#perhaps to a lesser degree but like...

[slayerdurge]

like yes i've crafted an elaborate backstory for her in my head but canonically it is hard to give the inquisitor any personality other than "confused"

why does she not know anything about the world she lives in?? She just goes around like "what are grey wardens? what are qunari? what are templars?"

I do understand you have to have some exposition for new players, but at some point you should also be able to move past that... She's leading the whole inquisition now and still doesn't seem to know anything...

[iknowwhereyousleepatnight]

u know surprisingly i don't have a very high tolerance for gore/horror i can watch zero horror movies and the scarier something is the less likely i will ever engage w it

[derinwrites]

Plotting a story -- inductive and deductive plotting

When it comes to plotting habits in writing fiction, there’s a scale. Most people label the ends of this scale ‘gardener’ and ‘architect’, although the terms ‘plotter’ and ‘pantser’ are also in use. If you’re a writer, you probably know this scale, but I’ll briefly explain for those who haven’t and then get into my model.

An architect, or plotter, is a writer who thrives with a lot of planning. Like an architect planning a house, they assess what story they’re telling in advance and what needs to happen to tell it. They assess the materials, plan and measure the acts (if they’re using an act structure), decide on the climax and how the characters will develop and map those onto the plan. Then, with a plan, they write.

A gardener, or pantser, by contrast, writes ‘by the seat of their pants’. Pantsers may or may not know where their story is going in broad terms, but they certainly don’t know in any detail beyond ‘this’ll be a cool scene if I can get it there’. To these people, writing is less like architecture and more like gardening – you can build your beds and plant your seeds, but a whole lot of what’s going to happen next depends on how the plants grow, and all you can do is keep an eye on them and prune or train them as necessary. You can dream about what your garden will look like in the spring, but you won’t know until you get there.

Plotters and pantsers are not two distinct categories of writers, but ends on a scale. The writer who ad libs sentence by sentence with no goal at all is extremely rare, as is the writer who starts from an overall view of the plot and cuts it down and down until they’re planning on the sentence level. Most writers tend towards one end of the scale to a greater or lesser degree, but very few write completely using one method and none of the other.

The plotter/pantser scale is one that many writers find incredibly useful to help them understand their own process. By knowing where you are on this scale, you can better understand how you write and better understand how the habits and advice of other writers may or may not be useful to you. (A pantser trying to meticulously plot their story in advance following some formula they found in a writing advice book is wasting their time.) However, this model has little utility beyond that, which is why I find it more useful to address the phenomenon not as a scale, but as the manifestation of two separate skills, that I like to call deductive and inductive plotting.

In logic, deductive reasoning is when you take broad rules or generalities and apply them to specific circumstances to predict things – you start big and go little. “Things fall when you drop them, therefore if I drop this rock it will fall” is deduction. Inductive reasoning is the opposite – you start with small observations and build them into a pattern to predict something bigger. “I dropped seventeen objects and they all fell; therefore, perhaps when you drop things, they fall” is induction. (There’s also abductive reasoning, but that doesn’t fit into our plotting skill metaphor.)

In my experience, these skills match to the habits of plotters and pantsers. Plotters, or architects, assemble a big picture of the story they want and then deduce their individual scenes and fill in the lines to map to their overall general picture. They are deductive plotters. If you ask a deductive plotter to start writing without an outline, they become lost and their output seems directionless and erratic – how can they know what to write if they don’t have an outline to break things down from? Deductive plotters tend to think of stories in terms of overall structures and themes that can be broken down into characters and events and put on the page.

Pantsers, or gardeners, are the opposite. They’re if-then writers, and build the plot upwards from the individual actions of their characters and create the story from the sum total of those interactions. They are inductive plotters. Brandon Sanderson often describes a pantser’s first draft as just a really thorough outline, and he’s not wrong; a pantser needs the scene-by-scene minutae to know what happens next. How are they supposed to build an outline if they don’t know what happens next? If you ask an inductive plotter to build and follow a thorough outline, their writing often comes out as wooden and arbitrary as they have to force the actions of the characters between the restrictive rails of predetermined plot. Inductive potters tend to think of stories in terms of characters and discrete events that build up into something bigger with a consistent mood or theme. Inductive plotters sometimes complain of their characters having a life of their own and defying the plot – this is the effect of their moment-by-moment if-then reasoning of the character’s next action not matching their initial predictions, and surprising them.

Again, the vast majority of writers have some rudimentary skill in both inductive and deductive plotting. A strong deductive plotter (architect) can usually sit down and infer line-by-line a scene that their outline lists as “the three characters meet in the coffee shop and share evidence, Rosemary sees Harold’s notes and realises where the gun went.” Similarly, a strong inductive plotter (gardener) usually has some idea of where their story is headed next even if they don’t know how long it’ll take to get there or what complications will pop up in the meantime. But I’ve never met a writer who is equally strong in both inductive and deductive plotting; most writers specialise heavily in one, and tend towards one end of the scale. I think this is because there’s such a huge overlap in utility; when we start learning to write, we start plotting in whatever way is easiest for us, and train that specific method over decades. There’s little reason to invest even more decades into getting just as good with the other method when your favoured method already achieves everything you want.

I find that viewing this scale as the result of two skills, inductive and deductive plotting, can be very helpful in understanding specifically how we write. Thinking of myself as a heavily inductive plotter with rudimentary deductive plotting skills has really helped me understand why some methods of writing work for me and others don’t, as well as help nail down specific weaknesses in my writing. I also find it useful to think of writing styles and strategies not as some unchangeable characteristic we were born with (as the plotter/pantser scale is frequently envisioned), but as skills that can be built. You don’t write the way you write because you happen to be a plotter or pantser – you write the way you write because that’s what you learned to do! And it was hard! And you did it! Be proud of your skill!

[northopalshore]

Union persona chart

ପ observations iii ଓ

This is a collection of aspects I've observed in the Union (1585) persona chart based on people I've met in real life & a few celebrities. Result may vary depending on the sign, house and degree each aspect is in but this post still counts as a base for understanding the aspects listed below.

୨୧ Please do not repost without consent ʕ⁠´⁠•⁠ᴥ⁠•⁠`⁠ʔฅ🔉

♡ Union persona chart Masterlist | Masterlist

⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*

☕ Mercury trine Saturn you'll think that your partner is someone mature who is mature and emotionally stable.

☕Mercury conjunct Boda (1487) you'll think that your partner is marriage material & may plan on marrying them from the get go

☕Juno in °22 degree meeting your significant other will change your life drastically, I'd like to call this the Cinderella placement!

☕7th house ruler in the 12th house almost always means either a long-distance relationship, private relationship or secret relationship (or all three!)

☕ Juno in the 7th & 10th house means you're going to meet through some sort of work either theirs or yours

☕ 7th house ruler in the 2nd house or 8th house you'll meet them through a money or service related venture (your spouse is likely the one providing the service)

☕ Venus square Saturn when you meet, you may think that this isn't the best time to start a relationship or be in love. You might've refrained from being in any relationships as well up to this point. It's literally breaking the "relationship fast" you have.

Sun conjunct Part of Fortune you may meet them while getting a promotion, or a new project/role.

☕ Sun conjunct Uranus you will not expect to meet someone like them or someone of their status. This is a star-crossed lovers aspect. They may be a boost to your current status as well. (I think Lisa has this in her Union persona chart)

☕ Moon conjunct North Node you may feel like meeting them was a part of destiny especially due to the circumstances of your meeting.

☕ Mars trine Jupiter when you first meet, it's very likely that you'll be seeing them quite often /almost everyday in person, whether through work, school or a shared project. You will be together, or at least see each other quite often.

☕ Mercury trine Chiron talking to them will be very healing to you, you could talk very often and openly, sharing your trauma and past experiences. You'll find that you may share a lot of similarities in that area.

☕ Venus conjunct Juno you may think of them as your ideal partner or idealise them a lot especially when first getting to know each other (dating).

☕ Sun square Mars/Saturn you may feel rather restrained around them, or may not be able to ease up much around them because of nervousness, or timidity. You may act more "mature" around them at first or less crazy than usual (lol).

☕ Jupiter conjunct Chiron being around them may trigger a lot of insecurities within you, perhaps you may feel "lesser" than them in some way.

☕ Pluto conjunct Starr (4150)

depending on the house it's in, being with them may push you to stardom or you may gain money/ popularity. It's not always favorable to see however; you may be known for a tumultuous love life as well depending on other placements/factors. (Priscilla Presley has this placement in the 2nd house. )

⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*

☕ Neptune square North/South Node they will come as a surprise to you, they are likely different from the type of person you expect to meet or different from the people you used to date

☕ Venus trine Neptune romance with them will make you feel giddy, and a part of you may feel like it's too good to be true

☕ Jupiter in the 12th house you may travel to them a lot or travel just to see them often, even after dating

☕ North Node conjunct Midheaven (MC)

being with them will change your reputation, whether in your career, public or both. You might feel like they give you direction as well. A new door; a new life.

☕ Moon conjunct Juno you will feel like they are your perfect match, your soulmate. " Finally, someone gets me."

☕ Chiron conjunct ascendant

you may think it's a risky move to be with them, or being with them may hurt your reputation in a way.

☕ Sun conjunct Boda

meeting them may make you think of marriage or long-term commitment. ( sniper sniper sniper sniper, wifey wifey wifey wifey)

☕ Moon square Mercury you might not share a lot of your true feelings with them or might hold your tongue a lot at first ( either because of trust issues or caution). You may also find it difficult to see each other on the same level and get offended easily (both sides).

☕ Venus opposite Pluto they will change your mind about love when you meet them or seem like a knight in shining armor amongst disappointments and heartbreaks

☕ Sun trine Moon there is an immediate compatibility, also like you've met before or seem like childhood friends (even though you've never met)

☕ Sun conjunct Venus love at first sight!

☕ Sun conjunct Jupiter in the 3rd house you will enjoy long conversations when you meet your future spouse, you feel like there is much to talk about together & have a lot in common. You may also be online a lot when you meet them.

☕ Sun conjunct Mercury you may make the first move when you feet them i.e start the conversation

☕ Lilith trine Uranus your relationship will help push you be more authentic towards yourself and others, you feel seen on a very personal level (respect s your individuality).

☕ Sun conjunct Jupiter ( in the 11th house) you might be gaining popularity when your first meet them or meeting them will cause a boost in your popularity. In the 11th house, it might be related to your online presence or reputation.

☕ Mercury opposite Mars you will be very hesitant to make any moves towards your person, or you might not think that they would strike up the first conversation (did not expect).

˚₊‧꒰ა paid readings available ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

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Thanks for reading ♡

@northopalshore

@northopalshore union persona chart 2025 all rights reserved.

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[anisangeldust]

Office Hours 𝜗𝜚⋆

Summary: Anakin definitely has a favorite student.

Pairing: Prof!Anakin x Student!Fem!Reader

Warnings: READER IS 18!, masturbation (m receiving), mentions of sex, no use of ‘y/n’, undertones of grooming.

A/N: Ik this shouldn’t be glorified, but i also crave for an older man to tell me he’s proud of me and that i’m doing a good job <\3. Also i hope the perspective changes make sense in this!

PART 2 HERE!

Anakin loved grading your work, in fact, he set aside your papers so he could grade them together.

He taught a required course, one that all student who wished to have a degree in anything to do with English had to take and pass. Some hated it, most just did their work and got their grade.

But not you.

You cared, Anakin could tell. you were always on time, you were attentive, a gifted writer, a wonderful person, and a great student. On top of all that, you were the prettiest girl he’d ever seen.

At first he kicked himself for his feelings, telling himself it was inappropriate, that it was wrong, how dare he think about one of his students like that! But you were 18 and he was only 32, that’s not so bad right?

The more he stared to feel about you, the more he let himself think about you. How could he not? When you always wore little pink bows at the back of your pigtails, when your lips were always pink and glossy, your cheeks always flushed when he’d compliment your work. You were truly an angel, perhaps a goddess; but that didn’t matter to him.

He’d worship you either way.

The ding of a clock indicated that he had 30 minutes to grade before his next class started, the class you were in, and he dug into the pile of ungraded work like it was the best book he’d ever read.

The last assignment Anakin gave was easy but long, a research paper on a book of your choice. Then you had to take notes on your work and turn in the paper and notebook.

He was giddy with he saw yours, the essay neatly tucked into the cover of the notebook, adorned with a small smiley face on the corner by your name. Anakin saved yours for last, a little treat he reminded himself as the other students’ work was less than savory.

When he got to yours he opened it up and almost groaned with excitement. never would he be over how neat and tidy your handwriting was, nor the fact that you wrote the whole thing in with a crisp, pink ballpoint pen.

Your work was superb, as always.

Anakin could have cum in his pants from how careful your essay was, the time and detail was apparent as he read through your incredible notes. He read both over and over again before the filing in of students reminded him that class was starting soon.

He wrote a few notes on your work and put it in the stack of graded notebooks to hand back.

——

“Brilliant work as always clever girl”

The words seemed to jump out at you, they were right next to the big red 98% on the corner of the essay you just got back from your favorite professor.

Surely it meant nothing, he was a professor, an educator, he was meant to praise those who did good, so why when directed to you did it always feel so different?

‘Maybe i’m just better than the people in here’ was the thought that jumped forward in your mind, of course your professor didn’t have a crush on you! what a silly thought to even entertain!

Yet his glances at you when you left the classroom, and the fixing of his pants when you smiles and waved at him made you think otherwise.

——

Anakin was rock hard when your class got out. the look on your face when you saw your final grade and the little note he wrote was enough to make a lesser man moan out loud. The way you chewed on your nail the rest of the class and jotted down notes had him sitting down so his erection was less apparent.

Naturally, he wasted no time when the day ended.

