#dayne answers

[thefloatingwriter]

Abt victors being complex - that's why my personal unpopular headcanon is that most of them didn't have positive feelings about Katniss or Peeta. Because let's be real for a moment, even if you're the nicest person in the world or the most broken and beaten down by the Capitol and the Games: you would think "why wasn't I enough? Why didnt people care enough about me to riot? Why do I have to go through this hell again? Why did they get to break the rules?" And tbh, KP's naivety as victors, from that perspective, would be absolutely grating, they never really seem to Get It until its too late and everyone else has to pay for their mistakes.

yes!!! this!!!! you get it!!!!!

katniss and peeta never had to go through the normal Victor Experience with the pain of mentoring or victor prostitution or the companionship within the victors. they just don’t Get It, like you said. and that’s not their fault!! the capitol shows these people hanging off capitol citizens arms, oohing and awing at everything in their path every year, fully convincing everyone that the victors are happy. that they want to be here, away from their home and families hanging off of strange men and women’s arms. they depict the perfect victors, who smile and wave and sign autographs. victors like chaff and haymitch get about five seconds of screen time before being pushed aside because they’re not interesting, they’re not the focus, they’re not complying with the image we are depicting. they don’t conform with the images we are showing to our citizens.

i truly believe that there was no way all of the victors liked katniss and peeta. actually, i don’t think many of the victors liked katniss and peeta. as in, there was probably like two that genuinely liked them. and also, from their perspective, these are the reason they’re going back into the arena!! none of the victors wanted to do that!!!

we really need more complex victors representation in this fandom…

[sweetestpopcorn]

You mentioned that you like the idea of Maekar Targaryen and Dyanna Dayne. Do you have any headcanons about them as a couple or about Dyanna and her relationship with their kids?

Hi there 🤗

Not that much XD I am one petty b:tch and literally my call to this couple is how cool I find Maekar's name, and also Dyanna being a Dayne. They are such a cool house ❤️ And of course the fact that they are Maester Aemon and Baby Egg's parents.

I think my only headcanon is that Maekar was very serious about his "duty"

And that he was a secret softie with Dyanna and she made him blush.

But that's literally it's, my motives are petty and shallow.

XOXO,

Names are literally enough to make me like characters popcorn.

[nocentis]

x

[dastan-allyrion]

truth serum: what do you think of your sister's new marriage?

“I'm not the best person to judge other people's choices in terms of relationships,” he began, for he knew the shadow of his choice of a paramour still loomed over him and his reputation, even if the relationship and association with her had ended. “I believe the marriage came at the wrong time, mainly,” the Lord of Godsgrace added, for the disappearance of Mayya was still something that weighed down on the members of House Allyrion. It was odd to wish to celebrate a wedding so close to that tragedy. “And I fret for my sister's place. Our culture isn't kind to widows who've birthed heirs already. I do not wish to see her ostracized”. But it was done, the wedding had taken place. And so, as a brother, there was one thing he cared deeply about. “I only wish she can be happier than she was in her previous marriage, and that she feels certain about the decision she made”. Everything else could be adjusted to, worked around, he hoped. “My sister and Baashir have had a caring bond for many years, as I understand, so I hope their marriage works out and brings them peace”.

( @myriamas & @baashirdayne)

[xaviermattthews]

send MORTAL for a scene from my muse's past in which they had a brush with death, either themselves or someone close to them

Get off the floor, X.

The owner of the voice is indiscernible to him -- the pleading nature of it could easily be Bowie's with that soft heart of his, while the exasperation within might very well have been his father's who had grown accustomed to his disappointing nature. It might be Dalton, his long suffering manager who knew what a waste it was asking for an update on the next album.

( There were too many track marks on his arms for his hands to make any leeway with track lists. )

He knows who's voice it isn't.

He doesn't know how he ended up in the shower fully clothed, face to the tiles of the floor, eyes fluttering open to stare at vomit that pooled beside him like a last standing friend.

He doesn't know why he feels so cold despite the heat of water as it rains down on his back, steam condensing where the droplets couldn't reach.

The scariest thing is he thinks he might not know much of anything at all.

Dayne and Bowie had begged him to not get on stage that night, desperate pleads no match for the deaf ears they landed on. He couldn't cancel a show, not for anything, certainly not for her.

