#they claimed it wasn't racism but we all knew it was racism

[ratatattouille]

It’s having the power and strength to walk away.

Because the thing about oppression and its cycle of violence is you can always just walk away from it :) damn, wish I knew.

When Ekko suggests they use hextech to fight off Silco, what does Caitlyn say?

"That won't solve things," to which Ekko replies "Easy for you to say, your people aren't dying all around you." Of which Ekko is right :)

Caitlyn never forgives Jinx. But she is able to let her hatred go.

Potato, potata.

And no, Mel doesn’t forgive either.

That's literally what I said :) for someone so against misinterpretation, you struggle with reading simple sentences on most of my posts.

Mel used the Black Rose’s power to strike her mother down, then SAVED her mother from a terrible fate with the Black Rose.

Mel saved her mother by using the Black Rose to . . . kill her mother. That's either a dumb way to conclude Mel's mercy motif, or just one of those other redundancies that ultimately doesn't matter. Still sucks.

I also disagree, season 1 was NOT meant to use the daughters as a demonstration of the consequences of their parents and to critique their philosophies. Season 1 was about how these seemingly small acts of violence snowball and get in the way of resolution and unity.

Not mutually exclusive :) Also, the cycle of violence being perpetuated and imitated by Piltover renders any "both-sides" takes on the political conflict of the show exceedingly stupid. Unity was never an option. Not for Piltover and not for the show.

The great tragedy of Piltover and Zaun is that both cities have the capacity to become a unified and better place, but because of pride, ambition, racism, classism, oppression and hate… it will never be truly unified.

What happens in Season 2, Act 3 is not an "inevitable tragedy" but a contrivance. Jinx's death, the arcane's corruption, the multiverse side-quest, the Black Rose, Felicia, Isha and Warwick . . . stupid-ass contrivances. And the story being a tragedy doesn't make it well-written. It's a poorly written tragedy because of how contrived so many plot points in it were.

You can't have Piltover be the oppressing class and then claim that Piltover and Zaun are both equally complicit in said oppression. That's literally how you get dumbass rhetoric like "heterophobia" and "reverse racism." Piltover is the aggressor, Zaun reacts. Piltover is guilty of said racism, classism, pride, over-ambition and hate. Zaun reacts to it. Silco wasn't like the Piltie Councilors. The Councilors wanted to expand the hextech project to expand their wealth. Silco needed wealth to gain Zaun's independence. Shimmer was always a means for Silco, whereas all the ambitions of the Councilors was to double what luxury they already had.

This is truly one of the dumbest takes on this show I've read so far.

Viktor literally spells out the point in Episode 9. “In the pursuit of greatness we failed to do good.” Hextech was meant to be a boon to humanity, but it ended up a curse.

Another dumbass contrivance courtesy of the writers. In S1, Viktor was talking about how both him and Jayce (like Heimmerdinger warned) got distracted by their own idealism, caught up in the pursuit of recognition, approval, success or experimentation. Both were so busy trying to beat the clock (for different reasons) that they neglected a myriad of blindspots and made mistakes as a result. "Hextech" in S2 is a scapegoat for the sins of Piltover. It was made out to be a curse, where previously it had been a neutral entity, there to be used for good or bad, only becoming extremely bad when Jayce uses it to save Viktor's life (and isn't that curious?). In S1, hextech became bad when it was weaponized (and Jayce, Mel and Vi's characters explore this), however in S2, hextech is bad because . . . well because we have to create an enemy to unite Piltover and Zaun. Not to mention, the Councilors didn't vote for Zaun's independence for the sake of unity. I mean, Zaun was literally becoming independent--hence not a part of Piltover anymore. That was the path to peace. But in S2, we're given a cheap (and unconvincing) plot to reunite these two halves of one nation by making the big bad hextech the threat.

Your problem is that you think my criticisms of S2 are all about whether or not there is any narrative or thematic continuation between S1 AND S2. I don't deny there is, at least on some basic level. MY PROBLEM with S2 is that it's decreased in quality on every front--characters, themes, narrative and cohesion, to the point that a lot of what it tries to communicate becomes incoherent. And I have pointed out many reasons why. The writers made many stupid decisions (e.g. making a story about two cities, one oppressed, one the oppressor, a metaphor for conservatives and liberals) that resulted in the mess we got, esp in Act 3. At best, they tried to do too much. At worst, they tried to rectify the "radical" politics of S1.

Oy, you just won’t SHUT UP will you?

get a grip, lmao

you can head over to the caitvi tag and like all the fanart you want. no one's going to take your precious blorbos away from you. i promise arcane critics aren't a threat. there's like only 5 of us here. you're the majority. you're safe. caitvi is safe. breathe in . . . now out. you won. the shitty act 3 will always exist, and you can re-watch it to your hearts content :)

I love how arcane s2 just nullifies whatever it was saying within the same season or the show in general. “Forgiveness is what breaks the cycle of violence” (—said by Silco) except ALL the families in Piltover that were responsible for Zaun’s desperation returned to the table with the same prejudice, certain to outvote Sevika and maintain the brutal status quo. Also, Mel didn’t defeat Ambessa with the power of forgiveness. Her whole triumph was becoming the fearsome violent Wolf like her mother, wasn’t it? The cycle didn’t break, it just restarted. “The violence endemic to human nature is inescapable” (—said by Viktor) unless you’re Jinx apparently, where you can just hop on a balloon and fly elsewhere, or marry a rich woman like Vi 😘 “Our flaws are what make us beautiful, we are whole as we are/not broken” (—said by Jayce) unless you’re Jinx, then your mental illness is the cause of destruction and your family would be better off without you. “Love (not survival/prejudice) is the motivation of our most horrible actions” because that’s the only reason anyone did good/horrible things—for the daughters! Not for economic gain, personal ambition, or out of survival it was LOVE ALL ALONG (FYI, in Season 1, the daughters were meant to demonstrate the consequences of the actions of their parents and critique their philosophies, NOT be the cause of their parents actions). “Accept the inevitability of change/death” just not when it comes to the status quo. “There’s no prize to perfection and all pursuits must end” cool, but the pursuit was completely worthless apparently so who even cares if it ends at this point? Hextech was apparently created by Jayce and Viktor to be destroyed by Jayce and Viktor whose goal was to make the world a better place. They just made the world worse and fucked off. So now what? Literally what was the point?

S2 wouldn’t be so incoherent if it was having anywhere near the same discussions as S1. The two seasons are talking about very different things with significantly different characters.

[bluntshavingrazor]

30/10/2024

The group of Travellers who live on the site near my house (In real life, not just a dream thing) decided to hold a large block party to get on better terms with the non-traveller residents. However, while most people enjoyed the celebrations and the homemade stew they were serving, many of the locals decided to sit in the middle of the block as a form of protest. Then some of the Travellers did the same thing, and the two sides formed an alliance.

The stew was OK, but I had to eat around the chunks of corned beef.

[eggtargaryenii]

EAST OF THE SUN | PART II

You were a disgrace to House Targaryen, the product of an impulsive wedding between a lost prince and some Essosi whore. You had little social capital within the Red Keep and few prospects for marriage, but that was alright. You were perfectly happy to stay out of the game of thrones, wed some politically relevant lord of Alicent Hightower’s choosing, and die in peaceful obscurity. Unfortunately for you, Prince Aemond had other designs for your future.

11.1k words, aemond x fem!reader x jacaerys. childhood friends to lovers (except it's cousins), political drama. chapter warnings for targaryen incest and themes of xenophobia/racism and misogyny. see part I for full story details. dividers from @/cafekitsune.

V. STRENGTH

Jacaerys was a child when he found out that he was a bastard and his mother was a whore.

Bastard. Whore. Even before he understood those words, he knew that he was different, somehow. That he was not enough. The lords and the ladies in the Red Keep always stared at him and Luke when they walked by, clinging to their mother’s skirts. They whispered whenever Ser Harwin Strong spent his afternoons with them in the training yard, putting wooden swords into their tiny little hands and teaching them how to swing. They covered their mouths to hide their laughter whenever his father, Ser Laenor Velaryon, took Jace out riding, steadying him on his pony. Pay them no mind, Jace, his father always said. They're only staring at you because you will someday be king.

So Jace closed his ears and focused only on Mother, Father, Ser Harwin, and Luke.

But the older he got, the harder it was to ignore the whispers. Bastard. Mongrel. Son of a whore. A wonder that his dragon egg even hatched. I've never seen any Velaryon who looked like that. He don't look like no Targaryen prince, methinks. Look at that hair. Look at those eyes. He can only be a bastard.

He can only be a Strong.

It wasn't all bad in his family, at least. Queen Alicent always looked at him with contempt, but his grandsire kept her from saying anything. Sometimes his uncle Aegon would bully him about it, but then he would leave Jace alone whenever he was teasing Aemond instead, so all Jace had to do was join him in making fun of the scrawny boy. And whenever Aegon and Aemond teamed up to point out Jace’s bastardy, you would stop both of them. You would gently scold Aemond and that would make him quiet, but with Aegon you would throw things instead. (Oops, you said once, after dropping the Seven-Pointed Star on Aegon’s foot. Sorry, my hand slipped. I'm afraid that book burns my heathen fingers.)

You always defended Jace like that.

Jace’s mother was a whore, and he later learned that yours was too. Maybe that's why you were so nice to Jace, even though the lords and ladies of the Red Keep scorned you worse than they ever did him. To Jace’s wonder though, you never seemed bothered by it.

It doesn't matter who our parents are, Jacaerys, you told him once. We’ve got dragons. We’re Targaryens. So long as we play our cards right, no one can ever touch us.

But what if my blood isn't enough? he would mumble. What if Vermax doesn't let me claim him? What if I cannot fly? He did not have silver hair and pale eyes, the features of a Valyrian king. Perhaps his bastardy and Andal blood made him less of a Targaryen. Could a mongrel tame a dragon? Could a bastard sit the throne?

Could a Strong ever take to the skies?

You smiled at him whenever he asked. You can do all of those things, Jace. I promise. I can't help you with most of them—but at the very least, I can help you learn to fly.

So he found himself on your dragon, seated behind you, his hands tight around your waist. I've never seen Wildfyre so happy to have someone ride him, you laughed. Not even me!

The dragon clicked and grumbled and turned his head to look at Jace, golden eyes approving. Then Wildfyre’s great wings started flapping, his roar thundering through the skies, and suddenly Jace found himself rising higher and higher, the muscles of the great creature rippling beneath him. King’s Landing was getting further away, shrinking; the clouds were getting closer, and Jace felt a chill as the cold damp of them soaked into his clothes. A freezing wind whipped through his hair, felt like ice to his bones, but he screamed and screamed with laughter, heart dancing as he clung to you.

Once you'd steered Wildfyre through the clouds, drifting into the warm twilight, you turned back and threw him a smile.

See? you yelled. Only a Targaryen could be so fearless on dragonback!

Fearless, you called him. He clung to this word: Fearless. I must be fearless. I must not fear my duty. I must not fear the succession. I must not fear the court.

In truth, though, Jace was afraid. He was afraid of being a bastard and he was afraid of losing the Throne, of ruining his mother’s claim. But you were so good at dispelling it all. You were so good at making him brave.

So when his family was sent to Dragonstone indefinitely, he nearly wanted to throw up—because it meant he could no longer see you. He sought you out soon after the decision was made, nearly running through all of Driftmark’s grounds before going to the Queen’s rooms, where he knew you would be.

He found you by Aemond’s bedside, talking to the injured child as he slept. Your fingers threaded through his silver hair; you whispered Valyrian into his ears, soothing and pretty and soft. Jace wished he could understand it, but his mother never spoke it around them. Ser Harwin, being an Andal, only knew the Common Tongue, and so that was the language that Jacaerys had inherited instead the language spoken by kings.

Jace begged to you in his lowly, mongrel tongue, ugly and stiff unlike the melody of Valyrian: “Come with us, please. I know you'll like Dragonstone. No one will stare at us there, no one will whisper. You'll be happier for it.”

He was not surprised when you said no. There was no way you would ever leave Aemond, but he asked anyway, again and again.

“I can't do this alone,” he kept saying. “I need your help. I don't know how to be strong like you. How to be fire and blood.”

You smiled at him. Stepped away from Aemond’s bedside, then took his hands in yours.

“You need not worry, Jace. Your mother will guide you.” Your fingers were so gentle on his. “You will grow into a fine prince, an heir befitting the Iron Throne. And when you do, you can come back to the Red Keep—and you can take me to Dragonstone then.”

Jace tried very hard not to cry. Ser Harwin had made a promise like this before he left his mother—that he would reunite with Jace someday, that he would stay by his side then. But he had never come back, had been taken by the fire at Harrenhal, and then Jace found himself mourning a man whom he was not allowed to grieve—because Jace was not allowed to be a bastard, and so Ser Harwin was not allowed to be his true father.

But he did grieve. He hated losing Ser Harwin, and he could not bear the thought of losing you too.

“You’re not lying?” Jace asked. “You're telling truth?”

He knew it was a childish thing to ask, but you seemed not to mind. You only threw your head back, laughed. “Yes, I'm telling truth! It is my dream to get away from the Red Keep someday, Jace.” You looked at him, almost amused. “I’m counting on you to save me from the Hightowers, my prince.”

And Jace could not help but think, as you departed for King’s Landing and he for Dragonstone, how much he longed to do that. How badly he wanted to take you away from the place that called you both the children of sin, from the people that called him a bastard and you a whore. He wished he could have sworn it as an oath, for then you would know how seriously he would take it.

I will become a fine prince someday, he vowed privately, watching your ship grow smaller and smaller, then finally as it was swallowed by the mist. I will become an heir befitting the throne. I am a Targaryen, made of fire and blood. I am a Targaryen, no matter who my father was.

He woke up everyday and repeated those words like a mantra. Tried not to think about the possibility of failure—tried not to wonder if the lords and ladies of the Realm would revolt should he ever sit upon the throne. If the throne itself would reject a bastard, its edges cutting into his mongrel flesh. It was a solace that he heard you every time he questioned himself: It doesn't matter who our parents are, Jace. Only a Targaryen could be so fearless in the sky. You have a dragon. You have a dragon. You have a dragon.

He had a dragon.

“I have you, Vermax,” he would murmur to the creature in his clumsy Valyrian, and Vermax would rumble at him, reassuring.

The years passed. You exchanged letters with Jace, kept in touch, but the distance felt like a yawning cavern between you still. The older he got, the less certain he became that you ever thought about him the way he thought about you. After all, he was a child when you left; you were nearly a woman grown. Thinking back on it, you had obviously treated him like a child too, holding his hands and trying to soothe his fears with empty words.

Grow up, Jace, he told himself, every time he received a raven and found your letter shorter than the last. Forget about it.

And he did, for a while. He focused on his studies, his swordplay, his duty to the Realm. Several name days passed, and suddenly he was a man grown. His mother was speaking to him of potential betrothals, of Starks and Tyrells and the noble daughters of other great houses. His stepfather was telling him to see the whores in Spicetown since he refused to disgrace any of the servants, and their silks and perfumes were dizzyingly fragrant as he bedded them. The serving maids of Dragonstone and all the distinguished ladies who visited laughed and smiled pretty around him, fawning over his status—for even if he was a mongrel bastard, he was still a Crown Prince.

Jace found himself utterly disinterested in all of it.

Curiously, in some of those moments, he would suddenly think about your letters—shorter and shorter, fewer and far between, but coming still. Hello, cousin. How fare your studies? I find myself the object of whispers once more; what an exciting life people think I must lead. Last month I was leading Ser Criston astray and making him break his oath of celibacy; this month I am carrying Prince Aemond’s child. I wonder whom I will seduce with my temptress ways next month. Perhaps it will be Septa Falyse, or the High Septon himself!

Jace could hear your laughter in your words: carefree, lighthearted, just as you always were when it came to your reputation. But it left a bitter taste in his mouth, thinking of all those rumours, of all those people speaking ill of you. Of knowing he could not return the favour of defending you as you once did him, now that the sea separated the two of you.

The whispers, though, were not something a Crown Prince should be worrying about, and you were not someone an Heir should be thinking about.

Grow up, Jace, he kept telling himself. Forget about it. Forget about it. Forget about it.