He quickly discarded himself of his blazer before sitting in his desk chair and unzipping his pants, his aching dick slapping against his stomach as he pulled down his boxers and immediately started rubbing the pad of his thumb over his leaking tip.

He wondered what it would feel like if it was your cunt, the mewls that would erupt from your throat, the desperate movement of your hips as he pounded you into his desk, the wet slapping of your arousal, god he craved you.

After gently teasing himself for a few moments, he fully wrapped his hand around his full length and began to messily jerk himself, your name falling from his lips like a sacred mantra.

The moment felt so good, the feeling of his hand was heavenly against his aching length, it was so good that he began to wonder what he could do to get you to let him fuck you, asking you up front could lead to him losing his job, no.. he needed privacy, he needed to know you wanted it to.

Ropes of cum spurted from his fat dick, the moments of clarity allowing him to think of the most perfect scheme.

——

The flutter in your heart was almost painful, you had ran the moment over and over again in your mind. Double, triple, quadruple checking that you weren’t crazy, that your beloved professor did, in fact, call you sweetheart.

If you were a man you’d 100% have a boner right now.

All you did was mention how you were proud of yourself for your grade on your last assignment, you were not expecting your beloved Professor Skywalker to quip back with-

“I’m proud of you too sweetheart”

-you could’ve cum right there, and you might’ve if you didn’t race out of that classroom like someone was chasing you.

This was wrong, horrible, ghastly. Though he wasn’t married, he had a tendency to ramble during his lectures, he was still 32! a whole 14 years older than you! But no amount of self-scrutiny could stop you from wanting to tangle your hands in his shaggy blonde curls while you rode him like a stallion.

———

The next few weeks felt interesting to say the least.

It seems your professor was un-aware of how much he was affecting you. the semester was coming to a close, so he rid himself of his blazer to prepare for the summer air, dawning only a white button up that displayed his back muscles the way they deserved.

You wanted to rip him apart, claw at his back until it was bloody and raw, suck on his skin untill you were the only thing he could feel, you wanted to destroy him, the only stronger feeling in your system was your want for him to destroy you.

His little notes also changed. It went form standard teacher notes like:

Awesome! or you did great!

to ones you could tell he only left on your paper, adorned in the corner of everything you got back was:

good girl, i’m so proud, i knew you could do it princess

It was getting too much to bare, he even started to touch you, to let his hands linger. Like when he passed you in the library and places his hands on your hips to move by you. It was too much.

He had to know what he was doing right? he had to know that you were rubbing your pussy raw to the thought of him, gridding pillows and hooking up with random boys that had similar mops of curly blonde hair and piercing cobalt eyes. he had to right?

He did.

——

Anakin knew he had you. Weeks of teasing, testing the waters, leading you to him, and you finally took the bait.

When he opened his E-Mail this morning and saw one from you he almost jumped out of his skin. it was professional, just you saying that you’d like to chat about your grades, but he knew, he knew the moment you walked in that you were his, that you’d do whatever he wanted.

It just so happened he was unavailable the rest of the day after you scheduled your office hours.

———

Anakin groaned, he thought maybe he could wait, that he could hold in his desires for after you two spoke, but he just couldn’t. He was uncomfortably. hard, his whole body was shaking from need, and it was still 5 minutes until you had scheduled to see him.

despite his better judgments, he undid his belt and palmed himself through his boxers, it felt so good, his balls were heavy with need and the tiny wet patch indicated that he needed to get off, now.

Yanking down his boxers, he did the same thing he did everytime he was alone with the thought of you, his hand pumping up and down his fat cock. The only thing he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. he was so deaf, in fact, that he didn’t hear the rattle of the turning knob to his office door.

“Professor Skywal-“ your voice was sweet like velvet. His eyes shot open.

shit.

[aettuddae]

HONEYCOMB — chapter 1.

— summer, 2004.

꩜ synopsis: the lavier-choi's, a french-korean family from seoul's elite that runs an electric vehicle production business, has been preparing to face a looming economic crisis that could crumble their empire, and it all takes a turn for the worse when, unexpectedly, their patriarch, who headed the company, suddenly passes away. at the news and her mother's desperate call, albany, the eldest daughter, is forced to abandon her life in paris representing france as a professional fencer and return to her homeland to face her mom's old-fashioned whims in order to help the family. amidst all the frenzy, the only positive thing she finds is that, after years, she will be reunited with her siblings and all the friends she grew up with, especially the yu family from across the street.

masterlist | next

there are certain things that, as time goes by, you stop questioning. after your twenty-somethings it doesn't really matter what your favorite color is, or that kind of trivia you learn to ask as a child to start a conversation, there are different things to worry about, serious, adult things, like how you position yourself politically or whether you have a place of your own to live and grow old in, or what names you have in mind for your children. it's because of this abrupt reality in which she lived that the question of what her favorite season was hadn't come up in albany's head for years.

if she had to devote any of her time to that dilemma, perhaps now, at 28, she would choose fall. summer in paris was chaotic and as the years went by it seemed to get hotter and hotter, meanwhile winter was gray and depressing. fall was fine, damp at times, but still quiet and cozy at the end.

what she could be sure of was that as a kid she told everyone how much she loved summer.

in all honesty, everyone she knew in her hometown hated summer in korea. it has all the hallmarks of the worst summers you can think of, but albany used to love it.

when the vacations started, her parents would take them to spend it at the family villa in namyangju, it had been one of the many traditions they had for as long as she could remember.

two years before minho was born, the choi parents had bought this big house in gyeonggi, in the middle of the mountain and close to the river, in order to create memories with their children while they took refuge away from all the noise and frenzy of seoul.

of course, the chaos was still with them, it was just a different kind. as albany began to grow up and become more aware of her surroundings, she began to doubt that her mother as elegant, delicate and whiny as she was would have agreed to spend the wettest time of the year surrounded by nature, water and bugs. each year was accompanied by her squealing and annoyances that her father, an adventurer and lover of anything that required physical prowess, was unaffected by, as he was always on the move, ready to set off to embark on a new activity.

summers in namyangju were not relaxing, they were an annual survival camp.

and albany loved it that way, for most choi children had inherited, to a greater or lesser degree, their father's fearless nature. it was fun, it was exciting, for a moment she felt like one of those forest fauns she loved to read about and not the millionaires' daughter with a monotonous predictable life that she really was.

one of the things she loved most was hiking in the mountains, walks on which she always found fruits. her father had taught her about some that could be eaten and some that couldn't, and then she deciphered the others, as well as plants she learned to identify. she took them back to the house where she gave them to the chef to use, and by watching that lady she learned to replicate those recipes.

time also brought her minjeong, who even with that small body ate what sunwoo wouldn't consume in a week and loved the raspberry pie albany made. the little girl was not a good friend of nature, she tried, but it seemed that the outside world was too rough for her little legs still lacking in strength, so every summer, that her parents spent in the namyangju village of her best friends the choi's, she spent eating the dishes that the blonde-haired french girl had learned to make over the years.

thinking about her family also included thinking about the yu's, her parents' best friends who had such separation anxiety that they bought houses just one street away to spend all their life together. her father, choi junmin, had met yu suwon when they were both in high school and from there their friendship only thrived.

summers were spent with the yu's, christmases were spent with the yu's, the meaningless days of the dullest weeks of the year were spent with the yu's. of course the adults were always busy, but the children had been forced to fraternize to such an extent that they too became accustomed to it.

albany didn't know a life where she didn't cook for minjeong, even when she grew older, every time she returned to paris after a few days back home, she found herself baking raspberry pie with no one to offer it to. she couldn't go that long without making her angry or chatting with her about all the fantastic things they thought inhabited the universe apart from humans.

and then, there was jimin. albany didn't know a life without yu jimin.

her best friend in the whole world, her partner in adventure. the girl who climbed out of her window late at night just to talk until they both fell asleep, who had accompanied her to her first gala and who also went with her when she escaped from it. jimin who was there when her last baby tooth fell out and when she had to help her furnish her apartment when she had just moved to france. who used to accompany her to look for elves and who gave her her first 'spiderwick chronicles' book. in all her important moments, jimin had been there and vice versa, her first crushes, kisses, partners, her academic and personal frustrations, her achievements, albany's first fencing tournament, jimin's CSATs and the moment she found out she had gotten into the college she wanted.

when they started to get along, albany was a little older, always going everywhere with wendy and minho, but she didn't really talk to many other people who understood her impatient need, as an eight-year-old girl, to find a fairy among the flora of namyangju, so for three summers in a row, she kept running around, disappearing into the trees and bushes by herself.

until one day, in late july 2004, she wandered farther than usual from the house, finding herself at the entrance to a grove. albany was choi junmin's daughter, she had no reason to be scared, so with a firm step she headed for the logs, ready to catch this fairy she claimed she had seen a week ago, but who kept running away. the problem was that albany was not minho, so she was not completely junmin. she was also her mother eveline's daughter and she carried some of her fearful, sedentary genes in her, so when she saw a figure in the distance that was shorter than her, hunched over and with big ears, she froze in fear. she didn't dare go to capture it or attack it as her older brother would have done, she just stood static, keeping silent so the being wouldn't notice she was there. she crept away until she shot out of the trees and ran back to her family as fast as when she was playing soccer with the neanderthal she had for a brother.

but she couldn't leave it at that, she had found a strange creature in the foliage, she had to go back to investigate what it was, and if it was an evil entity, she had to make sure it didn't attack her siblings. so every day for a week, little albany went back to the same place, ready to face whatever that thing was, which was always waiting for her in that exact position she found it on. but she would freeze, couldn't get close, and ended up returning terrified and frustrated to the house.

one afternoon, now in early august, she returned to the grove. it was the same scenario that had been repeating itself lately, and the same reaction on her part. try as she might, she couldn't get her body to move in the direction of the critter that was standing there. disappointed in herself again, albany turned on her heels ready to go back to where everyone was. she was no longer running from fear, yes, she was still scared, but now she was just walking back crestfallen, berating herself for not being able to face the forest monster. but she couldn't run away that day.

"why you always come here?" a high pitched voice made her jump in place in surprise, followed by a terror running down her spine at the thought that perhaps the creature had heard the girl or her outrage.

"what are you doing here, jimin?" the older girl asked altered, rushing towards the newcomer to get her away from what she thought was dangerous.

"i followed you." she confessed, wriggling out of the blonde's grip and taking a few steps towards where her gaze used to be fixed, in seconds reaching much farther than choi ever had.

"viens ici!" —come here —. she whisper-shouted, rushing over to pull her away.

"what you do here?" the little girl spoke in vaguely understandable words. she had always been intelligent for her age, but she was missing a few teeth, making it difficult for her to enunciate.

"jimin, you can't be here." she took her arm and tried to walk in the opposite direction, but she got away easily.

"are you doing something bad?" an excited giggle accompanied her assumption, she wanted to be a part of it.

"no." she folded her arms. "it's dangerous."

jimin's eyes suddenly expanded and her posture shifted to a rigid one, her pupils probed the area for the threat. she brought her gaze upward, to albany's face, who because of the age difference was quite a bit taller, she looked uneasy. "what happens?" she muttered.

the older one just raised her arm and with her finger pointed to the figure that hadn't moved all week, leading the blackhaired's attention to it, who after analyzing it for a moment squinting her eyes trying to make sense of it, just said with a discouraging tone, "that short thing?"

"how dare you?" albany reproached in agitation. "it's small because it's a gremlin." she reported in a very low tone.

"what?"

"a gremlin." she repeated in the same volume.

"kremin." she tried to echo.

"gremlin."

"kemin." she failed again.

"nevermind." she dismissed. "they're little creatures that make mischief." she explained, holding the subsequent silence for a moment to look up and down at the eldest of the yu sisters. "just like you." she joked, causing jimin to squeal in annoyance and start hiting her shoulder. "se calmer, calm down!" she took advantage of the girl's closeness after her tantrum to tug at her clothes and hide behind a trunk with her. "it might hear us." she warned.

"you're bigger." observed the younger girl.

"and?"

"you can step on it." she assured.

albany contemplated it for a second, but her foot wasn't big nor her leg strong enough, so she shook her head. "i can't." she looked down in defeat. "gremlins are mean." she explained.

jimin turned to look at the taller one, crossed her arms resting her elbow on top of the other and bringing her fingers to her chin to hold it between her thumb and forefinger while emitting a steady 'mmm' sound that indicated she was thinking. "you and i." she pointed to the opposite and then to herself. "there are two of us and he is one."

"what about that?" replied choi confused.

"it can't beat us." assured the girl hurrying to walk in the direction of the creature, sure that albany was coming behind.

jimin walked with confident steps as her eyes scanned the ground for something, while the older one followed closely behind, her body bent over as if she wanted to use the smaller girl as a shield, anxiously letting out strings of words quickly trying to convince her to stop, but jimin was mischievous, the kind of child you would find hanging from the top of a tree without knowing how she got there, she didn't listen and when something got into her head, she wouldn't stop until she did it.

the older yu bent over to the ground to pick something, straightening up with a long branch held in her small fist and raising it in front of her with a proud smile to show it to albany.

"what's that?" the blonde inquired, still terrified.

"a sword!" she exclaimed excitedly.

"be quiet!" she took quick steps to her to catch her face and cover her mouth with her hand. "that's not a sword." she said softly.

"yes it is." she reiterated when she was allowed to speak and immediately gave albany a gentle whack on the forehead with the stick, pushing her away. "we will kill it with the sword." she reaffirmed.

jimin, again, slipped out of the blonde's grasp and dashed towards the gremlin with her branch ready to finish it off. "jimin, soyez prudents!" —be careful —. albany could be heard chasing after her quickly to stop her, but by the time she was close, jimin had already struck the creature with her so-called sword.

they both stopped suddenly, confused as they saw a large pile of leaves scatter in the air after being hit by the small yu and fall to the ground around the small trunk that seconds before they swore was an evil individual that was going to attack them.

