak, yet you look up at him like a flower searching for the sun. The attention he bestows on you is flattering, and you can't help but want to hear more.

“Do you want to hear a secret, wife? Every time you walk, I find myself lost in the sway of your hips. I want to drown on it. Drown on you. Until no trace of another remains, until the taste of your lips is the only thing I know.”

By this point, your skin feels so hot you worry you are about to combust. You gape at him. Not only has he dared to make a bold declaration, but he has done so in a room full of people.

You take a moment to gather yourself. Daemon could be bluffing for all you know, and so, you decide to match him. You brush your thumb against his cheekbone, feather-light.

“Then do it. No one is stopping you. Come to bed. Drown on me. Drink me, take me, ravish me.” You are trembling, and you only realize it when Daemon holds you tighter against him. You feel feverish, voice lowered to an urgent whisper. “Give me Valyrian sons, to hold my island when we are both gone.”

“No. No.” He says, against the curve of your neck, embraced much closer than the dance requires, making a spectacle. “I want them to have your smile and your eyes, and that infuriating curve of your shoulder. Give me daughters with your smart mouth, and your even temper. I want them to be proof of the love I had for you.”

You tremble more. Love. He really said… Oh, by the Seven.

“You are shaking.” Daemon kisses your brow. “Don’t. Unless it is from pleasure.”

Laughter rings in your ears. It's yours, but it feels foreign. You are too stunned to think clearly. Daemon tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.

“Are you still there, Lady Wife?” He taps at your lower lip with his thumb. There is a teasing tilt to his smile, but his eyes are nervous. Vulnerable. Daemon was clearly not planning on confessing tonight. “Or have I broken you?”

“Prove it.” You say, still caught up on the love part. His declaration has sent your mind reeling, and shown you all of your latest interactions in a new light. You don’t know if Daemon knows what he is doing. He is a deeply passionate creature, much like his house’s sigil. Daemon doesn’t do infatuations, nor does he do dislikes. He loves or hates, and there is no in between.

“I will.” He promises, playing with a stray piece of hair that has fallen out of your up do. “Our whole lives. But perhaps I can start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” You frown, puzzled. You even pull back from his embrace to be able to look at his face. What an odd thing to say. Despite it, you admire the utter shamelessness he has about it. Were it you the one accidentally confessing, you would be a bundle of nerves.

Daemon doesn’t even blush. Of course, there is the small fact that he believes himself to be the Seven’s gift to humankind. You suppose if you believed yourself to be irresistible, you wouldn’t be nervous either. Cockiness wasn’t something you thought did it for you, but it seemed like you were learning new things every day.

“You will see.” Daemon smiles. You let him keep his secret, figuring it can’t be anything that bad.

You discover what he means when you arrive at Claw Island. A dragon egg waits for you, the fireplace clearly modified in a hurry, judging by the new stones and bricks that were added to the hearth.

“Even if it never hatches, I want you to have it. For you are as Valyrian as we are, and I was a fool not to see it sooner. You are worthy. It should have been on your cradle as a child.”

Greed /ɡriːd/

​a strong desire for more wealth, possessions, power, etc. than a person needs.

The way his eyes trail after you now, it’s quite unfamiliar. Not lust, nor disdain. Something entirely new. Heavier.

Your afternoons have been filled with new entertainment. You coo at the egg, holding it over the fire. Sometimes, Daemon kneels beside you and helps you hold it, making a game of it. How long before either of you gets burned? How long can you endure, hands so close to the fire, before you are yelping and giving it to him?

When you think he is not looking, you speak to it in High Valyrian, whispering soft promises of how loved him or her will be once it hatches. There is no doubt in your mind it will. Perhaps not in weeks, or even months. Yet, your heart tells you there will be a dragon before your life ends.

Every night, you place the egg in the bed next to you. On your side, you curl around it, trying to share your warmth. Daemon reaches forward, sometimes. When he thinks you are asleep, his hand will curl over your waist and touch the egg, pressing it more against your stomach. You wonder what he means by it.

Does he know what he is doing? The low lullabies he half sings, half mutters under his breath indicate a yes. The way his lips curl into a soft smile against your nape show a longing that’s very much not subconscious.

Just as a pot of boiling water, the egg hatches a night no one it’s looking at it. Both Daemon and you are curled in a love seat, engrossed in a book. He is reading something about the doom of Valyria, your legs over his lap. You are submerged in a text about a man’s travels around the Free Cities.

One of his hands is wrapped around your ankle, in the sweetest of chains. Each time he flips a page, he will brush it with his thumb, softly. While not unwelcome, it’s strange. You are not used to being comforted in the same way you did for him during the first months of marriage. While Daemon doesn’t expect any kind of retribution, you find yourself granting it anyway.

The domesticity is quickly broken, however, when a strange noise fills the halls of your home. At first, you are unable to hear it through the background noise, but if you strain your ears, you can just make it out. It’s a shrill cross between a bird’s chirps and someone crying.

“Daemon?” You close your book and stare at him. Unable to help it, you get a little sidetracked, watching his face. His mouth is pursed in concentration, the candlelight giving his features a golden glow. Despite him being several years older than you, you cannot help but find him terribly handsome. Age has only turned him more distinguished. You betted he was dashing when younger, but unlike his brother, he has aged like a fine wine.

Sensing your eyes on him, he gives you a lazy smile.

“Little wife.” His voice comes out in a pleased rumble at having caught you looking. Your face heats up. Daemon's eyes shift from yours, to your mouth, then back to your eyes. You squirm under his gaze, trying to focus.

“Do you hear that?” You force yourself to utter.

“Hear what?” Daemon leans more towards you, his hand squeezing your knee. You give a small, delighted shiver. Good gods, what is it about him that gets you to turn into a puddle of want with the simplest touch?

“Some sort of animal crying.”

Daemon frowns. He tilts his head to the side, as if to listen better. You keep quiet, hoping to aid him. Then, his face breaks out in the biggest grin.

“It hatched! You amazing, wonderful woman.” He praises, pulling you into him. The hug is awkward, but it doesn’t last because you are too eager to see the baby dragon. Your dragon. You squirm out of his hold and rush out of the room, not even bothering to put on shoes, Daemon hot on your heels.

When you open the door to your chambers, you find the cutest thing ever. A baby dragon, slimy and confused, sits in the middle of his egg in the fireplace. It’s all big, dark eyes and long limbs, much like a baby horse. Unable to resist the temptation, you reach towards them.

“I do not…” Daemon tries to stop you, but the baby dragon climbs right up into your arms, curling close to your chest. Eager to touch it, you let it climb over your shoulder and nuzzle you, even if the sudden weight makes you stagger a little.

“That was really dangerous.” Your husband reprimands, trying to lift it away from you. The baby dragon snorts towards his direction, as if attempting to breathe fire. It only manages to give a cute little sneeze. Daemon glares.

“Aw, you are just like a baby.” You coo at the dragon, petting its head. Daemon looks even more disgruntled.

“Your dragon tried to burn me.” He complains.

“It’s a baby, husband. They don’t know any better.” You rub the scales on its back, soothingly. Unwilling to let go, you find yourself looking around your bedroom. “Let it stay here? Just for tonight.”

Daemon glares. You give him your biggest, most pleading eyes. He relents.

“Fine. But it’s not sleeping on the bed with us. And only for tonight.”

“Only for tonight.”

A month after, and the baby dragon is still sleeping in your bed. He has taken to laying between Daemon and you, leeching off your warmth. Daemon complains of having to sleep on the edge of the bed and his back being sore, but despite it, never once asks you to send the dragon outside with Caraxes.

The trouble starts, how not, with a trip to King’s Landing. This time, you ride with him, as a passenger to Caraxes, while the baby dragon follows. When Daemon lands, the dragon keepers fret around your baby, unsure of what to do with the unexpected visitor.

You command him to stay by your side, despite the protests of the dragon keepers. You are arguing and complaining and shielding your baby while Daemon only watches, amused.

Perhaps the commotion attracts more people, or someone calls for them, but you end up cornered as King Viserys makes his way to the dragon pit.

“What do we have here?” He asks, smiling at you. You give him a nervous look. Your dragon has gotten bigger, and so, you can not pick him up gracefully, but you usher him behind you regardless.

“Nothing, your grace.” You say, lacking your usual charm. You feel nervous about leaving the baby dragon on his own in the dragon pit. What if the other dragons don’t like him? What if he gets lonely?

With one hand, you reach for Daemon. His fingers meet yours halfway, squeezing reassuringly. More often than not, being a woman, your orders were not taken seriously. But if your husband gave an order, people would rush to obey. You hope he intercedes in your favor.

“Daemon, please.” You say, under your breath. “Don’t let them send him away. He will behave.”

“What do I gain, little wife?” He asks, interlocking your fingers together. Daemon gives his most charming grin to his brother, before pulling you into him. You go willingly, body lax and pliant for him. “A kiss, perhaps?”

“Please.” You turn to look at him, hoping to move him. This close, once again, you feel slightly distracted. Your husband smells so nice, and his hands feel so good around your waist, it’s no hardship at all. You press a kiss to his cheek.

“Must you always arrive with such a ruckus?” Viserys frowns. Daemon gives him a small smile.

“You know me.” Slowly, he starts to lead you towards the Red Keep, a hand placed protectively on your lower back. The message is clear. Daemon wants you to make your dragon follow you. You don’t even need to order it because your baby, smart as it is, is already following. The dragon keepers step back, muttering unhappily.

“Is it going inside?” Viserys point at your dragon. Foolishly, you had been hoping he didn’t notice, and so, your stomach drops. But Daemon doesn’t falter, strolling confidently inside as if he owned the place.

“He will behave. As long as no one touches her.” Normally, you despise when people talk about you as if you are not there. Currently, though, you can only feel relief that your dragon is not getting sent to sleep outside in the cold. He is just too little for it.

Viserys walks you towards his private dining room. A blonde child runs around, playing. The Princess and Ser Laenor are already there. And Alicent is even more heavily pregnant than before.

“How have you been?” You ask Alicent, sitting next to her. You half expect to be left out of the conversation as you were a few months before, and so, choose to sit next to someone who has been kind to you. The baby dragon hops on your lap when you take your seat.

Alicent looks absolutely horrified.

“Good enough.” She speaks, blinking slowly. It’s clear she cannot believe her eyes. She stares at the dragon in a mix of awe and fear.

“He is harmless.” You explain, petting it as if it were a small dog and not a baby dragon. “Do you want to pet him?”

Alicent reaches forward with a trembling hand. The dragon sniffs her, and curls to sleep again.

“… And I was thinking of changing the layout of the hall, to make sure he fits…” You hear Daemon complain, and your ears immediately perk up. Is he talking about your baby?

“So you keep it inside?” Viserys asks, sounding disbelieving.

“I have never seen such a close bond.” Daemon boasts. He sounds as if he is proud of you, you realize. It makes something warm flutter in your stomach. No longer are you the wife he never wanted and tried to get rid of. “Damn thing sleeps on the bed with us. It’s better trained than a dog, seriously. We should have given Celtigars dragons a long time away.”

“Why not leave it outside?” From where you are seated, you can’t see his face, but you imagine by his tone, Viserys is smiling.

“She will riot. She loves him as her own son.” Daemon explains. You keep your eyes trained on the nervous Alicent, who has managed to lay her hand on top of your dragon’s head. She looks about to bolt.

“Isn’t he the nicest thing?” You say to Alicent, excited. “He thinks I am his mom, or something. Isn’t it great?”

Alicent does not look as impressed as you hoped for, but she gives you a kind smile. She seems willing to tolerate your eccentricities if for the sake of not having to make conversation with Rhaenyra.

“Very nice.” She compliments. “Pretty colors. Prince Daemon was very kind, giving it to you.”

“He is.” You smile, softly. “Although he complains all the time.”

Alicent shrugs. This time, both of you tune in the conversation between Daemon and Viserys.

“Perhaps, as you build him something outside, you can distract her with an actual baby.” Viserys says. Alicent looks torn at the comment, and you can’t help but feel slightly embarrassed by the topic.

It’s not something you had thought about before. Well, you had. Never with him, though. As a girl, you dreamed of being a mother, and as a woman, Daemon and you had discussed the issue of heirs already. You had spoken about it during your last goodbye feast, in this same castle. But those words had been spoken in the height of passion, and neither of you had done anything about it.

“Trust me. Next time she holds a babe, it will be a proper human one.” Daemon says, and his hand finds yours over the table. You look up at him, meeting his purple eyes. He looks hungry. Starved, even.

You lower your eyes demurely. Viserys laughs. And Daemon, greedy as he is, lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

Sloth /sləʊθ/

the bad habit of being lazy and unwilling to work.