But when the day came that he finally had to return to the Red Keep—he could no longer forget.

As he boarded a ship to King’s Landing for the first time in years, he found himself remembering the words you once spoke to him when he was a child—the ones he clung to for years. They felt so fitting now that he’d learned of the Hightowers’ designs for you, of what the Hand intended to do.

You will be a fine prince someday, you'd said. Take me to Dragonstone then. Save me from the Hightowers, my prince. 

He would see you again, Jace thought. And if you so much as breathed the word, he would do everything that you asked of him all those years ago: steal you away from the Red Keep, protect you from the petty court that so often mistreated you, give you immunity from the family that spurned you both. Because now that he was a proper prince—a Targaryen, black hair be damned—that was something he could do.

He could save you from the Hightowers.

VI. JUDGEMENT, REVERSED

The coming of Princess Rhaenyra and her party was met without announcement, nor fanfare.

Were it not for Jacaerys’ letter to you, you would not have even known that they were going to be in King’s Landing. The tourney was coming up soon—less than a fortnight now—but their presence had nothing to do with it. Supposedly, Prince Daemon had some urgent business to discuss with the King and the rest of House Targaryen. Even Princess Rhaenys had joined them. What would be important enough for the Lady of Driftmark to leave her home was a mystery to you.

Until such matters made themselves clear, however, you would not worry over them. You were only thinking of meeting Jacaerys again. Although you'd received many messages from your first cousin over the years (his preferred raven now knew you well enough to squawk your name), letters were simply not the same as seeing one in person.

And of course it was impossible to see Jace in person. Queen Alicent became oddly bitter every time you requested leave to visit Dragonstone, and Wildfyre was always mysteriously chained up after such conversations. Aemond, as well, despised his half-siblings too much to meet with them during any of your visits to Spicetown, and he never let you go there yourself either.

You are a young woman, and it would be unsafe for you to venture out alone, Aemond always said. If you must go to Spicetown, I will accompany you and guard you from any… unsavoury characters that you may meet.

You had the sense that he was referring more to his nephews than any bandits or rapers, for it seemed not enough to him for guards from Dragonstone to be sent to accompany you.

You looked forward to seeing Jace again, unfettered by neither Aemond nor the Queen. You wondered what the awkward and insecure little prince was like nowadays, what sort of person he'd become. But as you had not heard any word of Rhaenyra’s arrival, you did not go to receive him at the gates—so you spent the day like you would any other. You broke your fast alone, neglected your needlework, neglected your prayers, and resentfully studied household stewardship. You loitered in the throne room, watching the Hand and the Queen settle various petitions. Today, it was mostly smallfolk worried about the price of food, a couple of petty land disputes between minor houses, and an interesting request from House Tyrell to legitimise a bastard—some knight who had served in the Dornish Marches. For some reason, Ser Criston kept looking at him with disdain.

Then, as a reward to yourself for your hard labour, you went down to the training yard in the late afternoon.

Your favourite pastime was watching Aemond practise his swordplay in the afternoons. You used to go for moral support, to encourage him whenever he was beaten—which he always was, because of his previously short and scrawny stature—but now it was always to encourage him whenever he clobbered his opponents, for he always did.

Ser Criston used to scold you for your attendance, saying that a young lady should busy herself with other activities. “You should be studying the Seven-Pointed Star right now, my lady,” he once said, probably at the behest of the Queen. “The violence of the training ground is not something that a woman should be witnessing so often in any case. Bloodshed is usually upsetting for the fairer sex.”

“I know not what you are talking about, Ser Criston,” you replied. You clapped Aemond’s shoulder then—drawing murmurs from onlookers, because hand-to-shoulder contact between cousins was scandalous if you were the one initiating it—and added, “there is nothing more important to me than witnessing Prince Aemond’s improvement on the battleground.”

Ser Criston gave you both questioning looks. “And why would it be so important to you, my lady?”

“Well,” you replied cheerfully, “Aemond and I have an agreement that if ever I am charged with murder, I will prove my innocence via trial by combat and he would be my champion.”

Ser Cole gave you an incredulous look. “Do you plan to commit murder, my lady?”

“No, Ser. It is merely a contingency in case someone should frame me for it. You never know what might happen with all the plotting and scheming in this Realm.”

You were actually speaking truth here: you and Aemond did come to this agreement soon after Prince Daemon Targaryen was taken to trial for the murder of his first wife, which he won by combat. You then went into an anxious spiral about what you should do if you hated your future husband and he was stupid enough to fall off a horse and die like Rhea Royce. Who would save you from a similar accusation?

Aemond immediately volunteered himself, perhaps too eagerly.

“You need not worry about me, Ser Cole,” you said upon seeing his perturbed face. “I wouldn't actually ever commit murder myself. You would know, since Aemond would prove my innocence.”

Aemond’s lip curled. “She would never be found guilty of any crime in the Realm with me as her champion,” he affirmed. “I think it is fair that the lady should be allowed to watch the sword representing her, is it not?”

Ser Criston could hardly deny a royal prince, so he merely sighed and picked up his morning star. “Whatever my prince wishes,” he relented. “Come—let’s give your lady a show.”

The knight had not since protested your presence on the training grounds. Ser Criston hardly even glanced at you today as you approached, weaving through the sparse crowd of knights, squires, and spectators while he and Aemond began their warmups. You were searching for a spot that would serve as the best view of their match, and it was pure accident that your gaze happened to land on an unfamiliar form among the hustle and bustle.

It was not the clothes that struck you—for they were plain, a nondescript black cloak over an equally dark tunic—but his face. Dark curls framing finely carved, fair features. An aquiline nose, a pair of delicate lips curled into an interested smile as he spoke to some companion you could not see. He looked like a Northman, possibly a Stark or an exceptionally beautiful Blackwood. You wondered if he was one of your potential suitors.

Naturally, you had to go introduce yourself. Purely to show your hospitality as a lady of House Targaryen, of course.

“Excuse me,” you said, in the clearest and prettiest voice you could manage. “Pardon me for the interruption, Ser, but I don't believe we’ve ever met.”

The stranger turned to you, his expression quizzical, but reflecting pleasant surprise. As soon as he laid eyes on you, his brows lifted—and a brief silence passed as you took in each other’s appearances.

You were only certain once you saw the three-headed dragon brooch on his cloak.

“Cousin?” the two of you asked simultaneously.

“Seven hells, Jace, I didn't recognise you at all!” you blurted out. You then glanced at his companion for the first time. Sure enough, it was his little brother—still young, but certainly not the small child you remember. “Luke! Gods, you've grown up too! I had no idea you’d arrived!”

Jacaerys made an irritated expression that was comically familiar despite his comically unfamiliar face. “The reception to our arrival was… subdued. Not etiquette to the standard that I would have expected of the Red Keep.”

“Ah. A folly of the Queen, I'm sure.” You smiled at them both. “Forget about her. I'll give you a proper welcome after this match—take you around the old haunts and whatnot. Wildfyre will want to say hi, too.”

“Match?” Jacaerys asked, but he was quickly answered by the violent clang of steel against steel.

Jace’s noble countenance dissipated as he moved into the crowd, beckoning Luke to follow. An excited grin spread across his face as he watched the two figures sparring furiously—as if he were again a child, spectating as Ser Harwin or the other knights of the Kingsguard fought with one another. Ser Criston and Prince Aemond were in another league altogether, of course—perhaps not in skill, but in savagery. They moved viciously and lethally, not bothering to hold back. The swing of Criston's morning star carried brutal weight, but Aemond was himself a lithe weapon, his body honed for the sole purpose of killing. You were unsurprised when his blade ended up pressed against Ser Criston’s throat.

“You'll be sure to win the tourney next week, my Prince,” said Ser Criston, but Aemond did not smile.

“I don't give a shit about tourneys,” he said, and you had to hold back a snort. Perhaps not when he was younger, but he absolutely did give a shit about tourneys nowadays. Not the pageantry or the petty social trappings, of course—but the reputation. Prince Aemond would be loath to seem craven or weak before the knights of the realm, and so he had no choice but to sign up for every tourney in King's Landing and crush every opponent he met.

Your amusement wore off when you noticed Jace and Luke beside you—how tense they'd gotten, how Luke was inching behind Jace. You could not blame them. Aemond had never forgiven Luke for taking his eye, no matter how many times you counselled him to lay it aside lest his rage drive him to madness. It chilled you how he spoke of Lucerys when reminded of it.

Even now, you discerned a subtle anger in Aemond’s body—tightly controlled, but there nevertheless—as he approached.

“Nephews,” he said, “have you come to train?”

Not even a greeting, you thought. Well, he does take after his mother in some ways.

“I'm afraid we’re only here to visit today,” Jace said, and you were surprised at the clean but sharp edge to his words. You did not know he could sound so much like a prince. “We must first attend to urgent matters before we’ll have any time for leisure.”

“I wasn't aware that the Crown Prince would consider swordplay a leisurely activity,” Aemond remarked. “Those princes who are truly of fire and blood, at the very least, do not.”

Fucking hell. Not even two minutes and the bastardy talk had already started. There was fury in Jacaerys’ eyes, and you stepped in before Aemond could fuel it.

“Jacaerys must be one of the few men of fire and blood who are also capable of diplomacy,” you said dryly, “as I know you are, Aemond, when you wish it.”

Aemond gave you a careful look, seeming more amused than anything else. “I wish it when my lady does.”

You smiled, placated. “I always like diplomacy. Hospitality, too. I'll be showing Jacaerys and Lucerys around before our family meets tonight—you are free to join if you wish.”

From the way the two brothers tensed, it was obvious that Aemond was absolutely not free to join. Your cousin had the grace to decline: “Thank you for the invitation, my lady, but I will give you the space to host them. You are better suited for it than me.” He glanced at Jacaerys, and said, “Do make sure you return her to me before it gets too late. I would worry about my cousin if she were out after curfew.”

Jace gave him a look that was as curious as yours.

“You need not worry. You know I would not let any harm come to our cousin.”

Aemond hummed, giving you a meaningful glance that you completely did not understand. “I’ll look for you at dinner.”

“I’ll be… sure to find you?” you replied with uncertainty, still reeling from his words. Return her to me. Aemond left before you could ask him his intent behind the phrase—because he always spoke with intent.

Jacaerys, himself, also seemed confused. “I didn't know my uncle was courting you,” he said, and you gave him a startled, bug-eyed look.

“He isn't,” you said quickly. “Queen Alicent would sooner die than let me besmirch the reputation and honour of her son.”

The elder prince frowned. “He was certainly acting like it, getting all possessive.”

“I suppose Aemond never liked it whenever we spent time with you,” Lucerys observed, looking somewhat anxious.

“He didn’t,” you now remembered. “Don't feel too bad, Luke. He was always like that even before he lost his eye to you.” Aemond loved to monopolise your time as a child and grew sullen whenever someone else had your attention—as if you were being wrongfully taken away from him and would never be returned. Sometimes you felt like a toy being fought over, tearing at the seams. “I guess he never grew out of it.”

“Childish of him,” Jace observed, watching his uncle’s back as he readied himself for another match. “Makes me inclined to take up all of your time tonight.”

You snorted. “That’s childish of you, too. Come on, let's go—at least catch up with me before you and your uncle maim each other.”

“I wouldn't do that to him,” Jace protested.

“I know. It was only a jest,” you reassured him. But an uneasy pit grew in your stomach as you thought of the way Aemond carried himself just now—how none of that lethal violence left his body as he approached his nephews.

It struck you then that you weren't so sure if the reverse was true.

VI. THE SUN

When you were alone with Jacaerys, his presence felt oddly familiar.

It was unusual, given that the prince was so different now. He had grown, and you had expected things to be strange and stiff between the two of you, but the conversation came easily once Luke departed. Jace’s laugh was the same as you remembered. His smile was the same. He rode on dragonback with you, his arms firm around your waist and his front pressed tightly against your back, and—

—that didn't feel the same, actually. You tried not to think about how he felt against you, how he had obviously grown lean and hard with muscle. It made your stomach flutter in a way that felt suspiciously similar to your reaction to first seeing Cregan Stark at court. You concentrated on the memory of the awkward, insecure boy with whom you had grown up, whom you could have never fathomed attraction to. Jace was the heir to the throne—you absolutely could not consider him desirable.

Also, if your stomach kept twisting like that, you would surely steer your dragon wrong and make all three of you crash.

Wildfyre, at least, did not see him any differently; he allowed Jace to ride him without complaint, and once you all landed outside the Kingswood, he kept clicking and prodding at your cousin with his massive snout, making the prince chuckle.

“I think he missed me,” he said.

“I’m not surprised. You were his favourite.” You glared at your dragon. “Traitor,” you groused in Valyrian, and Wildfyre snorted in response. You sighed. “Look at that attitude!”

“I think he's quite lovely,” Jacaerys said, voice smug. Wildfire crooned, as if in agreement, and snaked his long neck around Jace’s back, rubbing against him like a cat. You gave them both a dirty look.

“Sometimes I think you claimed him behind my back,” you complained, even though you could feel the bond between yourself and Wildfyre, warm and alive like a shared heartbeat. It had been present since the day you were born, as if it had formed while you were still in the womb. Still, there was a period of time before your official claim where Wildfyre adored Jace so much that you were convinced he would abandon you.

“You know that's not true. He's like a puppy around you.” Jace patted Wildfyre’s snout fondly, and the great old lizard chuffed like a dog. You saw the resemblance. “Vermax hatched in my cradle and he’s not nearly so affectionate with me.”

“Vermax is a sweetheart.”

“To you.” The corner of Jacaerys’ mouth lifted. “Remember how he nearly roasted Aegon the one time? And he never let Aemond near him, either.”

“Dragons are influenced by the feelings of their riders,” you pointed out dryly. “Vermax only detested them because you did.”

“Perhaps.” Jace scratched Wildfyre, fingers scraping against glimmering, emerald scales. The spoiled creature rumbled in a way that nearly sounded like a purr. “Are you saying that you’re as fond of me as Wildfyre is, then?”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You were glad that the two of you were alone and outside of the city. If anyone overheard you, or glimpsed your reaction, your reputation would have just been shattered forever. Worse yet, Jacaerys’ amused smile looked terribly handsome to you at that moment. You could not help but think, Well, I wouldn’t mind being pet by you either.

“I suppose your company is tolerable,” you said lamely.

Jace, of course, was not at all fooled. He turned to Wildfyre and said, in what you guessed was meant to be the Valyrian language, “We both know better, don't we?”

Wildfyre clicked in agreement, but your own reaction was not nearly so kind.

“My god, Jace,” you said, wincing. “Was that supposed to be Valyrian?”

He grimaced. “Was it that bad?”

“Terrible. What on earth is your mother teaching you? She's so fluent.”

“She never spoke Valyrian around us when we were children,” he explained, “so I never picked it up. Mostly, I learn from the maesters.”

“The maesters?” you repeated, appalled. You slipped into your native tongue, the timbre indignant: “No wonder you speak so poorly. You can't learn properly from maesters. You need to learn from someone who lives and breathes in the language!”

“There aren't many people in Westeros who do,” Jace replied in the Common Tongue. The two of you began to volley: Jacaerys in the language of Westeros, and you in the language of the old Freehold.

“Move back to the Red Keep. I'll teach you.”

“You’ve tried already. You were a poor tutor, remember?”

“You were a poor student.”

“That doesn’t change your own abilities. Could you even explain any basic grammar to me right now?”

“...you don't need to know grammar to talk.”

“No, but you need it to learn.”

“If I talk at you enough, you’ll pick it up eventually.” You gave him a mournful look, then tested his ear for your mother tongue: “However you do it, you should make more of an effort, Jace. You are a Targaryen, and a dragonlord besides. Valyrian is the language of your forefathers. How can you not know it?”

Jacaerys went quiet. “You know I have always tried,” he said, “to live up to my heritage as best as I can. I have neither Targaryen nor Velaryon features. People look at me and they see an Andal…”—he hesitated—“that is, they see a Strong. I have to show them I am more than that.”

Guilt gnawed at you. “Then I'll help you,” you said gently, in the Common Tongue this time. “Though truthfully, neither the language you speak nor the colour of your hair changes your blood.”

“Only you and Mother have ever thought so.” He looked away. “Apparently people used to think that my dragon egg wouldn't even hatch.”