He had taken to the stage, taken the mic and taken any chance he could between songs to tear into the legacy of Submergence's former bassist with his teeth.

In the moment, he wished she would feel his ire from Canada.

In this moment, he wishes he could feel her presence.

His breaths don't come to him as easily as they once did, they're something he has to think about with a mind unable to think straight, shallow like his dad always said he lived.

( You keep chasing something that's gonna kill ya, boy. )

He's not a boy, he's a man.

Get off the fucking floor, X.

There's no question of who that was. He recognises the hatred in it, unbridled contempt that was always clawing just beneath the surface like a prisoner in solitary confinement desperate to be released.

It's his own voice.

I'm not gonna die, he tells himself without any words. Not two years passed twenty-seven, too old for the worst kind of club and too young to have really made an impact.

To have mattered.

He's twenty-nine, strong, a frontman of a band on the precipice of something great and he was going to get off the fucking shower floor and walk it off.

The water that had gathered where he was unable to lift his face from the floor splutters from his mouth as he tries to force his body to do exactly that to almost complete rejection.

His body is too heavy, arms too weak and when his hands slip from him and he lands on his back by accident he thinks it might have been his skull that hit the walk-in floor with a crack that makes him want to cry because he doesn't want it to be the last sound he hears.

He should have turned the record player up when he could, but he had been too concerned with the next hit rather than the hits.

He hopes that won't be how they summarise his life. He doesn't want to be vilified by his vices.

Even though he's scared of what he knew was coming next, X can't get off the floor.

The grout between the floor tiles still feel identifiable to him when his hands try blindly grip onto something beside him, biting at his fingertips as his body convulsed violently before shakes followed then stillness.

The stillness brings with it the dark, and with that, the quiet.

He can't remember the last time he experienced true quiet.

No thoughts racing in his mind, no one in his ear talking labels and engagement and chart figures, no infighting between him and Dayne and Bowie and the rotation of bassists that X dismantled for dismal performances none of them had given.

( They just weren't Van. )

It's then he expects the rest of his regrets to show up, to file in like witnesses to an execution sat elbow to elbow on the other side of a two way mirror but they don't.

Maybe they slipped down the shower drain along with the incessant flow that doesn't sting his eyes anymore or catch in his throat.

It all melts away -- none of it matters.

He's alone but he's meant to be, it's for the best, he always ends up back here one way or another.

Xavier stops fighting then, surrendering to the inevitable and what he thinks feels like peace.

Like everything else, it doesn't last.

He doesn't know how long it was when his eyes slowly open, but he knows the water's stopped, the cold of the tiles is no longer beneath his head but something softer.

He would know the touch of the hand at his neck even if he was a dead man and when his brain registers the face of the person holding him, he knows he is. There's no other reality where it made sense, but he wants to stay in this one, wherever it might be.

Heaven, hell or a heroin induced hallucination, he would take whichever it was that brought Van back to him.

"They were all about you," He confesses to the spectre bearing the prettiest face he's ever seen, his muddled mind unable to say everything he wishes he could to her as it starts to creep up on him again -- the heaviness, the dark, the quiet.

"The songs, all the good ones. You."

If she's real, if she's her, he hopes she'll go back and sit with them. To excavate and deconstruct the things he could never tell her plainly.

She deserved to know and even as he loses consciousness again for what he's sure was the final stretch, she had managed to grant him the only thing he had ever truly wanted.

( I'd like to spend the rest of my life with you. )

GLIMPSES OF THE PAST // @vanessagable

[anxiousnerdwritings]

What are your thoughts of yandere gerold dayne? 👀

I love him honestly! He’s such a sullen character, a true asshole of a man who has no problem doing whatever he deems necessary when it benefits him, he’d only be so much worse in his obsession. He wouldn’t acknowledge that he has any attachment towards his darling though, he bare even utters any words to them but when he does it’s always gruff and commanding. As far as his darling knows this strange man absolutely despises them and will kill them without so much as a thought, it’s honestly such a surprise to them that he hasn’t done anything like that. He can be a cruel man, ruled by jealousy especially when it comes to his obsession.

But honestly Gerold ‘Darkstar’ Dayne is so fucking soft for his darling (platonic or romantic). He is very much aware of it and he hates it. He hates how someone can make him behave in such a manner, but he can’t help but to keep them. He didn’t have any intention of interacting with his darling but then something caused him to and now he’s even more hooked than ever before. He’s had a taste of them in his life and now he doesn’t want to let go.