The light filters in through the open curtains, giving the room a soft glow. Daemon’s face scrunches up, bothered by the sunlight in his eyes. He has tried to convince you to sleep with them drawn, but you are unwilling. To you, the best way to wake up is slowly, with the sun. Or so you say. He is not very convinced.

Daemon stretches. You reach for him in your sleep. He gives himself a moment to savor it, the fact that he can finally pull you closer. The dragon is finally gone from his bed, although he is no way near distracting you with a babe.

Dragons are not pets. Daemon had been taught that since the cradle, even before he had a dragon of his own. Their control over them was only an illusion, and so, they should be trusted but feared. He had lived by that rule, never once questioning it. Until you.

Watching you raise yours as if it were your own child had proven interesting. You lacked his education about them, but you made up for it by sheer enthusiasm. The fact that your dragon had not bitten your hand off yet or burned you to a crisp could only mean two things: You were some sort of forest nymph, or they were mistaken about their approach to dragons. He knew which one he thought was true.

How much was nature, and how much was nurture in their relationship with dragons? Trying to answer that question would occupy his entire lifetime. Daemon hoped that watching you gave him some insight. Even if he ended up discovering you were a nymph in disguise or some sort of goddess of the hunt. He wouldn’t regret it, fascinating as you were.

No matter how much food for thought you gave him, Daemon had been enjoying the joys of marriage. Perhaps, a little too much. Seeing you with the baby dragon had awoken some unexpected feelings. Targaryens were dragons, after all. When the time came, you would make a good mother. Not only were your instincts well-developed, but you seemed to thrive on having something to nurture.

Ah, the joys of domesticity. Daemon loves that you trust him enough now to allow him to witness you at your most fragile. Asleep and wearing a soft white night shift, you are deliciously innocent. Giving, too. You do not complain when his hands find your hips or when he pulls you flush against him. Nor do you move away when his face hides in your lovely locks, mussed with sleep.

Your expression is open and vulnerable in ways you are never when truly awake. Your eyes open just the tiniest sliver, before you hide your face on your pillow, rubbing against it like the sweetest kitten.

He adores you like this. Worships you, even. Obsessed with the curve of your hip, or the soft flesh above your womb. Daemon can’t help but rub it, hoping to manifest a child into existence without actually fucking you.

If he believed in such a thing, as so many fools in this realm did, Daemon would say this was the Seven Heavens. But he knew the truth. Just like you, who worshiped the Old Gods of Valyria, Daemon did too. How could he not when he had a tiny goddess sharing his bed?

Your nose scrunches up. You twitch. Worshiping a little nymph, now that was hard work. Especially when the nymph in question does her best to escape his personal worshiping time.

If Daemon could spend all day in bed, just like this, he would. He would trace your features with his mouth, peppering your face with soft kisses. He would feast on the soft curve of your neck, drink up all your sweet little noises. Trace a path down your soft limbs, draw nonsensical patterns on your stomach. But you are an energetic little thing, always jumping out of bed, no matter the pleasure he tempts you with.

Convincing you to stay is hard, but Daemon likes to think it’s an art he has perfected. It’s not a ritual, by any means. Each morning goes differently. Sometimes, you need to be kissed silly. Sometimes, you need to be gently worshiped and coaxed back to sleep. But his favorite mornings are the ones that go like this.

“I have to go check on the tenants, down by the shore. The rain season just started.” You complain, as he noses along your hairline. Suddenly, Daemon’s arms are empty. He opens his eyes to find you sitting up and pulling your robe over your night shift.

You look delectable in red. He should buy you more robes like that one. Especially because he is about to ruin it.

“Did you say at what hour you are going?” Daemon sits up as well, toying with the edge of your robe. You bat his hands away, playfully.

“No.” You are hurriedly standing up, perhaps knowing what comes next. Daemon grabs your robe, and pulls you back in, using all his strength.

No matter how much you try to keep your feet planted on the floor, you end up tumbling back into bed. You give a girlish shriek, a smile already forming on your face. You struggle, kicking the blankets off the bed.

“Come back here, you little minx.” He tugs you by the ankle, making you laugh. Your hair is sticking up in all directions and your chest heaves up and down with the exertion of putting up a fight.

Daemon secretly loves it. He would never tell you because you would be outraged, but he enjoys the idea of overpowering you. Perhaps, once you fully trust him, he could ask you to play like that. But for now, he takes what he can get.

“Or else what Lord husband?” You tease, still trying to escape him. More blankets and furs are sent flying off the bed. You give a mean little tug to his hair.

“That was it!” Daemon complains, and starts tickling you. The night shift rides tantalizingly up your hips, giving him an unintentional show. He feels his blood warming, arousal turning into a dull throb in his loins. Your legs kick wildly, you squirm on the bed, and your eyes fill with tears from laughing so much.

It’s only when your poor body can’t take it anymore, and you are crying from laughter that he stops. He thinks of how it would feel, to overwhelm you in a different context, make your body take and take until tears ran freely down your temples. A different sort of crown for his forest nymph, one made from her own silver tears. The visual is too much for him to take without giving himself away.

Daemon lies on top of you, smothering you with his weight. He licks a few stray drops of sweat from your neck, making you flay once again. There will be a day when play wrestling will turn into something much less sweet. That day, though, it’s not today.

“Get off!” You complain. “That’s disgusting.”

“I could eat you up.” He teases, nuzzling into your neck. It's the truth. Daemon loves the taste of your skin and your smell. If he thought he could get away with it, he would crawl between your thighs and feast on you. “You are delicious, wife.”

“Daemon.” You push lightly at him, trying to get up. Again. But your words lack their previous conviction. Daemon can tell he is getting to you. “It’s getting late.”

“The tenants can wait. Let us hide from the world a little longer.” He pleads, clinging to you. Under him, exhausted after the play wrestling, you go limp. He knows he has won then.

You spend the whole day in bed. The tenants end up being visited closer to sundown. Daemon does not regret it one bit.

[targaryen-dynasty]

SINFUL REVENGE.

Aemond Targaryen x little sister!Reader/ Aegon II Targaryen x little sister!Reader

After catching Aegon with a servant girl between his legs, you found a way to put him back in his place.

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MINORS DNI; dub/non-con, p in v, oral (fem receiving), voyeurism, canon typical incest/targcest, humiliating, degrading, cum eating, jealous Aemond Targaryen

WORDS: 1.9 K

It was one of the many evenings where your mother had caught Aegon sitting in your marital chambers with a servant girl between his legs, repeatedly choking her with his cock. And while there was not one fiber of your body that felt something like love for him, your husband, it annoyed you he chose to fuck everything with two legs, except for you - more because it bruised your ego, not because you truly desired him. 

You were the second choice, when it came to marrying Aegon, however, your older sister Helaena was snatched away as the Wolf of the North came to the capital, finding a certain liking in her and taking her to the North with him. 

All your life, you grew up with the knowledge of marrying your older twin brother Aemond, and you and him were not unwilling to play your part in your parents scheming and your House's customs. 

After your wedding to Aegon, however, Aemond and you had taken matters into your own hands. Where Aegon did not touch you after you consummated the marriage, Aemond did - at every chance he got. 

But you couldn't say that your current position was not… exciting you. 

Your head was lying in Aegon’s lap with him being completely naked, while Aemond was pounding into you, practically assaulting your womanhood. 

Once supper had ended, Aemond retrieved back to his chambers with you following shortly after using one of the secret pathways of Maegor’s Holdfast. Aegon, surprisingly, stormed into Aemond’s chambers not long after you two had started undressing each other, and stood in the door more amused than shocked. 

You always were hot-blooded and had quite the sharp tongue, so it was an easy game for you to crush every sense of superiority your husband had felt upon the intrusion - the built up anger and frustration about your failed marriage clearly playing its part in it, too. 

The rapid thrumming of your heart ringing in your ears and the adrenaline that filled your body played a huge role in you not knowing how you got into that position - and you definitely did not know what got into your twin brother to allow it in the first place. 

Aemond was possessive and far from enjoying sharing whatever he had claimed as his, but it probably had something to do with him getting his revenge on his older brother for stealing you from him. A bruised ego and a broken heart definitely did not go well together. 

If it wasn’t for Aegon’s hard cock pressing into the back of your neck, you would’ve thought he was not comfortable with watching Aemond taking you. A slight blush covered his otherwise pale skin, and he never kept his eyes on you both for a longer period - always drifting from where you were connected to other parts of your body, or even the floor. 

He did not know where to look because Aemond made it seem easy as anything as his curved member eased into you, Aegon’s wife, causing you to arch and moan on the settle and against the elder’s body. Wanton noises of pleasure left your lips as your twin brother filled you, all while Aegon had to process that his little brother was very well endowed . 

Much to your husband’s disliking, you had forbidden him to touch himself, because he had not earned that reward - not when he always chose to stick his cock into the cunt of the next best whore and not yours. 

Aemond’s pent up anger was only palpable in the way he forced his cock into your tight core, otherwise he held a surprisingly cute look of intense concentration on his face, obviously wanting to perform well enough to rub your pleasure into your brother’s face. 

As Aegon once again decided to turn his head away from you, you had enough and roughly grabbed his face with one hand, forcing it back into your direction. “Watch, Aegon,” you commanded, your voice tinted with a hint of sharpness that usually only belonged to the baritone voices of either your father or uncle; the tone that made clear it was not a request but a demand. “Watch how good Aemond is making me feel. Watch how he takes what rightfully belongs to you.” The older Targaryen only squirmed in his seat but proceeded to keep his lilac eyes glued to where his brother’s cock repeatedly disappeared into your tight heat. 

“Tis how a man is supposed to take care of his wife,“ Aemond all but spat the words, his jealousy perfectly audible, reaching to clasp his hand around your throat and inevitably pressed your head further into Aegon‘s lap. You moaned in return, and it was difficult not to notice Aegon‘s cock throbbing at the sound. 

Aegon must’ve tried to touch either you or himself, because the tsking of Aemond was loud enough to cause him to flinch. That movement had you chuckling, because you found humor in how different your brother was acting in contrast to his usual, cocky self. Right now, he was nothing more than a pathetic man that was forced to watch his wife being taken by another - and finding his own pleasure in it. 

“Do you see how wet she is for me, brother?” Aemond bragged, pride laced within his voice. “Pray tell, was she just as wet for you during your bedding?”

The moan you released at Aemond’s shameless teasing maybe was a tad exaggerated, however, it was impressing you how well he handled the situation, his current demeanor the complete opposite to how he usually behaved. 

Aemond’s member hit you deep enough to brush the spot inside of you that had your jaw slacken, the familiar knot tightening in your belly and snapping when his fingers began rubbing the sensitive bud at the apex between your legs. 

The way your walls convulsed all over Aemond’s cock, with you releasing the sweetest and most desperate sounds both your brother’s had ever heard, seemed to trigger his own peak, and shortly after, he was spending himself inside of your quivering walls.   

The pleasure was almost too much for you to handle, and you barely registered the quiet whines that left your eldest brother’s lips at the sight - and feeling - of your pleasure rippling through your body. 

You always relished in the feeling of Aemond’s seed filling you up, more so when he continued to fuck you through his peak, the majority of his spent slowly oozing out of your assaulted womanhood and down your arse as he eventually pulled out. 

But then an idea came to your mind. 

As you tipped your head back and batted your eyelashes at the man whose lap your head rested in, you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling wickedly up at him. Aegon’s silver curls were disheveled despite not doing much, and the slight pink on his cheeks had deepened to crimson, covering his cheeks and even running down his neck. 

Yet his lilac eyes were dark blown at the same time, fixed with your matching pair. 

“Get over there and clean me up, husband ,“ you spoke the name in a condescending manner, commanding him. “Clean up Aemond‘s seed.“

When Aegon obeyed without objection, gently placing your head in the pillows on the settle and walking around to kneel between your parted legs, you met the wide eye of Aemond, his cocked eyebrow perfectly showing what he was thinking, ‘Are you serious? ‘ 

But instead of taking a cloth to clean himself up, Aemond stopped in his tracks and peaked over his older brother’s shoulders in curiosity as his tongue licked a flat stripe from your entrance to your sensitive bud, the motion causing you to shudder. 

A husky groan caught your attention, and if it wasn't for Aemond’s chest rising with each labored breath he took, you would’ve mistaken the sound to come from Aegon instead, only reassured by the realization that his mouth was occupied with lapping at your mound, and all sounds that threatened to escape his lips were muffled by your warm flesh. 

As your eyes flickered back to Aemond’s to search for his reassurance, you spotted his hand being clasped around his semi erect member, working himself to full hardness at the sight of Aegon’s mouth on your womanhood and how your body keened at the stimulation.