You put a hand on his shoulder. “Yet it did, and every unbonded dragon responds to you. Vermax and Wildfyre can both attest to your claim and heritage.” You gave him a reassuring look. “Anyway, cheer up. You have more talent at the language than Aegon, silver hair be damned. His Valyrian is shit awful.”

Jace laughed. “Is it really so bad?”

“You’ll see during the meeting tonight. Aemond and I will force some Valyrian out of him—look forward to it.”

His smile faded. “I need to talk to you about that. The meeting, I mean.”

You made a face. “You know I don't want to speak of politics right now, Jacaerys. I'd rather talk about literally anything else, in fact.”

“It would be unwise to do so.”

“I live every day trying to be wise in matters of the court. Please let me be unrepentantly a fool for once.”

Jace gave you a sorry look. “Could I spend the rest of the day in leisure with you, I would. But it would be a disservice to you not to tell you, cousin. It is why I asked for time alone with you in the first place.”

“You wound me, Jace. I thought you asked it for you missed me.”

“Cousin.”

“Alright, alright. Let’s hear it.”

He breathed deeply. “There will be an announcement, one that involves you. In truth, the Hand said to keep the matter quiet until we could meet as a group, but I didn't think it was right, and neither did my mother. The Hightowers are trying to hide from you what Prince Daemon discovered.”

You gave him a curious look.

“What did he discover, then?”

VII. DEATH

The world felt so distant.

The Targaryens were seated around the Small Council table. King Viserys was absent, his mind addled with milk of poppy, so the Hand sat in his seat while his daughter stood at his side. As if in interrogation, you were at the other end of the table—the object of everyone��s scrutiny—clad in a neutral blue.

It was a powerplay. Jacaerys had predicted that the Hightowers would do it, and he tried to help you prepare. You had planned together what you should say, but the Stranger had stolen your words, your focus, your wits. Otto Hightower spoke and his voice sounded far away, as if your ears were stuffed with cotton. Your heavy breath and pounding heartbeat drowned out all other noise, thrumming alongside your bond with Wildfyre. It was singing with a pain to match your own, for the feelings of a dragon are always influenced by their rider—and he, too, had loved your father.

Otto kept speaking. You did not know why he was even here, really, nor Queen Alicent. Princess Rhaenys sat to your left without Lord Corlys, because this was a Targaryen matter—a grief shared only by those of fire and blood. The Hightowers were outsiders.

“...we must allow ourselves time to grieve your father,” the Hand said, “but the matter of his inheritance should be quickly settled.”

“What?” you asked, voice faint. This is what Jace said would happen, you thought. I should not be surprised.

But here you were—speechless, stupid.

The Princesses Rhaenys and Rhaenyra bristled. Prince Daemon, who sat on your right, openly scoffed. Helaena looked down, and even Aegon had the grace to keep his eyes on the table. He was feckless, a lecher, and he always quarrelled with you—but he was not cruel. He was not cut from the same cloth as his grandsire.

Even he disapproved.

Jacaerys was next to you, standing tall like a sentinel. Aemond watched from across the room, near his mother, in a shade of green so dull that it was nearly black—but green nevertheless.

Why was he not beside you instead?

“Please,” you managed to say, voice quiet. “I would like to hear the news from Prince Daemon himself.”

“As you should. This was not news that should have been delivered by a Hightower.” The Rogue Prince did not bother to hide his derision. “I was treating with the lords in Pentos, and they brought to my attention news of your father’s ship—the one that disappeared when he sailed for Lys. It came to light recently that pirates and sellswords accosted it. They sacked the ship, sank it. Then they took your father for ransom, but apparently he died not too long after from his wounds. Here is the proof.”

And sure enough, he laid before you what was unmistakably your father’s sword. It had been presented to him by the Lyseni while he was being hosted by the First Magister: a weapon from the former Valyrian colonies of Essos. Your mother had been by his side when he received it. In Westeros, she had been considered a common whore, but in Lys, she had been his beloved concubine—yes, a former bed slave, but respected nevertheless. She had thrived in the Lysene court.

You took the blade into your hands, unsheathed it halfway. It was pure Valyrian steel: ancient ore folded many times over, otherworldly hues rippling in daylight. Unlike the Valyrian swords kept by the Westerosi houses, this one had a name carved into it by a Qohori smith: Siglitanor. A word borrowed from Lysene Valyrian, a name chosen by your mother. The letters were as red as the Qartheen jewels encrusted into the guard, which was fashioned with Volantene elegance.

It was, through and through, a sword of Essosi antiquity.

For nearly ten years, you imagined that your father was somewhere in Lys, carrying this sword and speaking its language every morning, every night. Avy jorrāelan. Avy raqan. Ñuha ābrazȳrys. He would whisper these words into your mother’s ear in a courtyard somewhere, their plates filled with persimmons and mangoes and peace. He went to Lys and loved her too much to return. Yes, he abandoned you, but it was to take care of your mother, who deserved nothing less.

And now—now, this sunlit vision was turning to dust before you.

“Your Pentoshi friends—who told them this news?”

“Myrish sellswords who drank too much and bragged of their exploits. The Pentoshi thought I would like to know of their crimes against the Iron Throne and brought them before me. They're being held on Dragonstone now.” Daemon, for a moment, seemed reflective, and the sharp edge of his words softened slightly. “Your father was a skilled diplomat. It was his work that kept the Triarchy in line for so long. He died, and they soon after turned on us—and everyone else in the Narrow Sea. Pentos felt the loss of him as much as we did.”

“Yes, your father was quite the man,” the Hand agreed. “He was also skilled with his coin. He amassed great wealth in the Iron Bank, all profit from the Narrow Sea and the Free Cities. The Iron Bank was never forthcoming with information until now—they thought him alive and kept this from us—”

The coin is mine, Jacaerys coached you to say. It is my inheritance. I will go to Braavos myself and oversee the wealth. By the laws of the Realm, a daughter should inherit her father’s lands and wealth in the absence of a son.

“What happened to my mother?” you whispered instead, still staring at the sword. It shared its name with the mythical blade forged by Azor Ahai, tempered by the blood of his lover. Your mother had been a fervent follower of the Red Temple; when your father asked her to name the sword, she chose to honour her faith.

Would R’hllor really have let her die?

“Yes, your mother,” Lord Hightower said. “Your mother is gone, of course—the Iron Bank was willing to make the assumption after seeing the sword and the prisoners. And as such, yours is the only name that they have listed in ownership of your father’s coin—”

“We may speak of the Iron Bank in a moment,” you said bluntly, interrupting him. “What happened to my mother?”

Queen Alicent breathed in deeply. She clearly meant to chide you for your tone, but Prince Daemon answered before she could, himself unbothered.

“The sellswords mentioned that a woman was present,” Prince Daemon relayed. “She was saved by one of the guards, and the two of them were never caught. The sellswords did not chase them for ransom—they thought her a common whore.”

Then a whore is not such a bad thing to be, you wanted to laugh. Though you had never thought so anyway, because if your mother was a whore, then surely a whore was something to be cherished and pampered. You had always imagined her in a beautiful manse across the sea, hanging on your father’s arm. The two of them were supposed to be laughing in the sun as they drank Myrish wine and wondered how you were doing. They were supposed to be making plans to return to King’s Landing someday, to see you when they received news of your betrothal. You wrote to them everyday when you were a child, asking them what sort of man who they'd like to see you marry. You sealed the letters and asked the sailors passing through Blackwater Bay to take them to your parents in Lys. I don’t know where they are, you admitted to the seamen, but it can't be hard to find a Targaryen prince. The sailors would agree, pat your head, and give you a persimmon or a mango or an orange. You did this day after day after day—because surely your mother would reply to your letters eventually.

Surely, your mother would never forget you.

“Is she alive?” you asked.

“Perhaps. Likely not. The Narrow Sea was a brutal place before I conquered it.”

“But if she survived, where would she have gone?”

“The ship was overtaken at Bloodstone, so likely Tyrosh.”

“Not King’s Landing?”

Daemon gave you a long look. “I will warn you against any wishful thinking, girl.”

It wasn't a wish, you wanted to say. It was a promise. Your mother loved you. She wept when she was forced to leave. Someday I'll come back, she said in Lysene Valyrian, kissing you on the brow. When your grandsire is long dead, I will return and see you again—R’hllor will assure it. And until then, He will protect you.

Your father was supposed to love your mother enough to stay with her. Your mother was supposed to love you enough to someday return. But now your father was a skeleton on Bloodstone, and your mother was lost at sea.

And you—you were all alone.

“I grieve for your loss, my lady,” the Hand said. “But we must turn to the matter of the Iron Bank. That coin was grown from the wealth of the Crown, and as such, it belongs to the Crown.”

“You really have no shame,” Daemon sneered, but the Hand did not flinch.

“The animals of the Reach are plagued with sickness this year. Food has risen in price, and the smallfolk are suffering. Time is of the essence. If the Crown could find the coin to alleviate their burden…”

“The Crown has its own coffers,” you said quietly. The Hand paused, as if surprised by your resistance.

“The coffers are not limitless.”

“The coffers should be managed well enough for hard years.” Your eyes burned hot, but they still met Otto Hightower with hard steel. “If the Master of Coin has misstepped in his stewardship of the Crown’s wealth, I see no reason why I should pay for it.”

“It would not be your wealth being paid. It is wealth belonging to the Iron Throne. Everything from the coin in Braavos to the sword in your hands—”

You could not help it: a laugh escaped you. “You mean to take even my father’s sword from me?”

“It is an heirloom belonging to House Targaryen, so it should be inherited by a man of House Targaryen. Dark Sister was passed to Prince Daemon and not to Princess Rhaenys, was it not? A lady has no use for a sword.”

“An heirloom?” You could not help it—you rose to your feet and held up the blade, and it shone true in the light of the sun. Helaena and Luke visibly recoiled at the bare steel, while Jace watched you carefully. “You think this is one of the swords brought over before the Doom? You think a Mormont or a Stokeworth would have a sword like this? Tell me, Lord Hand—can you read the name engraved here?”

“There is no need, my lady, for you to lose your temper—”

“It says Siglitanor. Do you know what it means? Can you even pronounce it?”

“The name has no bearing on its owner. You are fixating on irrelevant matters, my lady. I caution you not to be so irrational. The issue at hand is the inheritance of the sword, not its name.”

“The name bears relevance to the inheritance, Lord Hand,” you ground out. “It means Lightbringer, named after the sword wielded by the Lord of Light, R’hllor.” Alicent shifted visibly at the mention of your heathen god, her brow knotting, and pressure mounted in your throat, your heart. “No Westerosi heirloom bears the name of this sword, nor its craftsmanship—you may check with the maesters yourself. The sword was a gift bestowed upon my father by the Gonfalioniere of Lys. In his absence, it belongs to my mother, and in her absence, it belongs to me.” You laughed. “You wish to gut me of everything my father left to us, with no respect to our history or our rights.”

“Your father misunderstood your rights, as do you. He represented the Iron Throne in every excursion to the Free Cities, so all wealth and treasures he acquired should be returned to the Iron Throne. And let me remind you, young lady—when the law is misunderstood or transgressed, there are consequences for the criminal.”

You stared at him, incredulous—for while the Hightowers have never loved you, they have never openly threatened you.

The words hung heavy in the air, oppressive to all. Aegon was practically withering; Jace, tenser than you'd ever seen. Aemond appeared unbothered, his expression precise in its neutrality, and this cut deeper than any words from Otto Hightower ever could.

No one dared speak until the Queen cleared her throat.

“Father,” Alicent interjected, watching you carefully. “I do not think it wise to act rashly. The lady is our kin, and we should allow her some grace. Perhaps this is best solved through a formal petition. Let us give the girl a chance to grieve, then present her case to the Throne—if she will even want to make one afterward.”

“And who will oversee the petition?” you asked carefully, trying to control your voice.

Alicent delicately replied, “I will see to it that you are given a fair trial.”

“A difficult task,” you parried, “given that the Hand has overseen most petitions in the past half year while the King has been abed with illness.”

The Hand finally showed his displeasure, his tone severe when he said, “The Queen, in her grace, is offering you a means to avoid punishment for the theft of Crown wealth. It would do you well to show some gratitude.”

You tried desperately to suppress the strangled noise in your throat. Someone touched your shoulder. You glanced to your side; Jacaerys was looking at you, his dark eyes as calm as stone and earth, and you breathed deeply, the knot in your chest untangling some.

“Of course,” you finally replied. “Thank you, my Queen, for giving me the chance to defend myself from these accusations. I shall accept your proposal.”

Alicent nodded. “We find ourselves right now in grief and high passions as we mourn the loss of your father, but we will need time and prudence as we settle this dilemma he left.”

You nearly laughed. Grief is your excuse? you wanted to spit, for it was clear to you—and likely most people in the room—what was going on.

Only Prince Daemon had the nerve to voice it.

“Do you need time to settle this dilemma,” he asked, “or time to regroup? Clearly, you thought the girl would yield to your demands today while you blindsided her with grief. It appears you now need a new strategy.”

The Queen’s jaw ticked. “Good-brother, you misunderstand me. Inheritance law is complex and often at odds with compassion. It would be cruel to wrest away her father’s belongings from her”—Alicent glanced at your sword—“but at the same time, the laws of the Realm must be respected.”

“Fuck the law,” Prince Daemon snapped. “My idiot cousin got himself killed at sea and his sword was acquired by force. It belonged to the sellswords for years before I acquired it by way of gift. It now belongs to me”—you gave him a watery, furious look, but it soon dissipated, replaced by surprise—“and it is now my decision that it should belong to my cousin’s daughter.”

You stared at him, uncomprehending. Mollified. Daemon spoke then in Pentoshi Valyrian—not so different from Lysene Valyrian, but inscrutable to speakers of the Dead Valyrian taught in Westeros: “Viserys and I grew up alongside your father. We knew him well. He would have wanted Lightbringer to go to you—not these vultures.”

Daemon switched back into the Common Tongue as he took his leave, pale eyes cold on Otto Hightower.

“I will see you again during my niece’s petition, Lord Hand.”

VIII. KING OF CUPS, REVERSED

You did not go to dinner that night.

After the meeting in the Small Council room, you could not wait to get away from your family—Targaryens, Velaryons, Hightowers, and all. You kept yourself poised as you excused yourself, but you broke into a run as soon as you were out of sight, your father’s sword grasped tightly in your hand.

You knew it was a childish thing to do, to run away to Blackwater Bay and cry your eyes out. It was nearly as childish as the way you had just spiralled and crashed and burned in front of the Hightowers in that room, living up to every judgement placed upon you. A heathen who worshipped the wrong kind of god. A perpetual foreigner. The pathetic daughter of a lost whore and a dead prince—someone of such little social consequence that the Hand saw you as easy prey for your coin.

In the back of your mind, there was a growing list of things you meant to do to fix it all. You needed to ask Prince Daemon what rhetoric Otto Hightower was likely to bring up during the petition, for no one had politically jousted with that man more than he. You needed to steal all the ledgers of your father’s ventures in the Free Cities before Tyland Lannister could think of having them confiscated. Perhaps you should even appeal to Princess Rhaenyra for her aid, since her husband was going to be supporting your petition.

Most importantly, you had to think of how to maintain your standing with Queen Alicent while fighting for your inheritance. It would not do to win your petition now only to be met later with harm.

It was a long, intimidating list. You knew you should go back to the Red Keep and attend to it. But now the sun was getting low, a violent blood orange in a dimming sky, and you were still weeping bitterly on the rocky shore. You thought of all the passing ships you'd watched from this spot, all the persimmons and mangoes you cradled in your hands as you hoped your letters would reach your parents. Telling yourself that one day your father would return, and your mother not too long after.

You didn't even know why you were still in this fucking castle if your parents would never come back.

Prince Aegon found you like this: wailing into your arms, cussing out the Seven, cussing out the Iron Throne, cussing out Otto Hightower, shivering because the light was low and now you were getting cold.

“Hello, dear cousin,” he greeted, slurring. He made his way toward you, stumbling through the rising tide before stepping onto the rock you were seated upon. He reeked so badly of Arbor wine that you stopped crying just to wrinkle your nose.