He is also conscious of the fact that he’ll only bring them down with him but he’s willing to do that. He never had been an honorable man anyway.

[ombrathefurry]

this but any selected ocs

:3

[florisbaratheons]

what do you think of house dayne? i think part of their appeal is that they're so mysterious. we have arthur, ashara, allyria, their nephew edric and of course gerold. so few scenes we have with them and so many questions. btw, do you think ashara is the mother of jon or lyanna?

Oh my god? This is such a great question. I'm going to do my best to answer it, but I will be honest, I have not read the main books, only Fire and Blood.

So House Dayne always felt like almost an offshoot of House Martell to me, but more mystical and magical. I mean, their title is Lord/Lady of Starfall. Arthur's moniker was "Sword of the Morning", and their house sword was called "Dawn". You cannot get anymore mystical and magical then that.

Arthur is a funny character to me. From what I know about him, he was greatly loyal to Rhaegar, but apparently he was also very close to Elia and her children. I've seen many beautiful arts of Elia and Arthur, which made me think that there was something between them, but from what I could find, there wasn't? And he died at the Tower of Joy protecting Lyanna? (And possibly aided Rhaegar in stealing her away.) He was also greatly admired by Jaime Lannister and I have seen some fantastic arts and fics of where one of Jaime and Brienne's sons is named Arthur. He's like Robb in that sense, he's this person everyone aspires to be like, to admire and respect and look up too.

Ashara is a bit confusing to me. She had this relationship with Ned Stark, it seemed like she was the one that Ned wanted and she wanted him in return, but then Brandon died, and Ned married Brandon's betrothed, and so any hope of that going further went out the window. Was it Ned leaving her behind that made her jump? Was it the news of Ned murdering her brother? Is Ashara even dead at all? So many questions.

There isn't much of Allyria to go on except that she was to marry Beric Dondarrian. Is she still alive?

Are the Daynes related to the Targs and the Martells? Because their looks seem to be a mix of both of those families. Edric Dayne having blond hair and blue eyes that look almost purple. Edric is also the son of the unnamed Lord of Starfall. He seems to have a very pure and loyal heart, and his helping Beric during his times being revived is fascinating and truly a shame we never got to see brought to screen.

Gerold's nickname is Darkstar???? Goddammit, HBO, what were you thinking not adapting these characters? I sincerely hope one day we will see these forgotten characters be brought back to life in another show or film.

I'm sorry I couldn't give you more, anon. Thank you again for the question!

[steelfyre]

a raven arrived : ❝ no, i think she just wears her hair too tight. ❞ from @ichorsveined

glare  remained  fixed  on  the  noble who sauntered away. fangs longed to be extended rather than dig into her own tongue. a huff was all that escaped, but one corner of her lips twitched.  ❝  let us hope it's tight enough that some strands start falling out. ❞

[askmeaboutmyoctopustheory]

hey!! can i just ask what AD=JR means? in terms of asoiaf theories. i've never heard of it before i don't think

Ashara Dayne=Jyana Reed!! Ashara isn't dead, she's happily married and alive and smoking weed at Greywater Watch! Here's the lowdown:

We know that Ashara perhaps spent some time in Ned's tent at Harrenhal, we also know that Howland shared that tent. We're told that Ashara had an allegedly stillborn daughter who would have been conceived around that time. We're also told that Ashara allegedly killed herself from jumping off a tower at her family castle, but her body was never recovered.

We also know that Howland has a daughter who is about the same age as Robb and Jon. Howland was a bachelor at Harrenhal but he would have had to conceive Meera around the time he was traveling with Ned in the rebellion. While it's entirely possible to have had a quickie wedding and bedding like Ned and Cat, the Neck is out of the way and difficult to traverse. Howland likely wouldn't have been able to really slip away and get married and rejoin the party easily. Was Ashara's baby not in fact stillborn, but Meera Reed?

Howland's wife Jyana is listed in ASOS without a family name, she's just listed as "of the crannogmen". His daughter Meera is introduced in ACOK as his heir, which is a uniquely Dornish custom; the Daynes are Dornish(albeit "stony Dornish" who sometimes follow customs of the rest of the continent) and Ashara could have kept absolute primogeniture alive for her daughter.

