#his brain is literally in the great depression

[littlestsnicket]

random armand focused iwtv thoughts and headcanons with absolutely no fandom wank this time:

i think armand is actually probably a really good teacher. he was certainly successful at teaching louis to use the fire gift, and i think it dovetails nicely with his desire to provide service and his capacity for levelheaded severity and dominance. (which he does have--the evil trauma gremlin is a separate trait and doesn't usually get triggered when teaching)

fucking obsessed with the park bench scene. louis sitting there in the rain with an umbrella in his lap, looking at armand, looking at the umbrella, and being like "i'm a bit wet". he's feeling that out, seeing how armand responds to this power dynamic before they have the rest of that conversation. like... this is calculated, louis knows and is telegraphing what he wants from armand, and armand is so eager to give it. it makes me insane. obsessed with their dynamic. truly obsessed.

and the scene before louis is going to give madeleine the gift... i actually don't think armand takes poorly to having his boundaries respected. i don't think armand is quite that fucked up (or more accurately, he is that fucked up, but has a good understanding in at least some parts of his brain about exactly how fucked up he is even if he has some weird cognitive dissonance about it, and is able to rationally interpret that as a good thing in that moment, even if it puts him off balance). what armand takes poorly is louis being wrong. louis took responsibility for something and couldn't actually handle it and that totally undermined armand's sense of safety in their relationship. which is obviously not reasonable or healthy, but i think makes a lot of sense for armand and his decision making process.

i'm also really attached to the idea that armand has a good working knowledge of modern risk aware BDSM practices. he has the internet. and as much as louis and armand don't have many (hardly any) actual peers and are therefore wildly codependent, i think they both have a ton more casual contact with people than they appear to in the dubai interview. i think louis is coming out of a particularly bad depressive funk so temporarily doesn't have much contact with the outside world, and showing himself to have outside contact doesn't serve armand's narrative. anyway, i think armand has been to his fair share of kink clubs.

i think a large part of why lestat lets louis go with armand in the tower is because he believes (correctly, at least in this case; that is literally the least convincing yes i have ever heard when louis asks armand if he saved him) that armand is not a very good liar so if louis doesn't believe lestat saved him, it's primarily because louis doesn't want to. armand is great at controlling a narrative, significantly less great at flat out lies.

armand functions, structurally, as a femme fatale in a detective story. he's exactly as simultaneously shady, secretive, tragic, and alluring as he seems to be--the reveal is just that he's done something worse, but still totally in character, than we thought.

loumand from louis' perspective: i loved you in paris, i'm not sure if i love you now or am just scared of being alone. sometimes i can work with that and things are good, other times i think i'm betraying claudia's memory by being this close to you and am going to punish both of us for it. a lot of the time i'm clinically depressed in a way that actually has very little to do with you, but you're such a martyr you can't see that and sometimes i crave the resulting attention and subservience and other times it makes me sick with both of us.

[emberglowfox]

i kind of knew in theory that all my hobbies involved my hands but i kind of just ignored it n was like oh well im sure id manage

top ten pics taken seconds before disaster

[jitteryjive]

a few studies of chester… GO!!! i drew the first one cause i wanted to draw daisy (because she’s awesome) and the second cause i wanted to draw clothes accurate to the context of chester living in manhattan (most clothes i draw are ruhosian alternatives). also i’m nearly done with chapter two so this was a good refresher with pre possession chester!

[spock-adoodledoo]

oh my god i just finished the dark forest finally. 7/10 i suppose, i went through the first half or so of the book being really annoyed by luo ji but also enjoying the chapters where he shows up because unfortunately he was entertaining. still don't understand the imaginary girlfriend thing, it just feels like he needs someone to protect from the world which like ??? ok sure i guess, it just rubs me the wrong way personally. for the second half and especially the end i became luo ji's number one defender it's fine. for the rest, holy crap—the droplet, the microcosm of the universe on those runaway ships, the wallfacer project, luo ji drawing from rey diaz's plan, the attitude of the world towards him, the entire theory... wow

[majihugs]

I am so spoiling Infinite Wealth for myself idc.

I need to know how Kiryu's story Really ends. 😭

[sp0o0kylights]

Sometimes I think of a Steve Harrington that is absolutely exhausted by all the horror and bullshit and trying to keep the kids alive through said horror and bullshit, who watches Eddie rock up to him at the beginning of S4 with a dead eyed, flat stare.

"Steeeeve Harrington." Eddie taunts and peacocks and twirls around him, and all Steve wanted was for a couple months to process the trauma, maybe feel safe enough to start thinking about the future instead of stuck in a never ending anxiety loop of what might happen to Dumbass Near-Deatherson, should Steve go to college or move out of Hawkins (bc all the bad nicknames in the world won't erase the fact that Dustin's family, now. They're all family. And when they need help, they go to Steve.) and now he's suffering the unjust ordeal of being haunted by the high school drug dealer.

"His highness has come down from his castle!" Munson will crow, making a show out of Steve picking up the kids like this is a great battle of wits, a scoreboard between them and not like Steve is half dead on his feet, head aching, dreams full of too many teeth. "Quickly hide behind me, he'll try to cut off your heads!"

"Wouldn't he just cut yours off too?" Lucas asked, though the tone was slightly timid, Sinclair unsure if his joke would be well recieved.

(Steve doesn't care if the kid outright insults him. He still recalls the junkyard, the fight with Billy, the blood staining the kid's headband. Lucas lived, therefore, he can be a shit if wants.)

"Mine? Oh, the King wouldn't dare." Munson tosses his head, full of cartoon energy, too big for his body and grin both. "Many have tried you see, but no one had ever succeeded!"

Steve, equally, does not give a single shit that Eddie Munson has decided to play these games with him--until he realizes he's maybe been a little too exhausted and depressed and morose around the kids.

Watches them getting worried over him, whispering urgently and making dramatic gestures and talking to Robin and suddenly, playing a little tug of war over them the way Munson seems to want feels like a good idea. A way to hide all the rough edges, a way to be fine so they can be fine.

"How about you guys skip the dork brigade tonight," Steve taunts back the next time they're all together, standing like the man he used to be, wearing a dead personality. "And we go do something actually fun instead?"

Eddie laughs, lights up, is all too happy to match him tit for tat, and it's so easy to fake this kind of interaction, rolling his eyes and snapping his gum. Steve could match this energy in his sleep, and never once does Munson catch on that Steve's not doing this for him.

That he's not even looking at him half the time, eyes askew, locked on the kids. Seeing them relax as he banters, seeing Dustin glow as he returns to his favorite position, being the center of attention.

So long as they think he's okay, Steve will be okay. If that means putting up with Munson, then so be it.

Its not like he'll catch on.

Eddie doesnt.

(Or rather, he does--but Its months and several deaths later, when they're in the RV, chasing what feels like literal demons, does it dawn on Eddie what Steve is doing.

Has been doing, the whole time.

Steve, sassy, ridiculous, jock- brained Steve makes the mistake of doing it again, using the same trick he had on the kids to convince them he was fine on Eddie. To further convince Eddie that they were fine as a group.

That they'll survive, they'll figure it out, they'll make it.

Loudly bantering with dead eyes, smiling with a mouth robotically locked in. Jokes on jokes on jokes and all of them making the kids take their minds off VecnaHenryOne to screech ineffectively at their babysitter. Winks tossed to the girls, who both roll their eyed at him. A sly look given to Eddie, to include him.

Its then, that Eddie decides to cement his life with Steve's. Because this loyal bastard of a paladin is too good hearted to die, too protective to not try it anyway. The idiot is cutting himself to ribbons to tie them all together and Eddie can't undo the damage but he can grab all the pieces he can, loop them together.

He can make those dead eyes light up again.

And he does.

This time when things are over Steve finds himself unable to pull those little tricks of his. Every time he slides the mask over his face Eddie rips it right back off again.

They fight, a lot, until they start kissing instead and for a while that also, somehow, feels like fighting but Eddie's real good at this. The emotional part, not so much the kissing, but he knows how to draw Steve out. How to break down walls, and annoying his real personality out.

The kissing was just an odd little side benefit.

A thing they don't talk about.

There's a benefit to it, one he doesn't look very hard into, until strangely, one day, Eddie wakes with Steve's head pillowed on his shoulder and comes to the abrupt conclusion that he's screwed.

Or so he thinks--until bright, loving eyes blink awake, and turn on him, and Eddie realizes just how long it's been since they looked dead.

He wonders, vaguely, how long it'll take for Steve to catch on, that this just got serious.

Will laugh at himself when he learns that Steve already knew.

Guess that's what he gets for finally paying attention.)

[senipsenipsenip]

Dipper sighed as he felt another pen crack between his molars. Great, Mabel was definitely going to make fun of him for the ink stains on his mouth when she got home. He could hear it now, Wow Dipper, I knew you were a nerd, but I didn't know if I left you alone you'd start kissing your homework.

Dipper sighed and threw the pen into the trash with the other three he'd already snapped. It wasn't fair - he spent the whole summer fighting monsters and saving the world, why did he have to learn the stupid Great Depression's effect on American Literature or whatever. He glanced at the calendar. Only a little over a month until winter break. Grunkle Stan and Great Uncle Ford had promised to try and make it back to Gravity Falls so they could host the twins for the holidays. Sure, they had only been on the open ocean for a couple of months, but the two of them decided it would probably be best to start with a shorter trip then build up from there. After all, despite their age, they were still rookies. Besides, there was nothing on the sea that would help jog Stan's memory other than Great Uncle Ford's questioning. Being on home soil would hopefully bring back some more of Stan's forgotten past.

Dipper's phone pinged. He frowned. That shouldn't happen. He had his phone on Do Not Disturb so he could finish studying. The only alerts that would still pass through were texts from Mabel, Grunkle Stan, or Great Uncle Ford. Mabel never texted when she was out with her friends, and it's not like there was a lot of cell reception out at sea. Curiosity peaked, Dipper unlocked his phone.

It was Stan. More specifically, Stan's boots on the deck of the boat. It was a video, and before Dipper could press play, three little dots appeared indicating Stan was typing. Dipper sat back and waited. It usually took Grunkle Stan awhile to type out his messages. He always blamed the too small phone screen, saying it wasn't designed for fat fingers and cataracts.

What does this mean?

Dipper frowned at the message. Was he asking Dipper to decode a message? Why wouldn't he just ask Great Uncle Ford? Unless...oh gosh was Great Uncle Ford in danger? Did they need help? Why wouldn't he call? Dipper turned his volume up as high as he could, pressing play with a sweaty thumb.

The video started on Stan's boots, but quickly shifted as Stan started pointing his phone at something on the...oh. The wooden planks Dipper had seen Stan standing on weren't the planks of the boat deck, they were floorboards for an outdoor patio. A patio that was full of people speaking...some sort of language. Something Nordic maybe. Geez, weren't they freezing? Maybe not because...Nordic.

The camera was pointed at the door separating the bar from the patio, specifically, the top right corner where a set of speakers had been hung. Oh, Dipper realized. He's trying to record the music. Dipper held the phone to his ear. Maybe Stan was trying to figure out a secret code in the lyrics? He was pretty sure he had told Stan all about that day when they saved Wendy from Robbie's horrible music. This sounded a lot different than Robbie's music though. It was way more upbeat and -

...comin' through, that girl is youuuu...

"Oh my God," Dipper groaned, letting his head fall to his desk. Of course. Of course that's what would be playing. Of course a Nordic bar would be blasting Icelandic Pop Sensation BABBA.

Now Stan's message made sense. He had heard the song and felt "The Itching". That's what Stan had taken to calling it when he could feel himself starting to remember something, but needed a little extra help making it make sense. Stan said it was because it felt like an itching in the back of his brain. Dipper was pretty sure he called it that because if he announced he had "an itch that needs scratching" it was always a fifty-fifty toss up as to whether he needed help with a memory or literally wanted someone to help him scratch himself. Sometimes it was both. Either away, Stan got a kick out of how many times he could trick Ford.

Dipper grimaced. Maybe he could get out of this one. After all, Stan doesn't need all of his memories...right? He could forget some of the more embarrassing ones.

It's a song by BABBA. He typed. It's called "Disco Girl." There. The fact Stan's going to know that Dipper can identify the song is embarrassing enough, he doesn't need to remember The Incident.

The three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Oh. OK.

Dipper sat his phone down. There. That was that. He didn't need to feel guilty about how Stan somehow managed to sound disappointed with two words. Besides, he had homework to do. He was a busy guy. Yep, not gonna think about it.

His phone pinged.

Made me think of you.

Okay. Starting to feel guilty now. Dipper sighed. Even over text message, he could hear the tone of voice Stan would say it in. That tone where he would say something like it was just a careless aside so that you wouldn't think he was taking something seriously, so then you wouldn't take it seriously, so that he could tell himself you didn't take it seriously because you thought he wasn't taking it seriously and not because you don't take him seriously or care about him seriously or -

Dipper frowned. Maybe these English classes were doing something after all. Apparently all of that fictional character analysis made him better at analyzing his uncle.

He could picture Stan now, having already sat his phone face-down on the table, wondering why there was some memory of Dipper that Dipper didn't want to share with him. Oh man, he probably thinks Dipper's tired of helping out with his memories or something.

That's because you heard me sing it once. Dipper wrote. That should be enough to jog Stan's memory a bit.

The three dots. Heard or saw?