“Gods,” you said, revolted, as he sat down beside you and threw an arm around your shoulders. The last thing you needed was his grimy hands on your ass, which seemed to be their favourite spot to rest. “Get away from me, Aegon. I'm in no mood to humour you today.”

Aegon was so drunk that he yielded instantly when you pushed him: he yelped and tumbled onto his side, landing in a puddle of seawater and weeds. You would feel bad for him if you, too, weren't covered in the stuff—the tide had grown high and now your feet were soaked in it.

“I came to comfort you, and this is how you thank me?” Aegon whined.

“Since when have I ever wanted your comfort?”

“Since you are now in need of it,” Aegon said. He pointed at you. “You are in a miserable state.”

“Thank you for your astute observation, my prince.”

“Don't be so cold. Let me console you. Or if you won't let me console you, at least join me in my cups”—he held out a wineskin, which you suspected was nearly empty anyway—“and we can toast your father.”

“Keep my father’s name out of your fucking mouth,” you spat. “Is this your way of taunting me, Aegon? Rubbing salt in the wound that your grandsire and mother just left?”

“Gods, no. You think I wanted any of that to happen? You were not the only person who ran away as soon as that meeting ended, cousin.” Aegon uprighted himself, his knees knocking against yours. You did not push him away this time. “My grandsire—he’s not a very kind man, is he? And as for Mother… well, you know how she is. You are not the first person to be on the receiving end of either of their… machinations.”

“Are you trying to console me? Because it feels more like I’m meant to be consoling you.”

“I would not be opposed if you did,” he wheedled.

“Well, I'm not going to. Go away, Aegon.” You squinted at him. “How did you even know where to find me?”

“My dear brother was worried about your absence at dinner, and only grew more fretful when the Strong bastards said they had not seen you either. He was nearly in tears, sniffling pretty like the Maiden, when he begged me to help him find you.”

Despite yourself, you guffawed at the image that Aegon had just conjured up.

“He said you'd either be feeling sorry for yourself in the dragonpit or you'd be feeling sorry for yourself by Blackwater Bay. I did not feel like wading through dragon dung, so I chose to look here while Aemond combs the tunnels.”

“Well, you've found me. Now you may go.”

“How am I to leave such a sorrowful, beautiful maiden alone?”

“Quite easily, actually. I may throw you into the sea if you don't.”

“No matter—I will swim back to you.”

“With the state you're in? Ser, you will drown, and I will be accused of murder.”

Aegon shrugged, opening his wineskin and taking a deep draught. “That's all well and fine. I'll be free then of the Red Keep, and you would walk away scot-free. You would not be found guilty—simply request a trial by combat, and my brother would be your champion. He will surely slay any foe who challenges you.”

You gave him a curious look. “Aemond told you of our private joke?”

“Err, no? I just think it’s quite obvious the man would kill for you.” Aegon gave you a confused look. “My brother makes jokes?”

“Yes,” you replied, but then you thought more about it. “No. It’s more like I make japes, and he smiles stiffly, and at times he humours me.”

“Ah, that sounds more like him.” Aegon took another swig of wine. “He’s always been a mirthless lad. I've no doubt you will be solely responsible for any joy in your union when it is formalised. Speaking of which, why has my mother not yet announced a wedding feast for the two of you? Surely she cannot mean to let you give birth to a bastard. She may not love you, but she would not disgrace you either.”

You put your face into your hands. “I cannot do this today, Aegon. Leave me. You may report back to your brother and let him know that I'm feeling sorry for myself out here.”

“No, my lady, I told you—I cannot simply leave.”

You gritted your teeth. “Why not?”

Aegon flailed wildly, wine swishing in his hand. “What if you walk into the sea while I'm gone? I would never recover from it. No, cousin, I will keep you safe until my brother emerges from the dung pit.”

“How chivalrous of you. I will not be drowning myself any time soon, though—I must first face your grandsire in that petition.” You quieted at the thought. Aegon’s buffoonery had distracted you for a fleeting moment, but now you were thinking once more of all the dread and the grief and the fury. “Seven hells. Give me that.”

Aegon smiled at you as you snatched the wineskin from him.

“See, my lady? There is nothing that a drink cannot fix.”

You snorted. “Will it fix this inheritance business for me?”

“I mean for it to fix mine.” Aegon began to pick the seaweed out from his breeches. “Perhaps if I drink myself blind often enough, my mother will disinherit me. Then Rhaenyra and her bastards can sit themselves on that blasted chair and I'll be able to live in peace.”

You were so wrung out that, for once, you could not find it in yourself to dance around the topic of high treason. “The Hightowers will never let you get away from the Iron Throne,” you said plainly. “They’ll never be secure unless you are suffering in that chair. Or your brother, if I should first drown you.”

“Please, cousin. Don't make me beg.”

A laugh escaped you despite yourself. Aegon did not bother to hold back his own amusement, giggling openly.

“You know,” Aegon said, after his chuckles died down, “it may not be an option for me, but you could do it.”

You raised a brow. “What? Throw myself into the sea?”

“No, no! No drowning on my watch!” Aegon threw a piece of seaweed at you in reprimand, which you dodged. “I mean to say—you can run. Fly away on dragonback. Go to Braavos and get all your coin. Exile yourself in Lys and spend the rest of your life in decadence. God knows”—he groaned, sounding wistful—“it is what I would do.”

You considered his words. You had always stayed here for your father, and for your lack of coin and supporters. But your father was now dead, and you had so much coin that you had no need for supporters. “I suppose I could.”

“You'd need to go now,” Aegon said. “I would not tell a soul. Not even my brother.”

“Why help me?” you asked him, suspicious. The two of you had never been all that friendly. Close, perhaps, in the way that non-stop quarrelling would make two siblings close—but not friendly.

Aegon shrugged, as if unsure himself.

“Perhaps the day will come when I will wish to go to Lys and enjoy all the beautiful women there, far from the throne,” he slurred, “and when I do, I shall call on my dearest cousin to host me.”

“Surely, brother, you would not disgrace your sister-wife like that,” a third voice interjected. You and Aegon nearly jumped, seawater splashing around your feet. When you turned around, you saw Aemond—smelling strongly of brimstone and smoke, but not dung, you were glad to notice. He did not seem nearly so happy, giving you a long, severe look. “You were not at dinner.”

It all came back, then—the green tunic, the place next to his mother, his unreadable expression as he watched your humiliation in that council room. The memory robbed you of all your mirth.

“My apologies, Prince Aemond,” you said bitterly. “I lost my appetite when I learned of my father’s death and your grandsire’s machinations to steal his wealth.”

Aemond did not reply immediately. Aegon loudly cleared his throat, then somehow got onto his feet. He swayed from the wine and stumbled in the darkness of nightfall, but managed to walk away nevertheless.

“Well, now that you have each other’s company,” he announced, “I shall take my leave. Take care not to let our cousin walk into the sea, brother. It would break my heart.”

“You tried to walk into the sea?” Aemond asked sharply, and you sighed, tired.

“No, Aemond. It was only a jape. A bad one.”

“Hm. My brother does have a poor sense of humour.”

Aemond offered you a hand, and you studied it warily. When you did not take it, he finally said, “I did not know what my mother and grandsire planned to do in that meeting. The news of your father’s death was as much of a surprise to me as it was to you.” A pause. “Though I would wager you had warning and counsel from the blacks.”

“Jace warned me because he cares about me. I did not receive help from Rhaenyra's faction—do you really think I would care to involve myself in petty spats over the throne?”

Aemond hummed. “I know my nephew has great love for you, but it was not him to whom I was referring.”

A blinding, hot flash of anger rendered you speechless for a moment—how dare Aemond drag succession politics into this? But the rage quickly passed, giving way to clarity. For it must have been a great sum that your father had in the Iron Bank, if Otto Hightower desired it. And if it was great enough for him to seek, then it was also great enough for Princess Rhaenyra to do the same.

Aemond watched as you pondered this, your eyes dropping to your soaking, seaweed-ridden feet.

“Fine. You're right. But why didn't you come to my side once you realised what was happening?” you asked quietly. “During that meeting, I mean.”

“It would not have helped you.”

Yes, it would have, you wanted to cry, I'd have felt better for it. But Aemond was too smart and too serious to entertain such childish notions: you knew he was speaking in purely strategic terms.

“No,” you admitted, “but it would not have hurt, either.”

“Alicent cares greatly about the appearance of unity among our family. Were I to break it, she would cease to trust me, and it would be that much harder for me to help you.”

“And how would you help me?”

“What would you want to be helped with?”

You looked up at him balefully. The money, the inheritance laws, the petition—there was no way that Aemond could do anything about any of it, not without alienating his mother. You had half a mind to ask him to throw you into the sea after all, but based on his earlier reaction, he would likely lock you up in your room if you made such a jape.

With nothing else in mind, you simply said, “I don't want to give up this sword.”

He arched his brow. “Is that all?”

“Yes. Well—no.” You brought a hand to your temple. “It’s more complicated than that. I do want to give up this sword, eventually. But to someone worthy of it.”

You stared at Lightbringer, trying to imagine it in someone else’s hands. Hands that did not belong to your father, but someone who loved you as much as he.

Laughable, as the Hightowers would never let you marry for love.

“Here is what I think, Aemond,” you started. “If this petition works out in my favour, all of my suitors will suddenly be from houses allied with your mother’s faction. I will be made to marry a lord who is in Otto Hightower’s pocket, and he will inherit my father’s sword—and all of that coin in Braavos, too.”

Aemond considered it. “It is fair speculation. You do know how my grandsire thinks.”

“Well, I was raised by his daughter.” When Aemond did not argue with you, you bleakly asked him, “What should I do, then? When I am married to a man who intends only to steal from me, on behalf of the Hand?”

“You could always pray for your lord husband to fall off his horse. I would make sure to prove your innocence after the tragedy.”

You stared at him, as gobsmacked as Aegon was earlier. “Aemond, did you just tell a joke?”

“Would it bring you any comfort if I said no?”

You made a noise that was something between a laugh and a sob. When Aemond offered you his hand again, you took it—standing with his help, shivering as your body was exposed to the night wind. A cloak smelling of smoke and ash was placed on your shoulders, and you gratefully accepted it.

“You no longer wish to marry,” he guessed, watching you fumble with his mantle.

“I wish to marry someone of my choosing.” You found that no words in the Common Tongue could quite capture your anguish, so you relied on your Valyrian: “I did not mind the idea of being used by your family, so long as I could live safely. But I cannot bear the thought of anyone using what once belonged to my father. It is”—your voice broke, but you did not cry—“all I have left of him and my mother.”

“I understand,” Aemond replied, his Valyrian soft, lacking its usual cunning edge. “Focus on your petition for now. Worry not about your betrothal. I will handle it.”

You closed your eyes. You had no idea what he could do, but you trusted him. Aemond was brutally efficient in matters of court and power; you could rely on him.

“Alright,” you said. “I shall count on you.”

The nighttime breeze swept your body again; you shivered, still wrestling with the cloak. Aemond evidently tired of watching you struggle; he brought up his hands and straightened the mantle out for you.

“Are you really thinking of leaving?” he murmured. You blinked, not understanding. “You and my brother—you spoke of leaving for the Free Cities.”

You gave Aemond a long look. His expression was inscrutable, but certainly not happy. There are few people in this world who would worry about me, he had said not long ago. And you had told him, not long after: Just know that you can always write to me, no matter how far away I am.

If you left for Lys, that would no longer be true. You imagined Aemond alone at court, dealing with whatever designs his mother and grandsire had, with only his drunk brother and strange sister for allies—and you, an entire sea away, missing every letter the sailors were meant to give you.

“I could not,” you confessed. “Even if I tried, I think I would eventually have no choice but to return to you.”

He hummed. “Good. I fear I would not have been as kind as my brother in conspiring for your escape. You might have found yourself in trouble with me.”

“Another jest from you?” you remarked. “What a strange day this has been.”

Aemond’s mouth curled, but he did not reply. He merely fastened his cloak of ash around you until it was tight around your neck. And for a moment, in the strange and unreliable light of the moon, his smile looked almost unsettling.

END PART II

notes: oh god this chapter was so long now that I'm looking at it posted as one piece (versus ao3 where I split it up). you are truly my ride or die if you read all that. but anyway, below are some notes to help clarify parts of this chapter in case you are confused-

clarifying ages:

There's 2-3 year gap between the reader and Aemond/Jace

Jace in the first scene is initially 10, and you are 13 (text refers to you as “nearly a woman” since it was ye olde times, but you were really both kids)

In the present day, the characters are all in their late teens/early 20s.

timeline and other notes:

This chapter (and story overall) diverged slightly from show canon; Corlys Velaryon has not yet gotten injured so the Driftmark succession petition has not happened. This is still the blacks’ return to court for the first time in years though, hence why some of the events played out similarly to that episode.

Jace feels a little more mature in this chapter than he did in the end of S1 (he is closer to how he behaves in S2), and that is because of two things: (1) he is aged up slightly so he is naturally more mature; (2) I thought he was hotter in S2 and wanted to write about that version of him instead lol

[iwannascreameurekaa]

"if it's okay for poc to be cast as originally white characters then why can't we cast white people for poc characters"

Great question I have a wonderful answer for you

to start this is about a post I saw about Leah playing Annabeth Chase in the Percy Jackson show. Someone in the comment section was complaining about it and saying that they think a white person should be casted for Hazel if there's ever a live action heros of Olympus. This person claimed that if race has no meaning when casting a black perosn for Annabeth, then why would it matter for Hazel?

here's where this person is so incredibly wrong that it confuses me on what their brain is used for if not to make a complete thought. Hazels race was one of the most important things about her backstory

Hazel was a woc in there 1940s she went to a school for colored children. She legit experienced segregation. The whole reason that she had a connection to Leo is because she went to school with his grandfather sammy and the only reason she knew sammy was because of that school for colored children. Just that is enough to tell her that yes her race does in fact have a meaning and isn't something you should change

then the person in the comment section started talking about Frank.. then Leo and then piper. Basically they ranted on and on about any poc character

Let's start with Leo now. I'm bringing back the hazel point because again the only reason that he and Hazel had a funky connection at the beginning of moa is because of that school for colored children. Leo's Hispanic heritage is also important when concerning how his life with his mother was up till he died. One of the reasons he ran away from his aunts house was because she was religious and constantly called him the devil.

what about Frank? Well his Chinese heritage connected him to Poseidon which made him related to Percy which isn't massively important but you know it's a plot point so I see no point in getting rid of it

and piper? One of the first things we find out about piper is that she is bullied for being cherokee. The FIRST thing we see of piper interacting with characters besides Jason and Leo is her experiencing racism. It is insane that some people think that's just a thing that could be thrown away. Her Cherokee heritage also relates to her main character development in the trials of Apollo and lots of her "wisdom" is old cherokee stories her grandpa would tell her

and tell me one fucking moment in the series where Percy or Jason's race was important. Other than them being Greek/roman because they're all Greek and Roman so shut up

oh but since everyone's complaining about Annabeth being black in the show that must mean that her being white in the books is SOOOOO important

... it's not. In fact she's literally 1000x tanner than most of y'all depict her in the "canon" fanart so... yeah. And those of y'all saying "what about her being blonde that's her main character thing blah blah blah" I'm sorry is this the 2000s??? Blondes being dumb is a horribly outdated stereotype that is only ever used in a joking manner now back when the lightning thief was written in was a thing used against blonde women but now it isn't.

You know a certain group that is targeted and deemed dumb because of how they look? People of color, specifying black women.

Annabeth Chase being black is probably one of the best casting decisions ever, and I say this knowing that race wasn't the main thing when casting. Leah is the perfect person to play Annabeth and I will die on that hill. She has the script determination and the emotional range that makes her the perfect candidate for Annabeth.

If Annabeth Chase were real she would love Leah and she would hate you all for saying Leah isn't her.

Rant ended. Get your heads out of your asses before you say more racist shit.

[mylight-png]

Despite the fact that I've understood that Jews aren't really white for a long time, it's been a much more recent perspective shift to understand that I'm not a "white Jew" but rather a white-passing Jew.

Because even though I would express my views on "Jews aren't white" to people, I'd frequently be told I'm wrong, or they'd listen but then in the next conversation simply forget all about it and made it clear they didn't agree or didn't care.