That's the basics, here's a few more things that I also like to point out:

-Greywater Watch , the seat of House Reed is literally "Howl(and)'s moving castle". Howl in the novel catches falling stars. Ashara Dayne, of Starfall is symbolically a "falling star" caught by her own Howl.

-The Dornish retained the titles prince/princess when incorporated into the 7K and the crannogmen are closely associated with frogs, making Howland and Ashara the princess and the frog.

-One of the historical Daynes we know of is Dyanna, remarkably close to Jyana. Jyana could also be Jon&Lyanna, the secret that bound the survivors of the Tower of Joy.

-Jojen Reed has the unnaturally green eyes of those with greensight, but we're never told the color of his eyes prior to gaining the gift of the sight. Because he is usually portrayed with lighter hair, some fans of this theory speculate that he had purple eyes and light hair like the Dayne we know of close to his age, Edric.

In Deep Geek on youtube also has a great video hashing all this out but I don't think I missed anything in this post, still a great video! Don't know if you wanted this much of an explanation but clearly this is one theory I fully buy into lmao. I just love the idea of two very unlikely people finding love amongst immense tragedy.

[isefyres-archive]

@dcviline asked: “I mean it. Why aren’t you dancing with anyone? Aren’t there ladies whom you like?” (rhaella @ arthur)

The   Kingsguard   shift   his   gaze   toward   the   Queen   and   then   toward   the   dance   floor.   Through   the   roam   of   people,   he   can   see   his   sister   enjoying   herself,   dancing   with   the   youngest   prince   and   with   Prince   Oberyn,   drawing   everyone   to   herself.   Many   ladies   do   stare   back   at   him   and   Arthur   is   aware   that   when   the   Prince   is   not   around,   he   draws   the   gazes   to   himself.   "I'm   the   Commander   of   the   Kingsguard,   I'm   afraid   I   shouldn't   leave   my   post   simply   because   a   lady   fancies   a   dance,   Your   Grace."   He   points   out,   a   smile   briefly   appearing   on   her   lips   in   turn.   "Ladies   are   not   the   issue.   I   like   them   plenty,   but   I   made   a   vow."

[thefloatingwriter]

Oh the way fandom just erases them from the Quell alliance is wiiiiild and so transparently just because they aren't young and traditionally attractive. Because they're KEY to everything. First of all, in the books D3 is one of the first districts to start rebelling even before the Quell which also implies Beetee and Wiress were already "problem" victors. Then you've got them being literally Katniss's deal breaker, she's like "I will not go along with this shit unless I get them as allies". Then, oh yeah, Wiress is the only one to figure out the arena gimmick and Beetee is Central to the plan to break out of the arena. Everyone is toast without them. And finally, Katniss straight up likes Wiress, she spends an exorbitant amount of time in the arena on looking out for Wiress and just being with her, when Wiress is killed Katniss takes precious time to close her eyes and tell her goodbye.

this!! exactly this anon you get it. they are so important to the overall plot of catching fire and the entire series as a whole. like look me dead in the eye and tell me that if beetee wasn’t there the rebellion would have still succeeded. like you can’t. it doesn’t even make logical sense to say that. in mockingjay it is mentioned multiple times that the only reason the broadcasting of the propos even work is because of beetee. he redesigned the entire broadcasting system himself. the rebellion literally would have failed without him.

and wiress. she’s literally there to show how the hunger games affects even the strongest people, a former victor. to show the extent of the trauma and imprint the hunger games leaves on everyone. and yet she’s completely pushed aside and it’s so infuriating. katniss everdeen would not stand for this shit.

[west1rosi]

@dcviline asked: we  were  just  having  an  argument. (rhaella @ arthur)

Purple   eyes   follow   the   line   to   the   now   closed   doors   of   the   King's   chambers.   He   needs   no   further   explanation   about   who   the   Queen   was   referring   to.   Every   Kingsguard   knew   how   the   king   treated   his   wife,   even   more   so,   how   he   treated   the   Princess   and   everyone   else   at   the   castle.   The   youngest   of   his   sons   was   safe   elsewhere   but   Arthur   knew   that   eventually,   Viserys   would   have   to   spend   more   time   with   his   father   and   for   that,   he   prays   for   the   young   prince.   Rhaegar   was   a   man   grown,   with   a   mind   of   his   own,   he   cannot   say   the   same   thing   for   the   sweet   prince.