"it's a tree." realized albany in embarrassment, realizing that her gremlin was just the base of a tree with some grasses around it that were tall and wide enough to look like ears, and the leaves that jimin had swept away created a hair-like shape.

"i don't think so!" denied the younger girl in a confident tone and impacted the trunk with the branch again. "yes it is." agreed when nothing happened.

"i got scared for nothing." lamented the blonde, annoyed with herself, and dropped down, sitting on the grass beneath her, an action that jimin copied. "thanks for helping me, though." she added after a few minutes without saying anything.

"it's nothing." she gave her a big smile without many teeth. "i protected you like a knight." she commented confidently.

"you don't look like a knight." she refuted with a laugh. "you're pretty and small." jimin furrowed her eyebrows and gave her a displeased sideways glance, she didn't like being called small. "you're more like a fairy." she corrected.

"then," she thought. "i'll be a fairy who protects you." she nodded her head, confirming her words. "what do you think, abany?" she had trouble pronouncing the letter L, so the name came out funnily.

"it's albany." she emphasized the letter she had missed.

"abany." she tried again.

"no, that's not it."

"bany." she sentenced. "what do you think, bany?"

"fine." she agreed. "you will be my guardian fairy." she put her hand on the top of her head, rubbing it and messing up her hair, but jimin stopped her by tapping her wrist with the branch she used as a sword. "can i borrow your sword?" she asked looking at the object.

"i'll teach you to use it." she smiled sideways.

and ever since that confrontation with a gremlin in the summer vacation of 2004, albany choi has not existed without yu jimin.

(!)

taglist [OPEN] : @cwpiqwon

[feeling-horsey]

D --> I am 6'9" D --> Though that might be more or less impressive for you depending on what your average is where you are from D --> Ah D --> I do not know if I could tr001y assist with that, not permanently D --> I might be able to ease the effects on you somewhat, but only when I was present D --> I have a bit of a negating effect on outside inf100ences, especially when I put my mind to it D --> But it might not be a guarantee, especially if it is your own power, that I could do little for

D --> The quantity of skin is higher than you think when you consider my immense size is not accurately shown by the photograph D --> That is a horrible fate to be put into D --> It may be presumptive of me to ask D --> But it is simply in my nature to do so D --> Is there anything I might to do assist you D --> I have some e%perience with madness and the dark

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

Something I (internal plumbing) have experienced is that I feel like I get dramatically wetter when I am on top vs when I am lying down. I feel like that is generally conducive to sex, but I'm kind of wondering if that's a widespread experience or if it's just me? And the real thing I was wondering: if it is widespread, is the "default" sex position being missionary more of a cultural thing? I know childbirthing positions is detrimentally affected by cultural expectations, and maybe this is similar though obviously to a much lesser degree. Maybe I should have taken this question to a behavioral scientist or perhaps a historian instead of you

different people get wet in different ways in response to different stimuli

[boundwithpurple]

as i've said reading both a little life and the lesser bohemians in the last six months has made me think a lot about revelations of csa as a formal or structural problem. basically, unless you are writing about a child being abused, if you are writing about an adult, you are going to have to decide when and how a moment of past violation will be made clear to your reader. it's problematic to refer to it as a "revelation" in some ways - there are implications of voyeurism, of shock and scandal, that are a really frustrating way to frame any part of a what is simply a history of someone's life, of things that happen to a person. but of course the same reason it feels like a revelation are the reasons it feels voyeuristic and shocking or scandalizing, which are why it is abuse, and are in turn why abuse's effects are so devastating: it is out of the run of common life and can't be incorporated for powerful cultural reasons. and then, through culture - fiction - one is trying to incorporate it, and depict it's incorporation in a life. which poses unique challenges on a craft level!

a little life is now so firmly fixed in the popular consciousness as A Trauma Novel it's easy to forget how far into the book the explicit recollections of jude's past begin. looking through i think it is on pg. 163 of 819 in my copy where we begin the first flashbacks to jude's childhood, and it's a bit further before the sexual abuse is recounted. because even as a child, he has a history that precedes it, surrounds it. if the air of revelation can feel tawdry, presenting this as the first thing you learn about someone, as the most essential thing that dictates how you see them in every single way, which is what might happen if there was no "reveal" presents its own problems. we meet jude as a full person and then we get what violations have helped make him. and yet even thought we get other things first - his friendships, his intellect, his career - that past consumes them and obliterates them. this is A Trauma Novel. this is part of yanagihara's point - this is how it often feels to jude and how he experiences it and that is real - and also the pop culture reception is doing this to a rather offensive degree, colluding in an erasure the novel is about resisting, about the fight against and the beauties it bears, as much as it is about the tragedy of the victory of the past. the novel is pretty obsessively concerned with the demands of revelation. we get jude's past from within his own head, as relatively matter-of-fact biography, but also much of the tension of the novel is communicating it to others: how it will be communicated, what will happen if he does, what happens to his relationships when he doesn't or cannot. he tells willem his entire history in one continuous go, much as stephen does in the lesser bohemians, although unlike in that novel, the reader does not get to hear it. it is irreducibly private, sacred to that bond or that love. at least how it is communicated. we have all the information to imagine what is communicated. jude leaves harold a suicide note with a wrenchingly brief - 8 pages, when his recitation to willem in the closet took days! - account of his "hell" to forever haunt the person he's left behind with a belated and useless knowledge.

in the lesser bohemians you think this is a novel about a romance, and then halfway through it becomes a trauma novel, and then it continues as a trauma romcom. it’s earlier than halfway through when eily reveals to stephen she was molested as a child, but it's interesting how neatly this is incorporated back into the flow of the novel. perhaps because eily is the narrator? it's certainly not insignificant - it reframes a lot of what is going on within the sexual dynamic and how eily is trying to navigate her adult sexual relationship - but it is enfoldable. when stephen reveals his life story to eily, including being abused and raped by his mother as a child, the novel grinds to a halt for it. it literally slows down to happen in real time: he's narrating it to her, we are getting a direct transcription of his speech and her responses. it happens over the course of one night, and comprises about 70 pages in my copy. it is harder to digest, it becomes what the novel is about (or clarifies what it is about, reveals what it is about and how those few mentions of eily's past were, in fact, largely the secret point). but it only comes through dialogue, through an encounter with another's life. it is still enfoldable, because eily very consciously does so. this the moving beauty of it, how eily both considers this night the one she falls in love with him irrevocably because of the gift of getting his whole life. she hears "last night's rendered hell" and wakes up to buy him a birthday cake, and proposes they go drink bears and read in the park. she makes it part of him through making it part of her, her falling in love, and them. and this is very powerful: the fear that kept him from disclosure is that no one could ever metabolize something like that.

i love all this stuff. and it's especially compelling to me because it is something i had to grapple with a couple years ago, although as usual when i'm writing...it was less conscious. like i was thinking about all this stuff, but not in a way i could really have communicated. and so now it's fun to go back and do that and think about what i was working through in the act of writing which i can only now analyze. which is what i am going to do now. cw for what you can imagine from the above.

in writing my daemon targaryen csa survivor headcanon manifesto/daemyra ageplay epic... well i only set out to write the second half and then decided to commit and combine it with the former while writing chapter 4. that aspect was in my mind the whole time, but i wasn't going to make it explicit. i was going to remain allusive. stories that are deliberately so can have their own value and be doing their own work, but it was mostly because i was nervous about writing and posting something like this for a lot of reasons. but then i did. but then the question is: how to reveal this backstory that i have decided on being a key explainer for why this character is the way he is? to the reader, and to others, so the engine of fanfic generally and my fanfic (relationships between characters) can make of it a story, make it what the story is about, and allow it to braid with the other pieces at work, to incorporate it as life lived which can be rendered? etc.

my answer...was sex.

in hotd 1.01, daemon has some trouble performing with his sex worker girlfriend/concubine mysaria, and she offers him a "maiden? perhaps one with silver hair?" viewers who have been conscious for the last 20 minutes of show will remember that he was just having a very flirtatious and charged interaction with a maiden with silver hair earlier that morning: his niece. woah! viewers (like me) who also have the context of the wider universe will also remember that this guy is from the family that practices incest marriage and his parents and grandparents were both full siblings. he has silver hair, and he has clearly previously asked his (dark haired) lover for, or she has offered to provide, this erotic request which is centered around him fucking a girl who looks like she could be related to him. the implications are clear and intriguing: he is sublimating a desire to fuck a specific blood relation, and/or pursuing a desire for incestuous sex deeply ingrained by the values of his upbringing that cannot be satisfied in reality because there are no appropriate sexual partners (he had no sister; rhaenyra is his brother's virgin daughter and he would, at the very least at this specific point in time, not violate his relationship with his brother by transgressing his patriarchal prerogatives).

so this is where fanfiction is fun. you have this elliptic yet extremely evocative illustration of this man's sexual hangups! and if you are me it combines with other speculations about his inner workings derived from other relationships - say, that relationship with his brother, his relationship with that niece, and how the relationship with the latter is structuring the former and what deprivations and desires it hopes to satisfy. i've talked about that in great detail. my point is: 1. this guy seems molested to me 2. that is the case because of his interactions with various characters, and the facts of his biography, and the way he behaves in response to various situations 3. if that is so, that is affecting everything else about him and because i am the kind of person that was like "he seems molested to me" this is obviously interesting for me to explore. and then i have like this one moment in the show, and other moments, to build all this off of. so of course when it comes to the fic itself, this is where i make it clear. i recast that interaction (which all viewers, regardless of their take on daemon, saw) in light of my own read. the revelation is double: it's both happening within this fic, and it is happening re: the source material.

i have talked about this before. it's fun on the level of fandom. daemon is a guy for whom, unless you are me and my three close personal friends, this website displays basically zero sympathy. i have talked about this. a lot. the same users who can write meta about the damage of institutionalized incestuous marriage practices will exceptionalize him as a sinister pedophile who alone has not been affected negatively by being raised to think of close blood relations as the ideal sexual and romantic partner. where rhaenyra being raised to, on some level, view daemon as who she is destined for, is treated as sad, the fact that but for an accident of birth daemon would have been raised to believe the same thing about him in relation to his brother and the fact he was born a prince and his brother (also raised to think this re: daemon) cannot marry him as a central wound in that relationship is mostly viewed as funny. haha, he wants to marry his brother soooo bad. isn't it pathetic how he's sad he can't? none of daemon's behavior - flirting with his teenage niece, antagonizing the brother whose love he's desperate for, acting out violently while fulfilling the only role of sword arm that is allowed him within the family structure and the only one which earns his place in it - is ever tacked onto history: a complete person who does things, even horrible things, for perfectly comprehensible reasons.

there is another level, where "incest" is "problematic" in the fandom in a way that is, frankly, stolen valor from why incest is actually bad irl, which is that it is basically always the rape of children. it's bad, mostly because it's icky, but if you asked the people who do claim incestuous marriage is a bad idea, you would not get most of them landing on the real answer: because of the specific ways it might enable the rape of children. that is the thing that drives the disgust at incest in the series with its potent charge, and is also eerily erased and unspeakable. daemon doesn't actually physically sexually abuse rhaenyra as a child in canon, and even when talking about "grooming" no one makes the accusation he does, because it is not textually sustainable. there is actual harm (in the way that relationship is inescapably eroticized when she's an adolescent even without physical contact in a damaging way that can qualify as abuse in its own right, the use he tries to make of rhaenyra's sexuality for revenge on his brother according to misogynistic scripts of violated chastity, the fact that the family's marriage practices mean the second level of his gambit in 1.04 - to acquire her as his wife - leads to him feel he does not have to apprise her of what is going on or ask her opinion about it because she's his by right) but it is often not exactly what is being talked about. so i wanted to actually write about a child being raped within the targaryen family and how that would be experienced with their marriage practices in a way that restores the specificity of incestuous csa without it being used as a lazy rhetorical shorthand.

anyway. this leads to chapter 7. i have already done a dvd commentary of this one but now i'm doing a different version both broader and tighter in focus.

The girl is taller than Rhaenyra by several inches, and is not, Daemon thinks, of true Valyrian stock: few of them in King’s Landing actually are. But the Andals had brought their fair hair with them to Westeros and sometimes it could be this white-blonde that was close enough.

He nods at the proprietress of this pleasure house. She will do. The madam gives the girl a sharp look as she leaves them alone in the room that she does not see as she stares down at her slippered feet.

Daemon sits down on the couch and gazes at her. She seems to tremble before him as if in a haze of heat, as if all the silver-haired enough girls that preceded her overlay her uneasily, distort her edges—some taller, some shorter, some wider, some thinner—and under them, the bulge and seep of imagined forms.

“Come here,” he says quietly.

She crosses the room to kneel before him. He unties the knot on the thin strap that loops around her neck and is the only thing holding her shift to her body. Her breasts are heavy, the nipples prominent, thick. He thinks she might have nursed a child, and recently.

anyway, this means that this is all is going to lead to daemon having sex with a silver haired maiden in a brothel, and the revelation is about recoding that - simply by considering it from within him, an interior experience. there's an easy way to scoff here: a man's interiority as valuable thing we need to hear? well, i'm not saying it's valuable because it's fic, but i do think actually that can tell us a lot about the specificities of misogyny and the multisourced flow of harms that lead to its enactment (men act in certain ways because of the culture they have been raised in and the marks it leaves on them; they act in turn to leave the mark of their constitution as masculine agents on others). (this is not even my precise view of daemon, but you can't help but think about hostile audiences). "ew, gross, he wants to fuck his niece so his girlfriend is offering him this silver haired girl..." leads to broad conclusions (he's entitled to women's bodies, maybe slightly more dialed in on the bodies of women in his family). asking what he is feeling when he is doing it and what histories it’s connected to simply leads to a more textured and focused view of that same entitlement, which i think is both more interesting (this is fiction and should be interesting) and maybe with more useful broader application (as a general rule, working from the specific to the general while always not reducing the specific to the general is just more intellectually compelling).