And so, for a very long time, I allowed goyim to define what it means to be Jewish for me.

But would I let anyone tell me who I am in relation to any other identity? Or was I just so conditioned to treat my Jewishness as something for society, not me, to define?

My Jewishness isn't just my religion. Whether or not I keep shabbat, I'm still Jewish. If I cook mac-n-cheese in a pot and then make chicken soup in the same pot, I'm still Jewish. Even if I wear pants and a tank top, I'm still Jewish.

Because being Jewish isn't just being in a religious category. For me, and a majority of Jews (not forgetting about converts, love y'all), being Jewish is in our DNA.

You can take the Jew out of Judaism, but you can't take the Judaism out of the Jew. (It seemed better before I wrote it.)

We are Jewish not because of a religious category, but also an ethnic category. And the world has only very recently decided we are white. But even now, we aren't treated as such.

You know, my perspective shifted due to a conversation about arm hair with my dad and sister.

We were sitting in a restaurant and my sister was wearing a t-shirt, showing her arms. At this point, I still thought of us as "just white" and my "Jews aren't white" views were of the "well I don't get to claim that for myself" (idk why to be honest). This conversation changed everything.

Anyway, my sister was complaining, as middle schoolers do, and mentioned her very fuzzy arms. My dad responded, "Well of course, you're Middle Eastern."

I was shocked.

I knew my parents are from Eastern Europe, and that we don't look Eastern European, and I just thought of myself as "generic white" even though I knew I was 100% ethnically Jewish.

That changed.

I wasn't "generic white" but rather I was a white-passing Jew. I look white, I know that. But I still have some traits that, when taken on their own, aren't typically European at all. They're Middle Eastern.

It was my first time really hearing a Jew define being ethnically Jewish in this way, as opposed to a goy, and it was world-changing.

Finally, I let myself take my feelings about antisemitism seriously.

Do you understand why society forcibly defining all of us as "just white" is so dangerous? It lets people easily dismiss antisemitism. Because we live in a society where "anti-white racism doesn't exist" is accepted as a common fact. (I am offering no opinions on this, only stating it as a societal observation.) So if Jews are white, how can antisemitism exist? How can it really be serious?

That's why we need to define being Jewish ourselves. If we let the world do it, not only does it harm us personally (as it did when I would constantly dismiss my own feelings and gaslight myself into thinking I was making a big deal out of nothing) but it also harms us on the community scale. It's dangerous.

Jews define what it means to be Jewish. Jews define antisemitism. Jews define Judaism.

The world deserves no role in this except to listen and accept it, as they'd be expected to do for any other minority.

Jews aren't white. There are white-passing Jews, sure, but even we deal with antisemitism.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

About the hospital photocall, I believe them when they said they were concerned about Archie’s safety. Meghan said she wanted to do it but the palace didn’t ask her. The briefing at that time was that it was Harry and Meghan who didn’t want to do it. At that time, the spin was they want to protect Archie’s privacy and that by Meghan not doing a photocall, she isn’t setting unrealistic expectations for mothers (unlike Kate), but Meghan later claimed on Oprah that that was the palace lying and spinning. I think maybe that was the doing of their communications head(?) at that time, Sara Lantham. I’m not sure if we can say for sure that Meghan has nothing to do with that spin. But anyway, Harry and Meghan said on Oprah that they would’ve done the photocall, but they didn’t because Archie was not going to be made a prince and not given the appropriate security, and so they didn’t want to do it because they were afraid of the threats to Archie.

Meghan then claimed that the palace lied and spinned the story so they don’t have to explain why they aren’t giving Archie a title. But the real problem was that the palace isn’t going to give Archie a title. Meghan then threw a tantrum about that. We can’t say for sure if she threw a tantrum because she wanted a title so badly for her kids or if she was really very very concerned about Archie’s security. Tbh, with all the neonazi racist stuff said about Archie, it’s possible they really were just very very concerned about Archie’s security. And they couldn’t understand why the palace didn’t give Archie title and security despite the threats. So Meghan then assumed the palace was being racist against Archie, hence the implication of racism accusation on Oprah. Or let’s be real, she probably knew it wasn’t really about racism and just brought that up to get back at the palace.

I’m actually really quite curious about the conversations that went on within the key members of the family. Tbh, I hardly think they really would’ve allowed Archie to be unsafe. My suspicion is that that was the conversation about the skin color was about, if there was ever one. They were discussing all matters about how Archie would fit in the rf in the future. And maybe something about skin color was mentioned, which tbh is quite racist, although I hardly think the intention was racist. They were being realistic and honestly discussing all aspects about Archie’s future. Let’s be real, it’s quite a complicated matter. It really would’ve been nice and things worked out well.

Tbh, I’m also quite tired of rf supporters who dismiss everything as down to Harry and Meghan’s pettiness. Would everyone (i mean not the family but the weirdos out there) really have accepted Archie? Are you all trying to deny that racism exists? My problem with Harry and Meghan is they messed up really badly. They aren’t sensible people. They exaggerate and are addicted to drama. But there are some very real, important points in this saga.

You must be new here. I honestly have no idea where to start with your ask. I guess we'll go line by line.

About the hospital photocall, I believe them when they said they were concerned about Archie’s safety.

Ok, fair.

Meghan said she wanted to do it but the palace didn’t ask her. The briefing at that time was that it was Harry and Meghan who didn’t want to do it.

This sounds like a classic palace miscommunication. The palace expected the Sussexes to say something and they didn't, ergo the palace thought the Sussexes weren't interested. The Sussexes expected the palace to say something, but they didn't, ergo Meghan said she wasn't asked.

At that time, the spin was they want to protect Archie’s privacy and that by Meghan not doing a photocall, she isn’t setting unrealistic expectations for mothers (unlike Kate),

Sure, and wearing white two days after giving birth - when medical practice says that women are still bleeding from childbirth and so much that they're using postpartum diapers - with an actual belt cinching her waist, and sky-high heels isn't setting unrealistic expectations?

but Meghan later claimed on Oprah that that was the palace lying and spinning. I think maybe that was the doing of their communications head(?) at that time, Sara Lantham.

You do realize that Sara Latham worked for Harry and Meghan at the time, right? She wouldn't have done anything without their direct and explicit say so.

I’m not sure if we can say for sure that Meghan has nothing to do with that spin. But anyway, Harry and Meghan said on Oprah that they would’ve done the photocall, but they didn’t because Archie was not going to be made a prince and not given the appropriate security, and so they didn’t want to do it because they were afraid of the threats to Archie.

If there were real and legitimate security threats, the RPOs would be right there next to Harry and Meghan when they made their post-hospital appearance with baby Archie. The RAVEC lawsuit made that very clear; if there are real and legitimate threats, the Sussexes' status, including Archie's, would have been appropriately escalated.

Meghan then claimed that the palace lied and spinned the story so they don’t have to explain why they aren’t giving Archie a title.

The BRF didn't need to give Archie a title. He already had one: his father's subsidiary title, Earl of Dumbarton.

The Telegraph reported that neither Harry nor Meghan wanted Archie to use the title because it had "dumb" in the name and they were worried kids would pick on him.

But the real problem was that the palace isn’t going to give Archie a title.

Actually, the Sussexes' real problem was that the palace wasn't going to upgrade Archie to a HRH style and a prince title at birth. Archie was already eligible to become HRH Prince, he just had to wait for Grandpa Wales to become King in accordance with the 1917 Letter Patent, which allowed all grandchildren of the reigning sovereign to use HRH Prince/Princess. Queen Elizabeth issued a new letter patent in 2012 granting HRH Prince/Princess to all children of the eldest son of the eldest son of the reigning monarch (aka William's children) because the 1917 LP only allowed the eldest son to of the eldest son of the Prince of Wales to have a title. Meaning, if William's firstborn was a daughter (aka a future queen), she would have been untitled and outranked by a younger brother until Charles ascended and she became the grandchild of the reigning monarch because the Succession to the Crown Act of 2013 eliminated the practice of male-preferred primogeniture (brothers will inherit before sisters - it's why Anne is ranked lower than Andrew and Edward despite being older than them) and installed absolute primogeniture (the firstborn inherits regardless of gender).

What the Sussexes wanted - which Meghan made very clear in the Oprah interview - was for The Queen to issue a wholly new LP giving Harry's children HRH Prince/Princess at birth because she did it for William's children. Which the palace declined because they didn't see a need; the line of succession was secure with William's three children, Harry was the second/youngest son of the Prince of Wales, and Harry's children would have the titles eventually anyway.

Meghan then threw a tantrum about that. We can’t say for sure if she threw a tantrum because she wanted a title so badly for her kids or if she was really very very concerned about Archie’s security.

It's both. How much of it was because of the title vs how much was because of security concerns is probably different for all of us.

I'll reiterate what I said before: if there were real, serious, legitimate threats to Archie's safety, RAVEC would have given him security or upgraded Harry and Meghan's status to give Archie security. Archie did not need to be a prince for RAVEC or the BRF to take his security seriously.

Tbh, with all the neonazi racist stuff said about Archie, it’s possible they really were just very very concerned about Archie’s security. And they couldn’t understand why the palace didn’t give Archie title and security despite the threats.

A title does not guarantee anyone security. Anne, Andrew, and Edward have titles but they only get security when they're actually at an engagement.

And someone actually attempted to kidnap Anne once.

So Meghan then assumed the palace was being racist against Archie, hence the implication of racism accusation on Oprah. Or let’s be real, she probably knew it wasn’t really about racism and just brought that up to get back at the palace.

Ding ding ding, we have a winner!

I’m actually really quite curious about the conversations that went on within the key members of the family. Tbh, I hardly think they really would’ve allowed Archie to be unsafe.

Ding ding ding, another winner!

My suspicion is that that was the conversation about the skin color was about, if there was ever one.

It's been unofficially confirmed by the rota that the family was wondering what Archie would like - e.g. would he have Harry's red hair or Meghan's black hair? Would he have Harry's beady blue eyes or Meghan's nice brown eyes? Very normal and very ordinary conversations to have when there's a baby on the way.

They were discussing all matters about how Archie would fit in the rf in the future. And maybe something about skin color was mentioned, which tbh is quite racist, although I hardly think the intention was racist. They were being realistic and honestly discussing all aspects about Archie’s future.

Annnnnnnd you lost the plot. There was nothing to discuss about Archie's future. He was the grandson of the future king, so he was getting HRH Prince anyway, he just had to wait a bit for it. The modern BRF has been slimming for years (Charles's vision for the monarchy involving just William and his family and Harry and his wife, no kids, had been publicly known for years) so it was pretty much guaranteed Archie would not have any official role or do any work for the monarchy, regardless of whether he had a title or not.

Let’s be real, it’s quite a complicated matter. It really would’ve been nice and things worked out well.

I agree. But unfortunately it didn't go that way.

Tbh, I’m also quite tired of rf supporters who dismiss everything as down to Harry and Meghan’s pettiness.

But quite a lot of what Harry and Meghan have done over the years has been petty - like timing their own announcements and appearances with BRF events. Like complaining publicly that they weren't told beforehand about Kate's illness and that they had to find out on the news. Like complaining that William won't return Harry's calls. Like complaining they weren't thanked for flowers they sent to Kate. Like complaining there were security problems preventing Harry from seeing his father, when his father lives in one of the most secure facilities in the world because he's the King, head of state, and commander-in-chief.

No, not everything the Sussexes do is petty, but certainly enough that it's a default opinion for many people.

Would everyone (i mean not the family but the weirdos out there) really have accepted Archie?

You'll have to be more specific about "weirdos."

The general royal-watching public? The fandom? Yes, absolutely. No one had any problems with the Sussexes and/or Archie.

The neonazi racists you mentioned earlier? No, never.

Are you all trying to deny that racism exists?

No one here has ever said that. We have always acknowledged that racism exists. I have always said that Meghan absolutely faced and dealt with racism in the UK. I have always supported Meghan's right to call out racism and defend herself from racism. I have always given Meghan the benefit of the doubt because it's her life. It's her experience. I can't presume to speak for her experience as a biracial woman living in another country anymore than you can speak for my experience being a deaf woman.

What I have said is that Meghan has used racism in certain situations to deflect accountability, ignore protocol, and erase history. Pointing out inconsistencies in one's narrative is not denying racism. It's saying "things aren't adding up here."

My problem with Harry and Meghan is they messed up really badly. They aren’t sensible people. They exaggerate and are addicted to drama. But there are some very real, important points in this saga.

Yes, there are some real points and real feelings at matter here. But asserting BRF history and protocols doesn't mean we don't validate what Meghan experienced and what she went through. It means that there's three sides to every story - the BRF's, Meghan's, and the truth - but right now we're only getting one side: Meghan's. And there are things in it that aren't adding up.

[theinfinitedivides]

Sam is the co-lead of the series, per Rolin, Mark, and all the actors, and after Jacob, he's the one critics mention the most (the whole cast is super acclaimed obviously, but in terms of who gets singled out). The whole cast is great, but it's not racism for them to prioritize their two lead male actors (and Sam is still the co-lead even if he had less screentime this year, just like they still kept Jacob and Sam together in interviews because they are the leads, and they will next year too when Sam is the lead and Jacob is the co-lead). If IWTV were a show like Succession or GOT or whatever, they could push more actors. But people are expecting them to push Assad for nominations when realistically, Jacob and Sam are the only ones who remotely have a shot in their categories, as great as the whole cast is. This isn't about everyone getting a turn, it's about who the show's leads and most prominent actors are.

see now i had to pause GNX to respond to this tell me how i knew somebody was going to act up in my inbox, smh. anon. sit with me for a bit. i have been here since the first time AMC had a chance to put up Assad for consideration for several supporting noms and did not. i rode that wave i saw the backlash among those of us who were wise enough to see what was happening and the way we were dogpilled on by folks who claimed we were making everything about Assad. then ofc round two happened and they skipped Jacob and Delainey and the same folks who were talking shit suddenly started crying foul when it's been foul but uh. that's a convo that i've beaten till it died i ain't going back there.

the point of my post (that you seemed to have missed) was not that they shouldn't have put their two lead actors forward for consideration. it is the constant deliberate neglect of submitting Assad's name in anything (followed closely by Delainey) while continuing to use his scenes and breakout performance in s2 to promote the show. if you care about your white co-lead's performance then you use the fucking promo from the fucking eps that he's in for a significant amount of time. you do not cop the hard work of your cast of color to hopefully get awards and then not give them the time of day to submit them for a little something. 2x5 was Jacob and Assad (& Luke)'s ep and we know this. 2x8 was Jacob and Assad (& Delainey bc iirc this is the wrap-up to the trial, unless i'm wrong and we didn't get any of her screentime after 2x7)'s ep and we know this. they wanted tangible Sam screentime they should have offered up 2x7 where the bulk of the trial (and by extension Lestat) actually is. it's like if i as a fellow student take time out of my day and volunteer to tutor you and you turn the final result in as yours and don't even acknowledge that i fucking led you through how many study sessions. it's that one kid doing the group project for the rest of y'all and then y'all get credit for shit you didn't do bc it full well was not a team effort. before s2 aired Assad was on buildings and promo content and interviews and then it dropped just as the genocidal acts in Gaza started ramping up and it wasn't fashionable anymore to let an obviously Islamic coded name get into print as one of the stars of the show—notice how they went dead silent? notice how most critics reviews always mention Sam (Dreamstat) over Assad (Armand) or Delainey (Claudia) or even Jacob (THEE titular vamp)? we know what it's giving and honestly if you don't i think you need to sit with that shit for a little bit

[alikat7]

https://www.instagram.com/share/reel/BAIn_rY2Gy

I couldn't fit my reply in an Instagram reply!

I cannot believe how much crap people put on Sebastian that is mostly lies or twisted info. Is he perfect? No. But does he deserve this BS? Hell no. I guess since your whole claim to fame is 'Hurting men's feelings by saying what they did', you probably needed to fluff this up with BS and half truths to be more controversial. I am going to talk about this video and the response comments both.