Despite the resentment you felt towards Aegon, you were making the sweetest sounds for both of them - after all your brother had certainly learned how to put his mouth to good use during all the hours he spent in the Street of Silk.

The lewd smacking noises of his tongue plunging in and out of your entrance soon filled the thick silence within your twin‘s chambers, and somehow were enough to spur you on - a sudden surge of boldness running through your veins. 

You buried your hands in the mop of silver-blonde curls, not-so-gently tugging on the soft strands and using them as reins to guide you where you wanted him most. Aegon groaned against your cunt in return, and proceeded to lick you clean with newfound vigor.

“Do you like that, Aegon?“ You moaned over the sound of wet squelching, rutting your hips against his face as his tongue flicked against your pearl. “Do you like lapping up another man‘s seed? To clean your wife’s cunt after another man has peaked inside of her?“

Aegon said nothing, but the desperate whine and growl that rumbled in his chest definitely were enough to confirm your questions. His tongue was dragging over your mound with such a ferocity, you were almost reaching your second peak. Almost . 

That was not the plan, and Aemond seemed to think the same way, because it was him interrupting Aegon, a firm hand placed on his older brother’s shoulder to pull him back. 

“Enough,“ his authoritative tone sent shivers up your spine, the urge to beg him to take you yet again becoming almost irresistible. 

A pout was draped across your features at the loss of contact, followed by a desperate whine. “Quit being a brat, Y/N,” Aemond scolded. “You have had your fair share. Tis enough for now.” Surprisingly, you weren’t the only one pouting, because Aegon seemed to find his pleasure in it all as well, even though he had not touched himself once. 

But you knew better than to protest, and allowed Aegon to get on his feet again. Aemond, on the other hand, had already put his breeches back on, standing in his chambers half-dressed. He handed a stack of clothes back to Aegon, silently dismissing him from his chambers, and when Aegon was dressed, he left as quick as he came. 

You were propped up on your elbows, looking at Aemond with the same expression he had flashed you earlier, ‘ Are you serious? ’ He raised his eyebrow at you, too, and threw your smallclothes and dress into your direction. 

It was safe to say that, once you were attired and back in your marital chambers, the hands of your husband were all over you even before the door shut behind you, claiming what rightfully was his and relieving the desire that threatened to cut the last threads of his restraint. 

The impropriety of your revenge gave you exactly what you had wanted all along. 

[ddarker-dreams]

hello! do you have any other reader pining for chrollo (just a little bit) thoughts?? i legit feel like i miss chrollo but like…your chrollo and the way you write him specifically. LOL. i love your writing! i know you’re busy so even if you can’t get to this, i hope you’re having a great week!

I MISS CHROLLO TOO why must capitalism force me to perform labor ... a true injustice ... 😡😡😡

chrollo possesses charisma in its purest form. he needn't be flashy about it, no, the silent allure is a hallmark of his charm. this ease at winning others over sets him apart from the most seasoned politician. when you speak, it's like he'd silence the rest of humanity if not only to hear you better. this dedication is intense, teetering the fine line between flattering and unsettling. you believe he knows no other way to convey love. he wants it to be overwhelming, leaving you breathless, so you mistake the asphyxiation for euphoria and not an imminent demise.

recognizing this trait is a testament to your acumen. you wonder why he pursues you as if you're always at risk of falling through his fingers. it can be felt in the little, inconsequential moments, like when a fresh pot of coffee brews in the morning. he watches how you place your mugs side by side. how you measure out his creamer, then yours, making adjustments until it's just so. these simple gestures bewitch him. they make his espresso taste less bitter and his accompanying strawberry danish all the more sweet.

you wrestle with these observations. if you're looking at it too close, or not close enough. eventually, the simplest explanation makes the best case. you, like so many others, forgot that despite his namesake, he's no fallen angel or celestial being. he wants so desperately to maintain your affection and fears a day will come when he no longer will. prior to you, if he failed in one of his endeavors, it wasn't earth-shattering. maybe he didn't read the room right, or made the wrong call. he isn't infallible, it happens, and not every curio he seeks ends up in his possession.

there'd always be another heist; there might not always be another chance with you.

any good criminal establishes contingencies for unknowable variables down the line. maintaining ownership of your heart might be his greatest job yet. there will always be a part of him that can't fully relax, lest his complacency act as the catalyst for his end. this devotion is yours.

on one of those aforementioned mornings, when handing him his mug, his fingers brush over yours. instead of relinquishing your hold, your grasp tightens.

"so..." you trail off, already beginning to regret this boldness yet determined to see it through, "just so you know... you don't always have to try so hard."

chrollo might not acknowledge it outright, but the ease in which he smiles when taking his first sip says plenty.

[iridescentscarecrow]

what frustrates me about fandom interpretations of makima as a one note Source of evil, apart from the fact that the manga itself refutes this, is that her character haunts and ties together so much of part two that it's impossible to fully understand without understanding her.

makima isn't ever a unilateral antagonistic force. she's an agent of the institutional evil that looms over all of CSM. she's in as much a commentary on gender and performance of gender as denji is.

and fjmt in part two enacts the "haunting the narrative" trope in such an interesting manner because you see flashes of makima in every female character. you see elements of her diluted into, most visibly, the characters of asa, nayuta and fumiko.

in asa, i see makima in that yearning for connection. i see her in the way that asa herself is fundamentally unable to approach the relationship of equals that she so desperately desires, partly due to her own social awkwardness but also because of yoru's threat: everyone she gets close to turns into a weapon. the fundamental inequality to human relationships that makima is unable to overcome.

during the aquarium date, you see asa echo makima again and again in lines that evoke makima's purposing of denji. that weaponising. "i'll grant you any request / save me chainsaw man! / you don't have to think about a thing."

and her connection with denji also founds itself upon this. yoshida talks to asa about parasocial relationships -- rerendering makima's idealisation of the CSM in how asa sees denji as a love interest. asa and denji parallel each other so organically in their gendered suppression and portrusion of desire. it's a punctuation of denji's search for intimacy that's mirrored by makima's in part one. exploring how asa is different from makima is perhaps the most intriguing part of this reflection though: an example being the way asa overthinks her outfit for her date with denji while makima seamlessly models herself into an Effortless woman.

[it's not like asa borrows just from makima. for example, there are things to be said about the way she views her Body (as compared with reze and quanxi) but examining how mkm's character bleeds into asaden is quite compelling.]

nayuta being the most visible remnant of what makima was is also interesting because makima herself appears so little in nayuta beyond the surface. nayuta's role as the control devil is hinted at frequently as is her appearance resembling makima's

but her and denji's dynamic more often echoes the hayakawa family and pochita than anything else. consider: aki giving up his goal (his 'easy revenge' that he finally sees for what it is) for the sake of his family, that warmth of blood and platonic bodily intimacy that power embodies--

it's all referenced to again with nayuta and denji, in direct panel callbacks and the plot itself! nayuta is The Family that makima constructs for denji in part one to pull him along the plot she prepares. i'm thinking about how makima is an allegory for capitalism. and what the family unit means in a capitalistic structure. the propagation of an ideal that hinges on birth and descendancy, about narrative and reproduction of narrative, about how nayuta births herself from makima and denji's relationship.

and this is also why nayuta herself exerts so much control over denji in the plot, as well as why she's used as a piece to control him. in part one, family was used to create the Chainsaw Man from denji. in part two, it's used to make denji abandon the Chainsaw Man, this icon that the church and the public now take possession of. [something something alienation of the worker from the product. from the collective. from the self.]

fumiko is perhaps the hardest to pin down here because her role evolves as the fandomisation of the Chainsaw Man evolves too. in fact, as a denji fan, she represents not just makima but multiple people who see something in and want something from denji! (think of how she references reze in her highlighting how denji is just a child; how reze uses her commentary on denji to engage with her Self. it's fandomisation,,, and what is makima but Chainsaw Man's fan?)

fumiko most obviously calls back to these wants and their conceptualisation of denji in the raw sexual violence that the events in the theater scene moving into the karaoke scene embody. the undercurrent of sa that runs through p1 and p2 is brought to the forefront in this scene -- denji falling back into these cycles of abuse, him slipping into habitating the wants of others (his initial horrified expression and then his grin during the fight. his initial inner monologue and then the cut to him licking the tentacle.)

so much of CSM rests on this fandom of denji, this theme of what production and idealisation means, one you can trace through fjmt's body of work. and this fandom reaches its crescendo in p2. what's even more interesting about fumiko is her pathos under this layer. her seeing denji as denji at some level but in the end, her handling of him is so selfish. her echoing makima's uninhibited laughter at the horror of denji's situation, her predatory cruelty. denji simultaneously humanised and dehumanised through her fandom.

fjmt's characters exist as foils, as parallels and ideas. makima's character has such a stranglehold over part one and these ideas run over into part two naturally -- as a consequence of denji being a reciever of these themes, but also deliberately in fjmt evoking the Thing that is makima repetitively -- to underscore the forever re emerging structure that denji and now asa are trapped in. the same structure that makima produced and was simultaneously caged by.

[leviathan-supersystem]

this what if the world was made of pudding thing is making me insane bc to me. a communist. one of the most reprehensible things about capitalism is that people die every day due to an artificial scarcity of resources. if youre not trying to come up with a solution to the problem of disabled people dying for no reason what are you even trying to come up with a solution to?? what's the point of dreaming of a world beyond capitalism if in the world beyond capitalism anyone who can't self sustain themselves dies???

the thing is, a lot of the antiwork crowd is trying to imagine a better world for disabled people, they just suck really bad at it. like they noticed society's obligation to perform labor, and the flawed nature of existing systems to evaluate disability in relation to that obligation, causes harm to disabled people in the here and now, and they went "well it's simple then! we simply hold that NO ONE has any obligation, nor should be compelled via any incentives, to perform labor. problem solved!" and then they called it a day and didn't spend the 10 seconds to think "hey wait a second don't some disabled people specifically need other people to perform labor in the form of care for them, and doesn't an ethical framework which holds that labor should never be obligatory or incentivized kinda leave those disabled people without reliable care, and also is so limited as an ethical framework that it can't even definitively say that someone is in the wrong when disabled people die because communities don't perform the labor of caring for them or create systems of social incentives or obligations to ensure that labor is performed"

honestly i would be a lot more forgiving of them having a shoddy and short-sighted ethical framework if they didn't make a habit of dogpiling and smearing anyone who doesn't agree with their absurd fringe ideology as "supporting forced labor".

i'd also be more forgiving if they didn't lean so heavily into right-wing mccarthyist red scare rhetoric any time they pull this routine on a marxist, "aaaaugh the red communist menace will have your elderly grandma working in the cobalt mines at gunpoint till she dies while the jackbooted commissar laughs over her broken body, yes my fellow patriotic god fearing americans feral anarcho-nihilists, we must do whatever we can to thwart this terrible marxist scourge!"

also when they do this whole dogpiling smear campaign routine they lean very heavily on accusations of ableism, which is some truly egregious hypocrisy considering their own ideology's major shortcomings when it comes to ensuring the well-being of disabled people.

[estrellami-1]

Never Forgot

Based on this post.

Steve knew something was wrong when she ran out of the room, choking back tears.

He felt bad, felt like there was something missing, but he didn’t remember her. Thinking about it, he realized he didn’t really remember anything.

“Robin?” Dustin asked when she all but ran out of the hospital room.

She stifled a sob and collapsed onto the bench next to him, holding a hand over her mouth. “I think I’m gonna be sick.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Dustin, he… he doesn’t remember me.”

Dustin took a deep breath and very carefully did not freak out. “Okay. You stay here, I’ll go talk to him. See if we can shake it loose or something.” He rolled his eyes at the look she gave him. “Not literally, Buckley, jeez. Keep your pants on.”

He squared his shoulders and walked into the hospital room. Steve looked fine, if tired—hospital lighting never did anyone any favors—but the absent smile he sent Dustin spoke volumes. “Hi,” he said quietly, stilted in a way he never was anymore. Not with Dustin. “Um, can you apologize to her for me? She seemed really upset and I’m not sure what I did but I think it’s my fault.”

Dustin sighed and sat in the chair by Steve’s hospital bed. “You really don’t remember her, huh.” It wasn’t a question, so Steve didn’t answer. “And I’m guessing you don’t remember me, either?”

Steve picked at the blanket on his lap. “I’m sorry.”

“Jesus fuck,” Dustin whispered, screwing his eyes shut. “Don’t apologize, Jesus, it’s not your fault. It just… sucks.”

Steve snorted. “Imagine waking up and only remembering one person.”

Dustin looked up at him sharply. “One person?”