Dipper groaned. Maybe Stan was just messing with him. He probably remembered the whole thing and was just trying to get Dipper to regale him with the story again so he could laugh at him.

Whatever. Dipper would be the bigger man.

Both. You walked in on me after I got out of the shower. You really need to learn how to knock, man.

There. That should be enough. Hopefully Stan and Ford will get back on the boat and see a giant Kraken or something equally as awesome so Stan forgets all about this conversation.

He exited out of their message thread and opened up his thread with Great Uncle Ford. Whatever "clever" joke Stan wanted to make at his expense would probably take forever to write. Might as well take advantage of the good cell service while he knows they have it.

Hey! Are you with Grunkle Stan?

Three bubbled appeared. Dipper didn't have to wait long. Ford was a surprisingly quick texter.

Yes, we're exploring the town together. I take it you're the one he's been texting?

Yeah. He had an itch. Nothing crazy, just a song he heard this summer he couldn't remember the name of. Okay, he probably could have told Ford. Especially after learning about the whole Kiss-Bot incident, Dipper's BABBA incident definitely didn't come close. But c'mon, wasn't Dipper allowed to have at least one family member who thought he had a shred of dignity left?

He smiled. Probably not. After all, he was a Pines.

Ah, that explains his behavior then.

Dipper frowned. Behavior? Is he okay?

Oh yes, of course. My apologies if my language was alarming, Stanley says I tend to word things "dramatically". He's simply trying to ask the table next to us if there are any music stores nearby. I didn't realize children still used physical CDs.

Wait. Stan is looking for a music store? Why specifically mention children? Dipper typed slowly, wording his questions as discretely as he could.

Oh? Is Stan looking for a CD?

The bubbles appeared. Then disappeared. Dipper frowned. They reappeared.

Disregard my earlier message.

Oh they were definitely up to something. Two could play at that game. You don't live with a professional con man all summer and not learn how to get what you want out of someone.

Okay. Hey, Grunkle Stan showed me a bit of the patio. Can you send a video too? Would be interested in seeing where you are.

Of course. One moment, please.

Dipper sat his phone on his desk while he waited. Realistically, he should be working on his homework while he waits. It's not like he'll be able to focus on anything when Mabel gets home. But, it's not like he can focus on anything now, mind buzzing as much as it is.

After three minutes and fifty-three seconds, Dipper's phone pinged. He grinned and pressed play.

The video started pointing toward the other side of the patio. Made sense, Ford was probably sitting across from Stan at their table. Stan was nowhere to be seen though. He must have stood up to speak to the table next to him. Dipper could see townsfolk sat at their tables in heavy winter coats, hats, scarves, and gloves. Everyone was wrapped up in their own conversations, and while Ford panned slowly across the porch, Dipper recognized another BABBA song playing faintly in the background. The owner must have had a playlist going. There were fairy lights strung up across the porch, street lamps helping illuminate the night. Wherever they were must have been in the middle of some small town, probably no bigger than Gravity Falls.

"Ford!" Grunkle Stan's voice rang out. Dipper quickly held the phone up to his ear again. There was a loud metallic grating sound - probably Grunkle Stan pulling out his chair to sit down again.

"You're never gonna believe it!" Stan sounded excited about something.

"A moment, please, Stan," Ford murmured.

"We don't have to go to the music store! Those people didn't speak English but the guy who runs this place does a little. That internet translator did the rest."

"Google, Stanley."

"Whatever. Anyway, he said he'd sell me the CD he's playing right now when he closes up for the night."

"That's great Stan. Hold on a moment I'm just trying to film this for -"

"Dipper's gonna love this! I think. It's sort of coming back to me. I think that memory he helped me with, I think..."

Stan trailed off. Dipper pulled the phone away from his ear to see if the video had ended, but Ford was still dutifully scanning their surroundings with the camera. It looked like Ford had stood up, holding the phone high above his head to show Dipper the coastline beyond the porch railings.

"I think I told him I was proud of him that day." Stan's confession was quiet. But Stan quiet. Which meant loud enough to be picked up on Ford's camera.

Ford's movement stopped. "You did? Why?"

"Well. I sorta did. I think. He was tryna prove he was 'a man' or whatever, so I told him he was. He stood up for what was right even though no one else agreed with him. And then I think I uh...ripped my shirt off and showed him my chest hair. Maybe I should get him to fill in some of those blanks there."

Ford laughed. "I don't remember it taking much to get you to take your shirt off."

"I'm a gross, old man now, Ford. We'd all prefer if it stayed on."

Ford hummed. "So how much is the CD?"

"Eh, he wants like 500 Kroner."

"Seems overpriced."

"Well it's gonna be free."

Ford sighed. "Stanley..."

"What?" Stan cried indignantly. "He's obviously tryna scam me anyway! Besides, it's worth it. Dipper will love it! It's a CD of a band he likes from Iceland stolen from Iceland. Trust me it'll be worth the -"

All sound stopped. The video had ended. Dipper sat at his desk, a small smile on his face. He had been so worried about Stan remembering one of his more embarrassing moments but...Stan remembered it as a day that Dipper made him proud. Huh.

He exited the video and saw that Ford had sent him another message only a minute after sending the video.

Please disregard that video. Terrible audio quality, I have to retake it.

As Dipper began to type a reply, he saw three bubbles appear. He waited.

I'm going to infer that the delay in your response is because you didn't see my message in time and already viewed the video. My apologies, I forget how strong the audio quality of phone cameras are.

Three more bubbles.

Please act surprised.

Ah well. Dipper had omitted the truth a couple of times tonight. What was one more? He started to type.

Sorry, I was working on my homework while I waited for an answer. Guess I got distracted. Should I not watch the video?

Three bubbles. Ah, I see. Yes, that would be for the best. I'll take another video for you now. In the meantime, keep up the good work!

Dipper sat his phone back down on the table and picked up another pen. Might as well do a little more homework so he wasn't totally lying. But first...

He opened his message thread with Stan.

Need help with anything else?

Nope. Go to bed.

Dipper laughed. There it was. The curmudgeon was back, trying to hide the fact he was a big softie underneath.

It's earlier here you know. If anyone should be in bed, it should be you.

I'm old. I do what I want.

Okay old man. Love you!

Sap.

Dipper snorted and sat down his phone. A moment later, it pinged again. He glanced at the screen and saw it was another message from Stan. It was only two words, but they knocked together like flint and steel, lighting something warm in Dipper's chest.

You too.

AN: A continuation of this! I kind of just want to write a bunch of one shots going with this. Some ideas are brewing!

[fashion-runways]

hi!! new pinned post, because the last one had gotten long again-- if you want to read previous posts, here's the first one, here's the second one. the tl;dr from those is that my dad got wrongfully imprisoned abruptly, our place was raided, the cops broke a bunch of shit and took a bunch of our things and still haven't returned them, they left all the broken things for us to spend money in repairing, we had to spend money on a lawyer, trips to visit him, new clothes, medicine and food for him in jail, etc. it was a mess, way more details in both posts. he's back home now, with an ankle monitor because technically his case isn't being investigated yet, they haven't done anything about it at all, the case hasn't moved one ounce lmao it's great, always trust the judicial system and cops!! ugh, anyway!

we found a therapist for my dad who can help her deal with all the stuff he had to deal with while in prison, all the bullying, the depression, the starving, the separation, etc. he needs to get a bunch of other medical appointments, has to get surgery, among other things, but for now things are much better on that front. that being said, he did lose his job and my old redbubble account got suspended without a warning months ago, plus argentina's economy is... really bad right now. food prices rise every day, public transportation prices went up like a 200% in a couple of weeks, salaries are low and stuck there, subsidies are gone, the local peso keeps falling, we have an absolute psychopath as a president who spends more time insulting or threatening anyone who oppose him than caring about people. it's a disaster. for updates on argentina in english, this person on twitter makes very good informative threads if you're interested.

anyway, i used to make around 30/40 dollars a month in redbubble, and that used to help adding up to the donations i got here, and it got suspended, so now i make like 1/2 dollars on teepublic monthly. so... it's a huge loss. there's a lot of things me and my mom are in charge of paying-- groceries, power and water and gas, medicine (she's diabetic, i have some sort of chronic sinusitis), our dog and cat's food and medicines, wifi, phone bills, public transportation, healthcare, my dad's new therapist... so, you know, i really need anything people can donate. even if it's just a single dollar, literally any amount helps. i love fashion so much and i love this blog, i work really hard on it even when my brain says no, and i really appreciate how much you guys love it too. i love seeing people discover new styles, new designers, new things to be inspired by. so, yeah... i'm never going anywhere, but i do need help to basically stay afloat.

as usual, my kofi link is this one: https://ko-fi.com/fashionrunways and my teepublic link is this one: https://www.teepublic.com/user/dinah-lance. thanks for being around and sharing and reblogging my posts, thanks for asking questions about fashion, and of course thanks for helping to the ones who can, and thanks to the ones who can't too, i know how that feels like, don't worry about it. love you 💖

[dystopyx-blog]

Bro I think so hard about being in TWST without meds but specifically with Floyd. The way he just, doesn't care. You're tired? Awww how sad, he wants to play with his favorite shrimpy. You think he doesn't care at all until you hurt yourself and suddenly he's shackled to your side.

I just got like brain blasted by the SH post due to my own spiraling and like tjis idea alone has given me so much comfort

bro Floyd comfort…. I mean he is literally a comfort character for me, if it isn’t obvious lol. I’m really really glad I could give you some comfort! Genuinely, that gives ME comfort. Especially since my yandere twst posts are also meant to give me comfort, so the fact they do the same for others warms my heart.

It’s so surprising the first time Floyd comforts you. He approaches you, going “hey hey hey, what’s the matter with shrimpy? :(“ and you try to tell him it’s nothing. “Ain’t nothin’ if it got shrimpy sad. Tell me what’s wrong.” And to your surprise he sits and listens. And he’s a good listener, at least for you in that specific moment. He doesn’t interrupt, he doesn’t make fun of you, he sits there and hums to let you know he’s listening. You find yourself spilling everything to him, it’s surprisingly easy to. Maybe you shouldn’t have, maybe he’ll just use it all against you in the future, who fucking cares, this is what you need right now. For a second you wonder if this is actually Jade using Shock the Heart on you somehow. But no, it’s Floyd. A seemingly very out of character Floyd? After pouring your heart out to him, he hits you with a sympathetic stare. “Damn, shrimpy,” he says, “that really sucks…”

Then he gets up and you assume, that’s it, he’s gonna leave me here now. But he offers you a hand and a grin. “C’mon Shrimpy, I’m gonna cheer you up.” ‘And he will try his damndest to do just that, taking you all over campus to find something to lift your spirits. But really, the very process of hanging out with him and watching him try to find something to do with you is enough to have you smiling. You end up in the Mostro Lounge, Floyd promising to get ya whatever you want. Unfortunately, Jade is the one to take your order, which means, of course, you’re subject to his needling. But then Floyd shoos him away. And later, when Azul himself appears at your table, hoping to get his suckers on useful information, Floyd glares at him and tells him to leave you alone. “Great Seven, why can’t anyone just leave us alone? Cant they see I’m tryna spend time with my shrimpy?” And maybe you don’t realize it at the time, still so caught off guard from what seemed to be a total flip in personality, but he meant it when he called you his shrimpy. If you were anyone else, he wouldn’t have given a fuck, it’s only because you were you that Floyd was at all invested in your feelings. Cuz everything about his shrimpy is interesting and entertaining. That’s why they’re his. You notice Floyd hangs out with you a lot more after that, stuck to your side like glue. He’s awful for ADD considering his sudden swings in mood. You get distracted, but it’s even worse with him because once he’s in the mood to do something he just does it. So you’ll be trying to focus on work, and he’ll be there because he’s basically always with you at this point, and he suddenly decides you two have to go do this random thing right now. It’s the same when you’re in depressions, too, he’ll drag you along. It’s surprisingly helpful, though. It’s hard to be bored with Floyd, which makes sense considering how much he hates being bored. So even without your antidepressants… well, at least you have Floyd Leech??

[darlingofvalyria]

❝I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage. I will not be swept aside.❞

[ The Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should have known his wife better— or at least, her ire, for when his trysts with the bastard Snow reached the Spiders and soon, the ears of his Princess Consort, rage and war drummed for Winterfell, demanding heads.

—Maestre Kevan, Volume IV of The Bastard Eater, passage chapter under 'The Flame that Sung for the North'. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 10,062 ] [ series masterlist ] | jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt!reader (aegon's twin sister), one-sided aegon ii x reader, jace x sara snow

contains— canon divergence - manipulative reader, targcest, smut, angst - post-vizzy t death, rhaenyra is queen - mentions of children, pregnancy, childbirth - allusions to infidelity & character death(s) - targaryen madness, revenge, domestic violence (not jace), unhinge behaviour, intense use of 'bastard', profanity, gaslighting, guilt-tripping - this is basically gone girl, you gone girl jace - dark fic - mentions of depression (aegon ii), allusions to suicide (not reader) - nsfw: oral (f receiving), breeding kink, creampie - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— i didn't think i was going to do the sara snow thing, but herewe are. also i just wanted an excuse to go absolutely ape shit. reader gets very intense, like thoroughly unhinged. this is literally me supporting women's wrongs. it is also quite insane that this reached 10k and it's still just the first part lmaooo + comment, reblog & like at will!