1. Yes. Actors would avoid the PR with him doing a Trump movie. Trump is about to be one of the most powerful men in the world again and he has been known to be very vindictive of entertainment people portraying him badly. Late night talk show hosts have been threatened with lawsuits for making fun of him. If you're not American, you might not understand. Regular citizens have been attacked verbally and physically for criticizing Trump. MAGA people are violently protective of him. Hollywood has mostly been very vocal against him(including Stan during his term in 2016-2020 and now) so I bet he assumed that everyone reaching out saying how great he was in that role would also be willing to do the Actor on Actor thing. But Hollywood is being quiet about Trump now that he won the election. It's fear. And yes, fear of the bad PR.

2. The whole ex thing - OMG I cannot believe this is still going after 4 yrs! - is BS honestly. People claimed his ex was racist because of the crazy section of his fandom that went back 3+ years on one of her friends Istagrams to find a picture of her in Asian clothes at a party and accused her cultural appropriation. First, she's Spanish. We have no idea if Spain has the same definition of cultural appropriation and if they consider it racist. Even in the US, it wasn't always considered racism. The MET gala had a Chinese theme in 2015, but no one complained about racism. Second - why are fans researching his girlfriends to the point you find a photo on their friends Instagram 3+ yrs before? That's crazy! I bet Sebastian didn't know about that photo until the fans dug it up. Third - if she didn't realize it was considered racist and he asked her about it when the fans brought it up, she could have just admitted to him she made a mistake. Who can say. None of his fans actually know the details of his relationships and should stay out of them. I am not defending anything she did. I am just pointing out that the fans don't know the whole story.

3. Pam & Tommy - Seb was brought into the project by the same man that did I, Tonya. I'm sure he assumed everything was cool since in the past it had been. He met with Tommy, and he was cool with it. Lily couldn't get a meeting with Pam. No one has any idea *when* Seb knew Pam was against it. The public didn't know until Courtney Love claimed Pam was hurt by it. Courtney Love isn't a credible source for anything. She's crazy. But even if she was telling the truth, Sebastian was under contract and filming by then. He can't just back out of projects because he finds out something like that. It wasn't his job to talk to Pam. It was all of the show runners. He knew he had Tommy's blessing. Despite Tommy's future abuse of Pam, he was also a victim in the sex tape release, too. And what is everyone upset he played an abusive man? He's not condoning it. He also played an assassin and a cannibal. Jeff in I, Tonya, was abusive, too. He's not glorifying Tommy. He may have admired Tommy's rock God status (and yes, at one time, he was a rock god), not his treatment of women. I only heard him talk about it being fun with the tattoos, earrings, playing the drums, the total physical transformation, etc. Seb has gone on record many times talking about how they portrayed Pam and Tommy as victims of an unbelievably cruel invasion of their privacy and how it destroyed their relationship and damaged her career. He considered the show an expose of the horrible truth because most people thought they leaked the tape because they sold the rights. I am old enough to remember, and everyone thought Pam & Tommy released it. They were known for being wild, so it wasn't that surprising if they did. Seb and Lily thought it was very pro-Pam, so until they started doing press, they probably didn't know Pam was truly against it, and they hurt her. But Pam didn't even blame Sebastian or Lily. And to be honest, no one got more shit about it than Sebastian. Not the creators, not the show runners or writers, not Lily, not Seth Rogan, no one else dealt with the backlash like Seb. Why? I think it was due to #4.

4. Sebastian has a huge fanbase. He always has, but it got bigger due to Marvel. I read some bad comments here about how he treated his fans. This goes against everything I have heard about actual fan meetings. He's known to be a bit shy, introverted, and quiet at times but has always been kind. Did everyone forget when jumped off a stage at a convention, ran into the audience, and hugged a girl because she was overcome by nerves to ask her question? Or when he heard some fans were outside the hotel at Toronto Film Fest at night so he came down in his PJs to take pics and talk to them? The man stops to talk to kids and dogs all the time. He's a nice guy.

So let's talk about the small, dark, denented section of his fandom - the Anti-Fans. They claim they used to be his fans, but not anymore, yet they still spent hours a day digging for his personal information so they can post online. They post pictures of the outside of the building he lives in, his fathers funeral, personal family photos, photos at friend's houses, his vacation, his address, videos of him as they wait outside his building or his favorite restaurant. They go up to him when he's eating, getting coffee, running, walking out of his building, etc, and wonder why he's polite but obviously not thrilled about the encounter. But then he's 'horrible to his fans'. They write long essays about him being problematic with twisted facts and lies. Sometimes, they just make shit up, which later ends up in the permanent record of why he's problematic. They list things he's done wrong and either ignore any apology he made or just say it doesn't count. He never has to apologize, but he does because he actually cares about offending or hurting people. And you know when these anti-fans come out in force? When he has a girlfriend! How odd. They rip every girlfriend to shreds and then say Sebastian is horrible if he defends them. But they also claim every girlfriend is PR. According to them, Sebastian has never had a real girlfriend - only PR girlfriends. A gorgeous actor who is single, funny, and kind, but yet he never has a real relationship that doesn't include a contract? What deluded world are you living in??  And of course, every one of these antifans claims to know about the 'business' enough to know the signs of a PR girlfriend. Every good-looking actor is supposedly in a PR relationship according to these people, even the married ones with kids! But I have questions - why does Sebastian need PR? And he would be more appealing to female fans if he were single. His current girlfriend is a successful actress on her own (and don't bother saying she's not as successful as him because it's impossible to compare). But neither of them need the PR of a relationship. And when you consider how private they have been for 2 yrs, how is it PUBLIC relations??? Most of the pics of them are taken from someone else's Instagram(a friend of a friend of a sister's friend of their agent's brother-in-law's cousin, etc. Seriously, how do you people have the time to cyber stalk to that degree?) or paparazzi pics. Including pics of them on vacation with her parents. A trip with the fam - kinda extreme for a PR relationship! Whether it's real or PR, what does it matter? He's never going to be your man, so stop trying to ruin his life by harassing his GF. You loved her when she replaced the Spanish GF, but then you realized it was serious and started tearing her apart. It's plain jealous, spoiled bitch behavior. "If I can't have him, no one should." It's nauseating. Reality check here - whether he stays with this GF or finds a new one. he will NEVER be your man.

See also:  Parasocial interaction (PSI) refers to a kind of psychological relationship experienced by an audience in their mediated encounters with performers in the mass media, particularly on television and on online platforms.

If you really care about Sebastian, stop analyzing every pic of him with his GF for signs of unhappiness, and just leave them alone to be happy. Its none of your business whether they are happy, or if it's PR, or if she meets with your approval. Sebastian is a grown man who can handle his own love life all by himself.

5. I saw a few posts about him being an asshole on set to the crew. Elizabeth Olsen once said Sebastian hangs out with the crew more than the cast. The crew always raves about him. I just saw a video the other day where a cew member from The Devil All The Time who said he gave $200-300 to each of the lowest paid crew members. God, what a monster!

This type of fuckery is what drove him off social media. When he sorta called out his fans recently, it was after years of abuse from these so-called fans. And if you weren't one doing it, why be offended? It wasn't directed at you. Everyone has their breaking point. When you think about all the fan interaction he used have on Insta like his cute videos, it's truly heartbreaking that these anti-fans drove him away. And they criticize his lack of fan interaction?

The only thing about Sebastian that is truly problematic is part of his fanbase, who are so entitled that they aren't happy unless they spend most of their time trying to destroy his reputation.

If he truly offends you, hit him where it hurts. Stop watching his movies. Stop contributing to his income. Act like he's irrelevant by not even discussing him. And let the real fans enjoy his work in peace.

Oh, and BTW, if you spent hours a day stalking him and his gf's friends and coworkers' Instagrams because he's so problematic, you are kidding yourself - you're obsessed with him. You're a fan.

[torukmaktoskxawng]

can u make a enemies to lovers with neteyam or jake? x fem!reader? xx!!

(Gifs not mine)

Pairing: Jake Sully/fem!reader

Summary: Y/n doesn't like being outranked by Corporal Jake Sully, and Jake doesn't like Corporal Y/n's attitude. This rivalry eventually stretches past their human existence.

Warnings: Military attitude, one-way thinking, implied brutal death, enemies to tolerated allies to lovers, alien prejudice/racism? (that one's a little tough to word I guess), swearing, etc.

Word Count: 2k+

A/N: Thank you for your patience, and sorry it took so long!

Also, Jake and Neytiri don't end up getting together and having kids in this one. I couldn't bear to do my Mama dirty like that.

~~~~~~~~~

Corporal Y/n L/n was many things. Tough, capable, determined, and loyal. The RDA was lucky to have her... at least that's what she tells people. No task was impossible and no mission was too dangerous. Y/n followed her orders down to a tee, so you could imagine the anger she felt when her loyalty was shoved aside in exchange for wheelchair-bound Corporal Jake Sully.

There's no such thing as an ex-marine, and yet Y/n has never met the next closest thing until she met Jake. Honorably discharged after the loss of his legs in Venezuela, Jake was only in Pandora for the sake of the RDA not having to waste millions of dollars on an avatar whose rider, Jake's twin, is dead. Technically, Jake shouldn't have been mingling with the war dogs at Hell's Gate and should've stuck to the scientists. But Selfridge and Quaritch had other plans and had asked Jake to go undercover as their eyes and ears among the Na'vi.

Y/n didn't think Jake deserved all the credit he had been given after he managed to insert himself with the Omatikaya, and she voiced her opinion to him, "What'd you have to do? Bat your cat eyes at them?"

Jake knew when he was being mocked, clenching his jaw and narrowing his eyes back at her, "They accepted me after I told them I was a warrior from a neighboring clan."

"Seriously? What clan?"

He had the gall to look bashful in front of her, the tips of his ears turning pink while muttering under his breath, "The Jarhead Clan?"

She laughed in disbelief and likely disgust, "Are you kidding me? 'They fell for that? If it's that easy, maybe Quaritch doesn't need you after all. I bet we could just walk in there claiming we're all from the Jarhead Clan."

"They're smarter than they look, and I don't see you volunteering yourself to communicate with them." The marine sassed back, his attitude getting the better of him.

"They're not worth my time," Y/n shrugged, nonchalantly, "They're clearly not smart enough to handle me if they ate up your punk ass lies."

"You don't exactly have anything better to do. Other than complaining, I guess."

She snaps her attention back to the man in the wheelchair, eyes glaring into his soul. It wasn't every day someone had the guts to match Y/n's cold exterior, and she didn't appreciate being badmouthed by the rookie who just got a lucky shot of working the same rank as her, "Watch yourself, Sully."

He smiled, the bastard, turning his chair in the direction he wanted to go, wheeling away, "I gotta head out. Unlike some folk, I actually have a mission to accomplish."

~~~

The scientists were moving out. Apparently, Dr. Augustine was spooked at the idea of Parker breathing down the neck of her operation so she's bringing her avatar team up to Site 26 in the mountains, Sully included.

Y/n was strutting down the hall and happened to catch Jake after he left the control room to let Quaritch know what was going on. She noticed a suspicious-looking smile on the marine's face and something didn't sit right with her at the sight of it. Without much thought, she held her foot out and it abruptly stops the wheelchair in its tracks. Jake peered up at her, his smile quickly fading when he realized who it was, his jaw tightening.

"You're smiling." She stated her observation out loud, gracing him with a frown to match, "It's not a good look, much less a normal look for you. Just remember whose side you're on, Sully."

How could she have possibly known what he might be thinking? She couldn't have known he was smiling at the thought of getting away, wanting to forget all about this place in exchange for seeing this world through the eyes of Neytiri.

No. There's no way she could know that. As suspicious as Y/n was, she was blind to everything Jake has experienced out there. He leans close, staring up at her with those hard, daring eyes, "I do. My side."

~~~

It bothered Y/n to learn Jake had betrayed them. Did she expect it? Obviously. So it bothered her all the more that she expected it. She could have prevented this by stopping Jake from leaving or reporting him to Quaritch, so why did she let him go?

She decides that she can fix this mistake by helping blow up Hometree and further help in the battle waiting for them in the Hallelujah Mountains.

Did she feel regret watching the magnificent tree crash down, likely killing hundreds of Na'vi in the process? Only for a moment, her mindset now on her orders to return back to Hell's Gate. Best foot forward, she manned the gun as they flew to the Tree of Souls, only to be ambushed by the Na'vi, astride direhorses, and ikran. Y/n didn't feel regret gunning down as many as she could after watching the bastards kill her friends and acquaintances, people she worked with for years and formed bonds with living on a moon so far away from home.

She was thrown from her gunship, however, before she could fully enact her revenge. As she fell to her death, she watched the battle going on above her. She watched her gunship being tossed around by the devil itself, the Great Leonopteryx, larger than any ikran she had ever seen. The beast and its rider, Toruk Makto himself, smashed Y/n's gunship against the side of one of the floating mountains, and she's forced to watch it explode in debris and flame. Her heart drops, however, when the blades of the ship came spiraling through the air and toward her falling form.

That was the last thing she remembered before everything went black.

~~~

FIFTEEN YEARS LATER...

Instead of black, she's blinded by an overly bright hospital light. Only, Y/n wasn't in a hospital and she felt like she was lying on top of a stainless steel dissection table. Disorientated and sore, Y/n focused on the voice of the doctors (were they doctors?) surrounding her field of vision. They instruct her to take it easy and flex her fingers. When she lifts her hand to do so, she's suddenly wide awake and self-aware.

Her hand was blue.

~~~

Following her resurrection came the other Recoms of Project Phoenix. Z-Dog and Wainfleet were next, then Ja, Brown, Fike, Lopez, Prager, Walker, Warren, Mansk, and Zhang. Most of them she knew back at Hell's Gate, or at the very least was acquainted with them. Finally, Quaritch came to and Y/n couldn't lie how entertaining it was to watch the colonel wake up and immediately kick in his fight or flight mode. It didn't help that Lyle thought it would be a great idea to greet Quaritch with his new ugly avatar mug. Later on, Wainfleet admitted that he already forgot about his new body and didn't think how the colonel would react, and in response, Y/n laughed and called him an idiot.

~~~

Their temporary resurrection and reunion were cut short when they arrived back on Pandora. Quaritch gets them to work immediately after receiving his orders from Ardmore and the Recoms are sent out into the wild to test out and see if the moon would react to their presence. So far, they hadn't triggered any immune response. No animal attacked them and the plant life kept still. The new and improved avatars track down the old shack where Quaritch breathed his last breaths, locating his remains and extracting the old footage from the AMP suit.

What they didn't expect to find there was a human boy, running around, acting like one of the Na'vi, apart from his breathing mask and exo-pack. He was about sixteen and clearly someone who had been left behind in the initial evacuation when the humans were driven off Pandora. When they captured him, he introduced himself as Spider Socorro, none other than Paz and Quaritch's son. But Spider wasn't very adamant at the idea of the colonel standing over him being his sperm donor.

"You're not my father! My Dad is Toruk Makto! He's on his way to save me! He knows I'm here, and he's going to kill every single one of you!"

That bit of information only enraged Quaritch even further, and Y/n couldn't exactly blame him. First, Jake betrayed his own kind, killed many humans, forced them to go home with tails tucked between their legs, and now he's raised Quaritch's son up and brainwashed him to be an animal.

The Recoms take Spider's threat to heart and secure him, keeping him tied up in the center of their circle as they wait for Ardmore to come and pick them up. It was dark and it had started to rain. They kept their backs to each other and kept their eyes peeled on the jungle line. And yet, they never saw him coming.

It was all a blur. Due to the darkness and the rain, Y/n was one second too late to realize that she had been separated from the group as the Recoms were getting picked off, one by one. There was the familiar sound of a grenade launcher being triggered before Y/n had the time to dive down and cover herself to the best of her ability. The explosion goes off somewhere nearby and her ears begin to ring, debris of dirt sprinkling down on top of her. The shouts from her team slowly die away, following the sound of Ardmore's ship picking them up. She tries catching her breath, her mind not yet realizing what had happened just as hands began to grab at her shoulders, her instincts driving her to fight or flight mode.

She kicks them away and scrambles to put a distance between herself and the stranger, lifting her AR in her arms and pointing in their direction. In front of her stood a tall Na'vi man, only he had the traits of an avatar-- a very familiar avatar.

The snarl she let out wasn't as human as she was used to. It was more feral and she tried not to let it surprise her, "Shit. Sully."