Steve shrugged. “Guess I’d be a pretty shitty boyfriend if I didn’t, yeah.”

“Boyfriend?” Dustin blinked. “Steve, you’re not dating anyone.”

Steve frowned. “I am. Maybe you don’t know him? Eddie? Eddie Munson?”

“Eddie- Christ, Steve, of course I know Eddie, and you two aren’t dating. You’re, like, as straight as they come.”

“No- no, I am, I’m dating him, I’m- we’re-”

“Whoa, okay, hold up, calm down,” Dustin said, holding his hands out. “It’s fine, dude, okay, we’ll figure it out later but I don’t think you should be stressing this hard after just waking up.”

Steve hummed. “What, uh. What actually happened to me?”

Dustin sighed. “The doctors said your body essentially performed a hard reset. You’ve been running on fumes for too long. You collapsed from sheer exhaustion. At least you didn’t hit your head this time, though maybe that would’ve prevented you from losing your memory, so who fuckin’ knows.”

“Language,” Steve chided, then blinked when Dustin looked at him excitedly. “I don’t know where that came from.”

Dustin just laughed. It was only a little forced. “You’re just incapable of not being a mom.”

——————————

Robin went back in next, lightly tapping Dustin’s shoulder as she passed him in the doorway. He shook his head, and her heart sank. “He-” Dustin shook his head, bit his lip. “He thinks he and Eddie are dating. Eddie’s the only person he remembers.”

Robin gave him a little half-smile. “He’s had a crush on Eddie for a while. I didn’t realize it was this bad, but.” She shrugged. “I’ll talk to him. You call everyone else?”

“Yeah.”

She took a deep breath and walked into the room. “So,” she started. “You really don’t remember?”

Steve shook his head, eyebrows pinched. “I’m sorry. I wish I did.”

“Dustin said you remember one person?”

“Mhm. Eddie.”

“Right. And you and Eddie? What are you?”

Steve frowned even deeper. “Boyfriends. If we’re this close, shouldn’t you know that?”

Robin shrugged. “I’d like to think so. That’s why Dustin and I aren’t convinced you are dating. Maybe your memories are just… really vivid daydreams.”

“You really think so?”

Robin sighed heavily. “I don’t know what to think, Steve. Hell, I didn’t even know how bad it was until you collapsed. Some soulmate I am.”

“With a capital P,” Steve said, holding up a hand before Robin could say anything. “Sometimes certain memories are triggered. It’s… like a puzzle piece slotting into place. But I’ve got about a million more pieces missing. I can’t see what that specific piece connects to.”

Robin hums. “Okay. So you remember Eddie. And if I say Hellfire..?” Steve just frowned. “Or… Metallica?”

Steve smiled. “Yeah, I know that one.”

“Did you know that before I said it?”

Steve nodded. “Hellfire’s related to Eddie?”

Robin chuckled. “You could say that.”

“What is it?”

She laughed again. “I think I’ll let your boyfriend explain that one.”

“Even though you don’t believe we’re dating.”

Robin spread her hands. “Soulmates with a capital P, Steve. I can’t think of any reason you wouldn’t at least tell me. Especially since you know—err, knew—I’m a lesbian.”

Steve frowned. “Maybe Eddie didn’t want to? Does he know?”

“Yup.”

“Oh.” He frowned again. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

She sighed. “I’m not asking you to have all the answers. Especially now. Just… think about it, yeah?”

“I will,” he promised. “Um. Are you okay?”

“Jesus, Steve.” Robin laughed. It was only mostly hysterical. “Of course you’d still be thinking about everyone else. I’m fine. Or- I will be. You just take care of yourself, dingus.”

He chuckled. “Will do, Robbie.”

She sighed. “Another puzzle piece?” He nodded. “Alright. I’m gonna go track down Dustin and see where he’s at with all the other ankle-biters.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” She lingered for a half-second, then sighed again and walked out.

——————————

He was released two days later. Drove himself home, Robin in the passenger seat and Dustin in the back row. Dustin quizzed him about the rest of the Party the whole way home, made sure Steve knew their names forwards, backwards and upside down, as well as what everyone was like. “Max is kickass,” he said. “Like, she’ll absolutely smile in your face as she knees you in the balls. And it’s the kinda smile that strikes fear into a man. She’s awesome. And-”

“Okay,” Steve said, amused. He didn’t know how Dustin could go that long without a breath. “I’ll know what you’re talking about as soon as we get out of the car and get inside, right?”

Dustin yelped when he looked up to see them parked before scrambling out the door and running inside.

Steve grinned at Robin, who grinned back, before they made their way inside, albeit at a slower pace than Dustin had.

Steve vaguely recognized everybody, but his attention focused in on a very specific person. “Eds.”

Eddie smiled, small and soft and sweet, one of Steve’s favorites. “Heya, Stevie.”

Suddenly he couldn’t help himself. He had to be with Eddie, right then, it couldn’t wait, so he didn’t. Practically flung himself at Eddie, like he knew Eddie would catch him (he did). Attaches his mouth to Eddie’s, a silent promise, I never forgot you, flowing between them.

When they pulled back, Eddie stared at him like he’d hung the fucking sun. “You remember?” Eddie asked in a whisper.

“Never forgot,” Steve promised, at the same volume.

“What. The actual. Fuck,” Robin said. Eddie and Steve froze as they turned to face her and the rest of the Party, who were all staring with the same expression.

“Fuck,” Eddie whispered. “We forgot to tell Robin.”

[distort-opia]

What kind of non lethal crimes do you think Joker would pivot to in a relationship with Bruce? I'm thinking about your REMS characterization. Also thinking about a line from Joker in the last chapter, about not throwing his career down the shitter and killing to defend himself. What would a career look like for him being with Bruce? Surely he would still be incredibly silly about them, with varying levels of violence that *just* teeters the edge. Love your work!

Glad you like my work, thank you! Hmm, what I had in mind when writing that in REMS (or for a sequel) was Joker's penchant for... well, breaking people and exposing hypocrisy, but minus the murder. With his love of drama and performance sprinkled on top, of course; as you say, he'd never stop being silly.

He usually kills indiscriminately, yes, because he considers himself as just playing into the cruel meaninglessness of the world. But the reason why Joker fixated on Batman, and why his M.O. includes using a gas that basically forces people to see the world like he does right before they die, is Joker's need to prove a point. He wants people to admit that there's no order to life and that tragedy can strike at any time; he wants Gotham to realize how arbitrary rules are, and Batman happens to be the perfect embodiment of that.

So I think that a Joker who won't murder anymore would basically create situations in which people's darkest sides are exposed, to various degrees of seriousness and violence. And not only that-- he would do things that would expose the ridiculousness and heinousness of the world people live in. Capitalism and its self-cannibalizing focus on profit, the skewed interests of the government, the suffering of the poor... Joker's already done this sort of thing, it's not much of a stretch. For example, seeing how many people we're being hurt as a result of superhero fights, one time Joker promised to pay the medical bills of each Gothamite that posted a video on the DC equivalent of Facebook... but only if they shouted the word "Balyushka" and then did something ridiculous to make him laugh:

Batman: Gotham Nights #6 ("Balyushka!")

And he keeps his word! But of course, this creates utter chaos, because people are doing fucking crazy shit to get that money. And the thing is, he doesn't do this just for funsies. He has a point, and Bruce can't help but admit it:

Batman: Gotham Nights #6 ("Balyushka!")

Joker exposed the problems that Batman could not tackle with fists, and then Bruce listened. He actually used his money and influence to help.

Ironically, again, it's not the first time Joker did something that made Bruce go "Hmm, maybe I should look into the systemic corruption":

Batman: Gotham Nights #4 ("The Dragnet")

I won't go into too much detail, but Joker paid Harleen Quinzell's tuition without much prompting, he went and helped (in his own way) a child who wrote to him and was clearly being abused... it's about the cases he can empathize with. And they're all connected to his own life-ruining trauma. Red Hood fell into the vat most of all because of poverty. Because he had no choice except to turn to crime-- otherwise him and his family would not have had food to put on the table. So of course he hates the society he lives in, one that had no safety nets or mercy for people like him who were drowning.

This is a very long-winded way to say that I imagine a non-lethal Joker being a mix of this and... stupid ass pranks on a massive scale, because let's be honest, he wouldn't give them up. He just wouldn't kill people at the end (because it'd make his boyfriend sad).

fanfic writer ask game - director's commentary

[mueritos]

i hope we continue to see more protests within the US military. i see a lot of leftists and folks who are anti-military who have such an open disdain for the people who are in the military, yet neglect to considering the conditions this country makes to produce ideology, poverty, and the illusion of choice to make all kinds of people choose to enlist in the military. You ever see those videos of ROTC kids recording each other asking why they joined the military and everyone's like, "healthcare", "it helped me go to college", "I was bored" or "free ptsd lol". I hate to remind everyone but folks who are in the military are people, too, and they are the same victims and perpetrators of violence as the rest of you, we have all been shallowly conditioned to view each other as enemies just because one person is wearing army greens and the other is not.

some of the biggest anti-war advocates are those who engaged in war. Veterans who genuinely believed they were protecting the US against "terrorism" come back with blood on their hands, and they choose to realize that it was US imperialism that forced them to carry out violence, instead of doubling down and shielding themselves from the fact that they too are capable of atrocities... This is a class of people who are intentionally conditioned to be as poor and as ideologically aligned to US imperialism so that the military has a never-ending pool to send their youth to destroy other country's youth. The only people I have ever heard say "do not join the military" are those who ARE military.

This is in no way to ever excuse or explain away any of the atrocious war crimes and violence this industry and its people have committed against others. What I am saying is that we absolutely cannot cast aside the individuals who have been victimized within US imperialism, even if they are wearing army greens. I was speaking with my Palestinian classmate last week and another classmate--a member of the US air force-- walked up to me and struck up a conversation. My military classmate showed me her new bird, bid both of us goodbye, and left. My Palestinian classmate asked me if I was close with her, and I said we talked quite often, and she said, "I never met a person who's in the military. I still hate the military, but I never knew that they did, too. I didn't realize that they were also victims."

If my Palestinian classmate--one who is actively watching her own community die--can understand that it is not individuals who are the problem but it is in fact systems, US imperialism, white supremacy, capitalism...why can't we all? And she has EVERY reason to hate any individual military member. A lot of online activism just creates more barriers. if your optics look bad, complicated, or contradictory, you are cast aside. Everyone has got the be the perfect activist, you can never make a mistake or share a half-baked thought, you should always believe every word from a marginalized persons mouth (because being marginalized doesn't mean you're not entrenched in white supremacy too!) and you should never question what you see...Do you know what you sound like? The very imperialists who are convincing poor whites to vote against themselves. Perfectionism is white supremacy. Black & white thinking is white supremacy.

I'd rather have a military member who genuinely believed in the US imperialism machine but was disillusioned after being deployed as my comrade than some leftist who cherishes the performance of "being a good person". I don't want "good people" in our movements. I want humans who care. I want humans who make mistakes and who learn from them. I want humans who accept the messiness of a person. I want humans who hold others accountable and allow themselves to take responsibility for their actions. I want people who change for themselves and others.

fight systems, not individual people. we can change each other, but if we're too preoccupied looking like the World's Perfect Activists, we will only consume each other alive. Connect to your fellow humans, forever and always.

[afterartist]

HELICALTALE MAIN CAST LINEUP!!

(Not ll of the characters but the most important ones to the plot)

‘And now: AU Infodump

BUT BEFORE ANYTHING!!

I will be answering any questions (within reason) any of you have about the au, even if it’s about some random side character only three people have ever heard of before

I live world building and any chance to expand on this world are treasured

I’ll probably answer with fun little doodles as well lol

So ask away :D!!

Basic AU overview:

Helicaltale is NOT a classic based Timeline.

The AU is set in a world where Mt Ebott was destroyed during the war, leaving a desert crater in its place, no protection for the Monsters to retreat and nowhere to seal them underground. In response, the Human mages put a spell on Monster kind, ‘Helios’ Curse’, forcing them to be unable to touch sunlight or else they’d burn (think Vampires or Minecraft Mobs)

The main story takes place 87 years after the war ended and 29 years after friendly communications between the two races begun, with the Monsters settled in a camp like city, made of tents and canvas buildings, around the oasis that formed in the desert that was now known as Ebott crater. Humans and Monsters have achieved peace between the races, regular trading routes and communications set up between the two cities.

Now all that was left was for both Humans and Monsters to find a way to break Helios’ Curse for good.