His specifications are, after all, demanding. They cannot be too young nor too old. They must have hair of this rare shade. Though many have claimed their virginity, he thinks the real article must have similarly been rare. Although attempting to determine not only the usual, if the moans are the familiar flattering performance or real, but if they were the realest real, the real that is newness, prior to knowledge, contains its own interest, it doesn't really matter. The wine helps turn her outlines and those of the room around them soft as candle wax, but that too is not necessary. It is as natural as breathing to make this girl someone else, this room somewhere, sometime else. He strokes her hair, her cheek. One blue dart of her eye up at him and its gleam is not shy, not meek, but knowing, and that is why it’s cast down: she’s no actress and it would break the illusion—a look that knows things.

The request he made tonight is well-known in the Street of Silk, and perhaps an odd one: She must have silvery hair. She does not have to be a virgin, but I should be able to pretend she is one.

“Lie down on the bed. Under the sheet,” he orders.

He sips his wine for a moment while she complies. He thinks of the other girls used rooms like this, girls like her, to conjure.

"specifications" haha! the specifics of this girl he is paying for sex - the body that has just born a child - disappear underneath daemon's. his specifics destroy hers. she won't get a name, and daemon won't really think about that, and the flow catches us up to propel us along the specifics of daemon's specifications, the specific history that led to mysaria making that offer in the pilot, and back to the history that led him further back to ask for it. what revelation this builds to is encoded within sexual bodies and the sex he has with them, and is enabled by a gendered economic structure and daemon’s place in it and how it is used to meet various emotional and sexual needs. there are reasons driving those needs, and they matter, and to what it means to the life of this anonymous girl of queasily imprecise age they also don't matter at all.

The first girl like her had been delighted. Her silver hair owed to a Lysene mother and it meant she had found a profitable niche in the capital: men who wanted to pretend to fuck their sisters and to do it needed to pretend they were Targaryens. Yes, he supposes it was amusing—Daemon had no qualms about fucking a sister to circumvent; it was merely the sister herself he lacked, and so the initial act of conjuring had been the most challenging: a girl who didn’t exist.

Daemon stands up and walks over to the bed to stare down at her. The darling has done perfectly, just as he imagined. She lies on her back, coverlet to her chin, hands chastely clasped at her throat. Her eyes look at him with that knowingness, the knowingness that allows her to know he wants her not to know and has her looking away: it apes modesty nicely enough, even if it is only because she cannot fill them with an innocence that has been lost.

This is not how his real bedding with his real sister would have gone, how his parents’ had gone. The hands of the ladies plucking his clothes from him, the men freeing her from her outer garments until they were thrown together on the raft of the marriage bed, naked as they might once have been in the womb together, in the bath as children, before their paths diverged, he to the training yard and she to her septa—at least until, like his mother, she escaped her clutches to dog his heels, bang him about the shins with her wooden sword until he noticed her, till like his father he decided he couldn’t wait till supper and he must dart into the girls’ schoolroom on his way to his history lesson with the maester to pull her hair, slip a secreted bug down her shirt so she ran after him shrieking, laughing.

One night when he was six-and-ten he had his own mock wedding in a brothel a few doors down from this one with that first girl that had said, low, thrilled, sweetly nervous, You’re my brother, oh, yes, sweet brother; right before his true wedding (I'm not your sister, I suppose that’s the problem), the whores placing crowns of flowers on their brows, grabbing them, tugging at them, passing them from hand to hand into a room and tearing their clothes from them, a noisy, raucous, joyous bedding, Daemon’s mouth so plum-red from the wine it left faint imprints on her breasts, her lips so plum-red they left marks on his cheek that, when he slipped into the keep early that morning to wash and dress and depart for Runestone, had made his grandmother sigh with relief as she used a spit-damp thumb to rub them out.

They had laughed under the blankets together, not all of the revelers trooping out to leave them alone, for there was money to be had, in making people pay to watch a Targaryen prince fuck his sister. But the uproar had faded to a hush there in their mingling breath, her warm and by then familiar body. Daemon had felt new with her. They would know nothing together.

Nice to think. Aemon and Baelon, best of brothers, close in age, had gone together to the city, picked up knowledge to please their brides and how well Alyssa had been pleased, how loudly she had let all know it, how smug she had been, how well-satisfied.

Nude, although her eyes go to the blood of that Reachman cunt which still stains his knuckles, he peels back the sheet to reveal this girl’s body, known before knowing, known then unknown, made new. A revelation to caress her hip, shyly, shy himself, not wishing to frighten her, to slide his hand between her legs very softly—

Of course to imagine marrying this sister Daemon has to commit the sin of vanishing his brother, for if his brother existed, he would have their sister, but that was better than the other sin, also indulged in, of dreaming up a sister just for Viserys.

the relation of specific to general is all over this passage is key. daemon provides specifications so he can get a canvas on which to paint a fantasy of something unfixed (a sister that does not even exist, vague, shadowy) but this in turn comes from something specific (he has been sold the worldview that incest marriage is the ideal way to conduct his sexual and romantic life) to the even more specific (this might be ideology, but ideology is also incorporated and made personal; he grew up with the story of his very-in-love sibling parents and the father devastated by his sister-wife's loss) to the even more specific (he has a brother, he should have been his brother's sister, this has structured their entire relationship). something there with specificity for me always...

in the book, daemon has a fetish for virgins. this is alluded to in the show (with the maiden with silver hair) and then made a bit stranger with how his deflowering plot for rhaenyra actually plays out. the virgin fetish is baked in for westerosi patriarchy, but that estrangement (daemon's flinch from actually taking rhaenyra's virginity) made me think about how innocence can sexually obsess from the other side, as it were. someone might roll there eyes: oh, so i should care he's fucking teenagers because he was abused? and like, not at all: that is the question i am leaving unanswered. i do think many who victimize were victimized themselves, that the corrosive ways this is processed sexually often have more complex and far sadder sources than an emotionless patriarch who dominates from pure selfish malice, and yet, well, what does that matter to this girl or anyone else? how much? to what end do we think about it? (stephen’s narrative in the lesser bohemians is provocatively split basically halfway between what was done to him by a woman and the very bad - if not abusive - ways he has treated women in turn). it changes his relationship with rhaenyra, but the class structure of his society means he does not - canonically or in this fic - show the same hesitation due to age and vulnerability for any unnamed "maiden."

Tentative fingers between her delicate folds. His sister’s cunt, maybe his very first cunt. If he’d had a sister, what allure could the Street of Silk hold for him? Maybe as children they would have explored like this—he puts the girl’s hand on his cock, guides her in slowly stroking it to hardness, her first cock, that strange soft flesh absurd and alive in the palm, twitching as it thickens with blood—bolder, unashamed. That’s what he had imagined the wedding night before his wedding, with this endlessly adaptable illusory sister, who also sometimes maybe, curious, bold, hungry, kept ghostly pace beside him as he descended into the city, as they discovered everything together.

He rolls them over so he’s on top of the girl, kissing her with his eyes closed. Hard and aching but patient, he’d prepare her, lovingly, worshipfully, just like this, slipping a finger inside her, nervous himself with responsibility, he’d done this before in his fumblings with his whores, but this was new, this was his sister, and then somewhere after his marriage with girls in the Vale, Aemma’s home she’d left and Daemon had been sent to in exchange, the girl beneath him had no longer been his sister but his cousin, no matter her coloring, with the smell of stone and pine everywhere in the mist, as he’d imagined that other sister existed, Viserys’ sister, he’d marry her and so Daemon could marry Aemma, the cousin a year younger than him and it would all be different, that night wouldn't have happened, the one where Daemon had been shaken awake and he’d been awake instantly, like always, body on alert, but it had just been Aemma with blood on her nightgown, crawling into bed with him, and he hadn’t known and hadn’t asked whether it was her first blood or whether it was the blood that would inevitably follow that one, that Viserys, with no ceremony and no warning because they’d already been wed two years by that time, would exact, but either way, whether it was anticipation or aftermath that left Aemma’s small face stricken, Daemon had lifted his sheet and she’d crawled in and they lay there in the dark, he and his good-sister who he could make laugh even then, even though he'd felt sick, with relief, because it would stop for him now, he knew it somehow, or jealousy, because it would stop for him, and this, the relief, the shame at the relief, the jealousy, the shame at the jealousy, had chased him as a few months later Viserys beamingly announced Daemon would soon have a nephew or niece, and when that nephew died in the cradle, when Rhaenyra was born and Daemon hadn't said it to his brother or his grandmother, he'd said it to her, Aemma, Betroth her to me, I'll take good care of her, I promise, and it had been a promise regardless of the fact he was married to Rhea instead, he’s tried to keep it, he's tried, and the relief and jealousy and the shame had chased him to the Vale, where he’d left every single one of Aemma’s letters unanswered.

what i like is that the revelation that is this chapter's reason for existing - daemon was sexually abused by his brother as a child - only appears directly in like 4 paragraphs tops. (it's 7k, for scale). and that's generous, two are more implied, and it's this paragraph and the very final one that make it explicit. and yet they work as master keys for the rest, they should soak through it, inundate it.

i pull a trick i pull constantly because it's my favorite. technically this entire chapter takes place over the course of 20 minutes, generously. it's entirely daemon fucking this girl. and yet you get these long paragraphs with looping run on sentences out of it, out of a simple physical sexual act (fingering her, here) as everything in daemon is connected to and hooked on that sexual act, which literally speaks. (and reminds the reader, hopefully, of what remains silent, ie, the other person in this sex scene who says...well, one word at the end, we'll get there). i do this in for example this chapter of a magicians fic, which is, technically, entirely quentin coldwater masturbating after being swapped into eliot's body. and yet everything can be revealed by that hand on that dick doing those motions!!! everything in his life!!! because it goes on for 15k.

His thumb at her clit makes her sigh, her hips cant wider, the tightness at her cunt ease enough he can work a second finger into her. Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra. He didn’t think of her much then, in his first year in the Vale. He’d left King’s Landing before she was even a month old, for his brother had said to his plea only She will marry her own brother, she will marry my son, yes, Viserys had all he needed, wife, children, brother could be dispensed with, and it would be good, he’d been a bit embarrassed by his outburst because of course, Rhaenyra would have a little brother and she would marry him just as it ought to be. Daemon had come back home for her first name day even though he knew himself it would make everything worse, because he knew he would return to Runestone when ordered, but he showed up in time for her birthday—that morning he’d left for his wedding, Aemma had come to him with her daughter in her arms and told him it would be well, he was going to her home, the one she missed in this crowded hot stinking city, that high pure air as if the mountains themselves breathed and you walked in their chill exhalations, a sweet constant breath that made all colors sharper, deeper, the green of it, the blue of the air, and Caraxes would like it, there were elk to hunt and shadow cats to battle and Daemon, sullen, scuffing his boot in the dirt of the yard before he got on his horse to make his way to the Dragonpit, had just said, She won’t know me when we meet next, I’ll be a stranger, that’s what he would be, a strange man walking in, the uncle sent away, and Aemma said oh Cousin, she will know you, and she was a year younger than he, five-and-ten, and yet she made him feel like a boy, a silly churlish boy—and she had, he walked into the family chambers and everyone was shocked, dismayed, none of them had been at his fucking wedding but they’d heard all about it, dragged drunk in front of the septon, they’d heard reports of he and his wife’s mutual hatred, they might not know the full extent of his failure to do as they wished and become a man, an adult, but he still felt they could smell it on him along with the scents of dragon and leather and the icy upper reaches of the air, and then the silence was broken by Rhaenyra crowing in delight and reaching out her fat little hands toward him.

Enchantment. His outburst on the day of her birth, perhaps that might be dismissed as merely some ancestral yearning. Here was a Targaryen girl, a Valyrian princess. Not a sister or a cousin but a niece. Now, at one, a beautiful baby, particular, specific, special. Rhaenyra. Her eyes lit up with delight when he parted his hands to reveal his momentarily hidden face. The stubborn grip of her little fingers around his thumb. Her wails and shrieks of displeasure, her tiny perfect face with its petal-soft cheeks and peony lips twisted up in a demented entitlement when she was denied anything—denied Daemon. Even when he simply left the room. You’re a novelty, Viserys said then. His brother sighed in exasperation when Daemon taught her the words to everything in the room, recast the everyday things in this language that came from some elsewhere. Qurdon. Jimy. What’s the word for mother in Valyrian, cousin? Muña, that’s your muña, Rhaenyra. Viserys protested, You don’t need to teach her that yet, she hasn’t even learned Common, she only babbles. Kepus, Daemon said, pointing to himself, naming himself to her. Kepus, Nyra. Her first word—uncle and father in one, plausible deniability, save for the fact she was in Daemon’s arms, she said it smiling into his face. Viserys had hated it. She’d taken her first steps toward him, her mother’s hands hovering anxiously at her back, laughing with self-satisfaction as she toddled in his direction, before falling forward on her knees catching herself on her own palms, but she’d only laughed harder, their brave, brave girl. And Viserys said for the first time, Past time to return to your wife, Daemon, and he’d gone.

this is nasty work i'm so proud of and pleased with. he's fucking this girl and it shifts seamlessly into him thinking about rhaenyra as a baby. it should feel deeply uncomfortable, but it presents daemon's very particular mental landscape, where all these things - sex, incestuous sex, his infant niece, tenderness for a loved child - have become hopelessly snarled. i want to just consider that with compassion, its horror and its sadness, and the flickering and compromised hope of daemon's struggle to not damage in quite the same way he was damaged, not as much, how you get at a sense of your own violations and how you could perpetuate it when you have no framework for condemnation or even really identifying what has happened. the fantasy, the romantic vein here, is the idea that, sometimes, this awareness of vulnerability can make people act a different way, make different choices.

this is always what i think of as the tough sell of this fic, although i believe it's actually totally justified by canon. daemon makes a plot to deflower his niece as revenge and as means to domination, and is very close to success, and at the last moment can't go through with it. this is a moment that really matters to me, and this fic is sort of a thought experiment, as the best canon divergences are. in chapter 1, daemon gets an experience and demonstration of rhaenyra's deep vulnerability to him that he doesn't get in canon. which leads directly to successive displays of that vulnerability. and it gives him an awareness that only comes too late in canon.