"THAT FUCKING BASTARD! THAT GODSDAMNED, WHORE-FUCKING STRONG HALF BREED!"

Your shrieks echo stone and shadow, interrupted only by the things you pick up and hurl. Anything your hands grab, you throw and spit obscenities against, rage and tears ruin your pretty visage. The fury swept past your cherub features, a dragon breaking through the Hightower seams, upending fire and roar from the pits of your being.

"HOW DARE HE?! I GAVE HIM AN HEIR! I BROUGHT HIM PEACE! I BETRAYED—" you roar, pulling your pearl dagger— a gift from your Strong Bastard of a Husband — and throwing it to your vanity mirror, glass shards exploding. "— MY KIN!"

"DAUGHTER, PLEASE!"

Arms wound across your torso—hardened and chain-mail — as you fight against your bounds before a pain flashes to your cheek. Your rage quiets, hard breaths from your lungs. You turn your tear-stained anger to your mother and her palm, fright and terror on her regale visage.

Death of a spouse becomes the Queen Dowager in her pale blue robe and unbound spirals of auburn hair. Peace had begotten a realm that is balanced on the lineage you had produced for the Queen, her heir, and your own, as the new Princess of Dragonstone. With Otto Hightower for evermore banished to Oldtown, Kings Landing had been brought to a flowering kindness.

Queen Rhaenyra's ascension had been a wondrous affair, fit the for the first crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Not a Queen Consort, not a Queen Regent. An heir who rose for the crown always meant to be hers.

But the calamity that brewed in her ascension... no. You paved the peace. T'was you who wrangled the Great Houses that proved allyship to your twin brother's banner, you who blessed her with tranquility of a rule that will be known for ages that will precede you all.

And now her son... her son dared to destroy everything.

A conversation floats above your head, by your Queen Mother and her sworn shield, the Ser Cole, but you barely hear anything past the ringing in your head.

The Targaryen Madness the sheep so call it, an idle voice, faint and familiar, whispers in the niches of your brain. It has infected you so. It breathes, fuelled by the air wrought by your husband's betrayal. It sings, sweet love. It sings.

"—your grace, I urge to hold her—"

"—she is my daughter, Ser Cole, I am not in danger. Release her."

Justice, the voice shrieks? Screams? But it is so soft in your head, a wail of a memory, a woman or a man? must be had. No dragon falls in such disgrace.

The tight wound over your torso is unleashed but the knight is not far, tensed to cage you, when your mother grasps your elbows as you grab hers, nails digging into the thick fabric of her hem that she still winces, your grip steel-tight.

"My darling, please. I cannot help you if you do not speak what ails you." She brushes her hand desperately across your face, smearing your tears, trying to find the daughter she bore past the savagery and madness that beholds you now. "What has happened?"

You draw a tightened, harsh breath to your lungs, rattling your bones that you quiver in your attempt for sanity.

"I am being shamed, mother," you whisper. Stark, violet eyes meeting the worried round, brown of hers. "The Strong bastard is whoring himself to another, a Northern bastard."

A cackle falls your lips as alarmed gazes are exchanged above your head.

"Y-You cannot say such things aloud, sweet girl," your mother hushes your madness, pulling you close to her chest as she shoots a glance at the door.

Criston checks outside, but only your maids linger. Dyanna presses a finger against her lips, catching the knight's eye, and the rest scatter, surely to make sure that no one that need not know of their mistress' words is within reach. A shiver still runs his spine. He will never get used to the quiet, almost non-verbal way your connection worked and reached. Your Spiders weave webs all around, even as their mistress sunders with rage.

"Mayhaps you are mistaken, for sure the prince is loyal, and he adores you—"

You pull back against her, teeth bared. She flinches and Ser Cole steps forward, wary. "It is the third missive now that I have received. Did you think I would not have confirmed twice— thrice? I didn't believe it the first time! But three people have now confirmed that all this time, in the guise of rallying his mother's cause in the North, he is spending ample time with the Lord Stark's bastard sister. His bastard fucking sister!"

Your mother's horror catches that of Ser Criston's, but your fury is your own, you are a dragon trapped in the ruin of your own making, of the webs you had spun so cleverly to get to this point, and you cannot stop.

"I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage, my blood spilled the birthing bed for it." A cry leaves your lips as your grief and rage pools like ichor from your chest to the floor. Alicent is torn away from you— your nails had gone through her robe and she had cried in pain, a mimick of your own, a mother to a daughter to a mother to a daughter, a cycle, an Ouroboros — and you fall to the floor, grasping at your chest.

"I will not be swept aside. I will not be ignored."

A gasp falls from your lips as your mind moves to a quiet, still place. The tremble fades, your rage and grief whirls, collects, as you push it all back inside your chest.

Your madness must be sharpened for it be used as a sword.

And you cannot let him be happy in another's arms.

If you cannot drag them to the Hells, sweet dragon, the idle voice hums, hisses? Screeches. Your ancestors— all of those who have succumbed to dreamy madness — appears in the corners of your vision like soldiers. Awaiting for you to join them. Awaiting the blood that you will spill.

Then you must raise the Hells unto Winterfell.

"...my daughter?" Alicent calls, hesitant. Cole hovers but does not approach, standing guard in protection of the Dowager. It breaks her heart to see you this way, a young woman still, much older than she was when she married but only because you had always sought your future. You had always had a hardened scale, far stronger than she.

Even when you made your entrance to the world— the unmeasurable pain of bringing not one, but two heirs into the world, her firstborns, all at once — you had never cried. The maestres, maids, they worried for you, as your twin brother had not stopped crying, so alive and red, raw from the wound of being fresh.

But you... you had not made a sound.

The entire weight of your being— your mind, your emotions — even then, you wrangled them close to your very centre, never letting them stray too far from the edges of your fingertips. As if any release must be made with a perused thought. An incentive of reason.

Even then, you plotted every step you took.

Now, Alicent watches as her firstborn daughter suctions all her emotions— that Targaryen madness that plagued the blood of her husband, his ancestors — and made her ploy.

Against the husband that dared make a fool of her.

The silence beckons nightmare. Old fear flickers inside the Queen Dowager.

"Where are my daughters?"

"What?"

"My daughters," you repeat, a hair's breadth louder than the first time you spoke. Your eyes flutter upward. The deadened gaze curled Alicent's heart in fear. "Where are they?"

"In the nursery, with the twins and Maelor. Helaena and Aegon are watching them."

You offer your hand up mutely, and Cole exchanges one last, lingering look with the Dowager, before offering his own. You stand up, thank him softly, and brush and clean up your face to the best of your ability. An utter calmness over your visage.

"Tell no one of what I had told you," you say, fixing your hair and rubbing the red from your cheeks. One minute there is madness, the next there is nothing. There is only a girl. A woman. A princess. "No one knows apart the three of us, and if you ever decide, Ser Criston, that nigh is the glorious time for you to betray my mother or I, know that the last thing thing oyu will fear is the Stranger's hand when I am through with you."

Your mother shouts your name, horrified. "What are you thinking? What are you plotting?"

You cup Alicent's face, smiling ever sweet. "Your innocence will keep you safe, mother. All I ask, for the heart you keep for your children, that you keep this between sealed lips and tilted chin. You know nothing, yes?"

"... Yes. Nothing."

You place a tender kiss on your mother's head. "Keep Daenera and Aemma safe for me. Aegon and I are flying to Dragonstone promptly. Sweet Helaena does ever so get overwhelmed by watching all of the children by herself."

"D-Dragonstone?"

Your sweet smile touched with poison, stretches. "It is high time I take a dragon for myself, don't you think so?"

While an insecure obsession had fraught your younger brother about claiming a dragon, you had met it with indifference.

For how can you not mourn the loss of Aemond's sight, staring in quiet horror the entire time as the maestre did his best to salvage the muck mess of blood and nerve endings, before the old man had shaken his head, and you turned to the small bowl that contained your brother's eye, unable to look at anything else.

Not even when your mother's rage was met with apathy and anger, her demands for justice nothing more than a woman's insanity, a mother's grief that must be swept away, tucked under a chin and a sadness she will never get rid of.

"Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon."

Your soft-hearted, darling, baby brother. None of his words had thawed the freezing of your heart, the grief under the swell of your breastbone.

Your own mourning was kept between teeth and tongue, as you had slept with your siblings that night. The four of you, tucked under the wing of the other, Aemond close to your chest as possible, as quiet, hot tears ran down your face. Every moan of pain or whimper he made in his sleep tore at each new vein inside of you.

"Dragons are the symbol of our House's power," Aegon had once said, windswept hair you tried to tame with your fingers, smelling fresh of Sunfyre and winds.

"And yet, there were no eggs in our child beds." He stiffened while you smiled sadly, curling your twin's hair away form his face, making him presentable and dusting the bout of sand that managed to find his leathers. You had been scolded long before by your grandsire of how you coddle Aegon, how you defend him, mother him more than your mother ever could, but you cannot stop. You were meant to care for him, tethered you once were inside your mother's womb together, you hold him steady now.

Whenever he was lost, whenever his sadness overtook him, wrung your brother dry of life, you bat the Stranger's hand and bring him back.

"But we have proved them wrong," he insisted. "All of us, even Aemond with Vhagar— the war queen, Visenya's dragon — we have claimed ours. Daeron all the way Oldtown has Tessarion, even Helaena has Dreamfyre. And yet you insist..."

You wound your arms over his torso, keeping him close in a silly hug where you sway and dance him around. A laugh escaped him while you inhaled the scent of smoke, soot, and that grime stench of beast.

Aegon on his good days lacked the bottle-edge of wine, of cheap salts from the waft of the soiled, Silk Streets.

This was your brother. No one else.

"I fare better without one," you whispered in his ear. "I appear innocent, sweet almost, without a beast in my command. They look at me with nothing but pity and the urge to protect me. Our father likes me like this, his poor, lovely daughter without a dragon of her own, listening so intently to his histories of Old Valyria. Our sister is eased, as one daughter is plagued by dreams and struggles with the real world, while the other cannot even claim a dragon of her own. Poor princess, Hightower blood must have thickened in her veins. She too, is no threat."

You pulled back, smiling at him. "They like me better like this. Pitiful, compliant, nothing but a sweet and pretty flower that sways in the Spring breeze. A beautiful decoration but no more."

He rubbed a thumb on your arm, a worry knot on his forehead. Aegon adored you but he struggled to piece together where your plot lies. You are a web-spinner, forever dancing out of reach, catching prey and lengthening your intricacies. "Is that why you hide your training with Aemond alone? Ser Criston is mother's sworn shield, he would not mind—"

"I will not place my secrecies to a knight with a soiled cloaked," you snorted. "No matter how tall he stands beside our mother. I trust no one but my kin. And I know that no matter how heavy you drink, sweet Aeg of mine, my secrets are your own."

He took your hand, kissing the back of it, stare impregnable. "As your blood is my own, our fire is one flame. I go where you tell me to."

You kissed his cheek, a reward, laughing. He smiles proudly at the sound. At this time, you dangled yourself to your brother as bait as the pressure from your grandsire to make him King started rising. You had been given notice that he had been talking to House Lannister, Wylde, even some Riverland lords.

You did not mind becoming Aegon's second wife. Just as his namesake, he will have his Rhaenys and Visenya. Unlike the Conqueror however, he would adore his Visenya more than a true flower. Helaena would enjoy that far better.

"And if I tell you to jump?" you half-purred.

"I will ask you how high."

Memories and choices break and tide as you scramble for hold on the rocky cliff face. Dragonmont in the dark is a behemoth beast, a screech or two breaking like lightning crackles, or the familiar drum beat of wings before the silence consumes once more. The stench of fire, of beasts and carcasses helps cloak the darkened night.

"Udligon ñuha brōzagon, Answer my call," you hiss into fraudulent emptiness, hands gripping rocky edges until your blood beads, "you fucking lizards."

"Have you gone mad!?"Aegon shouted, trying to pace with your run to the dragonpit.

A rocky laugh broke out from your being, not deigning that with a reply. Aegon huffed angrily.

"Alright, tell me this then. How are you so sure I'm not just about to put you on a bleeding volcano to die? We claim your dragon in the morn, sister. First thing before we break our fast. I'm sure by then, Vermithor or—"

You whipped your head around, pulling halt. "I leave tonight to claim my dragon. Whether it is you and Sunfyre who gets me there, or Aemond and Vhagar, is no matter to me. I will claim one tonight. It is up to you to decide now if we tell Aemond or not."

Aemond, whose anger is wounded tight, the barest excuse for war always at the edge of his hum. The misstep at Storm's End had cost him everything. Had cost your mother everything. Queen still, Alicent Hightower had bent the knee and offered her life in exchange for mercy. Before Rhaenyra passed judgement, Viserys I had passed.

It didn't matter that you had ensured a higher dosage from the Harrenhal witch in his usual milk of the poppy. Your spiders moving with ease through the silent channels you had established long before your own flowering.

The Red Keep had scrambled, the Heir with it. It was enough time for Lucerys to have come out of the red, confirmed to live through the worst of it without as much as a broken bone. Arrax however, had been badly maimed, and would no longer take flight. But he and his rider would live. Aemond would live. Alicent would have her son. Rhaenyea will have hers, and the crown.

Kevan had done his duty unto you while you settled the storms in Dragonstone. You rewarded him handsomely.

Aegon sighed. He too, would like your honour avenged, but not for the sake of war. "As you wish, sister. I hope you know what you're doing and I am not about to send you to your death."