(None of them can touch Sunlight (minus the humans) but the ones more lightly dressed (Gaster, Alphys, Asgore) all live in the city, with proper buildings not at risk of being blown over at any second so can afford to not be covered up 100% of the time)

Locations:

Ebott City-

The capital city of the country, Ebott is a massive human settlement, overshadowing old ruins left by the war. It’s currently the main base of conferences between human and monster relations.

The Oasis-

The Monster settlement, made from tents and interconnecting canvas sheets, from above it looks like a colourful cluster of a campground, large sheets stretched over the streets. From within it’s only lit by lamps and magic, the sky completely blocked out by tarps and canvas to avoid accidentally getting burned by sunlight, to those not familiar with the city it’s a labyrinth, others, its home.

(A major inspiration for the Oasis is the Kowloon walled city, for those interested in a more accurate visual of the Oasis)

The Great Fence-

While the name conveys grandeur, the fence is a simple chain link fence acting as the border around the entire Oasis, topped with barbed wire and adorned with tarps, it’s designed to protect the residents against wild animals like Coyotes and be a barrier against sandstorms more than it is to keep people out, one of the most regular jobs for the Royal guard other than being general peace keepers is to uphold the fence, often sending patrols out after heavy storms to keep everything in order.

Central Oasis-

A mix between Newhome and Waterfall, it’s the main hub of the town, the Royal family living there along with the majority of schools and recreational areas, most Water based monsters (ie: Shyren, Aaron ect ect) also live in this area, a large lake of water being the centerpiece of the city.

Lights district-

To the west side of the city is the main shopping hub, while much more open than the majority of the Oasis, many stores foregoing walls on their tents entirely, its full of stores and restaurants, the most well known being Grillby’s and Muffets joint restaurant, many visitors to the Oasis come for the night life of the lights district, the monsters that live in that area making the camp around them as flashy and attractive as possible, neon lights and dancing flames lighting up the darkness of the district, the Celebrities Mettaton and Nabstablook have also been alluded to frequent the region and perform for onlookers.

Sandbank-

The Snowden equivalent of the AU, having gotten its name due to its position at the east side of the city, being the least protected by the walls of the crater, Sandbank often gets the brunt of the sandstorms that hit the desert, leading many of the Royal Guards live in this area in case of an emergency during the storms.

Southside (the Black Market)-

Technically not its official name, the Southside of the Oasis is whispered about in the dark of night, rumours telling of an illegal market place and shady monsters working in the south, many a monster wandering in and never coming out. While most likely just old wives tales, its best you keep your distance, just in case.

(Yeah I made the Black Market an actual real marketplace because that will never not be funny to me)

Hotlands-

The north most section of the Oasis is best known as Hotlands, given the name as it’s the highest section of city but also the most shielded by the crater walls, leaving it boiling without any wind to seep out the heat’. There’s been speculation that Hotlands actually sits over an underground chamber of magma, adding to the blistering temperature.

Characters:

The Dreemurrs:

Frisk- (Any Pronouns)

Frisk is an 11 year old kid, a runaway from one of Ebott City’s Orphanages, known for its less than legal treatment of the children. Having joined Chara as the eldest helped them both escape, Frisk followed Chara into the desert, looking for shelter from CPS.

During the trek however Frisk falls sick with an illness, most common in Monsters but able to infect anyone with strong magic, called Icarus syndrome.

With Icarus syndrome being effectively Hyperthermia of the soul, any physical treatment is ineffective, needing a particular medication to have any hope of survival, leaving the crater as not just refuge but possibly their only chance of survival.

Chara- (They/Them)

Chara is 16 and the orchestrator of the escape from the Orphanage with Frisk, after having been in contact online with a kid from the Monster camp that offered assistance. During the escape Frisk fell ill, forcing Chara to locate and purchase the rare medicine. Ending up in the Monster equivalent of the black market, Chara found a monster begrudgingly willing to help, trading a magical glass eye, a prosthetic their grandfather made for both humans and monsters during the war, for a small vial of medicine. The trader warning them to keep out of the black market before dropping the two kids off safely at the center of the Oasis.

Asriel- (He/Him)

Asriel is the firstborn son of the Dreemurrs and heir to the Royal throne, at 16 he made contact and became friends with a kid online, the other telling him of the danger they and their sibling were in at the Orphanage. Quickly offering up his home, knowing both his parents had fostered and cared for many children in the past and wouldn’t turn away two more. Upon meeting them in the Oasis he makes fast friends with both Frisk and Chara, practically adopting them as siblings on the spot.

Toriel- (She/Her)

Queen of the Oasis at 143 years old, Toriel has seen her fair share of bloodshed and peacetime, giving her the knowledge to recognise that protecting young children is the best way to ensure their future, guiding them to Mercy and pragmatic solutions instead of Fighting. One of the first things she did after Monsters had finally settled into the Oasis being starting up a school, becoming the primary teacher for a good few years before other parents eventually began to join her staff. Though, with the two new children her son had brought to her doorstep, she’s begun to realise it’s not just the children of Monster kind that need protection.

Asgore- (He/Him)

King of the Oasis and 146 years old, Asgore grew up at the front lines of the war, the heinous acts shaping him into the pacifist he is today. Currently away from the Oasis, Asgore has turned his sights on communications with the Humans, staying at the city while conferences with the city leaders on trade routes and transportation commence. He is also overseeing the Monster half of the Science team, working closely with the Royal Advisor and Scientists Gaster in developing a cure to Helios’ Curse. He remains in frequent contact with the Oasis, making the trip back every weekend to see his now growing family and make sure Toriel isn’t overwhelmed with responsibilities.

-

The Fonts:

Dr. Gaster- (He/Him)

At 140, Gaster has spent his life developing weapons for war (the Gaster Blaster being his pride and joy) and perseverance for Monster Kind, having a massive distaste for all Humans and most Monsters. The sudden change from war efforts to restoration efforts throwing his life in disarray. Jumping at the chance to use Human equipment on government funded experiments, Gaster didn’t hesitate to leave his sons Sans and Papyrus (9 and 4 at the time) back at the Oasis to move to the city and begin work. He’s had a hand in creating many inventions helping Monster kind (both helping with the medicine for Icarus Syndrome and a magic Sunscreen that can briefly minimise the effects of the sun) and the head of the Selene Project, the project to break the curse.

Sans- (He/Him)

28 and thriving, Sans has made a name for himself as both the comedic slacker of the Royal guard and the savvy businessman as one of the Black Markets best traders. Having been forced to raise both himself and Papyrus from a young age, Sans became intwined with the black market at the age of 12, after Papyrus caught Icarus Syndrome and receiving no help from Gaster off in the city, Sans was forced to find his own way of getting medication. At the age of 12 he found his way into the black market, ending up trading his right eye, and subsequently some of his shortcut abilities with an underground doctor in exchange for the medicine, to this day he hasn’t told anyone what happened to his eye. From then on he found himself going back and getting into trading as a way of making money as a side job while both he and Papyrus worked to get into the Royal guard, quickly becoming infamous in the criminal world of the Oasis, though he had a rule that no kids were to ever be found trading in the market. A rule that quickly got broken when a young human kid stumbled into his shop, begging for help, offering a magic glass eye as payment. Unable to send the kid off without help (or turn down the irony of selling the meds for an eye) he made the trade before guiding the kid and their sibling to the Oasis center.

-

(Bonus:)

After dropping the kids off, Sans makes an attempt to use the prosthetic eye, yet upon fitting it into his socket, the magic activated and bonded with his soul, causing the eye to become fused with his being, immovable. Along with the eye he’s suddenly able to see things he, by all means, should NOT be able to see, including text bubbles from the creators (similar to error sans)

He also finds, magically in his pocket, a small golden key, only figuring out its use after stumbling across a door in the middle of nowhere, upon using the key on the door he finds himself in an entirely different AU, door closing and disappearing behind him.

This is what leads him to discover the Multiverse and travel between AUs (inconveniently ending up in Nightmares Castle more times than he’d care to count)

-

Papyrus- (He/Him)

The Great Papyrus, second in command of the Royal guard at the younge age of 23 (you may applaud now)

Having grown up with just himself and Sans, Papyrus always wanted to become something great to make his brother proud, despite Sans’ insistence that he’s already proud of him. When he was 13, while Sans was out getting food, Papyrus had been targeted and hunted down by a group of bullies from the Southside of town, the group of teens taking turns in beating him up, eventually escalating to the point where one of them pulled a mirror from their pocket and used it to reflect a beam of sun directly onto his face, leaving a permanent scar,

He was saved however, when a teen he recognised from the Oasis center came charging out from one of the nearby tents, picking up handfuls of sand and hurtling it at the other kids before beating them up with her fists alone. Once over, the girl had turned, helped Papyrus up and took him to see her grandfather, the current head of the Royal Guard, a job she loudly proclaimed she was going to have one day,

Ever since then he attempted and eventually got into the Royal guard, along with Sans and the teen, Undyne.

-

Gersons:

Undyne- (She/Her)

29, Captain of the Royal Guard, Wife of the best woman around, living the high life! Having been raised by her grandfather Gerson for longer than she could remember, she’s always looked up to the Royal Guard, no matter how her Grandfather told her it wasn’t all glory. She’d been sneaking out and training with one of the Royal Guards for 8 years by the time she was 19, stumbling across a fight, six of her classmates beating down on a young skeleton. She’d jumped to defense before she’d even registered it, helping the kid up and getting him patched up where eventually the kids brother, Sans, one of Alphys’ friends found them and thanked her profusely.

The three became fast friends, practically siblings, both of them there at her and Alphys’ wedding and her promotion to Captain of the Royal guard.

Alphys- (She/They)

27 and already one of the best Scientists in the whole country. Alphys’ having grown up in Hotlands would have never dared to dream she’d be working with a whole team of like minded scientists, especially not in the human city, though not being able to see her Wife as often was a dampener. Dr. Gaster was also a bit, overzealous, with the project, it was only a matter of time before the madman created some temporal superflux that blew up half the block, even if she wouldn’t be anywhere near as prestigious without his guidance, despite Sans’ reservations for letting them near him.

(I will be adding more to this AU btw, it’s in my top 3 faves lmao)

Bonus:

Animation I’ve done for Helical Sans to explain how his AU hopping works

[fatallyfalling]

Bitter Water 0.08 ~ ♆

“ You’re staring again, “

{{ Finnick Odair x Reader }}

{{ previous part || next part }} {{ masterlist }}

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, PTSD, forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, President Snow, time skip, unshared feelings, nightmares, unintentional self-injury, alcohol, sexual harassment, character death, gore/blood, etc

{{ word count }} 6.3 k

{{ outfits }}

{{ prompt }} Desirability has consequences. Desirability is a cage, and you it’s prisoner. A product and a drug to the Capital elites as something to control and have obediently submit. But the drug of almonds and honey is something sweeter and you’ve grown rather accustomed to the taste.

{{ a/n }} This is another cliffhanger i’m sorryyyyy but thank you for all your patience i already have 0.09 in the works i’m hoping to get it up asap after this i love you all sm forehead kisses muah!!

If hell were a place on earth it’d be this room.

Quietly tucked in a penthouse apartment within Capital high-rise walls. With ornate furnishings and slippery silk sheets a stark shade of white that made your skin prefer the idea of being set ablaze and slopping off your very bones just to escape their ensnarement.

The scent of roses suffocates like poison.

If hell were a presence she’d slink between shadowed corners of the space, seeping through the walls, and the floor. Whispering through bars on the windows in the form of tightly drawn curtains blocking out what would have been a skyline view if it wasn’t to hide the happenings behind closed doors. The penthouse was kept cold. There was no love here, no gentleness, no kindness.

Kindness was scarce these days.

Had hell been a person she’d be the shadowed visitors with finely trimmed suits and dresses that glittered with each twist and turn. Gloved hands, colored hair, sticky fingers, and sultry lips covered in luster that held cruel, fanged smiles. Hands as rough as sandpaper that moved as aggressively as attempting to strike a dulled match with pointed nails that too often left angry crescents and small bruises imprinted on your waist and wrists. A predator.

And you were their prey.

Prey made to be caught and devoured.

Made.

You hadn’t always been this way. You knew that. You still foolishly clung to shattered youth and hopes of something “normal” but the pieces of that hope had become too small to pick up and too complicated to piece back together. Things were different now and there was no going back. The first year was the most difficult. Combined with the steep learning curve of mirror-practiced smiles and inviting the unconsented touch while maintaining the subtle demeanor you’d performed so well through The 67th Games when you’d rather commit treason and spill the blood of the penthouse visitors teetered over the edge of excruciating. What would be the cost of more blood on your already crimson-stained palms anyway?

Everything. Everything would be the price.