The girls remained Aemma for longer, as he returned to the Vale and fled the Vale, spent nearly a year just he and Caraxes wandering Essos. Endless silver-haired lilac-eyed beauties, courtesy of his forebears and their conquests. Even on that immense continent bursting with unknown wonders and the Freehold’s mighty echoes, he found himself drawn to the still hot Targaryen point, the living ghost.

Saera in Volantis. He had been very young when she went away, that’s how it was phrased, she went away, and his memories of her were unindividuated, one of a mass of aunts who one by one died. She was known to him through a silence that delineated intriguing edges, the princess who became a whore. Daemon, eight-and-ten on her doorstep. She was unashamed, scornful, but wryly curious, willing to entertain him for a while. She enjoyed his acid portraits of her parents as desiccated relics, of Viserys as her father’s heir, Daemon’s assessment of his unsuitability. She was not particularly impressed with him, and did not appear to experience any yearning, any loneliness, here so far from her family, her sons a few years younger than Daemon and although she was instantly known to him, in his bones, known to him as a Targaryen, and although her sons were very like her, little evidence of of their three different fathers in them, in some way in a formula he couldn’t figure they were not Targaryen.

Daemon gave himself away eventually. The brittle mask cracked, one night up late before the hearth in her bedroom, the elegant sound of her orderly house, tinkling laughter of sophisticates and the strumming of lyres, murmuring up through the floor, when he asked why she never answered her mother’s letters, thinking of his grandmother’s frozen grief whenever Saera’s name was mentioned, the longing for the only daughter left to her, and his aunt said evenly: She thinks she wants me to respond, but if I sent her a letter, just a normal letter describing any normal day—she’d rather I were dead. I do her a kindness, not letting her realize she’d rather I were dead. If I hadn’t escaped the motherhouse, the beatings, the cold baths, the shit food, my pussy shriveling up and turning to dust from lack of use, I would have slit my wrists and she would have preferred that and this way she never has to know, and Daemon had nothing to say to that, because were not Alyssa’s spirit and Daella’s sweetness and Gael’s gentleness ever dwelled upon, and was not Saera’s childhood too a silence containing as it did the willful spoiled child who would become the girl who laughed in her father’s face and declared she’d have as many husbands as Maegor had wives, the girl who stood dry-eyed and unrepentant as her father slew her lover, the girl who spread her legs in a Lysene pleasure garden and offered up not only her own body but the body of a Targaryen princess, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms’ defiled, defiant blood open to all, cobblers grown rich as princes off courtesans and their taste for fine leather sandals beggaring themselves and grizzled old Braavosi sailors with their life savings withdrawn from the Iron Bank and Dothraki horselords willing to pay the entire population of a Lazareen village in slaves for just a night, the girl who’d survived.

She hadn’t been pleased when he showed up unannounced. She’d known him instantly when he was shown into her receiving room. Not Daemon, individually, but known him for a Targaryen. Her face went very red, then very white. She’d grumbled about the audacity of him asking her to stay, snapped she should put him to work for his bread and board, but she’d let him, she was wealthy enough, money of her own, money she’d earned in a vault with her name on it, that feeding a wayward nephew posed no trouble at all and provided its own satisfaction—Saera Targaryen wasn’t dead in a gutter, no ser, here she is feeding Baelon’s boy delicacies in her garden. He had the run of her beautiful house, of the city, and he continued as he had in Lys and Myr and Braavos, all the metallic girls and burnished boys, but mostly he shadowed her like a pathetic puppy, that’s what she called him, Oh, puppy. She wondered if his family—not theirs—knew where he was, if they wanted him back, if they’d send someone after him. I’m quite extraneous, he said. They were irate with him, he could tell in their letters, but also seemed wearily resigned, it was no more than they’d expected. They were not frantic. They knew he’d return, as he knew it. The second son of a second son. It’s nothing to the fifth daughter of a second son, Saera had said dubiously, but didn’t ask again.

His aunt was not as he expected. She’d been preserved in his mind as that crafty, unlovable child and although it was true her tongue was still sharp and she never rose earlier than noon and she moved through the world with what would have been sheer headstrong will if she had not already had done with all that, if she had not arranged her world so it flowed around her like silk, she was a woman, knowledgeable, witty, contented; she knew everything that happened in the city and everyone, spoke lively, flawless Volatene—Daemon struggled with only his antiquated High Valyrian—haggled hard with tradesmen, firmly but humorously reprimanded one of her girls for borrowing another’s gown without asking and ruining it, talked to her sons’ tutor about their progress, saw her most recent lover into her room for the night and filled the hall with her cries: any normal day—she’d rather I were dead.

Of course he kissed her. Despite the almost absent-minded condescension of Saera’s attitude toward him—she did not seem to spare him much thought, and when she did it was laced through with scornful amusement—there was also an odd nervousness. She left rooms he entered too quickly. She would visibly start when rounding a corner and coming upon him. Sometimes he would look up and catch her watching him, baffled, irritated, ravenous. Of course the only way it could happen was Daemon creeping into her chamber very late at night and crawling into her bed like the cringing puppy he was, scaring her half to death for a moment before she cursed him in annoyance. Surging forward, clumsy lips on hers. He expected her scathing laughter, for her to efficiently put him in his place and send him on his way chastised for his presumption. Instead she gasped, pressed herself to him, and then their hands on each other were frantic, fumbling at their garments until he could inelegantly breach her, rut into her with his head buried in her breasts, shivering, her hands wound in his long hair and high keening noises in the back of her throat that could have nothing to do with his brutal, ineffective thrusts. After, she pushed him off roughly, stroked his hair off his face with a harsh hand, his cheeks slick with what he hoped she assumed was sweat, and said cruelly, Oh, puppy, what have they done to you?

As a lover, he expected her to be assured, confident. That was what he craved, perhaps. To be the one who knew nothing. That came, eventually. Saera bestowed upon him an extremely thorough education indeed, in time. But first it was sweet, giggly, desperate. The practiced lover made new. She said after they fucked the second time that first night, You took the one virginity I had left to give, and the oddest, the most perverse: I’ve never fucked a Targaryen. She was fouled by her survival, the unclean—the whore—but somehow with Daemon it sloughed off her. The closest thing to a Targaryen wedding night they’d ever have: one night his cock refused to rise and she’d fucked him instead, on his back, his hair flowing in a maidenly shield over his chest, pinkening under her attention and none of it was new, all of it had been done before—he’d fucked and been fucked and fucked her specifically, and yet his eyes were wide, wet, he’d shuddered as she gentled him with her hands like you would breaking a colt to the bit, pulling his hair, she’d been fascinated with it, said, There, that’s it, as he opened to her and he wasn’t going to come, he wasn’t hard, and yet something similar to orgasm squirmed through him, something he resisted as too overwhelming, too much, until it tore from him, a great, blubbering, snotty sob, and yes, when he’d cradled his motherless girl in his arms four years ago he had known why she jerked and thrashed against it, why once it started she couldn’t stop, relieved, agonized, it scraped his insides so clean and raw it burned, Oh, puppy, and he’d hated it, adored it—how his aunt looked at him like she couldn’t remember ever being that fucking young, and he was crying too hard for words but his head shook as it came and came, he wanted to say no, you don’t understand, I’ve never been that young, the young that’s in your pitying eyes and soft hands, never, never.

She said You could stay, you know, start a mercenary company, hire yourself and your beast out to any of the Free Cities, and she knew it was never even a possibility, just as he knew it was never a possibility when he said Marry me, I’ll take you to the Dragonmont and get you a beast of your own for a dowry, and she would not even let Daemon convince her to let him take her for a flight on Caraxes, but he wouldn't let up, wouldn't leave her without it and finally she gave in, and she’d been nervous, her egg never hatched, she had never been around dragons, odd to think, perhaps she had been frightened even when she made her mad foiled dash to the Dragonpit to flee the trap they’d laid for her, but she gave a whoop of delight when the old wyrm thrust them aloft and Daemon had grinned the entire time, her arms tight around his middle, wind scouring his face, but when they landed again, his aunt was the one weeping.

the fic sort of puts daemon into dialogue with various targaryen women. what i like about the saera section in light of this formal problem is that what happens here is important, and opaque, because we do not get saera's disclosure that can bring it into focus. she has one to make, and it lurks around the edges, but like aemma's silent climbing into daemon's bed and what they don't say, it is not transmitted into language. daemon thinks about the sex they have while having sex with another girl that reminds him of saera, who is living a version of saera's life, far closer to saera than daemon, and yet no speaking is happening here either. and he's having this sex with this girl because he cannot speak to rhaenyra either. the women structure the revelation - the "maiden" - the sister she stands in for - aemma - saera - and then it's like - (rhaenyra) - as rhaenyra is through all of it and all of the others. this is the only way this specific revelation can be made or communicated. interestingly viserys himself is not super directly present…the demands of daemon as a character dictated that in this moment the perpetrator as individual be somewhat diffuse, present in a subtler form.

the last moment where daemon tries to do something kind and does something cruel, where saera weeps, and where we leave her for now.

Daemon returns. Not to the Vale, but home. Viserys seemed pleased, Aemma was pleased. He wasn’t where everyone would like him to be but he was home, he’d come back. And there was Rhaenyra, aged three, beloved terror, adored tyrant, Rhaenyra with her imperious demands and her volcanic tantrums. She was a biter and everyone despaired of it, she bit Hightower’s daughter black-and-blue when they fought. The first time she bit Daemon he responded without thinking; the slick little teeth marks throbbing on his shoulder, he’d leaned over and bit the chubby flesh of her arm and told her that was how it felt, how did she like it? She did not cry with betrayal at this revelation her uncle had been the one to deliver, that someone could deliberately hurt her. She did not run screaming to her parents at the lesson Daemon was the one to provide: the flesh of others feels. It can hurt. You can hurt it. And sometimes they’ll let you. She looked at him in wonderment and, unlessoned, bit down again in the same spot, harder, eyes glittering up at him evilly, until she drew blood. It was reported widely among those who obsessively monitored the little princess’ health and habits that she had stopped her biting, all of a sudden, just like that.

A darling, a pet, a demonic little imp by turns. Her parents doted and despaired. They loved her and so she must be guided, she must be shaped, made to turn out right. His grandparents died and yet the Red Keep was haunted still by their failure to master their daughters. Rhaenyra might transform one day before their eyes into the monster of Saera, that fearfully untutored creature. Rhaenyra was spanked for ruining her dresses and interrupting adults at dinner. Aemma delivered the punishments: she couldn’t bear to have anyone else touch her girl and she cried afterwards. It was what Viserys wanted, even if he did not deal it out himself and gave way easily to tears and pleas, and so did Aemma, even if it fell by the wayside for long stretches because Viserys simply did not attend, until Rhaenyra seemed almost to crave it as a mark of attention. This petted, charmed, overlooked child. Daemon had no role in restraint or comfort. His only task, fulfilled by simply breathing, was to delight.

He gave her a dagger when she was five and taught her the basics of using it, told her to keep it under her pillow and stab anyone who disturbed her sleep—Assassins, she whispered with relish and he’d just agreed, Yes, assassins—anyone at all, don’t worry about who it is, stab first and ask questions later, because that was simply how Daemon felt about it at twenty-one and how he feels about it at thirty-four and at any age: fuck her nurse or her little friend or her parents or her uncle as long as she was preserved, safe. What if it’s you? Rhaenyra giggled and Daemon replied, too intensely, Even if it’s me, and her eyes filled with tears, she became extremely upset at even the thought: I don’t want to stab you! she wailed and that was exactly the issue, wasn’t it, as a prince he’d always had a knife and never even thought about using it either, but before he could say fine, don’t stab me, die if you want, she’d worked herself up, nearly hyperventilating, But what if I come to YOUR room at night, will you stab ME, uncle, stab me to DEATH, because you think I’m an ASSASSIN, me your NIECE, and Daemon had said No, I’ll know it’s you, even asleep, even with my eyes closed I’d know and that calmed her right down, I will too, she said, soothed, I’d know, I’d know IMMEDIATELY, uncle, and so it proved useless for protection and anyway her septa found it and Viserys had it taken away lest she hurt herself.

The pearled maidens remained Aemma as he indulged in fancies that he was Rhaenyra’s father. He would not be allowed to marry her, he knew. He was marked, tainted. But if he were her father—if, yes, he thought it—if Viserys died and he became king, well, then he could do whatever he liked but when Rhaenyra was that small mostly he dreamed of marrying his brother’s widow—those hours in Aemma’s chambers, watching with rapt fascination as Rhaenyra’s Valyrian vocabulary became sentences, as she showed off the cartwheels she had learned from a troupe of gymnasts at a feast, Brother we need to get you some business to attend to, too much time with women—for then Rhaenyra’s life would be his to direct, it wouldn’t be any good for her, he’d never lay a hand on her, she’d be allowed to become just like him, and Aemma would be free, in his mind discarded everything but the fact that she would know pleasure in his bed if she wished to share it, Saera had ensured that much. He fucked these girls and they were Aemma but the sweet clench of their cunts were the molten afternoons, Aemma’s laughter as Rhaenyra whirled before them in a crown he’d made for her from paper, pronouncing, I’m Visenya!