Jake Sully's eyebrows furrow at the voice, eyes frantically scanning her form. Definitely an avatar but dressed in camo and currently pointing an AR at his face. The voice sounded strangely familiar, but it wasn't until he noticed the name patch on her bulletproof vest did his eyes widen in recognition. He peered back up at her eyes, tilting his head, "L/n?"

She cursed again, rage pooling through her eyes as she gnashed her sharp teeth at him, "Traitor!"

Y/n goes to pull the trigger, but something from behind had clubbed her in the crook of her leg, forcing the limb to give in and collapse against her will. She shouts and the trigger slips, the gunfire missing Jake by an inch as he barrels forward when the moment of opportunity strikes. He wrestles the rifle out of Y/n's hands and pushes her to the ground, using the orange slap-cuffs she possessed and using them against her, restraining her hands behind her back. Y/n snarls and hisses like a wild animal caught in a trap, her ears and tail lashing violently as she's forced face down into the mud, the whole front side of her wet and cold with the rainfall still pouring like nobody's business. With her head tilted off to the side, she realized her attacker was none other than Spider with a large branch still heavy in his hands. With his captive secure, Jake stood up and stepped toward the human boy, kneeling down to meet his height and checking him over for injuries or cracks in his mask.

"You alright, kiddo?"

"Yeah," Spider breathes, smiling faintly when Jake gently knocks his knuckles against the glass of his mask affectionately. 

"Good. Let's get you home. Your sister's probably worried sick."

That was news to Y/n. From what she understood, Quaritch and Paz only had Spider, unless the colonel was getting around. Looking back, Paz could have cozied up to others, but from the few encounters Y/n had with her, she didn't seem like the type. Socorro was high maintenance. 

Still left on the cold, wet ground, Y/n continued to struggle until Sully remembered that she was there, and the bastard had the gall to smile down at her while patting Spider's shoulder proudly, "Well, son... not bad for your first catch."