So carefully crafted were the claws you hid behind perfect manicures. The spiteful temper that blistered through your ribcage was now kept on an even tighter leash than before. You had to keep your loved ones safe. You had to keep that stupid Peacock safe. Your small family back in District 4 was kept unaware of what your frequent visits to the Capital entailed. However, the occasional resigned glances from your Father across the dinner table suspected otherwise. You met his gaze less and less as time wore on.

By the second year, you’d developed a routine. A controlled performance of engrained obedience and an equally forced smile laced with feigned pleasure to top off the act. On the outside, no one seemed the wiser, assuming you’d grown accustomed to being Desirable by the Capital District of Panem. Obedient - submissive, even.  But on the inside, a simmering flame groomed a hatred so vile part of you sometimes pondered how many worlds would shake when you erupted. A hatred for the President that forced you here and a hatred for the repeated lies you told and fell victim to in the name of survival thus far. There’d been plenty of liars in your wake of winning The Hunger Games. Wolves in bloody, rotted sheep’s skin stared down the last remaining lamb of the herd in the name of sacrifice and control.

You were nothing and everything and nothing again as the repetitive act carried on.

Desirability was a curse.

By the third year, You’re forced to mentor your first tribute. The boy had been young, just barely turning twelve a few weeks before The Reaping. The unluckiness of his name being drawn had reigned in pity from the Capital citizens and weary parents across the nation. It seemed to always be that way when someone young was Reaped. His name had been Trout Nettlewood. A gangly kid on the smaller end of others his age, but he was surprisingly nimble and could run like a fox, flaming red hair and all. Your assignment had been to shadow Finnick, learn the ropes, and inspire sponsors through your mere presence. Looking back, the rumors between the two of you had never been greater than during that time. The perfect picture of some twisted, hyper-romanticized, “what if - family” for the Capital’s voyeuristic viewing pleasure. At only only nineteen years old the sickening demand for the Peacock and yourself had never been higher.

Trout had been easily lovable by the masses. A small, scared fox who didn’t stand a chance. He was curious about everything and determined to learn despite his circumstances. The boy devoured the few books of healing herbs and edible foraging you’d scrounged up with surprising ease. He was smart and bubbly, dozens of freckles plastered across his cheeks, nose, and forehead that scrunched when he smiled. Your heart squeezed painfully when he did. The Capital fell hard and fast for the boy, adoring cheers ringing through the crowd during his brief interview with Caesar Flickerman. Warm smiles and a curious intrigue oozed from the auditorium that had you fear vomiting right then and there in the stage wings. Despite the adoration your Tribute earned, and much to your dismay, you knew the minute that bell rang in the Arena they’d look elsewhere. Even with the calculated facades and fleeting rumors, sharks were going into that deadly sea, and they wouldn’t hesitate to kill the weakest links the first chance they got.

You spared a sidelong look towards the bronze-haired man beside you and caught the creasing in his brows and pulse of muscle in his jaw with quiet observation. Both of you had matured over time. Finnick had developed like fine wine, of course. Whether it had been genetics or luck, the honey-tanned Darling was taller and broader, with refined features and a lean, muscular build that sent young women across the Capital swooning. If it had been possible for his charismatic nature and flirtatious attitude to get any worse he’d somehow found a way as well. The urge to punch the Peacock after every sneaking, sarcastic comment made on your maturity was growing as equally difficult to reign in as your hidden temper.

Victoriously, you managed a few jabs to Finnick’s inflated ego when no one else was looking now and then. Yes, you’d matured and better filled a few places than before, but you hadn’t seen yourself changing much at all these past few years. There was always something bigger to focus on and besides, vanity had never taken much priority when you’d grown up working day and night to feed the twins and aid your parents, especially following your mother's passing.

The banter between the two of you had made a routine of its own you supposed. Snapping retorts back and forth on the long train rides between District and Capital, or in elevators between revelries had become something you’d mildly looked forward to. Sometimes whispered secrets were traded in hushed voices when you'd manage brief relief from the vile clients that had purchased your company for the night. The secrets had started simple enough. Favorite colors and what pastries served at the Capital banquets you were forced to attend tasted best, just to name a few of them. You learned the Darling favored the small citrus tarts that seemed to only be served on special occasions when the fruit was in season, everything else was too sweet for his liking. Generally, he enjoyed anything citrus it seemed.

“You don’t have a sweet tooth? I’m surprised, Peacock.” You’d remarked at the time.

“Well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me,” He’d lilted in response, mischief gleaming in his sea-green stare. “You’re quite the mystery yourself, by the way.”

“I prefer the mystery. Why lay everything out like a book when you can keep someone guessing?” You’d replied with a wry smile of your own.

Another secret you’d learned was his knack for tying knots. He’d ramble off on tangents of different tying styles and their uses between hushed chuckles. The knowledge he shared was extensive, and you offered your versions from your time helping on the shipyards back in 4 before your games. He’d offered to show you a few times, but with your overlapping schedules, the time never came to pass.

That warmth in your chest sometimes flared when you caught yourself absently staring at his eyes, the way they crinkled at the corners, or the pronouncement of the dimples that pressed into his cheeks when he smiled. You never allowed the warmth to spread, however, firmly smothering any chance the minute you caught yourself dwelling too much.

Your trade-in secrets was a small rebellion to the parts the two of you had to play. A performance of its own behind closed doors or in shadowed alcoves with prickly thorns and PeaceKeepers lurking nearby just out of earshot. Friendly or not, you were able to sense the mutual understanding of your situations. The predicament surrounding the rumors of the two of you being an alleged item made it easier to avoid one another at gatherings, the aid of clients dragging the two of you to different parts of the various pleasure halls and amphitheaters to keep you apart was mildly amusing at times. In its twisted way of course. But the slight draw, as if a thread tethered the two fo you to one another seemed to draw you both back in each time.

“You’re staring again.”

“Am not.”

Your eyes shift, gluing themselves to the suddenly very interesting floor.

“You bite your lip when you’re nervous or lying,”

You hadn’t even realized you’d sucked the flushed muscle between your teeth.

“Stop being creepy, Peacock.”

Finnick snorts, a roll in his shoulders following the motion of shoving his hands deep in his pockets. Sea-green eyes remained fixed on the red-headed boy across the stage. The spotlights were sweltering. Maybe if you prayed hard enough, the heavy, velvet curtains of the wings would push in and swallow you whole. You wished they would. The hazy image of layered gauze and Caesar’s cackling laugh from your interview just three years ago flickers in your mind. You shake your head to push the memory away.

“He won’t make it past the bloodbath,”

Your tone is cold, detached maybe. A lump had formed itself in your throat and you swallowed thickly, the effort futile. The reality of tomorrow had started to set in after two intensive weeks of training.

“You don’t know that. He’s fast.” Finnick quips.

His tone is also cold, though a hint of determination weaves itself in his drawl as you spare another glance his way. The Darling doesn’t look back. His gaze is still firmly fixed ahead. The crowd bubbles with ‘awes’ and laughter at a joke Caesar makes. Trout smiles. Your heart twists.

“We’ll see,” You respond.

A warm weight presses briefly into your shoulder as the tall Victor beside you turns away from the dazzling lights. Finnick was always warm. “Stop being so pessimistic,” Finnick huffs. But there’s no light in his ocean's gaze as your eyes lock. You feel the phantom warmth of where his arm brushed yours to the other side of the stage. Trout greets you with a hug and Finnick tells him well done, ruffling his fiery hair. Mechanical clicks and flashes follow as you guide your Tribute away from the commotion. This was his final night alive for all any of you knew.

Finnick decides to try and rally a few more sponsor candidates before sauntering off to the pleasure halls of the Tribute Center, leaving you with Trout for the remainder of the evening. Part of you wishes you could write off Finnick’s disappearance as neglect of his Tribute, but you know by the Darling's gait that the weight of tomorrow morning hangs heavy. One last ditch effort to try and bring Trout any chance of surviving.

“Let’s go get you something to eat.” You murmur to your Tribute, trying your best to smile warmly but you know the corners of your mouth are a bit crooked and your throat feels like it’s going to suffocate and collapse. Trout smiles with an agreeing nod, and your heart painfully squeezes, but you take his small hand and lead him away anyway. You don’t look back at the bronze-haired male behind you.

Trout scarfs down his food, despite the multiple courses. You barely touch your own as you stare blankly into the creamy, rose-petaled soup. Bile stings your throat at the floral, desserty scent. You push the feeling down the same as you push your bowl away, opting to offer it to the child beside you. Trout happily takes it with a grin. You dab a napkin to the corner of his mouth with a featherlight touch.

The evening is quiet, and a fire roars in the hearth of a grand marble fireplace in the common area of the Tributes of District 4’s quarters. The female Tribute of District 4 was under Mags’ Mentorship and had been scarcely seen these past two weeks. Her name was Annie Cresta, you’d seen her here and there over the years but didn’t personally know who she was. She’d kept to her rooms and barely spoke. You couldn’t blame her.

Trout had asked to sit with you on the sofa, Instinctively curling himself into your side. The small boy craved closeness, opting to stand close enough to either you or Finnick that body heat was shared or he could easily reach for a hand any chance he got. Initially, the two of you had tried to halt the child’s need for a caring touch considering what lay ahead, logically thinking it might hinder his independence in the area, but in the end, neither of you could stand to let him go into the maw of death without knowing the brief warmth of affection. Even though you were only seven years older than Trout, your viewpoints on the world were distinctly different based on experience alone. As mentors, it was your duty to train your Tribute and prepare them for the arena. The responsibility weighed heavy. 

But it was true you'd grown to love Trout in a way, just like you loved your siblings back in 4.

Maybe that made the goodbyes even worse.

Trout fell asleep nestled safely under your arm as your eyelids grew heavy while trying to recite the book of edible herbs you’d been working to memorize with him one last time. Your legs were outstretched across the leather cushions of the large sunken sectional, and your ankles lay crossed as the flame-haired boy slumbered soundly on your shoulder. He was still dressed in a finely trimmed, forest green suit though he lacked any dress shoes, just black crew socks. Trout hated shoes. The minute he got back from training they were always kicked off by the door. Thatcher had stumbled over them a few times and would grumble his distaste for the lack of manners but no one corrected the action, allowing the small freedom for the Tribute.

Your evening ensemble was a bit rumpled over your thighs and waist, but you didn’t mind. You barely registered the soft click of one of the heavy, entryway double doors as the wee hours of morning crept in.

Nor did you pay any heed to the whisper of a familiar almonds and honey cologne paired with a warm weight over your shoulders as the final pull to drag you into sleep.

No nightmares plagued your mind that night as the sweet warmth kept you safe.

The following morning was as unbearable as you’d expected.

You had awoken before Trout, grogginess trying its best to pull you back under the blanket of unconsciousness, but as your senses sharpened you remembered what today was. Dread settled heavily in your chest as you carefully adjusted your torso to prop yourself up better against the arm of the luxurious sectional in your best efforts not to wake the sleeping Tribute just yet. An ache splintered from the muscles connecting your right collarbone to your throat, howling in protest at the stretch of stiff muscle. You couldn’t help gritting your teeth at the adjustment, Trout's head weighing heavy on your shoulder as you shifted.

Blinking several times, your gaze finally shifted from the boy at your side to the slight weight over your body. A crease forms between your brows as your free hand shields a small yawn. Your nose scrunches with the action as you continue to wake up.

The faint scent of almonds and honey meets your groggy senses again, the worry in your brows deepening as you wipe away the sleep from your eyes. The weight and scent belonged to a familiar navy blue suit jacket, the material was sleek and satiny with a faint shine. It was Finnick’s jacket from last night’s interviews. A flicker of something warm strikes a thread deep in your chest, but you shove it so far down the feeling stops.

“Tch…” You click your tongue as you use your free arm to gently lift the garment, draping it over the back of the sofa as you turn your attention to the red-headed boy on your side. Tenderly, you give his shoulder a small shake and the boy stirs, eliciting a protesting groan from the child.

“Come on, gotta get up.” You murmur and Trout groggily sits up. A small, humored smile crosses your lips as you ruffle his already disheveled fiery locks. You try to ignore the deathly squeeze of dread in your heart as he breaks into a fit of laughter.

The morning picks up speed as Mags, Finnick, Annie, and Thatcher join you in the open-concept living area. Finnick takes trout off your hands as you quickly freshen up and find a change of clothes.

You don’t notice Finnick’s lingering gaze on your retreating form.

The air is heavy on the short trip to the flight hanger where the Tributes will be transported to the arena. Memories of your farewell and the bone-crushing hug from Mags flash in your mind. Casting a sidelong glance towards Finnick, you observe the clench in the victor’s jaw, which tells you he felt much the same about the hanger. Trout grips your hand like a vice as Peacekeepers lead the way. He’s trembling. Your heart squeezes painfully as it starts to splinter.