  "Are   you   alright,   My   Queen?"   He   asks   in   turn.   The   guard   offers   a   piece   of   his   cloak   for   the   Queen   to   brace   herself   and   clean   whatever   remains   of   tears   or   frustration,   his   armor   heavy   enough   to   shield   from   other's   view.   "Do   I   need   to   call   for   Prince   Rhaegar?   He   seems   to   be   the   one   to   handle   the   King.   Barely   so."   And   perhaps   he   grows   bold   because   he   has   seen   plenty.   He   keeps   quiet   most   days,   his   priority   being   beside   his   friend,   his   vows   tying   him   down   to   the   Mad   King,   as   he   was   now   referred   in   whispers.   

[nocentis]

Black Arum ┆ Siegrain

Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.

╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.

A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.

That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.

So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.

╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.

Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.

Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.

There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.

“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.

The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.

He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.

Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands. 

Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”

Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.

A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.

His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.

"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”

The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.

His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.

He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.

He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”

Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her. 

He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.

But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.

He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.

The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow.  A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.

Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.

It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.

Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.

He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.

This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.

A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.

She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.

What are these hands for if not this?

Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.

The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.

Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it. 

What are these teeth for if not this?

Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.

The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.

He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.

Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.

He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.

You’re no better than this starving world.

He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.

[thedeadthree]

— CHARACTER RED FLAGS.

TAGGED BY my dearies @denerims, @echo3-1, @phillipsgraves, @jendoe, @chuckhansen and @adelaidedrubman to take this cutest uquiz for the loves! ty ty so much <3

TAGGING: @feystepped, @griffin-wood, @kingsroad, @marivenah, @50sjello, @risingsh0t, @queennymeria, @aartyom, @jackiesarch, @florbelles, @unholymilf, @leviiackrman, @confidentandgood, @pheedraws, @morvaris, @malefiicarum, @arklay, @fragilestorm, @impales, @jacobseed, @blissfulalchemist, @heroofpenamstan, @shadowglens, @shellibisshe, @aceghosts, @loriane-elmuerto, @belorage, @rosebarsoap, @lavinet and you!

LACK OF TRUST

this one isn't that difficult to understand. you're extremely secretive, and you're afraid that if you open up you'll get hurt (again?). you probably raise suspicion against others and accuse them of something they never did. you let your anxiety and worry influence the way you view people which is never good.

MANIPULATIVE

you're probably a passive aggressive person. you frequently lie, and gaslight to get your way. you never want to be held responsible for your actions so you avoid situations by either victimizing yourself, belittling others concerns, hiding the truth, and using threats to harm yourself or others

VIOLENT

when something makes you upset, it could even be the tiniest most petty reason ever, you yell, rage, and possibly throw stuff in anger. your actions think quicker than your mind, and it could probably not even be intentional but the next thing you'll realize is that you've hurt someone

LACK OF TRUST

this one isn't that difficult to understand. you're extremely secretive, and you're afraid that if you open up you'll get hurt (again?). you probably raise suspicion against others and accuse them of something they never did. you let your anxiety and worry influence the way you view people which is never good.

STUBBORN

you don't recognize the opinions and beliefs of others, either that or you don't care about them. you stick strongly to what you were raised to doing, and don't realize that the world can change. you have extremely strong beliefs, and you think that if another's beliefs aren't the exact same as yours, they're wrong and you automatically hate them. you also might be political and close minded

[xaviermattthews]

🫂 PEOPLE HUGGING — generally speaking, do you feel very supported by the people in your life? how strong and cohesive is your support system, if you have one? do you often feel like you're at the front of the line or pushed to the side by the people in your life?

"I don't think I could get a better support system if I went looking for one. Karmically speaking, I should have been left on my ass by myself a long time ago for the shit that I've pulled, but I haven't been."

"I got a girl who would go to the ends of the earth for me, a best friend who always makes the time even if there isn't any, a sister who loves me no matter what, a sponsor who never lets the phone ring more than twice and I've got this band who've let me call myself a frontman for half a decade even when it's been them who've had to hold me upright to no fucking thanks from me. Take everything else away and just leave that and I ain't doing half bad." @vanessagable @bradley-banner @greengideon

IN CHARACTER CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT QUESTIONS .