Viserys, You spoil her, you indulge her, you fill her head with fancies, of course she prefers you. Why be her father when he could be her uncle? Spoiled, yes. He spoiled her, would spoil her. He spoils this whore’s cunt with his fingers and it responds gratefully and it opens, as he would spoil Rhaenyra’s cunt until it accepts him, pines for him, until when he notches the head of his cock to her entrance she sighs apart for him as this girl does, because around the time Rhaenyra was seven, eight, the girls transformed again, his niece’s future husband began to be discussed. There would be a son, yes, Viserys still believed that, but his eldest daughter would not be his queen, it was not fair to ask her to wait for him to grow up to be a wife and mother. It drove Daemon mad. If only it was him. He did not trust a Lannister or a Tyrell or a Baratheon slavering at the mouth at the whiff of her first moonblood. If only he was allowed Rhaenyra. He would take care of her, love her as an uncle, and then, when the time came, as a husband. The girl is tight around him, and if she was really Rhaenyra, as he started to imagine then, a forecasted and denied future, his niece, his bride beneath him when it was time, when she was ready, she would be tighter than this, and yes, it would hurt—he’d never lie to Rhaenyra, he would say I know darling, I know it hurts, it always hurts at first, it had hurt the first time, horribly, pain, his flesh could feel, blood on his sheets, but you could bear it, and eventually it would hurt less, he’d make sure it hurt less. Eventually he would make it feel good, the body adjusts, reshapes itself for pleasure, yes, like that—a noise drops from this whore’s mouth at the steady pressure of Daemon’s thumb on her clit, easing her into accommodating him, even against her will, Daemon doesn't delude himself, it’s not him, he just knows how to attend to her body as an instrument to draw forth cries to flatter him, even if she'd maybe really rather prefer to have it done with, for him to fuck into her and come quickly so he would leave and she could be alone, sleep, dream, but he needs to know the sounds Rhaenyra would make as he banished the hurt he'd made, because it was he who hurt her, and wasn't that better, and it wouldn't be for long.

His hips snap into the girl harder, faster. She whimpers. Daemon wraps her hair around his fist so her rippling throat is bared to him. “My prince—” she moans and he grunts, “No, no, lēkia, kepa,”;“Lēkia, kepa,” clumsy, grating on the ear, the sweetest thing, his sister, his niece, made for him, it wouldn’t matter, what would it have mattered, he could have fucked Rhaenyra any time, his girl, his darling, his dragon, his queen, and she would have let him, Brother, one day I will be your king, and if you were my sister…“Call me—call me my king, say it, yes, my king—” and with a muffled gasp of shock she so crowns him.

the only way daemon can articulate a desire to not harm rhaenyra is through the structure of the patriarchal incest marriage that is the thing that has caused all this! it coheres. what a devastating core. the girl speaks, and it's something daemon told her to say, and daemon commits the transgression he commits in show (an heir for a day, etc) and it’s hard to understand how he is not set up or fated to commit it. daemon is puppeting her, because he has been puppeted (cue tyrion's line about playing out scripts dictated by our ancestors).

He stumbles to the Red Keep shortly after, sky still dark as pitch. That early dawn coming back to the keep after the only successful wedding night he’d ever have, Daemon had gone to Viserys’ room by the hidden passageways he’d spent hours mapping as a boy, all the secret arteries that let you enter rooms like an assassin, he’d entered by one of these—he’d had to, the Kingsguard on duty wouldn’t have let him in without asking the king’s permission like he had that first time, Daemon seven or eight, after mother died and the only stable thing in the world was his big brother, Westerling had let him in them, some sympathy for the sniveling little prince, it had been very late or very early and Viserys had just gone to bed and he’d reeked of wine and sex although Daemon didn’t know that quite yet, I’ve come back from the Street of Silk, do you know what that is, it’s where the whores are, I will be married someday soon but until then young men have appetites, it’s filthy there, I’ve been through every brothel, I’m sick of it, diseased women who take the cocks of ten men in a night, I wish I didn’t have to go there, night after night Daemon had returned, missing his mother and his father too, who had almost died with her, Rhaenyra was right, he’d felt it too then even if he hadn’t had the words, they were all dead, and Viserys had said eventually, If you were my sister we would be married someday, do you know what it is married people do?—and if you traced those shadowed veins and knew where to put your eye to a very small hole in the wall and did so on the morning he’d left for the Vale you would have seen Daemon Targaryen creeping to his brother’s bed like a beat dog, his brother alone in his bed, his wife allowed to rest so soon after the birth, you would see the future King of the Seven Kingdoms startle awake, try to push his brother away with a noise of disgust, You smell like a winesink, you smell like your whores, and Daemon still drunk, weeping, had pressed his plum-red lips to his brother’s neck, his cheek, his mouth, sickened, desperate, and begged, If I was your sister we would be married, I would never be sent away, don’t send me away, and Viserys stiff and unable to dislodge him had been forced to permit Daemon for a moment to lay his head on his brother’s chest: yes, that’s when grandmother and Otto had come into the room, looking for him, and Viserys had said Go, you must get ready, and Alysanne had said Listen to your brother now Daemon, tired, very very tired, and he’d followed her and in the hall hearing Otto say to Viserys behind him It’s for the best, past time, and that’s when she’d rubbed his cheek clean and raw and looked relieved as she said You are leaving, and I know you are bitter now, but it’s good, it is good to get away from this place, these memories, it’s why I prefer Dragonstone, there is too much here, one day you will thank me, you can get away from this, you can have a wife and family of your own, you can make better memories, and in that moment he’d realized that she knew everything, she had known all along, but that he was the one who must leave, for their peace, no more carousing with his filthy whores, no more being scraped off the streets by the City Watch and carted to the Keep, he would be married, he would have children, he would be fine.

and it all comes together, but it's the last paragraph. it is inevitable, because forecasted by what precedes it, and yet it is the only thing that makes the preceding make sense. this is how it should feel to me, this is how it feels, and the structure communicates how it feels and is how it feels, and yet the structure is a product of the forces that dictate how it feels, which is quite bad...or something. the silver haired girls are an endless hall of mirrors and at the end is the reflection of the girl daemon was not, the ghostly girl around which the entirety of the targaryen family structure obsessively circles, which daemon was himself substituted for.

[inamindfarfaraway]

“Our family was shattered forever.” Let’s delve into the two images accompanying this line, shall we?

Before the shattering:

Soren is looking up at Viren, who saved his life and he chose to stay with, for comfort, guidance or connection. Viren doesn’t reciprocate, fixated on the loss of his wife. The staff of Ziard, which Viren used to imprison K’ppar and Aaravos crafted for his pawns, is a barrier dividing them that Viren actively holds in place.

Viren and Soren are framed inside the arch furthest away and Claudia to a lesser degree inside the nearer arch, enclosed in the wall, the structure of their family home. They are trapped. Lissa is free. She even blocks part of the wall and archway, visually overpowering it.

Lissa has an arm raised to her chest defensively, no longer feeling safe around Viren; Soren’s arms hang passively at his sides; Viren’s posture is stiff, one hand on his staff and the other behind his back (as he’s becoming a more emotionally repressed and manipulative person who doesn’t always want to show his hand, so to speak); and Claudia’s are desperately, futilely reaching out to Lissa.

The children are both between their parents. Claudia is closer to Lissa, alone in her section of the frame. Soren is right next to Viren, making their height difference and power dynamic more obvious.

Claudia is in Viren’s shadow, which is framed as a bridge between Viren and Lissa in this brief instant before Lissa takes another step - darkness connects to her to her family. As with Soren, Viren doesn’t show any interest in her. Unlike Soren, her distance from him is her choice. She’s running ahead of him in the direction he’s facing, like in his dark magic dream where she follows in his footsteps and then surpasses him.

Claudia’s left leg is barely visible under her dress, looking almost like the stump it will eventually be reduced to.

Only Lissa and Claudia are crying. A link has recently been established between tears and dark magic, and while Lissa had a bodily fluid harvested for a spell against her will, Claudia will volunteer her blood when a spell demands it.

The light is literally behind the family with shadow surrounding them, indicating sunrise or sunset. Sunset would be most thematically appropriate for the last memory of the whole family, but it would make sense for Lissa to start her long journey at dawn in a time and place with such limited artificial illumination (especially without the use of dark magic). It is a new dawn for her as an independent woman, after all.

After the shattering:

The point of origin is Lissa, as her decisions to divorce Viren and let the children choose who to live with, leading to Viren raising them on his own, define the new state of the family. All the cracks radiate outward from her forehead, her mind, and she’s by far the most fractured. That’s a worrying picture of her mental health. The cracks break and distort her family and their home, but she cannot see this and clearly doesn’t intend it.

The same crack crosses through Soren and Viren and another vertical one descends part of the way between them as well. It hasn’t fully divided them yet, but it will.

Soren is gone except for his legs and head. His head - still searching for something in his father - is even lower and further away from Viren. None of the others are diminished like this. The imagery of a severed head and missing torso full of vital organs ironically evokes death, despite his preserved life and perfect health. Viren doesn’t kill him, but he will destroy much of his spirit.

Viren is almost completely duplicated, in contrast to Soren being eclipsed. His copy is fainter, shorter and overlaps partly with Soren’s legs, as if he’s replacing his son and the man he might grow into with a vision of himself. Perhaps he’s in two minds about the path he’s chosen? Or beside himself with grief under that cold exterior? He takes up more space, but is also broken and trapped more tightly in the fractures. Like Soren, part of him is lost; he’s the only one to have what appears to be a missing shard interrupt his depiction with a slice of nothingness, reflecting the piece of his soul that he’s turned into a black void. The head of his staff being above Soren’s legs represents dark magic replacing Viren’s relationship with his son in his life.

Claudia is actually intact, but a duplication of one of her legs is cut off. This may reference how she will duplicate her lower limbs into five tentacles and then have one of those cut off, Rayla probably thinking it was an extra that wouldn’t correlate to her human leg. Like Viren, she’s boxed in by the cracks, which draw lines between her and the rest of her family on all sides. Viren and Soren share a shard with Lissa, but Claudia doesn’t. Her indecisiveness has left her even more isolated.

[catcas22]

Maedros in Troy AU

Long, long post about my very niche obsession. Original AU by @sweetteaanddragons can be found here.

Every so often when I'm listening to EPIC, my mind will play six-degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon and I'll end up back at this AU. This particular addition was inspired by my remembering that Achilles was a redhead (Or maybe strawberry-blonde, idk enough about the Greek language to say for sure. His son was a redhead, and he once went by the alias of "the redheaded girl.")

The morning after the sack of Troy is a somber affair, even, surprisingly, amongst the victors. The surviving Achaean princes limp their way back to the feet of the horse, finally able to take a headcount. Odysseus and Ajax the Lesser are missing, Neoptolemus is nursing a nasty leg-wound, and less concerning but equally inconvenient, Menelaus and Helen have absconded to Sparta to start their second honeymoon.

Neoptolemus, in particular, has been having a day. First he got paired with Odysseus, which he has come to learn means he's going to be acting as the muscle while the Ithacan takes the credit. Then Odysseus was granted the honor of ending Hector's bloodline, and Neo couldn't even say anything because the order came directly from the mouth of Zeus. (Odysseus already took his father's armor. Could Neo not at least be allowed his vengeance?) Then Hector's woman took a swipe at him with a dagger, which Neo handled quite easily, then a madman burst out of the crypts and nearly cut his leg off, which presented a bit more of a challenge.

The princes compare notes, slowly piecing together a picture of The Stranger who carved a bloody swath through their armies and then disappeared as quickly as he materialized. Finally, Eurylochus says what everyone else has been thinking (fearing). Towering in stature, redhaired, wearing armor that turned their blades and wielding a sword that pierced through bronze like soft clay? They all know who that sounds like.

Yes, the others reluctantly admit, The Stranger is most definitely the ghost of Achilles, returned from the grave to once again punish them all for the sake of some personal slight. (Neo can't stop thinking about the look in the man's eyes, that look of pity or maybe disappointment before he left the youth bleeding on the steps of Hector's tomb).

Diomedes is the only one to object. Aside from Neo, he was the only one to get a good look at The Stranger and live to tell about it. That wasn't Achilles. In fact, he made the man bleed, so he wasn't a ghost either. No one else seems convinced.

Neo confirms that Odysseus went into Hector's tomb alone, and only The Stranger emerged. Sage nods are exchanged amongst the other princes -- Achilles must have returned to avenge his old comrade, Greater Ajax. But then why would he kill so many Achaeans after presumably taking his vengeance on Odysseus? (Agamemnon scoffs. As if Achilles ever needed a reason to be a pain.)

Then a messenger arrives, breathlessly announcing that Ajax the Lesser has been found. Specifically, he has been found dead by a blow from The Stranger's magic sword, lying at the feet of a toppled statue of Athena.

Now that's clearly an omen of some sort, though no one can agree on what message to take from it. Athena is Odysseus's patron, but is the toppled statue a sign of judgement or of disrespect? Does this have anything to do with The Lesser's cousin The Greater? Nestor suggests consulting the Trojan oracle Helenus. They left the boy tied up on Agamemnon's ship after Odysseus finished with him, and he was still alive the last time they checked. Perhaps he can interpret the omen.

This plan only makes it as far as the beach, where the gang discovers that both the oracle and Agamemnon's flagship have been stolen.

Suddenly it all makes perfect sense. Diomedes explodes -- yet again, Achilles is punishing them all for the sake of his feud with Agamemnon. The High King sputters out a denial -- he and Achilles were square when the man died. His conscience is perfectly clean. He still looks as if he is actively having a heart attack.

Nestor attempts to intervene. Diomedes shouldn't jump to conclusions... But if Agamemnon knows of anything that might have brought a vengeful Achilles back from the grave, he really should tell them. They promise they won't be mad.