The peacekeepers around stand straight-backed with fingers warningly placed on the triggers of their rifles. There was no getting out, no last-ditch escape attempts.

Time was running out.

With a shaky sigh, you turn to face the small boy, who meets you with bleary eyes. “I-I’m scared,” He meekly stumbles over your name and you can feel the piercing pain of your heart breaking further. “I know, but you have to be brave right now, okay?” You try to soothe as you bend to be closer to his eye level. Finnick comes to stand at your side, taking Trout's cheeks in his hands gently as he too kneels. “You can do this Trout,” Finnick’s voice is firm as you nod in agreement. You bring a hand to gently stroke his red hair, the peppered freckles across his face scrunch as tears start to well up in his eyes. Finnick’s thumbs are quick to brush them away, continuing his speech. “You remember the herbs and you remember the knots I taught you. You don’t go near the Cornucopia - you run. If you find Annie that’s great, but your survival comes first, understand?” Finnick instructs as Trout nods, gripping The Darling’s wrists in his small, trembling hands.

You wished you could tell him everything would be okay. But you’d be lying through your teeth if you did.

You couldn’t give him false hope - it would dampen his senses in the Arena.

The peacekeepers start to fuss - instructing you to finish up as they shift their weight and adjust their rifles. You shoot a deathly glare their way, not quite caring for the possible repercussions. Glancing askance towards Mags, you see Annie in tears as she embraces the elder. Your heart breaks for her as well, but you’re quick to return your attention to your Tribute.

“Survive,”

Your words are earnest as squeeze the small boy’s shoulder, repeating the word that had kept you alive in the Arena just three years ago. Trout’s resolve breaks, and he throws his arms around your neck, pulling from Finnick’s hands and burying his freckled nose into the crook of your neck with hiccuping sobs. The constricting lump in your throat only tightens as you wrap your Tribute in your arms with a tight hug, pouring every hope and prayer to whatever gods might be listening to keep him safe into the embrace. Your gaze locks with Finnick’s for a moment and his sea-green irises fill with heartache as well. After a moment the boy shifts to hug the Darling with equal vigor.

The Peacekeepers have enough, and bark orders to get the tributes on the hovercraft.

Annie sniffs as she pulls away from Mags, her shoulders tremble as she boards the craft with two Peacekeepers on either side, semi-forcing her along.

Trout is reluctant to pull away from you both, but as a Peacekeeper steps forward and you send another defiant glare their way, earning a growl from the Keeper, the boy peels himself from Finnick’s embrace only to pull you back in and hug both of you one last time. You gently press a brief kiss to his fiery hair, unknowingly tugging hard on that thread inside Finnick’s chest as he takes notice of your action before the two of you are forced to pull away.

“I’ll miss you,” Trout whispers to you both before turning.

Your heart shatters then and there.

“We’ll miss you too,” You all but whisper.

A final, silent tear rolls down Trout’s cheek as two Peacekeepers turn to guide him to the hovercraft. The Tribute’s stylists follow close behind and you remain rooted to your crouched position with your arms wrapped around yourself till the industrial sound of the hovercraft’s door seals shut and reverberates through the hanger.

You feel sick.

As you straighten up, your gaze catches Finnick’s again, but his eyes quickly avert from yours, a muscle fluttering in his jaw. A crease forms between your brows as you divert your gaze to the departing hovercraft, your arms securely wrapping around your middle as if to self-soothe.

The trip back to the Tributes Center is silent - the tension thick enough to be cut by a blade. No words are exchanged as you arrive, heading straight to the pleasure halls to witness the beginning of The 70th Annual Hunger Games.

A vile cocktail of queasiness and dread coats your tongue as you force yourself to keep moving. The hall is bustling with Capital elites as you enter, following Finnick with Mags close behind. Your dread pools in your chest like a weight as you glance towards the large projections of the countdown to the beginning of The Games. Clenching your jaw you do your best to dawn a feigned smile. Finnick has already settled into his Cheshire smirks and relaxed demeanor, plucking an invisible lint from his shoulder as he weaves through the crowd, greeting sponsor candidates and past clients as he plucks two champagne glasses from a wandering avox before returning to your side. A part of you wishes you could slip between acts as easily as the Darling, his languid movements leaving bystanders none the wiser that the two of you had just sent a child to his inevitable death.

A child.

Your broken heart painfully twists at the reminder.

Cesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith have taken their positions as hosts of The Games as they banter across the multiple projections. Their voices meld into the cacophony that bounces off the high-rise ceilings.

“Drink?”

The Bronze-haired male’s voice cuts through your thoughts as he offers you the crystal glass. Your gaze snaps to his before flickering down to the champagne.

“Am I allowed?” You murmur, to which he responds with a wry smile and a nod before you tentatively retrieve the glass and all but down its contents. Finnick raises his eyebrows at your action but says nothing, a small shrug rolling over his shoulders and a coy smirk passing his tanned features before he echoes your movement, his head tilting back as he empties his glass as well.

A ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you observe the slight scrunch in his nose and the clench in the male’s jaw. The bitter aftertaste of the fizzed beverage leaves a tang on his tongue and a bubbling sensation in his throat.

“I always think it’ll taste better if I just drink it more,” Finnick scoffs.

“Sharing secrets already, Odair?” You murmur, your tone dull while passing your empty glass onto a passing tray as he does the same.

“You knew that one already,” Finnick quips, and you give a small shrug. The alcohol brings warmth to your chest as it disperses through your system. You’d allowed yourself one glass here and there after you’d gathered better control of the horrors that plagued your memories. Normally you tried to keep away from the drinks - mostly to keep the bad habit from developing again like it almost had after the 67th Games. But it helped to ease the edge before certain clients and at times like this.

“Maybe I did,” you reply, knowing full well he was correct. The dread still coils itself in your core but the normalcy of Finnick’s remarks is a slight comfort. A muscle pulses in your jaw as you protectively cross your arms over your chest once more. One of the small graces that came with mentoring; if it could even be referred to as one, was that neither you nor Finnick were allowed to take clients during the duration of The Games. As much as the Capital elites relished in gambling and playing dirty to gain loophole advantages, the rules for mentors were strict on prohibiting gaining Tribute favor by sleeping with sponsors. Despite the rules, that didn’t stop wandering hands and roving eyes over the honey-tanned Victor and yourself.

Rumors have still spread like wildfire alongside the grotesque demand for The Capital’s Darling and Doe - especially with the two of you appearing side by side regularly as mentors these past weeks, which inevitably sparked jealousy between clients as women and men alike shot possessive glares as they groped their chosen Victor. Bile threatened to rise in your throat as you bristled under a drunken man’s touch. Thankfully, his hot, liqueur-coated breath and wavering attention were pulled away as images of The Cornucopia swirled into view on the projections overhead. You don’t notice Finnick’s sidestep till his shoulder brushes yours, his radiating warmth lingering once again on your skin. Both of your eyes are glued to the screens, equal creases and hardened expressions replacing the parts the two of you too often performed.

Your eyes scan the small expanse of the arena you’re able to see, assessing your first look at the terrain while simultaneously scanning the other projections for Trout’s face. On another projection on an opposite wall, a grid of all the Tribute’s faces appears, prepared to blackout faces once the blood bath begins.

The Arena was set up similarly to a Pacific-northwestern mountain range. Tall redwoods and many caverns and cliffs are divided by a large dam. Your breath hitches as vague memories of the netted ravine of the 67th arena pass through your mind. Furiously, you blink the images away as the minute counter begins in a glowing hologram above the assembled stacks of weaponry.

“Do you see him?” you murmur, leaning slightly toward the male beside you with a hushed tone.

“Not yet,“ Finnick replies.

The bass of the automated countdown vibrates through your chest, each tick like an added weight to the dread that threatened to pull you under.

Warmth brushes your shoulder again as Finnick shifts, neither of you bothering to acknowledge your closeness to one another and neither of you moving away.

“You think they’ll make it?” You murmur again.

“I don’t know,” Finnick’s voice is clipped.

His unsure answer weighs heavy. There wasn’t any telling who would live or who would die.

Ten.

You swallow hard - resisting the urge to empty the contents of your stomach is proving to be a challenge.

Nine.

You still can’t see Trout.

Eight.

Where was he?

Seven.

“Where’s Trout?” You question, worry etching your tone.

Six.

“I don’t know.”

Five.

“Can you see him?”

Four.

“No,”

Three.

You drop one of your hands to your side, the action slightly brushing your knuckles with Finnick’s.

Two.

His callused fingertips interlace with yours almost on instinct.

One.

You don’t push him away. You don’t know why - but you don’t.

“Let the 70th Annual Hunger Games, begin.”

The silence in the hall is palpable as the bell tolls and tributes launch from their pedestals. A pain in your chest screams to look away but you can’t. You won’t. You have to find Trout. The first canon booms and your gaze momentarily tears away to the grid of Tributes. The boy from District 12 goes down. Another canon and another Tribute go down, but still not Trout. Several more canons fire off as the carnage begins, and several Tributes die in minutes.

Still no sign of trout -

“There,”

Your head whips as Finnick jerks his chin to one of the screens, a subtle point in the right direction. Trout is seen making a beeline from The Cornucopia for the trees, his speed and nimble movements allow him to flee unnoticed. You lose a deep breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. However, you don’t relax - tensions still hold high as canons fire and the first few, crucial, hours of the Arena wear on.

There’s no going back now.

Neither you nor Finnick slept a wink the following days. He’d wanted to rotate in shifts with the sponsors but you’d protested - arguing there was a higher chance of gaining favor if both of you were there talking to the sponsor candidates. Your gamble worked. Trout received a handful of sponsor gifts thanks to Finnick’s charm and the weaponization of your own skill set. A canteen of water, some rope, and a small hunting knife had gotten him through till now. He’d managed to stay high in the redwood trees, passing from branch to branch and remaining vigilant for edible roots and foliage during his brief periods on the ground.

Four days in Annie had managed to find him, the two cautiously allying. Annie didn’t have any weapons - leaving you to wonder how she’d gotten through till now. Trout helped her scavenge, the pair silently traversing the woods and managing to stay out of range from other Tributes.

Nearly half of them were dead by now.

Many of the tributes had died from tripping off the cliffs in an attempt to reach the caves. Except the caves held mutts in the form of grotesque bears with too big claws and white, bubbling froth filling their sharp-toothed maws. The remaining Tributes learned quickly to stay away.

You stood anxiously rooted to your spot near one of the tall marble columns on the outskirts of the pleasure hall. Finnick was maneuvering through the crowd with his usual greetings and compliments to the sponsors. Mags was around but she’d been swallowed by the crowd. The Darling was much more of a people person than you were - you never quite could pin down his thought process or calculate his next move. The 65th Victor’s shift between his playboy act and usual demeanor was nearly seamless, the change so fluid you sometimes couldn’t catch it.

You’re nursing a glass of champagne, your eyes glued to the projections of The Games. Exhaustion was tugging at your eyes, the internal war between consciousness and sleep raging on as you subtly shifted your weight from foot to foot. Your attire for the evening whispered across the glossed tile with your movements. Hyacinth had kept your outfits rather simple, the garments sleek and elegant. However they still subtly matched Finnick’s - the trend having continued since your victory tour. You’d tried not to dwell on the matter, figuring it was simply due to the fact you hailed from the same District or the fact you had mentored the same Tribute. Neither you nor The Darling had directly addressed it with one another.

“Sponsors seem lively as ever,” Finnick sighs as he appears by your side, leaning his weight against the marble column to your left. “Is that different than usual?” you ask, sparing the male a sidelong glance before taking a sip of your drink.

“No, but tensions seem to be rising. Someone higher up was paid off to sponsor an enormous gift to the boy from District 2. Unsurprising, but we should keep an eye out.” Finnick explains, his tone plain as if he were just discussing the weather. “Do you know what it was?” you ask, fully turning your attention to the bronze-haired victor.

“No - but it can be assumed to be a weapon.”

“If it’s anything like that trident of yours, I’m sure they’ll talk soon enough,” You murmur into your glass. You knew bringing up the deadly trident that had been gifted to Finnick during the 65th Games was a cheap shot. Finnick’s jaw pulses at the mention, and he plucks an invisible lint from his jacket while turning his gaze up to the projections.

“I hope not.” That is all he responds with before the two of you settle into a tense silence for a moment or two.

“I didn’t mean -“ you start but he cuts you off.

“I know.”

You sigh through your nose, downing the rest of your glass with a small scrunch of your nose. You don’t pry further on the matter because that’s not how the two of you worked. There was banter and the trade of small secrets but never quite full apologies or sincerity. It was better to stay detached, you guessed. The weight of your responsibilities and the pressure of the capital was enough as is. 