Just like what you did to your mother, you reached forward and cupped his face. If before, your touch stills his heart and floods his cavities with warmth, a flash of fear strikes the twin son at the eerie smile on your face.

"Skoros morghot vestri? What do we say to the god of death?"

Aegon blinked. "Tubī daor. Not today."

You smiled. "Trust me, sweet Aeg. It is not my death the Stranger will take. Not until the fjords of the North are at my mercy."

"Iksan kesīr sir naejot māzigon ñuha sikagon pakto! I am here now to claim my birth right!" Your scream echoes and falls, repeating back to you. There is a hum, like an electric current that sizzles and pops inside your blood and marrow, and you scramble higher and higher on the rock. Your blood does not sing for the dragon lairs, but above. Up and up, jagged edges cut your skin and dress, the wind whipping with sea mist, but nothing, no one, can clamour you as you reach the peak.

At first you see nothing but darkness and hollow sounds. But you let your eyes adjust, a hiss breaking out of your dry lips as you stumble. You look down. What you first thought were rocks and wayward bones of cattle is bigger.

Whale? No.

Dragon. Dragon bone.

You look and will every sense that your eyes do not. The smell that is drowned— iron. Bones bigger than a person. Than cows and whales. Bones of fearsome beasts. Darkness moves, taking form, more than shadow. Scales hewn rough and jagged, as if stone themselves. Midnight black moving with the gentlest of sighs.

As soon as you realise what— or who — is in front of you, the eyes open with an intelligent gleam. Your heart jolts at the emerald irises that gaze back at you, slitting at the appearance of a human.

'The stench of death follows him', the voice of an old keeper hums into your ear. You no longer remember who told this to you, but the words ring true in your memory. 'Scales of midnight, as if hewn from darkness and death. A harbinger, your grace, an omen of the darkest nightmares.'

"Rytsas. Hello." You smile, ever sweet, ever charming.

This is a thread you had never felt before. Not one of your own making, but something older. A golden thread that led the eyes of Daenys the Dreamer. That spun the ties of Aegon the Conqueror. The voices that herded your madness had gone quiet in the mad rush to get here, but now their presence thickens. Words you cannot hear, nor understand, flood the silence as dragon met rider for the first time.

Keepers and historians have called him he, but every bone in your body tells you that the being before you is a she.

And wouldn't that make sense? A cannibalistic being is a woman?

She opens her maw, only ever slightly, smoke and fire crackling out of it. Molten lava in the belly of her insides tease the cool, night air and warms you.

Her version of a smile. Hello, she seem to say.

"Māzīs. Come," you say, giggling. "Dohaerās. Serve."

That night, you took your first flight.

That night, the Cannibal took her first flight with her first— and only — rider as well.

❝ . . . It is said that the formerly named "The Cannibal" had been entranced by the hunger of his new— first and evermore — rider. Prince Aegon the Elder who had escorted his twin sister that very night with Sunfyre, had looked up in alarm and fright to a maddened screech. Excitement and laughter pouring out from the newly bonded Dragon and Rider had soon turned fear into awe.

Gaelithox, she had been named as they had ridden until dawn broke by the rider who loved her 'till the end of their days, was said to have seen a mirror in Her Grace. The fathomless hunger for blood and organ from the same bodies of their kin. For Gaelithox ever hungers and satisfies for the same meat as her, at the height of her grief and ire that fuelled the Queen Consort to climb Dragonmont by hand, she too hungered for the throats of her traitorous blood.

Gaelithox will only have one rider in her whole life, as she found no same twin soul as akin in the Bastard Eater Queen. Their bond moved as if two bodies beheld one soul.

She shied from humans, and oft found too rough with other dragons. Vhagar was an exception, oft seen acting as an elder sister to the Queen's dragon when neither royal rode them and played in the skies. Smaller dragons were forbidden to approach her however, nor was she allowed in the dragonpit after almost devouring the flightless Arrax.

She died two moons after the Queen's death, delivering her final flames for her rider and would never more breathe her infamous green flames akin to Wildfire, ordered by the Crowned Heir, Princess Daenera Velaryon. It is said that the princess attempted to bond with the cannibalistic dragon but it refused.

The dragon spent her last moons in heartbreak, oft seen in Dragonstone and the Red Keep, circling her rider's most favourite places. Her final resting place is at the very top of Dragonmont from whence the Queen claimed her. It is said that the Queen's crown, the one the King Jacaerys had gifted her after the birth of their first sons, the Princes Laenor and Gaemon, is said to be placed there, as well as a portion of her ashes.

It is said that the King and the Queen's twin brother, the Prince Aegon, personally made the trek in remembrance.

It is widely suspected that Aelyx, Princess Daella's dragon, the youngest child of the King and Queen, may have been Gaelithox's only existing hatchling for he too is made of rough, midnight scales. The dragon that bred with her remains to be unknown. ❞

—Maestre Kevan Noratz, Volume X of The Life and Lies of the Emerald Flame, passage chapter under 'The Time of Hunger: Gaelithox'.

You leave Gaelithox to a mournful goodbye on Dragonstone, pressing your forehead against her hard, scaly head, promising to come back, of exchanging her diet for fat, juicy whales, for more wind-whipped rides, before riding back on Sunfyre with Aegon. The younger dragon would not rise from the beaches in fear of the cannibalistic elder, but you made ensuring promises to teach Gaelithox not to chew your dearest brother's dragon.

You had gone most of your life without the feeling of a bond beneath you, warm and alive and wild, and the roar and stench that though new, felt so familiar in your ribcage— you will fly again. And with your brothers beside you. With Helaena and her lovely Dreamfyre.

To think they had taken this from you too, to placate them. To play into their hands like a mewling kitten.

No more.

It is paces before fast is about to break when you both touch back down to Kings Landing. The Keep busying with its occupants, servants and maids bolstering with quickened feet to ensure the lords and royals are awakened with full, poached meals, dresses and coats readied for their lords and ladies, a new, glorious day under the Reign of the Black Queen.

"What now?" Aegon asks, trying to keep with your pace but he is fatigued, failing to stop his yawns. The excitement of last night had come upon him like a fog, and he is missing his bed. Hells, he is missing the bed he stays with his wife if it meant he would get a full night's sleep in the hours of the day.

"Now, we speak nothing of what happened."

He turns to you, frowning. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." You beam, nodding in favour of soldiers and maids who bow in reverence to the Crown Princess. You know you smell of dragon and night, and you need a bath. And to talk to Dyanna before you seek your daughters. "I will need time and people. The board must still be set for me to perfectly execute what I have in store."

"Alright." He yawns again. "I'll be in my quarters, passed out, if you need me. Please do not need me until sup."

You laugh breathlessly, grabbing his hand and giving it a wet kiss. "I will give you your rest, be assured. Kirimvose, dōna lēkia, Thank you, sweet brother."

The words are simple, said in a quiet murmur heavy with love and meaning. Aegon presses a loving kiss to your head, unable to stop himself winding an arm around you.

"Syt ao, va moriot, ñuha prūmia. For you, always, my heart."

As you break to each other's chambers— his, to sleep, you, already meeting Yna and requesting for a bath — you don't notice the lurker that watched the intimate moment between twins, humming in amusement before it moves to follow you.

Back in your quarters— your marriage quarters as Jacaerys had requested that you forgo having your own, not wishing to part with you — the maids are already busying themselves airing the room, moving to follow your usual routine. The only thing breaking it is the tub now in the centre.

"Thank you," you say to Yna as she picks out the pins from your hair, shrugging off your dress in the process as soon as the maids had untangled the lace behind you.

"Call for Dyanna," you tell them as they bow and leave, the door clicking softly behind them. Plans must be made. Bath for now.

With the world stifled for a second, left with only you and your thoughts, you plunge your body under too-hot water, sighing  against the aches and pains in your body. Dragon-riding is a new endeavour to your muscles, and though enjoyable, was still too new.

You sigh as tears fall from your eyes, blinking exhaustedly against soft, humming daylight. You had always known that love, as it is, is a maiden's folly. A foolish, hapless play meant to fool young girls into thinking the world is kind; a pretty place.

It was an even farther thought from you, a princess of the realm. At a young age, it has been drilled to you that your womb is a rare commodity. Your body has never been your own, a piece meant to be moved in a bigger game that you are used for, not play.

You weren't stupid.

If there's a few things Otto Hightower had ever granted you, apart from gifting you his keen prowess in moving power beneath your fingertips, in hungering for more, for better— it is understanding what each person is, who they can be, how you can move them. A flatter, a flair, a push. As a man, there is much to be desired about your grandsire; he used people, used family to pursue power, but you can't truly fault him for that as you were the same.

You just took better care of the people under your wing.

And for Jace, you had banished him.

The worst part, you knew there was a good, fat chance you would care for the princeling. He was a kind man, a sweet man, and with a guiding hand, you could forge yourself the best husband for yourself as much as you can mould a great king and a wonderful father. Women's hands are ever carved to mould and prod men. We stand behind, a presence or a hand, an echo of power.

But your Jace had surpassed it all, and in the moons leading up to your present day, to giving him his heirs, two beautiful daughters, the promised full Valyrian colouring in the silver hair in Daenera, your eldest, the wide, violet gaze in Aemma— the name of his mother's mother, a request of him that you had kindly, graciously fucking agreed to — of course there is a part of you, the girlish, tender heart that you long thought you had buried to get here, would fall for the brown-eyed, wondrous man.

You sink deeper into the tub, sighing as you let yourself unravel—

When you feel it. A presence in your room. It's soft. Silent. Not a lot would feel as such, but as paranoid as you are, as you keep your spiders clean and pretty with your dewy-eyed webs— you know better.

Your mind runs with ideas on who it might be, and come to a few people. No true name rises. The Red Keep is flooded with spies and traitors. You test your luck, sitting up on the tub, raising an arm over the lip of it and flicking water with your fingertips.

"If you are here to kill me, I'm afraid it will be a lost cause."

He laughs, sardonic and edged and familiar, jetting a tingle down your spine.

Well. There's getting a calm bath.

"Perceptive as always, niece," he says, heavy footfalls approaching now that he has been caught. "I'm just here to say hello."

You raise your eyes, mouth curled but unsmiling at the man who acts as the biggest thorn to your plots. Daemon Targaryen has never fallen through your webs, on guard against your flatter, your push, or your flair. Of course, taking the position of his daughter might have forever burnt that road, but you would think he'd ease up just a little bit when his wife, the Queen, had warmed to you considerably.

Unlike your mother, you had never been hostile to your bitch of an elder sister. Just like your plots for Aegon and Jacaerys, and nodding along to thread your father had started but abandoned, foolishly thinking the realm would follow without him fully ensuring your sister's claim to the throne— you carefully maintained a polite farce with Rhaenyra.

Ultimately, this became a boon to you, as she had responded positively to your abrupt marriage to her son, even reminding her deranged guard dog of their own marriage. The cream to your lemon cake had been when you birthed Aemma, the Queen's most favourite grandchild thus far. When she was a babe, Rhaenyra was never far; almost, always holding your daughter, cooing at her cheeks, remarking her likeness to her namesake with pure fondness.

But Daemon Targaryen knew, in the deepness of his marrow, that there is something wrong with you.

"Hello," you answer primly. He laughs, leaning against the passage to your open balcony. "We could have had this elating greeting at fast, if you wish to break it with me and my own."

He scoffs, unable to hide his disdain at the thought. It breaks his stare of your naked visage. Men. "I would rather jump to the fighting pits, good daughter."

"How rude. Is that all?" You meet his gaze steadily, tilting your head. "If it is not obvious yet, good father, I am bathing."

An amused smirk. "I can see that." Lecherous fucking geezer. "No matter. I just have a... curious thought, a wonder I suspect you may be able to answer. See. Truly odd it is, for the keepers to alert me this morning that Sunfyre had taken a ride past the Hour of Owl." Your heart thuds in your ribcage and you do your best to keep your expression mildly irritated. "Not with one, drunken rider, but with another. It had taken them hours, only coming back when morning had already presented in the air."

He steps forward, slow, menacing, until he reaches the edge of your tub and crouches. Your gazes are still unmatched in height, defiant as yours might be.

"The distinct smell wafts them, a Keeper said, and one suspects that though one dragon left last night, two might have come back this morning for he had seen another fly away." His fingers dips into the water, swirling the steam without breaking eye contact. "I wonder if you know anything about it, darling niece of mine."

The mocking emphasis is not lost on you. If the Queen is the Realm's Delight, you were Darling of the Realm. A sweet, merry girl, the secondborn daughter of Viserys I who frequently fought for the plight of the small folk, who gathered friends of all kinds of lords and ladies no matter the standing of their houses to her own, visiting far lands and charming every person in any room. Who made any feast brighter, always sparkling, always the darling.

Less of a dragon, more of a fairytale.

You sit up, leaning, baring your breasts completely to him as you pull yourself up on the ledge he is crouched from. He leans back, only slightly, as you smile demurely. Sweet. Tart. On the edge of pulling his head and hitting it against the copper tub.

"I am unsure of what you suspect, or is accusing me of, kepus, uncle," you purr and there's a twitch in his mouth, a widen in his irises— men are so fucking simple — "I had been feeling down last night, as my husband, as you know, is beyond my reach at the moment as he rallies alliances for the good of the realm. My brother had simply offered to take me out riding, trying to quell my loneliness with an excitable flight I had never been afforded."