Agamemnon has the horrible, sinking feeling that this might be about the fact that he took a leak on the ashes of Achille's funeral pyre. But he's certainly not going to admit to that. Wounded or no, Neo has a good couple of inches on him, and the kid is built like he strangles oxen for a hobby. He has that same twitchy look in his eye that his father always had.

This man cannot have been Achilles, he insists, and Agamemnon is going to bring back his head to prove it! (No one else is willing to set sail while the son of a Nereid might be after their heads, and Agamemnon is quite sure that they're one more bad omen away from sacrificing him to appease Achilles. It's what he would do, were he in their position.) Eurylochus and his crew quickly get pressed into service -- they need a captain, and Agamemnon needs a boat. And don't they want to avenge their fallen king?

Neo insists on coming along, much to Agamemnon's horror.

Maedhros isn't ready to panic just yet. Disorienting as that first night was, he's now fairly certain that he knows where he is. He's on the eastern side of the Sea of Rhûn. This is an inland sea, and the climate and general look of the people suggest that he's somewhere south and east of Dorwinion. He's a long way from home, to be sure, but at least he knows how to get back. He takes a moment to privately curse that storm Maia for dragging him so far out of his way.

He's fairly certain that the woman he rescued is the baby's mother. At least, she seemed very relieved to have him back. So if he recalls the storm Maia's threats correctly, that would make her the prince's widow. The others seem to tentatively consider her to be in charge, and she's at least attempted to communicate with him. Maybe she can help him get his bearings.

Unfortunately, she doesn't speak any of the Easterling tongues he learned from Bór. That's not terribly surprising. Rhûn is a land of many nations, and this particular clan must be rather isolated if they're still casting weapons out of bronze. That's fine. He might not invent new languages on a whim as his father did, but he does enjoy learning them.

The golden-haired girl hasn't stopped watching him. She looks away with a pained expression every time he catches her at it, but even now he can feel her eyes boring into the back of his head. He saw eyes like that once before -- the first time he saw a mirror after Thangorodrim.

The others give her a wide berth, though she does nothing apart from sit curled under the mast, arms around her knees. During their flight, she broke from her stupor long enough to lead them to this ship -- the same ship where they found the prisoner who Maedhros assumes to be her twin brother. It almost seemed as if she knew where...

But that would be ridiculous. She couldn't have known. Maedhros rather forcibly shrugs the notion off. They're twins. He's seen Amrod and Amras do far stranger.

On his first night, Maedhros was too preoccupied to look up. Even had he chanced to look at the sky, the smoke of the city's burning would have blotted out the stars. He spends the following day tending to the wounded, despite having nothing but torn clothing and seawater, and offering what comfort he can, despite speaking not a word of their language. When the sun sets, he forces himself to stay awake. One look at the stars will give him his heading, and from there he can plan the route home...

Oh. Maedhros doesn't know those stars.

Maedhros is beginning to suspect that he isn't in Rhûn.

More coming soon, by request of @sweetteaanddragons !

[lilacargent]

How cold is too cold?

The Quelec had been left alone after their adamant refusal to join the Conclave. This draconian looking species viewed most other creatures as lesser, which made the conclave just as happy to ignore the Quelec and their nearly uninhabitable icy planet.

It didn’t take long before the Prideful creatures couldn’t stand being put to the side like they didn’t matter. Requesting a diplomatic convoy to reopen the conversation was only a ploy to take them hostage and issue ridiculous demands to capture the Conclaves attention.

It is now that a conclave mother ship is hanging just out of orbit to make a plan to get them back. Above a massive map of the icy landscape with one thin line of forest across its median, the three crews tasked with the retrieval are discussing loudly.

“No they can sense electrical currents, and any blast from their breath weapons will shut down our vehicles.” The tall bipedal alien that looks remarkably like a yeti yells at the other people around the table ‘going in with a full frontal attack is going to get everyone killed and if they don’t the cold will. The hostages are held at this planets south pole, which functions as a great prison because of its insane cold!’ The group of Lokachs (a more serpent like alien) hiss at the hostile tone ‘ssssoo far you have not gotten a better idea. Perhaps think for yourself Loquacious.’ When a fight is about to break out the human mediator steps forward. Followed by a tall bearded man and a woman dressed in remarkably non uniform clothes, with markings on her face. ‘No fighting here, they send all of us because we have different experiences with the cold. You, Loquacious of the Relokip, can keep your internal temperatures high like the Quelec can but you’re saying they can sense how you do that?’ the second in command responds ‘Captain Drissum, sir. We generate static electricity in our fur and change it through our nerve system into heat. But the energy will set off the sense of the Quelec.’ With a slow nod Marcus will gesture to the people with him ‘We specifically picked people from a cold climate with generations of experience for this mission: Katjuk from the united Inuit tribes, and Bjørn from the high north and re-established viking society. After many humans left the planet because space travel became widely available the sudden climate changes from the departure of all these people caused an ice age to some degree. All of a sudden skills their people had perfected over generations became increasingly valuable, now they come to share this with us.’

Stepping into the middle of the group Katjuk is the first to speak, ‘we have means to travel the icy tundra without alerting the Quelec, and my friend and his crew have the skills and weapons to protect us during this track. The air is almost good for us the only dangerous aspect is the sulfur and a simple respirator will fix this without using electricity.’ Loquacious lets out a loud bellowing laugh ‘How in the eternal universe are you going to survive the cold without your electricity run suits then? And if you people are soooo cool why do you need us?!’ Marcus just facepalms and Bjørn shoulders past him towering above most people here, but only at eye hight with Loquacious ‘Unless you want us to drop you at the surface with us, you get to sit in your pretty ships and shoot up the other pole and if you are actually brave you can make a bigger splash by going into orbit and making sure they leave their hidey holes.’ kitjak pulls out several packages of fabric and shows one of them to the groups ‘these are a type of clothes our ancestors have used to keep warm in horrible cold, we are going to use them now to do the same. Now on how to get on the planet we are going to do a dead drop, with parachutes. No electricity involved.’ With a thoughtful expression the elder woman looks at the main Lokach, ‘we are going to need your biggest stealth ship, i have been told that it can start up with unheard of speeds almost straight up, is that correct? If so we would need it dropped with us, it is going to be our way out, hopefully it is too quick for the Quelec to respond and we can be picked ultimately outside of orbit.’ Taking a step forward the male bows his head ‘thisss iss the cassse indeed, how do you know it exists?’ Marcus laughs ‘we know most things, but that is not the point now.’ Seemingly having decided that the other groups knew all they needed the humans start speaking with eachother about how they are going to time all of it.

After the fact Loquacious recounts with stunned admiration to the Conclave ‘they dropped down from our highspeed ships with 30 creatures they call dogs, specifically trained to pull sleds and run in packs. The sleds flew over the icy landscape with no regard for the cold. Once they arrived at the strong hold Bjørns men put on spikes on their feet, ropes all around them and scaled the walls like it was nothing. Somehow it took no more than 30 minutes for them to return with the hostages, dropping them down with the ropes like they weighed nothing. Immediately being clothed by Kitjacks group put on the sleds, to return at breakneck speeds.’ Loquacious is silent for a bit when Ilsop (the head Lokach) speaks up ‘with no regard for their own safety they returned the people to the ship we had dropped in the forest line, the dogs are trained to not fear anything their people will tell them to do. There was no sign of exhaustion on these creatures, i believe they would have been able to walk so much further.’ Shocked faces all around look to the massive windows overlooking the internal park of this garden world where a dozen humans are playing with dangerous predators without a fear in the world.

The humans will always find a way.

Outside Bjørn is speaking with Kitjak ‘You know it wasnt even that cold, a Canadian would have worn shorts’ Laughing loudly the woman agrees.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tadah

As this is not my culture i did a lot of research, if i have represented things wrong please tell me. Because of that i have remained vague on certain aspects i could not find clear info on.

This took a bit but in response to @caffineandsugar s request for nordic/inuit/ scandinavian focussed.

[greenfiend]

Let’s Talk Time in ST

Time has been referenced a lot within this show and it is likely to play a MAJOR role in the final season- possibly in a reveal that will change our perspectives on the show as a whole.

There’s this one character who is most associated with affecting/manipulating time more than any other…

Mike.

He’s late every season. He is the one El addresses in the letter discussing time (image at the top of this post).

While Will is our Marty Mcfly, the time traveller. Mike is our Doc Brown… the inventor of the Time Machine.

These scenes spell it out for us. Dustin leaves the theatre “to find us a ride” then we are shown the Delorean (the time machine in Back to the Future). Now… who does Dustin reach out to for “a ride”? None other than Mike Wheeler himself, while we are given ANOTHER call back to the movie.

Somehow, he possess the ability to alter time. Is it powers? Maybe. Perhaps time has been slowing down and speeding up depending on his emotions. Let’s look at some examples of this.

From the very beginning we are shown the boys playing DnD and having a blast! They played for ten hours and that time just literally flew by in a snap.

Shortly after, Will went missing. Time came to an abrupt halt in the upside-down… but also perhaps in the right side up too?

When Will went missing- Mike felt numb… for a long time. He was devastated. Because his emotions affect time- time literally stopped. Time stopped until he found El in the woods. El represented hope for him. He started to feel things again and his life started up again. Time started up again.

The frequent mentions of the week being long are a reference to the week Will went missing. Because of Mike, that week actually lasted far longer than we realize.

Once Will returned, time resumed in the right-side up.

Throughout the show, however, we are given hints of time speeding up/slowing down to lesser degrees.

Here we learn that Mike had not really been enjoying himself while spending every single day with El.

While it’s the exact opposite when he’s with Will. At the movies, Mike definitely enjoyed himself. He loved the intimate time with Will. So much so that time sped up. We are shown this through Nancy and Jonathan waking up late.

When the Byers moved away, time slowed down quite a bit again. However, when Mike and Will were on good terms again and being a little flirty? Well…

Now I will just leave you with this:

[ganondoodle]

since i have seen this argument pop up again and again and now its used to defend the minecraft movie

i really hate the argument that something, be it a movie or a game, can be as shitty as it wants when its primarily aimed at kids (or people THINK it is aimed mostly at kids) bc its 'just for kids'

like children are lesser an stupid? like they arent incredibly impressionable and deserve good movies? im not saying they should only watch critical acclaimed drama movies, but you can make a movie 'for kids' AND make it good, its been done before, sure there will always be shit movies, and thats fine, but dismissing any kind of criticism towards them bc "its just for kids" feels so unecessarily mean spirited towards children, like they are little people in wildly different stages of development!! they can think too!!

'kids' itself is such a wide range that i feel its not very useful as a category anyway, a 5 year old isnt the same as an 11 year old, both of them should get good things, and both can watch or play things they may not completely understand yet! i grew up with shrek, and while a big parody and haha fart humor movie, they (1+2) have an incredibly strong core, i didnt udnerstand them fully when i was little, so what? i still enjoyed them, i felt more connected to them than any disney movie (bc hey .. the monster is the main guy and no they dont all turn into conventionally pretty humans as the ultimate reward- i felt othered throughout my life too) and i still do, theres jokes and themes and meaning i understood fully only when i was rewatching them as an adult, i still enjoy them even at 27

and like, shouldnt it ESPECIALLY matter what children watch? (not in the puritan brain worm way) bc they are ... people in development?? do you think if they just sit down and watch shitty movies and play games that dont challenge them at all, be it thinking critically or emotionally, all day it wont have an affect on them??

(im sorry to bring up totk again, but that 'its for kids' argument has been used to defend it so much too, and its so incredibly annoying to me, ah yes, its puzzles are all skippable or easy as shit bc its main target are kids and children are stupid and shouldnt be challenged ever, the story is a simple fairytale type deal maybe to you, but contains alot of harmful stereotypes that have led to real world harm and its repeated unquestionably while offering nothing intersting to think or engage with, theres a reason alot of childrens media contains alot of stereotypes to propaganda even but its just for kids of course its not propaganda bc kids are stupid and cant understand that lol BECAUSE they are so impressionable, if a series 'for kids' only lets the girls be in frilly pink dresses and do 'girly' stuff do you not think that wil affect how they think about themselves??

if they keep seeing the light skinned blonde heroe stab the unquestioned evil arab stereotype bc he wants to take over your holy land bc hes just 'evil' and is never ever humanized in any way and only presented as a monster, while the good little maiden princess does everything she can to support her hero in shiny armor with big sad doe eyes and pretty little white dress- do you not think it will affect them? if it were an isolated incidence perhaps not much, but its a stereotype perpetuated to such a degree that you think its just 'how fairytales go'? yeah, you have been influenced by these portrayals, they are working as intented- and if they are used as such in media without the writer intending to influence you that way? thats even worse bc it means it has been so normalized to think that way people dont even realize it- while alot of real people in the world are ganondorf, they are demonized and dehumanized, others think of them as inherently evil.. but its just a "simple fairytale"

yes i know children can also question things on their own, but you shouldnt assume that comes naturally and then also in just the correct way, i questioned why i was just doing whatever the talking boat told me to do when i first played windwaker as a kid, but more bc i liked how ganondorf looked and hated being told things to do without a good reason being given (autism much?), 'evil' didnt do it for me, but that doesnt mean i knew he was an evil arab stereotype, i didnt like tetra turning white as zelda, bc i thought she looked cooler before and i didnt like 'girly' things myself, not bc i knew it was whitewashing

-not saying media should be free of anything 'problematic', the problem is how its presented and never questioned or engaged with critically and then that stupid argument being used to dismiss it like children are both unable to think and not influencable somehow-)

[afurtivecake]

One thing I've been wondering is how much did Riko really see Kevin as a brother and how much did he see him as a possession? (And is there really a distinction between the two in Riko's eyes?) Because, I don't think Kevin was ever meant to be Riko's brother or Riko's equal on the court. I think Tetsuji took Kevin in as an investment, nothing more:

"Tetsuji never formally adopted Kevin. Do you know why? Moriyamas don't believe in outsiders or equals. Tetsuji took Kevin in and took over his training, but he also gave Kevin to Riko—literally. Kevin isn't human to them. He's a project. He's a pet, and it's Riko's name on his leash. Sakavic, Nora. The Foxhole Court (All for the Game Book 1) (p. 88).