Personal attachments only meant more trouble. 

“How far away is District 2 from Trout and Annie?” You ask, shifting the conversation just as the projections shift to a different Tribute.

“They’re on opposite sides right now, but District 2 is on the move near the cliffs.“

By now you’ve turned your gaze away from Finnick, but as you look away you catch the turn of his head from the corner of your eye. It was another dance the two of you had weaved, one person keeping an eye on The Games, and the other acknowledging the conversation.

“Have you seen Thatcher yet?”

“They’re out in the gardens. I caught a glimpse of them while making my rounds. speaking of which, did you make yours?” Finnick rebuttals your question with ease and your jaw tenses. “I did. I had to pry Mr. Sarginski’s grubby paws off me but I did.” You reply, slightly scoffing as you recall the drunken sponsor’s misconduct.

“I’ll handle him next time.” Finnick sternly replies, that same muscle pulsing in his jaw as his eyes flicker to the drunk across the hall.

“Tch, I don’t need saving, Peacock.” you quip, your gaze flickering to meet oceans of sea-green before returning to the Arena.

Finnick simply scoffs with a roll of his eyes that matches the shift in his shoulders.

“Still using nicknames?”

“Still trading secrets?” You rebuttal.

“Touché.”

A wry smile crosses the male’s face, flashing his too-white teeth and pointed canines as he lightly shakes his head. A somewhat comfortable silence replaces the lingering tension between the two of you as you return your full attention to The Games.

Hours pass, and night falls over the Arena.

The sponsors were starting to dwindle, a normal occurrence according to Finnick.

“They’ll pick back up once there are fewer Tributes.” He explained, earning a hum of understanding from you.

The Arena stills in eerie quiet for another hour or two before all hell breaks loose.

You almost miss it as Annie and Trout are ambushed.

Your breath catches as you startle, straightening as Finnick does much the same beside you. Panic surges in your chest as the Careers of District 1 attack. 

They didn’t stand a chance.

The boy Tribute of District 1 swings his machete with a roar, narrowly missing Annie as she shrieks in pure terror, scrambling backwards. Trout staggers back but brandishes his knife, the small blade like akin to a butter knife beside the older Tribute’s blade. A part of you instinctively wants to call out - scream maybe, but you don’t. You can’t.

There’s nothing you can do.

The girl from District 1 throws a dagger, striking Annie’s arm and she cries out again. Trout swings at their assailants, screaming for Annie to run but she doesn’t as she clutches her wounded arm. You’re screaming inside your head for them both to run.

But they don’t.

Trout lands a slash to the girl from District 1’s chest, but it’s not enough.

Her District Partner swings his machete again and it’s all over.

Annie’s screams reach a blood curdling volume as blood sprays, hot and sticky as it splatters across her face, her jacket, the grass. Everywhere.

Your stomach churns as bile stings your throat.

Annie’s screams blare through the hall, the shrill sound echoing off the high-rise ceilings just as you clamp a hand over your mouth, muffling your own sob at the unfolding horror. Your knees buckle - and you hit the tile below hard. Finnick is frozen in shock, rooted to his place as his gaze loses any light. His jaw pulses and he swallows hard as he can’t look away from the projections.

Gasps ricochet through the hall as Capital elitists witness the gore.

The canon booms.

Trout’s face goes black on the Tribute list.

His head rolls.

Annie runs.

The Hunger Games continue on.

You failed.

{{ taglist }}

@emerald-09@reader-bookling123 @finnickodaddy @thehairington86 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts@avoxrising @meri-soni-meri-tamanna@whens-naptime @violettbae@the-lonely-abyss @secretsicanthideanymore@nexxus13@takanparadiae@yourdailymemedelivery @wowzabowza69 @c4ttheart @lizzo-del-jaileraka @inatimate-icarus @thestrals-and-firewhiskey @honethatty12 @goldencolorrock @cherrsnut @el25 @sienaxgerali

[woman-respecter]

okay one last rant about chappell cuz i'm sure you're sick of herr (same):

i'm soooo tired of white people. i hate how chappell acts about palestine because it's SO "i learned activism from the internet and i have insane white guilt and i feel guilt for being a privileged white american" and that helps no one. bonus: she has republican parents so she has to force the activism even harder to compensate for her shitty family. i hate both sides as well but i'm not a stupid ass white person who won't be affected as much by not voting and not backing kamala.

chappell is so embarrassing like even taylor swift said i support kamala. her internet activism means that she would rather say guyssss both sides bad :/ than actually do anything of any value (it feels like she wants to be leftist so baddd that she ends up a fool... "all presidents bad i can't support any" girl you're high up in the evil capitalist music inudstry i wouldn't judge too hard if i were u..) but that's current activism for you doe. why make any change when you can just complain and do nothing? besides, leftists rn would tear any change apart to shreds cuz they expect everything to be fixed immediately. i've seen so many leftists get upset seeing progress of anything rn because because g-g-genocide!

leftists: you evil white gays celebrate improved gay rights in a red state ur so evil ugh a genocide is happening and ur happy? you need to blow yourself up to prove your loyalty to palestine and to understand what they're going through!

lastly everything chappell and ethel cain does for palestine is so forced and fake lol. it's all to make them feel better about being white and privileged. ethel cain makes jokes about killing the president girl! 🤔 youre enjoying your nice white life in a comfortable position in the music industry...you'd never give that up and stand on business cause ur all words no action..

ethel made a song for palestine and it was good but since she graduated with honors from the school of internet activism i cannot take it seriously. everything she does screams "sorry for being white :("

and then hunter from euphoria got praised for getting arrested at a JVP PROTEST (LMAO). like that rich white girl getting arrested and then nothing happened to her is not revolutionary it's actually giving kendall pepsi ad ! i will say it's more than ethel and chappell put together but still pathetically whitee.

lastly hayley from paramore ethel hunter chappell none of them actually support palestine. they try so hard to be leftist and activists which is ironic because they are capitalizing on palestine to look good, to overcompensate for their whiteness and privilege and because of guilt. their "support for palestine" are just large pr stunts that bring them more fans and more money. look at ethel. she LOVES florence (i believe they are good friends) and florence is besties with taylor swift and endorsed kamala. all bark no bitee :)

i HATE all of the performative leftist celebs you mentioned (except hayley from paramore) so fucking much. it’s obvious that their priorities are getting rid of their white guilt, being edgy, and winning clout points with the online left. they do not give an actual shit about palestine. the funny thing is that if taylor’s endorsement really does help keep trump out of the white house she will have done more for palestine than all those losers combined. sorry!

and yeah its funny that ethel, and almost every pop girlie, is at most like 2 or 3 degrees away from someone who is friends with taylor or idolizes taylor. sorry haters it really is that way. she’s your favorite artist’s ACTUAL favorite artist

[tav-intranquila]

This conversation lives rent-free in my head

Halsin: “Why is that daubed fellow being forced before a crowd like so? Is he being punished? Ritualised humiliation?”

My Tav: “For the money, Halsin, the use of animals at these type of entertainment displays is very common.”

Halsin: “But why? Can’t the dog decide not to participate?”

My Tav: “Actually… and sadly, no. Animal use is a cheaper resource for these businesspeople, because they do not ask for a salary for their performance. They amuse the crowd and provide their captors with a greater economic revenue than the other scenario which is hiring artists and professionals for the job.”

Astarion, pinching the bridge of his nose while hearing this conversation: “Are you seriously trying to explain capitalism to the druid?”

[neveragainfools]

It’s fascinating to me how real-play shows easily slot into the metamodern movement so effortlessly, and without sacrificing the sincerity or quality of the story. By my understanding, metamodern stories are ones that are aware that they are stories, acknowledge the viewer and the absurdity of narrative itself (like Everything Everywhere All At Once, Into the Spiderverse, etc).

Personally, metamodernity meets the audience where we are now. When there is SO MUCH literature and film to build on, and nearly everyone knows the hero’s journey, it feels like something’s missing unless the story is exceptional, different, or more self-aware. Metamodern works can be great, but I think a lot of films that fit into the metamodern style lack heart. The style breeds a lot of “we’ll make fun of ourselves before you do, because we know you will. We’d rather disrespect our own story than let you feel smugly better than us if we’re sincere.” This is accelerated and compounded by the fact that many major releases these days capitalize on the nostalgia that drives sales for familiar IPs in reboot, rework, spin-off or the dreaded “cinematic universe” (the marvelization of it all).

But the difference with real-play shows is that the winking, fourth-wall breaking, the acknowledgement of tropes, the audience and absurdity of the universe lives on a separate layer of reality from the story being told. The characters aren’t joking about the worlds, their players are. The players (including the GM) are audience, writer and performer all at the same time. Instead of the edifice of narrative being an invisible force pointed out by its cracks, separate from the audience reaction, it is made explicit and woven into audience instead of narrative. Real play shows declare “these are people playing characters. Some plot and character choices are based on what was written beforehand, but most are made by dice and improvised in the moment. The reactions to those choices are made by both the player and the character. Of course these tropes exist, we’ve chosen a setting that supports them.”

Real-play shows are almost as if every film always had the director’s commentary on in the theatre, but the director's commentary shaped the plot, and made space for audience reaction to shape it too. We the audience understand that the commentary isn’t part of the story. What’s left untouched then, is the narrative itself. By acknowledging the edifice, the mechanisms of storytelling on the “commentary” layer, the in-story moments become totally sincere and embrace the story, unworried by the way in which it’s shaped.

[puckpocketed]

i just hate when players do this and people call them “warriors” i know you wanna play in the playoffs to help your team but YOUR FINGERS ARE LITERALLY BROKEN MY GUY THEY COULD NEVER GROW BACK TOGETHER THE RIGHT WAY im crying

my poor cringefail wifes i love them all so much i hope they all take the rest they need

GOD I hope they get rest too :((

breaking soooo much character right now to give my fullest take, and it’s that we can hold multiple ideas in our minds and i don’t think they conflict

playing through injuries is terrible.

They are whole adult human beings and professional athletes who have resources to keep them informed about long term consequences, and they still get to make those choices even if we hate the choices they make. Even if those choices drastically reduce the length of their career. Even if those choices end with long term heath complications.

i might lose some people on this one but i don’t care!! it’s what I believe: being disabled or chronically ill/injured/in pain is not a death sentence. it is not the worst thing in the world. people live full and happy lives whilst also being disabled. can it suck for the person living through it? yes. absolutely. but to me, people are not and never will be defined by how able-bodied they are!!!

All of this is true (to me) and also we can still condemn the circumstances that cause them to make these choices. (culture of not wanting to be seen as soft, the normalisation/valorisation of playing through injury, all the other [gestures wildly] forces at play that set athletes up to make these decisions) Like i’m sorry to get political but choices do not exist in vacuums. sports does not exist separated from hegemonic models of masculinity or capitalism. there are so so so many reasons a player might choose to harm themselves by playing through injury and not all of them are noble or valid, some of them are stupid and informed by bullshit!!! and we should be mad at that bullshit!! because it’s awful!!!!

these are their jobs, and i’m talking in the sense that they are performing labour and i think labour laws and workplace health and safety must apply here too. I think we have to start talking about these things in terms of workers rights, in amongst all of the compassion we have for them as players. there’s the pressure to perform due to contract status and salary bonus milestones; there’s team doctors having direct conflicts of interest, a monetary and cultural incentive to look the other way when clearing people to play; there’s the plain fact of the best possible safety equipment (cages/bowls, neck guards, cut resistant protective gear) not being mandatory; the blatant denial of CTE coming from the league itself. there’s a lot. and it’s a workers rights issue, not just a moral one. someone will play through xyz because of the culture, because of the pressure, and they will die from it.

EVEN STILL. there is beauty and narrative resonance and something compelling about it all, and I don’t want to deny that. as someone looking from the outside in, sports captures people’s hearts because of these narratives. sacrifice and teamwork and triumph — we have an appetite for these things. I am never going to sit here and deny that I feel compelled by it (which is simultaneous to the anger, the fear, the deep deep well of “i’m sorry you have feel you have to do this”) This appetite I/we as a society have for pain — unpacking it and addressing it is a whole other conversation and I am not qualified to have it. I’m just going to acknowledge it exists because I think pretending it doesn’t would be dishonest of me.

we are allowed to feel fucked up about all of this. call it parasocial, call it entitled, call it inappropriate, i don’t know!! we are people and knowing other people are in pain tends to fuck us up — and as much as I try to keep a healthy distance from these celebrities, as much as I remind myself they’re strangers, I care when they’re hurt because I’m human.

anyway. YES OUR POOR CRINGEFAIL WIVES 😭🤲