You tilt your head. "Even if there had been a dragon binded to my own, why why would I not regale the realm with news of my success? I have longed for a dragon of my own, but alas, I have not quite succeeded where most of the family have." You pout. His eyes flicker. "Mayhaps I am more Hightower than I am Targaryen."

A huff leaves his lips, the amusement in his smile arching to his dark, dark gaze. Before you can react, his hand had comes forward to hold your chin in a tight grip, your jaw aching soon enough at the fingers that dig against your skin, wanting to bruise, to break.

Though a tremble passes your body, you keep his stare, gritting your teeth as the pad of his thumb brushes your lips. Moments and desires thrum between a charged hatred.

The lust is twisted from wanting to fuck you to wanting to kill you. The line is not simple. Maybe that is your fate together.

But he can't. You are well too ingrained in his family now, loved by the people he cared about. You are untouchable. For now. This is a warning, waiting for you to stutter, to show your hand. Any show of your true intentions... he is more than happy to swing Dark Sister across your throat.

He releases you without another word, standing up and leaving through the front door, the door clicking shut.

You sink back into the bath, letting the water engulf you.

Your daughters are moons apart in birth, and there are only a few differences between them that people oft remarked they could be twins. Daenera is taller, spindly. Built like Aemond when he was younger. Her hair is spun moon and eyes of mullish blue. It reminds you of Daeron's eyes. You had named Daenera yourself, a gruelling birth that took the entire night. You promised Jacaerys he could name the second. He had chosen Aemma for a girl, Laenor for a boy.

Not a few moons later, you were with child again. Your husband pinked at the cheeks at the chiding from his family. When she cried into the afternoon sun—Aemma was born mid day, during a council meeting — he pain did not stop the laugh that came out of your mouth from the horrified expression from the Master of Coin as your water broke.

Aemma had a sweetheart face, cheeks much fatter than her older sister's, with a yellowish tinge to her hair, curlier too, reminding you of Aegon. And Aemma laughed more, her deep, violet eyes always half closed as she exploded in giggles and bright, sunshine happiness.

Sons they might not be, but you had given heirs for the throne. And for them, you would do anything to keep their futures intact. Bond with a dragon, face the Rogue Prince, upheave Winterfell. Anything.

You flounce to the nursery where you know the two would be, smiling sweetly at every person you pass as they bow in reverence. Most wore sights of confusion, their greedy eyes and wagging tongues drinking in the deep, emerald glisten of your gown.

It's an old dress, one you keep in the corner of your collection. It isn't as if you had forgo the colours of your mother's house, but playing court meant every movement, even the clothes you wear, can be meaningful. And since your marriage, your Jace liked you in Velaryon colours.

"A goddess come to bless," he gasped against your collarbone, keeping your legs high on his waist as he rutted into you before his teeth sunk on your skin. As newlyweds go, there is not a lot of teasing to be had for your husband to curl against you in a darkened alcove. Merely wearing his favourite colour on your skin has him panting like a dog. His favourite dress is a seafoam blue that dragged longer against the ground in a soft, almost-gossamer material with a silver belt.

Enticing him never took long, but you enjoyed the dance presented. You enjoyed the dark hunger that filled him until he grabbed you to take you because he just had to take you.

The fresh wound slices deeper as you imagine all the things Jacaerys is doing to the so called Sara Snow. The emerald green of your gown shimmers with your anger.

"Fucking bastards," you can't help but say aloud, nodding at the guards posted on the nursery as you hear the squeals of your daughter and the calm, even voice of your brother.

"Muña! Mother!" Aemma squeals, untangling herself from being pressed against Aegon's side as the children— Daenera and Jaehaera — cuddle around him, before running to you. Helaena is on the floor, entertaining baby Maelor. Your mother, hands twisting against her own, stands vigil by the window, staring far ahead.

You catch your secondborn, giggling as you pressed kiss after kiss on her face.

"I see everyone has started without me. Where is Jaehaerys?"

"You were late, sodjisto, aunt," Jaehaera grins gummily. Jahaera is only a year older than Daenera. Your daughters, five and a half and five respectively. "Jaehaerys is with kepus, uncle. They are training."

"Smart girl." You meet your brother's gaze, whose eyes had notably been staring at your dress, mouth turned down. "Why don't you three play with Helaena? I shall speak about Name Day gifts for your Uncle Joffrey for a bit, hm?"

As Aemma shrieks something about cakes, and Daenera dutifully kissing your cheek in greeting before she takes Jaehaera's hand, you turn to your brother and mother.

"Aemond?" you ask softly, keeping your voice out of earshot. Alicent shakes her head. You nod. "Good. We don't want him inciting a war before I have mine properly planned."

As the Dowager draws in a sharp inhale, Aegon grabs your hands, the worry pulled taunt in his eyebrows. "Are you seriously contemplating war, sister? Isn't there a better way to punish them?"

"What punishment does a man regale in?" you hiss, stepping close to him. "Or the Queen's heir for the bloody matter? When Aemond nearly killed Lucerys, and he confronted me as if I had ordered Vhagar to tear through his brother, I thought I had put to bed any doubts in our marriage. It seems that men stray, regardless. My daughters may be his heir now, but what is to say that bastard wildling he's found himself cock deep in produces a son? Will he shame me with a mistress? Or will he shame me with a second wife?"

Your mother's lips tightens, her fingers paling at how tight she is gripping her nerves.

"Bastard or not, if he takes her to wife, I will be nothing. Make that babe a son, and the realm will rally for it. Daenera is his heir. My daughters will not be forgone. I will not be pushed aside. This is mercy, brother," you say softly, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. "My last one. It requires time, moons, to unfurl. It requires seeding doubt and unfathomable inadequacy. Better if Aemond is none the wiser, Helaena the same. But I will need both of you for this to work. It is the only time I will ever ask. For me. For my daughters."

"And you will punish Winterfell with a war?" your mother asks, frown pulled deep. "That is the plan?"

"I will not. I won't do such a thing so blatant, mother, you know me better than that. But this is my last mercy, and it will be the last. For the next time he offends me so, I do not care if Rhaenyra feeds me to Syrax. I will put a dagger through his heart, heir or not."

The Prince Jacaerys comes back not a week later. Though he comes back to the same castle with the same occupants— your shiny new threads gleam. The stage has been set, a play ready to act. You had sent more spiders in the North, keeping a close eye to every blasphemy your husband has been enjoying in the absence of his duties, and as the rage in you quietly grew with each new whisper, your determination hardens.

You mark each indescretion. You keep a tally.

You count for each fall your blow will land on him.

Vermax lands with a screech and a heavy thump, your husband leaping off him with a grin on his face, matching the one you own, waving your arm joyously with Aemma in your arm and Daenera beside you, holding to your skirt as she grinned at her father.

Aemma wiggles under your hold, and you let Jace get close enough before you set her down, laughing, "Okay, okay!" Her laughter carries through as she scrambles like a bull to her father. A squeal peals out of her as Jace picks her up just in time and tosses her in the air.

"Want to meet kepa, father, sweet girl?" you whisper to Daenera, running a hand down her hair before she nods, breaking out into her own sprint, hugging her father as he greets them with laughter and kisses.

You let them have their time, and this, at least, eases your heart truthfully. A kind reminder that Jace adores his daughters.

You stay at the edge of the entrance, your too-wide grin softens into a smile. You were dramatic, nothing new about that, but even in the pale, pearl blue of your dress in silky, Myrish lace, the emeralds in your heavy, golden belt winks. Green ribbons twisted in your hair alongside fresh flowers. When the trio of your family treks toward you, silver-haired babes clinging to your dark haired prince, you serve a wink at the girls and they untangle themselves from their father while you stepped forward.

A choreographed dance, not giving him time to think. To pause.

Every step is calculated, every item on your body— the silk, the small seahorse that locks your dress behind you, the tint on your lips to the oil in your hair and body — is made to perform. You engulf him in you as if you want to suffocate his senses, your arms wrapping around him with sweet kisses pressing on his face, his neck.

Most in the dragonpit looked away, others, scandalously amazed and enchanted, watch as the princess is undeniably enthralled with her lord husband.

His laughter rumbles across his body, infecting your own, smelling of dragonback and crisp winds. You wonder if your nose is more heightened, you would be able to smell his whore in him, but you don't. It's just him. Your Jace.

Your body moulds against his as his arms tightens around you. When you lean back, you sweetly press a chaste kiss on his lips, grinning.

"What is this?" he huffs a laugh, meeting your doeful gaze. Your fingers curl around his chin, his cheek, idly tapping and touching as if you are committing so much newness to memory.

"Kostagon iā ābrazȳrys daor jaelagon zirȳla valzȳrys? Can a wife not want her husband?" you ask softly, pressing a few more kisses before sucking the last one just under his ear. His body shudders. You hide your smirk. "Skori ēza issare qrīdrughagon tolī bōsa? When he has been away too long?"

A yearning look tints your gaze from under your lashes, and you have to stifle the winning smirk as guilt pinches his face.

"My apologies, my wife. I did not mean to be away from you for long. From the girls." As his eyes flick to his daughters, your mask momentarily sharpens into clear distaste. The urge to dig your fingers into his eyes until he is bleeding and screaming under you is one you tamper with great distress.

Did not mean...

Did not mean to have a dalliance with another woman?

Did not mean to fall into bed with a fucking bastard, you insidious cunt, while I await here with your heirs?

Your anger thrums, nestled deep in your heart, it breathes. You school your face the moment he turns back to you, bringing your hands to his lips, kissing each finger with reverent tenderness. His brown eyes smoulder, rubbing your bare— irises widening — back.

"If you wish it, I can be on my knees for my apologies, my princess."

Your mouth curls. "I'm afraid that might have to be quite later, my prince."

"Huh?"

"The Dowager Queen hoped to congratulate you on your successful campaigning. Reaching as far as the North so frequently, we planned a feast for your return." Eyes shinning, you cup his face. You hope the guilt eats him raw from the inside out. Like worms. Like termites. Hungry, hungry, hungry. "We have never been more proud of you, I have never been more proud of you."

You laugh brightly, ignoring the way he squeezed you just a bit harder that mere second the same time his eyes tightened. "The moment I told the girls of it, they had begged to dance with you." Then you bit your lip, frowning slightly. "I... I understand if you are tired, 'tis a long journey after all, I did try to tell them you might want to rest, we can sneak you—"

"No, no, my heart, of course I would be happy to, I— I want nothing more." He brings you close, face disappearing into your neck. "Thank you. I love you."

You hum, carding your fingers through his hair. "As I love you."

For the rest of the feast, you dance just at the edges of his fingertips, ensuring that you permeated his sights and senses despite it. A game. A dance. When he thanks revelries who congratulate him, who ask him of his adventures, you proudly stand beside him, dutiful as the wife that you are, spearing him with compliments as much as you can. Hands squeezing his arm, your oils swallowing him with your smell.

When dinner came, you take chances massaging his thigh, sliding a salacious grin that had him blushing, ever so sweet, green— making you wonder what kind of fucking bastards do that he finds your attention so swallowing.

You don't let up.

Whenever he, in turn made a move, you sidestep, flutter a smirk, a wink; always escaping, letting him grow frustrated as the night went on.

Your one respite from taunting him had been when he danced with his daughters, making a gallant show of asking them, even Jaehaera. Giggles and spins, the ladies of the court fawn and coo.

Even now, you're making him to be the perfect man. The endearing husband, the wondrous father, the brilliant prince, the perfect lord.

To execute your plan, it must be made with a surgical precision. A slice that guts him to his knees, that breaks his spirit and quenches the whispering, wicked madness nestling with your ire. On another cheek, he must remain upright and upstanding, as to keep your daughters' future in perfect order.

You catch the domineering gaze of Daemon Targaryen, idle as he is, on the side of his distracted Queen, talking to a highborn lady. You don't look away as you toast him your cup of Arbour Red before you pucker your lips for a taste. Your eyes move to where your husband is already looking, flushed red and sweaty from all the dancing, your girls, preening and giggling around him.

You tilt your chin at him, a challenge in your gaze, before you slowly pull your lips away from your wine, stained red.

His throat bobs.

It will be a long, arduous game. Full of pitfalls and tightened webbing. One trip can kill you. But once the machinations are in order, once everything and everyone is in their proper places... oh, you cannot wait for the dance the dragons will make.

A flutter, a simpered footstep. Then a rustle of a dress as one bows.

"My lady," Dyanna greets behind you.

"Hm?"

"The spiders in the ice have met the pup in the snow."

"And?"

"The pup is not suspicious, in fact, they might go as far as to say that the pup is lonely. Though others largely understand her existence... no one likes a bastard."

You snort. "No, they don't, do they?"

"The wolf cares for the pup though, and is largely protective of his only sister."

"Hm. Complicated, but not impossible. Have Meera change the tone of my missive. A softer edge. Sweet but not overtly. Ensure the prerogative of politeness. Then have it sent to the Rookery. The proper channels."

You sigh, taking the edge of your braid and twisting through the ribbons your maid tangled between them. Tonight, you had elected Targaryen colours. A black dress akin to scales and a low, exposed back and dipping front, held together in red ribbons and silver chains. One that might be too on the nose, but the constant, feverish stares from your husband made it worth it.

"We have to ensure a good relationship with the Warden of the North, don't you think so?" You have not looked away from your husband since your maid came, and as he whispered something in Daenera's ear, nodding off to her grandmother with Aemma towed, he turned towards you, one stride after another.