To the outside world, Tetsuji taking custody over both Riko and Kevin would have looked like him adopting them and making them brothers, but "Moriyamas don't believe in outsiders or equals" so what reason would he have had to lead Riko to believe that Kevin would be his brother? A brother implies a level of equality. He probably thought this will be a learning experience for Riko: give him something to be responsible for, something that he has to learn to control because he's a Moriyama and it's about time he learned how dominate lesser beings. He probably imagined Kevin to be something like Jean was: an obedient servant who can take being beaten within and inch of his life semi-regularly, no sense of autonomy, blindly submissive, and still able to be one of the top players in his position. A valuable right-hand man perhaps, but nothing worth kicking up a fuss over.

I think (and this might just be me wanting a good story) that the whole "brothers" thing came from Riko. A neglected kid with nothing and no one to call him 'family' receives a boy, who doesn't have anyone to call him family either, and is told, "This is yours now. This is yours to mind. Do whatever you want with him but make sure he knows his place and knows how to obey the right people." To a kid who's longing for something to call his own and someone to recognize him as family, that could easily have sounded like, "This is yours now, your person, to be by your side always. Yours to tend, yours to keep, yours." I think Tetsuji said "possession" and Riko heard, "brother". And if that's not what a brother actually is, well, who's going to tell him that? It's not as if there's a single example of a normal family relationship to be found among the Ravens.

I think Riko made Kevin his brother because he wanted something more than a possession. He wanted an ally, someone who always has his back and would never leave him. Riko making Kevin his brother instead of just a pet as was intended, gave Kevin a degree a freedom that Tetsuji probably wouldn't have allowed otherwise: travelling outside of the country with Riko, not always being stuck inside Evermore, studying what he wanted...he even got to have interests and to enjoy exy even when he wasn't playing (being a Trojans fan) and he managed to have friends outside of Evermore (Jeremy). Ravens don't have family or an identity outside of being a Raven, but Riko made Kevin his brother and gave him the chance to become his own person.

If Riko considers Kevin a brother, how can he turn around and hurt Kevin like he's nothing more than a possession, you ask? Well, I'm not sure he sees any conflict between the two. To Riko, beating Kevin up isn't outside of what Riko understands as "family" and doting on Kevin as a brother doesn't go against what Riko sees as ownership. To Tetsuji, ownership might only include being able to treat a person like shit without consequence. But for Riko, allowing Kevin freedom and indulging his "whims" probably feels as much like ownership as hurting Kevin without recourse does.

It seems impossible and stupid for their relationship to be anything other than toxic and deeply fucked up, but I think Riko selfishly believed that so long as he kept things in check, so long as Kevin stayed exactly where he was, he'd get to keep him. Even when Riko starts suspecting that other people are starting to see that Kevin might be better than him, even when being brothers is no longer useful to him if he wants to prove that he's really a Moriyama, Riko can't let go of their brotherhood. He doesn't give Kevin up until the very end. He can't. No matter how angry he gets at Kevin, no matter how much he comes to enjoy seeing Kevin hurt and sorry, there are lines he can't quite bring himself to cross. Because Kevin is still his brother. Because for better or for worse, he made Kevin mean something more to him than a possession when he made him his brother.

I don't think Tetsuji expected Riko to cling on to Kevin as though Kevin was actually important. He didn't think that by partnering the two, by giving them a common goal and a common enemy, that it would create a bond between them. But they did and maybe, in some ways, their dysfunctional relationship both saved them and doomed them.

[lordofmelancholy]

Arcane Silent Frontiers: Timebomb and Parenthood PTIIII: Sevika's Reaction

Part 3 Here

Oh begrudging “Auntie Sevika. . .” It should come of no surprise to anyone, that despite her rather irritable and genuinely no nonsense type of nature, that the degree of care Sevika has for those she considers allies or even friends is  greatly remarkable and, to be quite frank, highly admirable and that such goes even doubly for her relations in SF.

SF Sevika is no different than her normal Arcane counterpart. Her loyalty still stands strong though only in SF does it stand strongly for characters that in the show we could only speculate due to the limited/no interactions she shares with them.

As it stands in SF, Sevika basically takes on the act of the begrudging “Aunt” so to speak. Oftentimes for Arcane, people often HC about her relationship with the kids (Vi and Jinx/Powder) growing up when she was in the company of Vander. One such headcanon often involves her as being the one who taught Vi to originally fight before Sevika had ultimately defaulted to Silco when she was with Vander.

This is shown by the line where she said “you never learned patience” to Vi during their fight scene and perhaps could also shed some light and also explain the "traitor" line Vi throws at Sevika as well. 

However in SF the relationship Sev has with both Vander and everyone else is far more amicable, and far less tense and strained. Essentially in SF, Sevika stands as an old war buddy of Vander's that had long been estranged from the family for a while. 

While it is unclear the reasons for their prior estrangement, Sevika nonetheless holds (though only a fraction) of loyalty left towards Vander. As a result of this loyalty, following the man’s disappearance, Sevika eventually steps up as a sort of mentor towards both Vi and Jinx, and when Vi herself goes missing, towards both Ekko and Jinx.

Over the years as a result, Sevika takes on a role between a mentor and a follower and is often at the tail end of many of their shenanigans, especially towards Jinx’s who she had long taken upon herself to look out for following Vanders disappearance as seemingly a final act of deference towards him. Similar to Scar in a way, Sevika stands as second-in-command, but also as a result much like Scar, end’s up putting up with a LOT of their shit. While many years their senior, there's not a day where Jinx doesn’t drive her up the wall's.  

The introduction of Isha into their lil “Found Family” came as a shock to Sevika. What came as even more of a shock however, is the apparent closeness the two would gain to have. This kid, more than once, proved that she was a lot more than what Sevika initially wrote her off as. She's resourceful, she’s quiet, she listens, (sometimes), but more so to the point, Isha gives back to Sevika what Sevika never knew actually bothered her to loose. 

Which was how much of both Jinx and Vi and the other's growing up she had missed. And how much of the concept of family she had missed in the pursuit of a better Zaun. 

Sev had always been soul torn; a woman fiercely loyal to her roots yet also frightened of them. A woman who's said roots built her to be as steadfast and stubborn and unwavering as the caverns and rocky foundations that made up the Zaunite mountains. A woman that even despite how rotten those roots were, had always tried tirelessly to better her home. Money sent to foundations run by Zaunite officials for kids stuck in the mines, for those affected by the mines through generational works of its deep, unforgiving depths.

She’s also tried the lesser legal means as well from time to time, smuggling, drug trafficking, and even the occasional beating of Piltie and Noxian boot-lickers that come and try to exploit the old, sacred places; those that build the backbones of Zaun and it’s history. 

Everything she ever did she did for Zaun. 

Even if truthfully, she never tried to stay. As shocking as it was to admit, helping Zaun prior to the event's of SF often meant Sevika had to stay away. And though it may often brought pain and shame to ever have to admit that, she often believed staying away was the best thing. 

But the place never let go. People often made a joke about the town being cursed. It was a long standing gag partially due to the phenomena of those once born in it being seemingly unable to leave. Zaun after all had always had a bad habit of always latching onto the poor souls born here. And often it was, that one way or another it always found it fitting to drag those who tried to leave back to its bedrock roots to act as their grave. Few ever wished to stay there, though many did due to an apparent loyalty. But even those with good intentions toward the town; those who often tried to better it, to once again make it feel like a home, often also felt as though that nothing they ever did changed anything, and tragically Sevika had become one of them. When Vander went back ultimately, Sevika did not follow. In fact she often rarely ever went back to that place, that hell, this home of hers.

She returns to see each kid that is born and taken into Vander's little pack; visiting long enough to give valuable advice of 'get out while ya can, brat,' and promptly leg it out of there hoping that her words were enough. As a result however of this routine, Vi, Jinx and all the other kids close to Vander often knew Sevika as the “Aunt” who often disappeared randomly for months at a time and then come back at like 4am one random night out of the blue, and all were used to that routine.

But it was also around that time as well when Vander and her began to have their falling out. Sev often grew frustrated with his passive approach to a lot of issues stemming around Zaun. Sevika's allegiance to Zaun itself, not individuals, often set her apart from Vander. And she could never understand how such a staunch supporter for Zaun could seemingly “turn his back on it”.

Despite this however, Sevika and Vander remained “friendly" so to speak, though they often lost contact with each other for a while from time to time. Until one day, when Zaun finally calls her back in the form of a phone call. "No man/woman left behind” as they often always said in the army, and it’s that phone call from Vander that has her coming back to make sure the rest of them are safe.  That sends her home

And Zaun is thus where she becomes stuck; trapped within the mountainous region that was her birthplace like so many others had become. . .and it’s also here, where she begins to understand. When she begins to form a bond with Isha, Sevika begins to understand Vander just a little bit more, not by much but by something. But the true acknowledgement doesn’t come until after the baby shows up.

Sevika remembers that night. 

Her on her way to her quarters after a particularly grueling day. Ready to get some peace and quiet and relaxation; some much needed R&R in her room.

Except when she walks in. She instead finds that her quarters are occupied. She find’s Isha, doodling about on some old piece of yellowing paper. But that’s normal, because Isha had always had a tendency much like Jinx to sneak in. Though the reasons for such break-ins were highly different. It's instead the fact that it’s really late that confuses her, Isha never comes this late, never stays this late. 

“What are you do-”

She looks around, and she notices her bed. Accidental chalk markings and shavings all over her nicely maintained sheets and cot. Something that she would normally grit her teeth over, knowing how often in the past she had lost sheets to Jinx’s similar antic’s.

But her teeth are far from together.

No no, in fact instead her jaw is dropped right there, because it’s not the chalk that catches her line of sight. Instead it is an honest to God's, gurgling, small baby. And for a moment she gapes, blinks. Darts looks between a seemingly disinterested Isha back towards the baby, watching as the babe looks up wide-eyed but seemingly also disinterested when Isha finally makes a move before Sev can say anything, showing her a lil' crude sketched out depiction of-

"Oh, goddammit," The sight of the drawing makes her come out of her stupor. For right in the middle of that drawing, is a pale figure with long blue hair holding hands with a dark figure with short white hair. Each holding separate hands to two smaller figures that looked very much a lot like her bed's current occupants.

Isha doesn’t do or say much. In fact she seems a lot less shocked about this whole thing then Sevika does. Sevika on the other hand. Well she’s going through the five stages of grief all at once. She remembers blankly confronting both Ekko and Jinx when the pair magically return a few minutes later, 

('When you say you're going on scav runs, I expect actual supplies, not for you BOTH to pull a Vander and adopt a horde of ankle biters.)

But as the night wanes on, and Ekko and Jinx finally sit the fuck down and explain the situation, Sevika reluctantly comes to terms with it relatively quickly. Knowing that deep down there will be nothing for her to say or do to change either of their minds. They both have the same look in their eye that Vander once did when they take the baby back from her, and she knows once they have that look that it’s a lost cause. They ain’t giving that baby up, and she doesn’t expect them too.

And as the night turns cold enough to need the heat on suddenly and when all five of them are sitting about, enjoying the warmth and silence save for the little sleepy grunts and coo’s that emanate from Ekko’s arm, Sev stares quietly. And when all of them besides Sevika fall asleep, including Isha who take’s up the spot next to her leaning up against her side, Sev stares some more and take’s a look around. 

And as she watches. 

as she stares. 

She remembers. 

She remembers instances like this when she would visit Vander and Vander would be so preoccupied with a toddler on his lap or something similar that he would yield to a disagreement in a way seemingly unheard of.

And as the night continues to churn, Sevika does something she’s never truly ever done willingly before. She moves Isha over to let her lay against the arm of the couch, and she stands up. She gets up and she stands in front of Ekko. Jinx is dead to the world, snoring softly and drooling against Ekko’s arm. 

But Ekko on the other hand is just slightly dozed. He hears as well as feels the vibrations of Sev’s feet as they pad up to the front of him and when he cracks an eye open he notices she’s standing in front looking down at him. He’s happy they have all learned to talk without having to open their mouths up. One look in Sevika’s eye is enough to tell him anything he needs to know though she often swears up and down that she’s unreadable. He shifts up, just enough to push himself off the back of the couch without waking Jinx up, and he holds his crooked arm’s up. 

“Knew you’d come around” he says softly, and all Sev does is grunt in response with that typical twitch of her nose she does whenever she doesn’t like something said. But the twitch is half-assed when she bends down and scoops up the tiny bundle from Ekko’s arms. There’s a nervousness in her touch. Steady hesitancy. Nearly uncharacteristic. The last time she ever held an infant, her arm was still built of bone and made of flesh and that had been years ago.

Now it’s cold and it's rough and impersonal, but Ekko still hand’s the baby over to her with no care seemingly towards that. And when Sevika finally settles the baby comfortably enough on her arm and sits back, she stares down. Can see the tender, fragile skin and know it for the rose-leaf softness that invites a finger's touch. The round-cheeked flesh wobbly as custard, the boneless splay and ball of the tiny hands. But the baby sleeps and soon so does Ekko, only much more deeply this time. 

And when the room is silent once more, save for the ticking of heat and the sleepy grunts and coo’s, Sev stares. Stares between them all. Isha, only partially awoken by the shifting of the couch, smiles-pouts at her from the other side. And the burst of a sudden strange warmth Sev feels seeing that when she notices is one she’s not totally familiar with. But as she takes in the view; of her own small gang of stray’s, she begins to realize what it is.

Finally. . .she understands him. . .

Took her long enough.

_ _ _ oh the joys of learning what home really is.