"Precisely what I thought, milady."

"Go," you order her for the last time, giving her your cup, just before Jacaerys reaches you.

Game, set.

Worshipping you has always been something Jace excelled at. At the least, his cock was much larger than most, and without the preparation of his tongue and mouth, it burned. At most, he oft found himself holding your shaking thighs, your head and shoulders left on the bed as he feasted on you like a man starved, hungered for your nectar, the sounds you make, and the shaking of your body as you reached your peak on his tongue.

"J-Jace, please, I—" Your breath stutters, a hiccup escaping your mouth, but he is not letting up. On his knees as only a lordling can with his back straight, he is holding your thighs, your lower back, eating your cunny for the third time of the night.

As soon as he had reached you, he grasped your waist, whispering against your hair in a rumbled groan, "You are torturing me so, my wife. We leave. Now."

"Now?" you echoed, amused. "This is a feast in your honour."

"My honour is already hanging by a thread. The revelry will go on without us. I want to have my fill of you."

And fill he had. He didn't even wait to get you out of your dress before he had pushed your skirt upward, gone on his knees, and got his tongue inside of you.

Now, you are overwhelmed, overstimulated as you are hazy, gripping the wrecked sheets as your peak reached you once more. A strangled, breathy cry of his name falls between your lips as your back arched impossibly so, and instead of letting up, this seemed to fuel him harder, the muscle of his mouth working harder inside of your cunt, hands digging into your flesh to keep you steady.

It builds with a stimulation unending, and just as you're on the throes of your last high, it builds again, quick and fast this time, shuddering gasps of, "o-oh gods, g-gods, Jace!" is the last thing you are able to shout before your fourth peak breaks against the shudders of your last one, your wetness exploding, and you start crying before he lets up.

Your blubber becomes laughter, and he is soft as he lies you down, massaging your thighs as you twitched. He hovers above you, running gentle hands across your arms, kneading through skin, before he reaches your face. He's still in most of his clothes, his long white shirt and breeches, but his mouth is covered in your wetness before he wipes it, obscene in the prettiness of his face and messy locks from where you had tugged and grabbed.

He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, so close to your body, all too tangled in your soul, and can feel his hard cock upright and wanting against your belly, but he pays it no mind. Concern mars his features as he brushes down your hair.

"Are you alright, my love? Too much?"

You shake your head, brushing your hand down his chest. "N-no, I am well. I just never did that before."

He smiles, kissing your closed eyelids before he brings you close to his chest, cuddling you deep. "You deserve all the pleasure I can give you," he says against your hair. "I have been gone far too long. Consider it my apology."

You hum, eyes open. "Apology for what? You were doing your duty, nothing more, ñuha zaldrīzes, my dragon." You feel him stiffen as you keep your voice soft, caring. "I understand duty far better than you. It is what I love most about you."

You look up, taking his chin between your fingertips as you stared at those warm, brown eyes. "You, who carries your honour like a shield and your duty like a sword. I feel as if the gods had blessed me a husband far better than I should have had for I know I do not deserve you."

"H-how can you say that? You are—" He swallows. "— You are the most excellent woman. The mother of my children. You... You are the one I do not deserve."

Your head falls back against his chest, gripping his shirt. Only by your teeth had you stop yourself from screaming.

You curdle, you keep, you poise.

"My love?"

But you pay him no mind, pushing him on his back as you straddle him, your hands working quick to unlace his breeches until his cock slaps against his stomach, end red and swollen. A sharp hiss falls from his lips as your hand tugs on it once. Twice.

He calls your name, spits it really, eyes blown with lust as he holds your waist, unsure if he should lift you off him or grind you against his aching cock.

"I want you inside me," you whimper, plead, feeling his cock twitch at your words, your false, yearning gaze. He mistakes the burned tears of anger in your eyes as unbridled want. "I have gone so long without your warmth, your cock, swelling inside me, your seed nestling deep, taking root—"

"Yes," he gasps, fingers digging into your doughy sides, pulling you up, moving you around whilst you grabbed his length and directed inside your wet, hot cunt inch by inch, filling you so thickly you can feel him in your throat. It takes time, patience and grit, but you're wet enough and you're determined. Once he's fully inside of you through a choked moan of your own, his neck arches, head thrown back. "Fuck! Yes, y-yes, there you are, my g-good fucking girl."

You move slow at first, taking him, bracing one hand on his knee, almost testing the feel him of back in the familiar contours of your cunt. Veins pop between each groan and choke that shudders through him whilst praise, your name, the possessive titles— my love, my wife, my princess — is spit in between.

When the heat tightens in your belly, you shift positions, placing both palms on his chest, and riding him without abandon, bouncing up and down as you watch with a sharp eye as his release builds. His hips move on their own, fucking up in you as you meet his thrusts with equal vigour, and it's delicious. It's heated. You grind your swollen folds against his mon and your cries make him thrust up harder into you, calling your name, denting your doughy hips.

You don't stop, your pleasure at the back of your mind, wanting him to unravel, to break— a final cry of your name dissolving into a choked moan, spilling his seed deep inside, the continuous snap of his hips digging it deeper into your womb.

But your last peak is still tightening, so you press a quick kiss on his chest, a bite really, before you continue to chase your own high, a hiss slipping his lips but moving your hips with his iron-grip, stutters of, "d-do it, reach your high, f-fuck! fuck!"— Your head throws back, nails digging his skin as your cunt clenches his cock in a vice grip, forcing his hips to snap up once more, twice, until you fall, slumping against him.

When he kisses the top of your head, murmuring words you ignore, you close your eyes.

Your plan is in motion. The missive will be sent to the Lord Stark, in pursuit of an innocent friendship. The spiders you have placed on the Northern bastard are set, and a dragon flies in Dragonstone with your bond in its blood.

Your Jace is home. He will fall in love with you all over again. His wonderful daughters and darling princess, he will regret the events that have transpired in the cold. In his head, he will make promises to do better, to be better, that whatever happened is a blip. A mistake that will not happen again. but you know, he will trip. He will wander once more.

But you will make sure that the next time he does so, he will regret it for the rest of his days.

Because it is not you who will burn Winterfell to the ground.

It will be him.

Your plan moves, your web is perfect.

Now, the spider waits for the idiot fucking flies to feed on.

TAGGED: @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata @xxvelvetxxxx @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @bunbunbl0gs @yazzzmints @bellstwd @hiraethrhapsody

[qqueenofhades]

Hello, qqueenofhades!

I just want to say, that ever since I discovered you in the week following Biden stepping down, you've actually made me not dread talking about politics. I look forward to your thoughts on what's going on, and I want to thank you for that.

I would love to know: What do you think of the apparent exhaustion from Republicans/MAGA about Trump? People leaving his rallies (and that's not even covering how few are even coming at all or his supposedly needing to pay people to come), and the slew of formers we see at the DNC openly talking about their change in sides. Do you have any ideas about what might be causing this shift? Was it Harris? Was it Jan. 6th? Was it one singular reason, or multiple at once?

Hope you're having a good day.

I think it's a lot of reasons. First, as I said earlier, the whole theme of the DNC is about reclaiming the USA FREEDOM message from the Republicans, who have had a monopoly on it for the past three decades at least and used it to justify even more antidemocratic fascist militant theocratic hard-right turns. The scenes of joyful people talking rousingly about hope, compassion, morning in America, and breaking out into regular USA! USA! chants appeals a lot to the average American, who doesn't want to hear constant violent and negative bile from the Orange Felonious Traitor, because that is literally the only thing he has to offer and it's getting openly more deranged and dangerous every day. The whole Tough Talking Populist Outsider shtick worked in 2016, when Trump didn't have four years of incompetent chaos as the actual president and was just a theoretical concept who a lot of people thought would "smarten up" and take it seriously if he actually won. Likewise, the backlash of white grievance against Obama and the complacency that Trump didn't actually stand a chance was able to be leveraged against the decades of smears that the GOP had already leveled on HRC. Of course, Trump lost the popular vote by 3 million-plus, but the Electoral College did what it's designed to do and he snuck in anyway. But it wasn't a rousing landslide or a thumping victory.

As such, a lot of Reagan Republicans are now turning to the Democrats as the actual pro-USA party, because Trump trash-talks America, calls it a shithole third-world country, bellows about WWIII and the Great Depression, cozies up to foreign dictators, etc etc. Reagan also pitched the sunny message of America as the shining moral hero of the world (he in fact used the Make America Great Again slogan that Trump repurposed), and that likewise resonated with people after the chaos and unrest of the 1970s. Now, we all know that I hate Reagan's ass and I hope he's burning in hell for so many reasons, but his message was effective because it gave people a soaring rhetorical vision to believe in (even while he was often stripping away their economic prosperity in particular behind the scenes, all together now, FUCK REAGAN). But the Republicans who joined the 1980s party are now seeing Republicanism become a tawdry cult centered on, as Geoff Duncan (GOP former Lt. Gov. of Georgia) put it yesterday, the worship of a felonious thug. Trump is wildly anti-America; he only uses it as a vehicle to get what he wants, because Donald Trump is all that Donald Trump cares about. Yes, there are still plenty of brainwashed cultists in numbers great enough to make this election far, far closer than it should ever be in any sane universe, but increasingly even his own cultists don't want to hear it anymore. They keep leaving before the event is over and he's drawing far smaller crowd sizes than in 2016, which as we know is pretty much all he cares about. He has a desperate need for attention and approval to feed his damaged narcissistic-sociopath dementia-riddled brain, and he's just not getting it, while the very real prospect looms that if he loses this election (and it looks more and more like he will) he will go to jail for the rest of his life. Terrifying.

That's why we have the unprecedented spectacle of lifelong Republicans and former Trump voters flocking to Harris in large numbers. We've had Republican speakers at the DNC every night, and they keep playing video montages of former Trump voters disavowing him or explaining that they won't vote for him. If you consider what propelled Trump in 2016 -- conservative white grievance against a black guy named Barack Obama -- the willingness to unhesitatingly embrace a black/mixed-race WOMAN named Kamala Harris is incredible. Many of them were already planning to vote for Biden before he dropped out, but it was no certain thing that they would move from being willing to vote for an establishment old white guy to also being willing to vote for a woman and a person of color. The fact that we've had so many high-profile affinity group Zoom events for Harris, including from truly unbelievable quarters (Republicans for Harris, Mormons for Harris, EVANGELICAL CHRISTIANS for Harris), shows that there is a country-wide exhaustion with Trump's poisonous selfish grievance performances, where he's willing to do anything to anyone and turn the USA into a fascist dictatorship if it will exempt him, personally, from the consequences of his odious actions. That is not a message that any sane person can support, and more and more, they don't. As I have said before, that is why fascist movements always sow the seeds of their own destruction. They work for a while, but eventually they're boring, they're mean, they're exhausting, and they offer nothing for anyone but being angry all the time at everyone. Most humans don't like that, and eventually, they drift away.

I also think that part of the reason Kamala absolutely nailed it with Tim Walz as VP is because Walz is the literal anti-MAGA in every way. We have seen a lot of similar straight white military-vet football-coach-type Middle America older men drift into MAGA grievance politics because it offers a home for guys like them and feeds on fear of the future and fear of the other. They feel like they're being heard and understood, even if they aren't, and they vote Republican because they've grown up with Republicans being the pro-America party (however defined). But because Walz is a straight white married military-vet football-coach guy who actually models a joyful and compassionate masculinity, an openly emotional and supportive masculinity, who talks movingly about his love for his wife and children, who is a hunter and gun owner who nonetheless loves kids more than guns, who has taken his small-town rural-America values and become an effective and genuinely progressive politician focused on making ordinary people's lives better, he offers a total antidote to MAGAism. He shows that it is possible to be a traditionally manly American straight white guy who is not a gibbering conspiracy theory-addled shitbag dedicated to trampling on everyone else out of reactionary fear. He shows those guys that they can embrace the diverse future and not have to fear it, and he gives them a permission structure to vote for Democrats because it's the right thing to do AND feel that the Democrats are now the real pro-America party.

Basically, right now, Walz is the most popular member on either ticket, and he's crushing Vance into oblivion (there's something like a 27-point difference in their favorable/unfavorable spreads) because Vance is a horrible robotic hateful gremlin and Walz is an authentic and genuine person who a lot of traditionally Republican-affiliated men (and women!) can identify with. He's also the guy who came up with the devastating "weird" attack line that the GOP can do nothing with except splutter and whine, like playground bullies, that no YOU'RE THE WEIRD ONE. He models that it's actually normal to want your leaders to be compassionate human beings who want to use power to make your lives better, and not hateful fascist alt-righters dedicated to making you also hate everyone and be steeped in doom and gloom. That is why people responded so well to Obama in 2008 after the turmoil of the Bush Jr. years, and why this feels even more monumental than Obama. We won't know until the votes are counted, but this giant tsunami just rose out of nowhere when Harris took over, and it's speeding forward in a really incredible way. We've got to do the work and we've got to vote, but if we do, we could absolutely pulverize Trump and MAGA to smithereens in a way that means it wouldn't be able to come back for a good long while, and oh, what a glorious day that would be. So yes.

[chronicbeans]

Platonic Alastor x Maladaptive Daydreamer Reader

Hehe not me self-projecting again! Anyways, these are kinda based on my own experiences, but I'm trying to make them more generalized.

TW: Maladaptive daydreaming, escapism, dissociation, mentions of depression and anxiety, brief mentions of compulsive behavior/OCD, invasion of privacy, manipulation, peer pressure, yandere-ish behavior (I believe he defaults to those behaviors, no matter the type of relationship), mention of cannibalism (this is Alastor we're talking about...), Alastor is a shitty toxic friend in this

• He's absolutely fascinated by the way your mind works. Even before he knows what is going on, or begins to get close to you, he can tell you are an interesting person. The way you look so distant, like your mind is checked out and flying to far off places without you, is something he hasn't seen before. He wants to pick and prod at your brain to see what's going on.

• He doesn't want to do so the easy way, though. No. Instead, he wants to drag out this process for as long as possible, and make sure you twist and squirm all the while. He loves to make people uncomfortable, after all! That's his specialty, in his opinion, besides his radio show.

• He'll start off with introductions, of course, which is probably when he first got interested in you. That dreamy look isn't so easy to see from a distance, after all. The second he looked into your eyes while shaking your hand, though, it became obvious. How hadn't he seen it before? If he saw this look when he first entered, he would've talked to you first out of the crew at the Hazbin Hotel. Well, besides Charlie... But, that's just because she owns the place.

•The uncomfortable prodding starts in an instant. One of his first questions after getting your name is not "What made you want to come to the hotel?" or "What can you provide to help the hotel?" It's more like "How did you die?", "What are your major vices?", and "What sin have you committed to be brought to Hell?" He wants to test the waters. See what he can get away with without completely scaring you off. If you run away and avoid him, it'd be harder to learn what he wants, and make you uncomfortable while doing so.

• Regardless of whether or not you answer, you are probably a little put off from him. Not enough to completely avoid him, since you can see how some of those questions might help him help the hotel, but enough to be uncomfortable... Which, in his opinion, is perfect!

• He's great at hiding, so if you start noticing him mentioning things you thought were private, you really shouldn't be surprised. He can, quite literally, hide in the shadows at times. He quickly takes notes of your little habits, including ones you might be embarrassed about.

• He may watch you pacing around your room, mumbling to yourself as if you are playing pretend all alone. Or, maybe, he's hiding over your shoulder while you're writing down some elaborate storyline. Perhaps he's watching you in plain sight, seeing you make a bunch of odd facial expressions at seemingly nothing. He may not know why you do this, but he wants to. He would've suspected some sort of substance use, considering it's Hell. Lots of people do so. However, he's never seen you near anything that would cause such behavior. So, that's off his list, for now.

• So, step 2 of his plan begins! As his good ol' pals Husk and Niffty to try befriending you! Or, at the very least, get information from you that you aren't comfortable telling him. Then, have them report back to him with their findings. Of course, Husk seems agitated by the request, but obliges. Niffty seems more than happy to do as he asks, though. A happy worker is a good worker, so he has more hope in Niffty getting the big story than Husk.

• Surprisingly, though, he's proven wrong. The most Niffty got was your fashion sense, favorite types of stories, and that you are very "quiet". Yes, the fashion and types of stories were new to him... But what he seems important, the reason you act so oddly, isn't there. Husk, however, was able to get a lot more out of you, somehow.

• Husk mentions you talking to him, one night, after he saw you skipping oddly down the hall and pass the bar where he was cleaning the glasses before closing it for the night. You seemed extremely embarrassed to have been seen, mentioning that you thought he was asleep already. He then just, politely asked a few questions...? And got answers? How?

• Alastor immediately demands answers, only for Husk to reply "I don't know how to describe it like they did! Most I understood is that they daydream too much. Seems like it's a constant thing going on. They like to pace and prance while doing so, sometimes, but don't like getting caught."

• Now it begins to make more sense... the writing, the talks about stories with Niffty, the prancing and pacing... and most importantly, that dreamy, distant look you have. He can even see why you'd make odd expressions. You're reacting to your own thoughts... He doesn't understand it. He's never heard of anything like this before, especially during his time as a human, but he can tell one thing for certain: You must be his friend, now. Whether you like it or not.

• You are so different from everyone else he's met, you see, and he loves things that go against the norm. Now, while you may or may not be considered normal or not too different by others, you're different and abnormal to him. You somehow succeed in both being polite, smart, and funny to mess around with, while also barely being able to pay attention to the world around you. He's always thought that those two things were mutually exclusive. How can you learn when you can't stop being in your own head? How can someone be polite and not listen? The funny part, though... He can kind of see that. He finds surprising you be sneaking up behind you and tapping your shoulder funny every now and again. Nevertheless, you are going to be his friend.

• Soon enough, you notice his behavior changing, a bit. Less following you around, less vaguely threatening words, and more... quiet. It's eerie, coming from him. However, you also notice him trying to talk to you about stories and books he's heard and read. Even things he's heard during his human life, such as Creole folktales and other stories he's heard in New Orleans, Louisiana back in the 1920s-1930s. It's a bit like a completely different side to him you never expected to see, and never really wanted to, but you aren't really complaining. It's better than him deciding to terrorize you for fun and him asking invasive questions...

• A little more time passes and he decides to ask about small habits, disguising them as him just now noticing those habits, when he's probably noticed them while spying on you months prior. Nothing too extreme. Mostly just your expressions, how it seems like your attention is somewhere else... Nothing like your pacing, prancing, or acting. He wants to establish that he knows about these tiny little things, and now that you're more comfortable with him, you're much more likely to answer. That way, once he moves onto the bigger, more personal questions, you'll already have been eased into feeling comfortable with it.

• Eventually, you get to the point where you feel comfortable calling him a friend. He's already considered you one since that conversation with Husk, but it's a start. Now, he's gotten the lovely privilege of being able to know more about what's going on in that lovely little brain of yours... well, "little" brain is definitely an understatement. From how you describe your imagination, he'd be led to believe your mind must be as vast as the Library of Alexandria.

• Vast worlds, complicated plotlines, complex characters... you talk of odd tales you've created, all in your brain. Ones you've had in your mind for years, some you came up with on a whim, and others, still, that are still being developed. Stories that have been being created over the span of real life years, ones you started then dropped... All of which are being held in your head, with only a miniscule fraction of it being written onto paper. He's truly impressed, genuinely respecting your odd talent, as he sees it. You've perfected the craft of creativity, while he's perfected the art of talking to an audience. Even better, is that he got to learn whether or not his theory of you taking inspiration from stories you've heard was right. Which explains his sudden mentions of stories he's heard in life.

• Now... if only you'd let him tell some of your stories on his radio show! If you wouldn't like that, then he'd probably ask you to write something for his show. That way, it isn't as personal to you, and you wouldn't even need to be credited if you're embarrassed by it! He could just say a random listener sent it in, and he thought it'd be great to read, to show his appreciation for his adoring fans. The world simply must hear the greatness of your mind, dear, and he is not going to stop annoying politely asking you to write something until you do.

• Another thing he might try is to see if he can figure out why you partake in this little habit of yours. He's never heard of it, though he has asked some sinners and demons if they have. Be it Charlie, Angel Dust, some of the other overlords, or a friend of his we haven't seen or heard of, before. More modern sinners keep mentioning a thing called Maladaptive Daydreaming, describing it as a symptom of other mental health diagnoses... but that's the problem. That fits you, you've mentioned that you know of that and it fits you... but that's also just a symptom. Well, a few argue that it may be its own thing, but it is not an official diagnosis yet. So, for now, he wants to figure out why you do it.

• Is it depression? Anxiety? Do you really want to escape from something, and you're doing so by hopping into that little dream land of yours? Is it some sort of compulsion? You seem to not really be able to control it that well, after all, and others have mentioned links to OCD, as well as other disorders that can cause compulsions. Is it sheer, absolute, chronic boredom? Speak to him, dear! What is it? Do you even know? If not, he'll assume it's the boredom option... for now.

• He's obsessed with you, really. You're his friend, and he's very obsessive over them, in his own way. He is as far away from normal when it comes to showing real affection for others, which wouldn't be bad, if it weren't for the fact that a main part of it is him being absolutely suffocating when he's around. That, and he can be terrifying... He's the Radio Demon, after all! It's just worse for you than his other friends, though, because you are different. Being different is a really important thing for him, really, alongside being polite, smart, and funny. Not required, unlike the last three traits, but it makes you more likely to be his friend. You hit the lottery by achieving being all four, but it must be the worst lottery prize in the world.

• He holds the thought that you should just be friends with him. Now, you don't have to be... but, he'd prefer it. If you really want outside friends, sure! You just can't be friends with his other friends. He claims they'd "taint" you with how violent they can be. Plus, since he's friends with other cannibals, some of which do serve sinner and demon meat to others without telling them, he genuinely does worry about your safety and wellbeing if you met those specific friends of his. For your friends, he wants to meet them. He needs to in order to deem them worthy of being your friend, and to make sure it's not someone he knows and is friends with. You deserve perfection, and who knows perfection better than Alastor, yes? After all, he can see that you're perfect. That is more than enough evidence, dear.

• You're one of the few people who he doesn't mind having your attention not on him. Part of your charm, in his opinion, is your lack of attention. All he asks is that you tell him about a story of yours. What is going on in your head that's so important? Oh, a great war between this and that? A psychological horror? Cities beneath the sea? Tell him about it. He finds it fun! Especially if he can see any possible inspiration from events or other stories. He likes to hear your voice almost as much as he likes to hear his own, which you'll realize is more of a compliment than it might sound like, once you truly get to know him.

[aforeffective]

my headcanons of the socs' families, as created by me at 12:30 am instead of sleeping

(remember that these are just my personal headcanons so even if you disagree with me, please be respectful) (also some characters have less than others, i apologize about that. i promise i love all of them)

this is long so its below the cut.

trigger warning for bad parenting ig? basically it is exactly the level you would expect in the outsiders. there is not graphic explanations of abuse but definitely insinuations

marcia meyrink-mariani

her parents are great and they love her very much and she is their pride and joy

BUT her parents both grew up in lower-income families

they both grew up to have successful careers so they were able to get from like lower-middle class to like upper middle class

and both of her parents are pressured by their own parents to work to keep the status of the family because they want to see marcia get what they could never provide their kids

so her parents and her grandparents all love her very much and have great intentions

but now they are unintentionally kinda neglectful just because they are ALWAYS at work, so that they are able to provide marcia with everything she could ever want

i do think she is very close to her parents when they are actually home though

and because of their pasts of growing up in lower-income families, they aren't as judgmental as the other west side families, hence why marcia isn't as against two-bit and the greasers as her friends are

they liked her relationship with trip but they are also very supportive when she breaks up with him and begins dating two-bit

last name headcanon: meyrink-mariani. meyrink is her mom's maiden name while mariani is her dad's last name.

beverly jitney-bush

her mom is absolutely a toxic pageant/ballet mom (yes bev does pageants and ballet) (or at least she did when she was younger)

her dad is always "gone at work" but both bev and her mom know that he's with his girlfriend (who is probably controversially younger than him. like not too badly to the point where its close to bev's age/being illegal. but definitely like 5-10 years younger than him)

like this is a well known fact. everyone knows that he's cheating but her mom never acknowledges it so everyone else just kinda ignores it

due to the ballet and pageant stuff, bev's mom is very controlling when it comes to her health and her body

bev tries to spend a lot of time at brill's house to escape her mom's control but her mom will find excuses to keep her at home

bev hates both of her parents and honestly just wishes her dad would run off with his girlfriend so that she'd at least only have to deal with one bad parent

cherry valance

okay so she's the only one that has canon family info in the musical so we're going to build off of that

her dad is an alcoholic and not great to cherry or her mom

high school "sweethearts" but not in the same way as brill's parents. brill's parents stayed together cause the love each other. cherry's parents stayed together cause her mom felt obligated

when i was coming up with it, my brain kept thinking of daisy from the great gatsby; how she married tom because she had lost hope of running into gatsby again and then the whole "beautiful little fool" thing and that is definitely how cherry's mom felt when she was pregnant with cherry

and i think because she knows cherry has grown up to not "be a fool", she pushes cherry towards bob in hopes that cherry won't get herself into trouble

due to this daisy comparison, i'm going to say that cherry's dad was probably her mom's second love but she never truly got over her first love

cherry def read the great gatsby and just felt so depressed by daisy because it is literally her mom

i'm going to say that cherry's mom doesn't work so she is home with cherry but she's never really bothering with her. she'd rather hire a nanny to deal with cherry as a kid, and then just lets cherry watch herself as she gets older

bob sheldon

his parents are so neglectful

they just do not have the time (or the want) to care about him

he could be sitting next to them at the dinner table being like "yeah i murdered 30 people and now cherry and i are gonna drop out and go on the run together and get hitched" and they'd be completely not listening like "oh wow, that's nice honey"

he acts out in hopes of getting his parents' attention (iirc randy says this in the book) but even then they literally just do not care

he'll come home to an empty house with a note on the counter that just says 'your problem is dealt with, be smarter next time'

they literally just do not care enough to lecture him or acknowledge him causing trouble

i hc that they also barely even acknowledged his post his death either and cherry had to pressure them to plan the funeral (and she had to do a lot of the work for them) (despite being literally a teenager) (and doing this while dealing with her own grief and also the fallout of all of her friendships)

paul holden

his parents literally only care about him when it comes to what he does for their reputation

as long as he gets good grades, does well on the football team, and can attend fancy business dinners with them and make the family look good, they do not care about anything else he does

they definitely taught him that as long as he does the above, they will throw money to make any problems he has go away

which definitely screwed with both his sense of right and wrong and also just how he views love in general

i view his parents as people who were in love before but don't really care for each other any more but refuse to get divorced (again, all they care about is their reputation to the other wealthy west side families)

so paul has a very toxic view on what love is

and they also taught him nothing about handling emotions

so he is soooo bad with his emotions

his parents definitely having screaming matches at each other a lot

he has definitely snuck out in the middle of the night and went and slept at one of the guys' house because his parents wouldn't stop screaming and he needed sleep

chet baker

chet's parents are not great

his dad is a cop (this is inspired by skyforcherry's chet headcanons because i just love the idea of one of the boys' fathers being on the police force and being one of the people investigating bob's death)

he has two older sisters but they have moved out and gotten married and begun their own families

chet's mom loves chet but when he was a kid, whenever she would do anything for him, chet's dad would yell at her for "spoiling" him and saying that it is emasculating that chet needs a woman's help doing everything (despite the fact that this is literally just a child wanting to spend time with his mom)

chet was also very close with his sisters as a kid, until his dad made him feel bad about it, saying he needed to stop acting like one of the girls

so yeah, his mom and his sisters could barely do anything for chet without his dad complaining that they were making him girly and "messing him up" (not for lack of wanting to. they do love him but their husband/dad can be scary when he's angry) (he's not outright physically abusive but definitely threatens that he would 'be able to get away with it' when he's angry)

so the only people in his house that he can really get attention from is his dogs, but even then his dad will find excuses about how depending on animals for companionship isn't manly

when he is home, chet's dad will be very nitpicky about everything he does. if chet does anything wrong or just in a way he doesn't like, there will be yelling

and he will poke and prod until chet finally reacts and yells back

and then chet's mom will begin crying because she just hates the yelling and fighting

and then chet will feel bad so he'll stop arguing back and just let his dad yell

and after a few minutes, his dad will stop and chet is just so tired of this because it is a cycle where his dad will do this and then apologize and be like "i didn't mean to get that mad, i didn't mean to set off your mother, let's both apologize to her"

and then they do this all over again a few days later (over such minor things)

because of this, chet has learned to avoid home unless he feels like being alone, in which case he'll lock himself in his room with his dogs and avoids interactions with his parents to avoid argument

terrence "trip" dipp

trip lives with his parents, his aunt, and his cousin (melvin)

his uncle passed away, leaving his aunt widowed with a young son so they moved in with trip's family (it was his dad's brother)

trip honestly doesn't interact with his parents much

they're fine. they work, they come home, they all eat together as a family, and then everyone splits off to do their own things

his dad can definitely be harsh, especially to his sister-in-law and he has definitely been caught complaining about having to deal with this "random kid" living in his house (aka his nephew)

trip is very close with his aunt

the reason she moved in is because she has some sort of chronic illness that causes her to get sick a lot, which was only made worse after her husband died

so she moved in to get help with her illness and melvin

it was trip's mother's idea and trip's father only agreed out of respect for his now deceased brother

trip acts annoyed by melvin but he has grown to care for him as a brother (but he would never admit it)

clark "brill" brillstein

okay imo his parents are the best of all the socs' parents

they were high school sweethearts that got married (and pregnant with brill) like within the summer after graduation

because of this, they're younger than the other parents. the others all are in thier 40s, having had their kids in their 20s but brill's parents are only like 36

they are THE parents of the group. if any of brill's friends need anything, whether it's just advice or someone to talk to, literally anything, they go to brill's parents. he has come home to every single one of his friends talking to his parents before. it is a common occurrence.

such a healthy family dynamic

yes they love brill's friends and want to act as their parents but they will never let brill feel sidelined to his friends because of their attention

[chalkscrub]

chalkrub stuns in new oc-tober prompts

it's a text-heavy update...i love rambling

day 11: symbolism/themes/visual metaphor i.e my favourite things in the world - eng lit nerds make some noise!!!!!

goin back to day 11 with my favourite thing in the world: an unfinished sketchy concept. and also SYMBOLISM and themes and metaphor…and also dark green

so mika and heidi's story is haunted by one time they happened upon a drowned fox and pheasant in a disused canal, something which came at a weird time in their lives and which heidi made weirder by making cryptic suggestions about the whole thing, especially playing on mika’s (former) religious beliefs about spirit connections. Over time, it’s infected mika with budding paranoia in the form of nightmares, hallucinations and latent aquaphobia, all of which she begins seeing as premonitory

shan’t overexplain the symbolism even though my brain wants me to, but this was all inspired by seeing literally the exact same thing on a walk with my great aunt when I was like 6 or 7. the canal water was all covered in algae/pondweed so i’m guessing the fox chased the pheasant, they both mistook the canal for grass, then fell in and drowned together. even as a little kid I was like wrow this is so poignant and tragic and heavy with the potential for on-the-nose symbolism….. or alternatively it just looked cool as hell and felt kind of rare and special. either way, like 15 years later I was developing a new direction for a couple of initially completely unrelated ocs, i.e mika and heidi, and at some point in their story development, I was like now wait a second….this is just like that one time I saw those animals who chased each other into an early shared fate and drowned together…… and it fit them really well and also made everything click into place for the main story, it was kind of uncanny. Thank you nature for showing me cool things every day, and rip to the fox and pheasant you live in my mind forever and always

day 12: future

BEAS!!! beas i love you beas. initial beasley flavour on the left and future flavour on the right. his whole deal is he wants to start a cult, so he ventures to The Big City to make a name for himself. then he realises imps like him are a dime a dozen in the city and nobody cares about him, so he has to scrape by working a minimum wage job as a cashier in a tiny corner shop. he’s from a comic I (partially) made for uni, idk how his story goes exactly but I guess it probably ends with the typical sappy message of being yourself for yourself and not for fame or fortune or whatever. he gets up to hijincks, feels sad and depressed, and goes through the torment of living with his own mediocrity in a world that demands greatness. imps grow with power, not with age, so at the start of the story, even though he’s an adult, he’s still as small as when he was born/summoned/spawned/whatever. he’s got some shapeshifting prowess, so his future form is more an example of the kinds of feats he can pull off when his powers stabilise, and also his cool badass flaming eyes.

day 14: inspiration.

here's a convoluted block of text explaining the heretic's main inspiration, which isn't very apparent in the design at ALL but nevertheless: they’re kind of inspired by the concept of a closet costume. like how you can throw a bedsheet over yourself and cut out some eyeballs and voila. You’re a ghost. Or put a big furry coat and a mask on and you’re a werewolf now. almost all of their design links back to this in a roundabout way: the fur is meant to look like a rug/coat/furry thing draped over something. I used to have a sheepskin rug when I was a kid and I’d always hide under it and crawl about and pretend to be a monster lmao…this is what i looked like in my head maybe. The normal shoes poking out are the human element – like how halloween costumes will sometimes be mostly themed but the shoes are just practical, or you see shoes poking out beneath one of those two-man horse costumes. The face is meant to look mask-like – the glassy unfocused eyes, the fixed toothy grin, the simple cone shape. The black eyelids are meant to be like those Halloween masks that have eyeholes above/below the eyes, covered with that black fabric to make it less obvious there's eyeholes. And the ears are floppy to be like socks or something; they have those two black lines because they remind me of loose stitching. Also just some animal influences thrown in – possums, goats and bulls…..none of the closet costume stuff is meant to be noticeable or apparent in the design, so why did I put so much thought into it? who know… but this thing is one of my favourite designs I’ve made so maybe it was all worth it

[birdyisthewordyy]

go on.

cook

a/n: 🫡🫡🫡 EVERYONE PLEASE SEND IN MORE SONG REQUESTS LIKE THIS!! I literally loved writing this it was so fun

Highschool AU! Jimmy x reader song based headcanons

“I need to cry, but I can’t get anything out of my eyes”

Jimmy refuses to cry in front of anyone unless it’s you

“I need to run, but I can’t get out of bed for anyone”

Jimmy struggles with intense depression, sometimes not getting out of bed for days

“My sour boy is a pain, I wanna shoot him in the brain, but I’d miss him in the morning”

He hates his father, but also feels a strange sense of obligation towards him because of the way his mother just up and left

Insane daddy issues

“It really hurts when I need to feel bad, but I can’t see her, my Juliet, my special girl.”

Do I even need to explain this one?

He feels he can only be weak and feel bad around you

His special girl

“Sometimes I act like I know, but I’m really just a kid with two corks in his eyes and a bully in his head”

He has this nagging voice at the back of his head that tells him everyone hates him

Very much like Bojack

“I wanna make a color that no one else has seen before, I wanna be so much more”

Wants to be recognized for his greatness but also feels like he’s not really great and has nothing to contribute

Covers it up with bravado

“I hope that she looks at me and thinks ‘shit he’s so pretty,’ something I can’t believe”

He wants you to like him so bad because he doesn’t like himself, it hurts like hell

[hailtothepumpkinqueen]

Headcanons for the Shane Stardew Valley that lives in my Switch because I wanted to put them down somewhere lol 💙🐔

•He's 35 years old. When Farmer tells him that's not old he replies "Old for a gridball player" and shrugs. (basing this on mid-30's apparently being old for a lot of sports lol)

•Definitely not as "weak" as he thinks he is either. The man helps Marnie around the farm, including hucking around heavy bags of animal feed and hay. And probably hauling heavy boxes around JojaMart. So great upper body strength, just gets tired and out of breath more easily than he used to.

•Strong arms and soft tummy 👍

•5'7" but wishes he was at least 6'1". A little insecure about it, especially since Farmer is taller than him.(she's 5'10")

•Favorite color is blue 💙

•His last name is Cooper. (Purely because I find it funny for him to have "coop" in his name. Like chicken coop lmao)

•Ears are pierced. I imagine 10mm gauges and two other piercings. Doesn't wear them super often, but enough so the holes don't close up.

•I think he'd be a Taurus. Stubborn but also down to earth.

•Started showing signs of depression as a teenager, but got dismissed as being "moody" and "lazy".

•Both parents had issues with alcohol and were distant/absent. His dad physically distant, as he was gone a lot and often came home drunk. His mom emotionally distant due to untreated depression.

•Leaving Shane to care for himself a majority of the time. So lots of microwaved pizza rolls and frozen dinners.

•Started drinking before the legal age because there was always alcohol in the house.

•Has not spoken to either parent since he moved out.

•Gridball was initially a good distraction for all the shit going on in his life and a way to get out of the house. Discovered he had a genuine love for the game and was really good at it. Good enough to play for the varsity team in college.

•Definitely a bit of a hot shot in college. Pretty popular for his goofy and easygoing personality and had a lot of friends(including Jas's parents). A few flings and serious relationships too.

•Ended up tearing his ACL, which put an end to his dream of going pro with his gridball career.

•Which exacerbated his depression and worsened his dependency on alcohol as a coping mechanism...which lead to a pretty bad breakup with his partner at the time. (This literally came to me in a dream lol)

•Light sleeper, particularly sensitive to noise. On top of having trouble sleeping a lot of nights because his brain won't shut off. Hence why he'll have a beer or two before bed, it helps him sleep.

•When that doesn't work he goes on walks. Nighttime is a preferable time to walk anyway because less chance to run into someone and have to make annoying small talk.

•Has dark circles under his eyes pretty much all the time due to lack of good sleep.

•Runs hot, basically a walking space heater. Which is great in the winter but MISERABLE in the summer.

•Was the best man at Jas's parents' wedding.

•And one of the first people to hold Jas after she was born. He was afraid he'd drop her or something and in awe of how tiny she was.

•Loves that little girl SO much, but when her parents died...he was in no position to be taking care of her. Not with his worsening depression and even worse alcohol dependency. So he signed over custody of her to Marnie, who was more of a mother figure to him than his own mom ever was(In my head, Marnie is Shane's mom's older sister).

•Used to spend summers on Marnie's farm as a kid. It was a nice break from his home life and gave him things to do.

•Was living with Marnie and Jas for about 6 months when Farmer moved to Pelican Town.

•It was his idea to pay rent, because he'd rather eat his shoe than feel like more of a burden than he already does.

•Listens to predominantly rock, but secretly knows the words to a lot of pop songs thanks to Jas.

•Lets Jas paint his nails or put makeup on him. Will wear the nail polish until it flakes off, no matter the color or glitter content.

•Has an armband tattoo of fairy roses around his bicep. For Jas, obviously.

•Definitely friends with Emily (they swap bird facts and just vibe) and and considers Sam a work friend(absolutely talk shit about Morris when not talking about music). He just seems to attract bright, friendly people lol

•Not a people pleaser by any stretch of the imagination (there's a reason he stocks shelves instead of being behind the counter at JojaMart), but loves making the people he cares about happy.

•Him being standoffish and prickly is definitely a defense mechanism. Can't get hurt again by losing someone if you never get close to them in the first place, right?

•Can tell when it's gonna rain because his bad knee starts hurting. When Emily teasingly calls him clairvoyant, he goes into a spiel about the scientific evidence that the drop in barometric pressure affects joints and it's not magic. It's basically an inside joke between them.

•Swears like a sailor but tries to censor himself around the children. So "sugar" and "fudge" and "son of a biscuit". Lot of food words lol

•Walks quietly. Accidentally scares people all the time because he just "appears out of nowhere".