"Go to Hell!" She screeched back. This had gotta be the worst night of her life.

~~~~~~~~~

Part 2? Lemme know!

Have your own request? Click here for the rules! If you wanna see more of my works, click here for the masterlist. Thank you!

[babiebom]

Accidental Prey(i)

A/N: New obsession coming through woo woooooooo. Hopefully I have it in me to finish this.

Tw: talks of sex, taking of virginity, no smut but does talk about sex in small details, talks of murder and cannibalism, drunk one night stand, cursing. Mentions of blood and gore, some sexism/misogynist views, pregnancy, racism, slut shaming

Pairing: Johnny Slaughter/Sawyer x OC

Genre: strangers to lovers, Stockholm Syndrome, angst, romance(?), drama

Wc: 5.2k

Masterlist next

At the feeling of something popping, Johnny already knew that he was in deep shit. The girl below him was drunker than he was by a long way. And though he also had way too much to drink he could already tell by his reaction that he was going to remember this entire situation in the morning.

It wasn't unusual for him to sleep around, it wasn't unusual for him to sleep with potential victims. But something about this girl made him feel different. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the way she smiled and smelled and let him bite her. He wasn't sure. He just knew something about her was off, because it damn sure cannot be him.

Looking down he stares at where their bodies meet, blood was beginning to pool under her ass and onto the sheets below them. God, he was going to have to pay for this, huh? Looking back up at her face, the tears had stopped and so had her whining, now she was just clinging onto him, her lips brushing over his arms that were caging her in. Did she even realize what was happening? Did she realize that she had let a random man she had just met take her virginity? She slurred something against his arm, her eyes unfocused. Maybe he should quit before it goes too far…

"Have you done this before?" Maybe she just hadn't slept around in a while…maybe she just hasn't done it a lot and her body wasn't used to it.

She furrowed her eyebrows before shaking her head, murmuring out an answer. Johnny blinks twice, feeling as if he was now somehow responsible for her wellbeing, as if because he is the first man to defile her he has to take care of her and that's too much for him to process. He tries to reason with himself quickly, almost gaslighting himself into believing that it doesn't count because they haven't really done anything. He hasn't moved, hasn't done anything except push inside her one time. That isn't sex at all. None of this counts.

Before he can pull himself out of her, she whines and wraps her legs around him, frowning as she slowly turns her head to try and make eye contact with him. "What're you doin?"

"Baby, I don't think this is a good idea…" Johnny was never one to put someone else's needs before his own, but this seemed like the perfect opportunity to do so. By stopping here nothing is different, she can still be considered a virgin, and he doesn't have to worry about some random chick he found in a bar.

"Why not? I thought we was makin' love?" She pouts as she slurs her words out. Locking her legs around him tighter, forcing him in deeper. It only served to make her whine out in pain and he has to focus on not being selfish and moving inside of her.

He wants to laugh at the thought of 'making love'; it isn't a thing he does. He doesn't know how to love, his family doesn't know how to properly love. This whole situation is fucked and he wants to rip her to shreds for somehow triggering a response in him that he didn't know was possible. He didn't love her, not at all, but he also didn't want to kill her. He could already see Drayton losing his shit if he ever found out about him going out and having one night stands that he doesn't bring home to eat. The old man claims to not enjoy killing but sure does get mad when loose ends are tied up.

"You sure?" He asks, grabbing her by the chin and roughly making it so that she had to look him in the eyes. She hums in response, giving him a small smile before closing her eyes. She was mumbling again, and he only could catch that she thought he was nice before she started talking about something else. He breathes in deeply before deciding that he could just finish and wait until she's asleep before leaving and never seeing her again. He hopes that she forgets anything that happened, not wanting her to remember him.

If she remembers then she might come looking for him, and if she comes looking for him then the family will know what he's done, what he's been doing. And they'll kill her, or make him kill her. He doesn't know which is worse, but he knows that he doesn't want to kill her, that he doesn't think she should die. He tries to figure out what it is about her again, coming to the conclusion that she just doesn't set off any of his killer instincts, that she doesn't set off that thing in him that needs to kill.

It's as if he's a wolf thinking he's hunting a bunny but instead what he finds is a tiny little mouse that wouldn't be fulfilling to eat. A little mouse that doesn't make the chase fun, that doesn't make him want to attack her at all. He just feels bad for her and how small and helpless she is. Killing her would be no fun, he decides quickly finishing partially inside her before pulling out, too lost in his thoughts to properly be worried. Her face is screwed up and he wonders if she finished, asking her as much.

By the look on her face he can tell that she hadn't, too wrapped up in his thoughts to even recall how having sex with her felt. So, deciding to be nice he helps her out. Touching her in that special place until her broken wails come out silently and her back arches off the cheap motel bed. He silently hopes this makes up for him being a shitty person to have your first time with. "Did that feel good?" He asks and she nods her head, a sleepy grin on her face as she stretches and begins to fall asleep.

He sighs, wiping her off with his shirt. After making sure she was lying on her side he slips out of the motel room, throwing his shirt away before getting into his truck, driving home and away from the girl before any real consequences could be had.

When Fawn woke up in a pool of dried blood she was confused, obviously. The last thing she remembered was being at a bar, tossing back a shot that the bartender had even questioned if she could handle it. Seeing where she had woken up, it was apparent that she could not. Sucking in a breath she moves her hair from in front of her face, the curly mess tangled around her fingers. For a split second she wondered if she looked as bad as she thought she did. That thought was quickly overtaken by the feeling of stabbing pain shooting up her legs and crotch. As if she had been electrocuted for moving.

She wailed out in pain, writhing on the bed, eyes squeezed shut as she tried to remember what happened to her. She didn't even realize she had left the bar. From the pain and the blood, she already had some semblance of what had occured, and though there was already regret pooling at the bottom of her belly she also felt upset that the guy didn't even stick around, he just left after…doing what he did.

Crying she waited until the pain got bearable enough that she could move. How was she going to get back home? Her car was still at the bar. Did she even have her keys? Looking around she spotted her purse sitting on a table next to the door. At least he was nice enough to leave her things.

Moving around slowly, she wondered if she would be able to get a cab or something, at least to take her back to the bar. She cringed as she looked back towards the bed, blood was everywhere and she knew that leaving it there was rude, but talking to the motel workers would probably get her in trouble. Silently she began to bundle the blanket and sheets up, hoping that the mattress below was untouched, just so the repercussions wouldn't be as bad. She cursed the man aloud for leaving her to deal with this alone.

The sun was extremely bright when Fawn finally walks out of the room, and it makes her nauseous to the point where she has to run over to the grass, ignoring the burning pain in her legs in order to throw up somewhere it doesn't need to be cleaned or seen. Turning around, she frowns at how the motel looks, dingy and dusty, people sitting around looking out of it. At least she has nothing to be embarrassed about seeing as no one cares what she's doing.

The nearest payphone was thankfully just down the street, she could see it in the distance if she squinted. The blazing Texas sun burned the skin on her shoulders, her complexion not helping her despite the common belief that it would, she still burned easily and that fact made her situation even worse. Her legs were sore, and now burned awfully from the walk taking much longer than it needed to be, and by the time she got to the payphone she was out of breath and sweaty. Fawn was beginning to regret going out.

Panting, she tries to lean against the payphone, but she only proceeds to get burned as the metal had been cooking all day. Frowning, she wonders how she's going to call anyone for help when holding onto the stupid phone for more than a second would burn her hand so badly she would have to go to the hospital. It took a minute before she decided to lift her shirt, looking around to make sure no one would see her, and use it to hold the phone. Paying the 50 cents she calls a taxi to come pick her up.

The second Fawn was in front of her own house, she felt the urge to leave again. Her parents were sure to be awake and moving around seeing as it's the middle of the day, and her little act of defiance was sure to be punished, even if she is a grown adult. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, thinking of a plan to minimize the damage. She was unsure of how she was going to lie to and convince her parents that she hadn't gotten up to trouble at all, and while she had no real idea of what happened she could figure out enough of everything to know that they were going to be livid. Before she could come up with anything solid, the front door opened, the screen door slamming against it from how hard the person had forced it open.

Fawn's mother is a large lady. Tall, strong, and mean faced with a head of dark curly hair. Seeing the woman storming towards you is enough for anyone, man or woman, to go running in fear at what was to come as a consequence of her anger. Terrified, Fawn scrambles out of the car, hoping that this small act of compliance would placate her mother enough that she wouldn't get into too much trouble. "Momma-"

"Where were you?"

Flinching, Fawn attempted to make herself seem smaller. She wanted to answer, but answering would only make things worse for her so she keeps her mouth shut as her mother grabs her by the arm and drags her inside. Her father sat in his recliner, staring at her with wide eyes. And though she was terrified at the thought of a punishment, she could see from how her father's shoulders drooped that they had been afraid. With guilt flooding in her stomach she allowed her mother to pull her into a hug, the large woman shuddering and gripping onto Fawn's shoulders so tight she was sure they would be bruised in the morning.

As soon as her mother let go, she turned and walked towards her father, he stood slowly as she approached. Like her mother, her father was large, muscular and mean looking, the only difference between them was the colors of their skin. If her mother terrified people, her father made them believe that what had happened in the bible surely had happened again to produce such a large man. To have such a tiny child was almost comical, it was how they named her because something like 'mouse' would get her made fun of.

Fawn could feel her lower lip tremble as she fell into her fathers arms, letting him hug her just as tight as her mother did. Being the only child of two people who were as full of worry as her parents made everything much more…scary. More final, as if every choice that you make is taking you towards an untimely demise and even a day apart is too long when you could keel over dead at any moment.

Her dad held onto her for a longer time, she could hear his soft sniffles and assumed that he was crying and was holding onto her until he had stopped. Letting him have her moment, Fawn keeps her mouth shut about how her night went, forcing herself to come up with a story just in case they pressed her on it. She hoped to God that none of this would come to bite her in the butt.

The cool metal of the exam table makes the back of her thighs numb, her decision to wear shorts proving to be the dumbest thing she has ever done…or second dumbest thing. Her mother sat in the small chair, next to the exam table, clutching her purse and bouncing her leg. Did she think something bad was going to happen? Did she think Fawn was on the brink of death? Asking would just make her irritable, she was already mad they had to come to the doctors to begin with. Her mother hated the place with a passion, but never told Fawn why, maybe she was just anxious…either way she wasn't in the mood for questions.

The symptoms she had weren't strange in any way…Fawn thought she probably just had a stomach flu or something. Constant nausea, headaches, and a stuffy nose. Her mother thought differently though, ever since the day Fawn had stayed out all night her mother acted differently. As if she were suspicious of something. Thankfully Fawn hadn't missed a period, though it was lighter than usual and only lasted a couple days. She had thought this meant she was home free, that she had gotten away with whatever she did that led up to and included her virginity being taken by a stranger. But still, her mother insisted the doctor's office was the way to go.

The man entered the room, clipboard in hand and glaring at Fawn as if she had committed the ultimate sin. Taken aback she avoided eye contact with him, instead staring down at the floor as if it were the most interesting thing in the room. Why was he so mad? "Are you sexually active?" He asks in a monotone voice.

Fawn freezes, her kicking feet now hanging in the air, still as if something was holding them in place. She shakes her head. "No." She whispers out.

He sucks in a breath, moving around the room towards his stool. "Well, we tested for illnesses, and pregnancy."

"And?" Her mother asked. 'Please be the stomach flu. It has to be the stomach flu' she prays.

"She's pregnant."

Fawn's mother almost collapses out of the small chair she was sitting on, her body sliding down it as she wails into her hands. Fawn looks up at the doctor, her eyes wide in horror and confusion. She wanted to ask how'd this happen, she was so confused. One night couldn't have done this. She felt as if she were being punished by God for acting out. She sniffles and frowns, but gets no sympathy from the man in front of her. He only looks at her as if he’s disgusted. When he speaks again, she can’t hear him, too busy trying to calm her racing mind. By the time she stops disassociating, the doctor's appointment is over and she’s in the car with her yelling mother. “-you’re never leaving the house again! How did this even happen? Did you go out purely to be a little harlot?"

"Momma I-"

The woman was seething, her lips set in a line as she focused on the road. Fawn knew her mother was waiting on her to say something, but at the same time she knew saying anything, especially excuses, would just set her off more. She couldn't help but begin to cry, her life as she knew it was over. She messed up, she knew that, but being pregnant and unmarried was punishment enough, but seeing how angry her mother looked she knew that she was going to be punished more.

Her parents were never really abusive, never whooping or beating her, sometimes they yelled but it was usually her mother and it wasn't often. Then again she never really got into trouble, and if she did it was never anything like this. Her parents raised her in a straight line, hoping that with each passing generation their family could become something important in the world. Something more than their race and appearance and it started with her grandparents. She couldn't imagine what her grandmother would think now, and she was grateful that she lived far away enough that she wouldn't hear if the gossip ever left that hospital or their home.

Fawn shrinks into herself, her cries growing louder as her mother parks the car in the driveway to the house, a sigh leaving her lips, her chest falling quickly. She didn't want to go inside and face her father, she didn't want to see his disappointed face or hear his words as he scolded her. "God damn it. Fawn Grace! What the hell did you go out and do?"

Fawn looked up at her mother with a pitiful look, her hands were balling up her skirt. "I don't remember momma! I swear! I woke up in-in a motel room-!"

"A motel room?" Fawn's mothers voice rose an octave, higher than she had ever heard it before. Her mother slammed her hands onto the steering wheel, looking down and saying something under her breath while Fawn looked at her in fear. Shaking her head the woman kept her eyes closed while she spoke before getting out of the car, not even waiting for Fawn as she started towards the front door. Following behind Fawn says a quick prayer to herself, hoping God would forgive her sins and give her a break when it comes to her father's reaction.

Slowly removing herself from the car, she drags her feet as she approaches the door, already hearing her mother venting to her father. Heart pounding she enters the home, shutting the door softly as to not really call attention to herself as her parents speak to each other. Wincing, she tries to sneak past them, wanting to flee to her room and avoid whatever punishment they were going to give her. But no, God was not being so kind today, and her mother shouted her name forcing her to stop in her steps. “Yes ma’am?”

“Don’t you dare go upstairs, get over here now!”

Frowning, she hurries over to the couch, across from her parents who were standing, angry, in the middle of the living room. Her ears rang loudly as she tried to figure out if they were going to yell or not, both of them were silent. Swallowing down vomit, she picked at the hem of her shirt, avoiding looking at her parents in fear of seeing their disappointed faces. Her mother is the one to speak first, beginning with a sigh. “Fawn…we want an explanation. Now."

"Well...I told you in the car momma. I don't remember anything. I just woke up in a motel room by myself."

"How did you get there?" Her mothers voice shakes in an emotion Fawn couldn't place.

"I don't know!" She shakes her head frantically, eyes wide, "I swear it. I was at a bar, and somehow ended up there!"

"A BAR?" Her father spoke now, well more like shouted, obviously surprised.

She scrunched her nose as her father collapsed in his lounge chair. Her mother began pacing as Fawn tried to come up with whatever words she had to say next. She couldn't recount much, and she couldn't tell if that was going to anger then less or more. "Well, okay. I went there to be a brat! I admit that! But I promise I didn't go out to sleep with anyone! I don't even remember doing that! Last thing I remember is the bartender telling me that I shouldn't have one more drink, and because I was already mad I decided to drink one more, then I woke up in a bloody motel bed with a headache and sore legs and I regretted it as soon as I woke up!"

She had never been good at keeping secrets.

Her mother was hyperventilating and her father looked as if he was on the verge of passing out. She herself was about 2 seconds away from throwing up after word vomiting and exposing everything that she had gone through and thought of. Tears flowed down her face, warming her cold skin. Nothing was said for a while, the air tense and thick. Maybe nothing else would be said. Her words had done a good job of sucking all the air out of the room, her parents were obviously unhappy, angry at her actions. She could barely remember what all was said that made her storm out and go places that she had never been before. She ruined the legacy her grandmother wanted to create in one night, she was the first unremovable stain in their family history in recent years even though they wanted things to be different. She set them back single handedly, and had the audacity to sit and cry as if she had done nothing wrong.

"Momma?"

Her mother was crying, sitting as far away from her on the couch, hands over her face and praying aloud to God as if he could change everything that happened. Her father started bargaining, his words carrying over to her ears. It was like he wanted to accept that this was their family's fate, and that there was nothing he could do.

"It's not the old times anymore, these kids sleep around all the time. They're not like us, not like the 40's where everyone valued marriage and saving oneself. She can still be something, make something of herself even if it isn't a good wife…"

Her heart clenched as she turned to stare at her mother who was now rocking back at forth, but her words weren't as nice, if her father's words could even be counted as such.

"Can't believe…the child I raised! A loose legged hussy. Father God tell me it isn't true, tell me that my baby girl didn't give herself to some…BUM. That man could only be the devil if he took advantage of my sweet girl. She can't be a slut, a common whore! Not my baby…"

She wondered when they were going to stop crying, but at the same time she wondered when she herself would stop. She knew in her mind that this was a permanent thing, even without the baby, her parents were never going to loom at her the same. And she wasn't sure if her current relationships with them would survive this bump in the road.

With red eyes and a damp face, Fawn's mother turns to stare at her not quite with a glare, but with a look that showed that she was still angry, still grieving. "You ain't leaving this house," she takes in a shuddering breath, "ever again. You are going to stay here and hope and pray that whenever we let you out for errands that some man takes pity on you and thinks you're pretty enough that he doesn't care about the fact that you already gave yourself away or the fact that you have a child, and marries you."

Sucking in a breath, Fawn nods in understanding, this punishment being the only one she's going to get wasn't so bad. "I'm sorry momma…"

Her father does nothing but slide down in his chair, hands over his face. He had given up on praying aloud, given up on trying to bargain and hoping the circumstances were different. Shaking her head her mother scoots closer and wraps her in a hug, pulling her close against her chest her sobs starting back up. Not knowing what the future will bring, Fawn hugs her back.

Pregnancy was nothing like she expected it to be, and while she was excited to not get her period for a while, the cramping and bloating and cravings were unexpected. She hadn't known anyone else who was pregnant and didn't know what to expect especially because her parents refused to speak about it. It was as if it was a later problem, and she was being punished by not being prepared for it.

Now, standing in the middle of the grocery store, Fawn rubbed her still flat stomach staring at the boxed brownies as if she could teleport them into her stomach without having to make or buy it. She had a budget, a list of things her parents sent her to buy, and now having less allowance money she didn't know if she should buy what she was craving or save the money for what she needed and wanted later on. Her parents didn't say anything about her getting a job, but she thought that maybe she should…just in case.

Brownies and ice cream, not an unusual craving, but one that was so overwhelming she throws two boxes into her cart before looking towards the pies. Thinking about a pie made only of the crust, she licks her lips and moves towards it only to be stopped by a white, pale hand, also grabbing the box she was going for. "'Scuse me," she retracts her hand quickly just as the woman does.

The woman smiles brightly, grabbing at the box again with one hand while swatting at Fawn gently. "Don't worry about it, sugar! Looks like both of us are cravin' somethin' sweet tonight!" The gap between her teeth gives her more of a youthful look, confusing Fawn as to how old the woman really was. She looked young, but calling someone sugar was something her parents would do. Maybe she was in between?

"Yeah…though I think what I have is enough. Don't want to overdo it." Fawn laughs awkwardly, not quite used to being pregnant and socializing. Though there was not conceivable difference, she still felt as if she had to behave in a certain way, she was pregnant pretending not to be pregnant in front of a stranger that probably doesn't and wouldn't care. A stranger she would most likely never see again.

"So you do! Those brownies are gonna be so delicious, I'm sure!"

Talking about the brownies made the craving swell, and the words fell out of Fawn's mouth without her thinking, the excitement of eating it taking over. "Hope so! I was plannin' on puttin' some ice cream on em' letting it cool the brownies down while the brownies melt the ice cream!" Fawn lets her accent slip a bit, the perfectly crafted non-Texas more Californian sound her parents wanted her to use. She sounded more like herself now, more countrified like the woman in front of her.

"That sounds good!"

Nodding, Fawn lets the conversation die so she can hurry and finish shopping, wanting to quickly get home before her parents get worried and ban her from even shopping, and to make and eat the brownie before the craving is too dull to satisfy. The woman doesn't let her walk away though, grabbing her by the hand and spinning her to face her again, looking down at her body.

"My! Your dress is awfully pretty, where'd you get it?"

Surprised, Fawn looks down at her own dress. It wasn't that pretty, it was more on the plain side, but maybe the woman genuinely liked it. "Made it myself…" she replied. She wanted to go on, gush about how difficult it was to make even though it's nothing special and as plain as can be, but the ice cream aisle was calling her name.

"Did you? Oh, I love to sew! I made this dress I'm wearin'. Grandpa said I looked pretty! My brothers are pretty mean, though, but I guess that's just how brothers are…"

The woman continued to speak, not letting her get a word out to excuse herself from the conversation. Talking about her brothers and some boyfriend or something and how much she missed him. The woman talked so long that Fawn now had to pee, and still she wasn't stopping.

"Sissy? Where in the hell did you-"

Fawn turns her head towards the voice, taken aback at the sight in front of her. The man is attractive, more attractive than any man she had seen anytime recently. These types of looks were rare in the middle of nowhere Texas, and while people were attractive, he was just…different. Maybe it was the way he held himself. Maybe she had finally found a guy that was her type.

The man, on the other hand, looked like he had seen a ghost. His eyes were locked onto Fawn, and she could feel her body heating up from how strongly he was staring at her. Shiftly awkwardly, she looked back towards the woman who had stopped talking, she was now smiling brightly at the man who was still frozen at the end of the aisle. "Johnny!" The woman turns towards Fawn, grasping her arm. "This is one of my brothers!"

"Yeah…I guessed so."

The man approached slowly, eyes still on Fawn, she could feel it. "Sissy, I've been waiting outside for 30 minutes. You're supposed to buy the groceries to come out. They're gonna be pissed off that we took too long." When she looked back at him he was glaring at the blonde next to her.

The way he glared made her heart drop, and she was glad that she wasn't the target of his…annoyance. Blinking, she laughed awkwardly, backing away from the two, immediately taking the chance to run off and finish her shopping. She couldn't wait another 30 minutes before finishing and peeing, so she rushes to get everything done, not forgetting the ice cream.

The second she got home, and got comfortable, her mind wandered to the strange siblings she met. They both seemed strange, in different ways but still strange. Still, she hoped to see at least the man again. Maybe he could be the man that takes pity on her, and doesn't care about the fact that she has a kid on the way.

Or maybe she's delusional, and lusting after the first man she sees.

[lovesick-nagi]

This is a continuation of our posts on Stylus/The Labyrinth, as we have been requested to add this on.

I held off on posting this to give Stylus an opportunity to reply and send their supposed "proof" they claim to have from their last post, but as of now, there is dead silence from their end. I can't say I didn't expect this, but if they truly think they have something that will vindicate them, I implore them to send it into my askbox. In the meantime, I have a development.

You might remember the person who made the post defending Labyrinth, another one of their exes. You may also have noticed in the last post I said there were now four people speaking out against Stylus, and now, I bring you the fourth statement via that ex/childhood friend, @starfall-sys, as they have now come forward to me to apologize, as well as admit to be a victim of Labyrinth as well. They have asked us to make this post to clarify their feelings on the matter. But first, I will give what they themselves have to say.

This post will also include more of their disgusting actions that I could not include in my three posts, but now have even more backup on.

TW: SH, Mentions of Abuse/SA, Racism, RAMCOA mention/misrepresentation

"Hey. This is Stylus’ friend/ex. As you all may be aware, I posted a really awful defense statement trying to defend Stylus and I will say, I am extremely sorry. That statement not only hurt Nagi, it upset a lot of people who knew the whole story. I know nothing will excuse my actions but I want to explain myself.

When I wrote that statement, I was sort of convinced by Stylus to send it because I felt bad at that time and I wanted to defend him. At that time, I was only aware of one incident, and was not aware of the actual biting, physical abuse, and SA that happened. Stylus deliberately left that out. I wrote that statement under the impression that maybe it could possibly mend friendships and clear off miscommunication but BOY was I wrong.

It wasn't until after people started lashing out at me that I realized the gravity of the situation. It has left me mentally scarred, and I regret ever defending Stylus. I myself realized that Stylus has done stuff to me that I buried under the rug until recently.

This is my apology statement for those who have been hurt by my initial statement. I no longer endorse Stylus, and I have apologized to Nagi about it as well. I’m sorry for causing such a mess, truth be told I was dragged into this by Stylus, but honestly I am glad that it came to that point because otherwise I would have never realized the treatment that I had to deal with from Stylus. I would have been left in the dark.

Now while I would love to explain what he did to me, its way too much for me to explain in a paragraph and I feel that Nagi can explain it better than me, so I will let them tell you the truth."

Here, within what they shared with me, we can learn more about how stylus behaved with them. As you may remember from their post, they are childhood friends with Stylus. They detail how Stylus seemed nice in childhood, coming from a wealthy, safe home, but they started to understand the malicious person Stylus was growing into when they first exchanged discord accounts.

It is truly disturbing to hear the extent of what stylus did to themselves while on video with their "closest friend", who would go on to be their first partner, as it’s something no one should ever have to see, and combined with the accounts in our previous posts, clearly Stylus has a past history with using SH as leverage, and has done this with literally every single person they have dated.

They go on to discuss their experiences with being led to believe I was in the wrong, and how they were apparently being manipulated into doing their bidding for a long time now. They apologized to me for having written the deleted apology post previously on Stylus’ blog.

They talk to us about being straight up ignored by Stylus in their relationship, which is another thing that led to their breakup. Stylus often dismissed their requests for advice or encouragement in favour of themself or others which led this person to feel very isolated and generally worthless to Stylus despite the years they spent knowing eachother.

We’d learn that during the time them and Stylus were dating, Stylus hadn’t informed them that they had begun dating someone else. While they did have a open arrangement, they’d agreed to ask/inform each other first, and Stylus had not, instead dating this person for a month before even mentioning it, completely breaking their partner's trust. They broke up immediately after Stylus tried to gaslight them regarding this.

We’ve also received more examples of Stylus being racist and vile with our renewed friendship with their victims, though we’d already known this for some time due to various personal experiences with them as a POC ourselves, this just goes to show that there is MUCH Stylus has not apologized for, and hoped would just be pushed under the rug.

{ As you can probably tell, the more I talk about him, the less patience I have for his antics. }

Even FURTHER, they claim to be a RAMCOA victim PURELY because of their cult leader OC alter.

So on top of straight up saying he "has trauma" from NOT having trauma, now he is claiming to be a victim of Ritual Abuse, Mind Control, and Organized Abuse. None of these are even entertainable ideas, and the fact he only feels this way because his cult leader OC is "drawn to" these topics is. Something.

At this point, I really cannot say I believe anything he says. He is willing to claim he is a RAMCOA survivor for such silly reasons, and claims to have his dissociative disorder from childhood trauma, trauma that he has straight up said he does not have. It seems he uses these types of things to excuse his actions, or at least that's what their practical use ends up being.

He did something terrible ? He doesn't remember it, it was someone else. Someone says no or even takes too long for him when he pesters them for something ? He has RSD, you can't say no, it'll hurt his feelings. He doesn't show any remorse for literally assaulting someone ? It's not his fault, he has a personality disorder. Even if I've caught him in lies about all of these, when he's proven wrong, he shifts the blame onto someone else, one of his exes. It is never his fault. And if you call him out on all of this, you're the terrible one.

I would like to clarify that every single person I have discussed being affected is a system. I am a system, my partner is a system, all three of his exes are systems. Not a single one of us can say that his claims line up with our system experiences.

He claims things about his system that literally could not be medically possible, he has spewed misinformation on any disorder he brings up and talks over other people WITH those disorders while doing so, and everyone knows him to have a completely normal family and childhood, not traumatic in any sense of the word. The victim who has lived in his house said that if anything, he has been spoiled by his wealthy family. The rest of us has witnessed this as well. He might as well just say that he's endogenic.

He seems to target anyone who enables him, which turned out to be traumatized systems, to get what he wants. This is simply his victim profile, which is why I'm glad he was banned from the system server he held a powerful position in. We are glad to have prevented more harm from being done.

To end this off,

Stylus’ ex who reached out to us concludes with another apology to me, and others, for having ever defended stylus or aided in any of our abuse, which is an apology I accept genuinely, because I already knew they were misinforming people and villainizing their victims.

They villainized me to all three of their exes, they villainized us all to the server they modded, and everyone they manipulated into sympathizing with them has realized they are a victim of Stylus, cut them off, and has a strong distain for them as a person. Even the server they modded for banned them due to learning of their actions after being lied to. Stylus is extremely manipulative, and has upheld a plethora of terrible beliefs while under the guise of amnesia, disorders, or meaning well. The truth is he has just been motivated by prejudice, malicious sadism, sexual deviancy, and his own self interest.

We’re glad to have received a proper apology from Stylus' now ex childhood friend, and gained further knowledge about the extent of what stylus has done from their exes, and we've all become friends again, which makes me really happy !! The only person who has never given a genuine apology for all their terrible actions is Stylus, and I doubt they ever will, because at this point all they seem to be doing is continuing to try and demonize their victims and blamehsift. All I can say is, the more I learn about them, the worse they are revealed to be. If they think they can worm their way into more communities, into more already-traumatized people's lives, they are, simply put, very wrong. I won't let anyone else be hurt because of their abusive nature, and I will continue to protect others.

[pinkyjulien]

Just a heads up: you, a white creator, putting Native American/First Nations/indigenous inspired clothing on your white OC, and then calling it the "wilding" appearance, could be considered cultural appropriation and could also be considered offensive to people from those cultures.

And yeah, I am doing this from a throwaway account to protect myself because I know how Tumblr and the cyberpunk 2077 fandom works. Even if I do have a valid point or critique, I could still be attacked by "fans" on my main who refuse to use any critical thinking for themselves.

Safe travels 👋 I hold no animosity towards you personally.

(From a "cowardly" anon in an extremely hostile fandom which likely will pretend that this outfit and the name for it isn't tinged with implicit and internalized racism.)

(And, no, I'm not one of the so-called "housewives")

Hey Anon,

Not sure what to say, you claim to not hold any animosity towards me, yet this could've easily been a DM. I'm only assuming you're blocked and had to create a side blog to by-pass the said block.

If this was truly a well-spirited heads up, it would've been a DM.

But anyway, if you're here to accuse me in a sugarcoated way, I already know you're having the time of your life about it in some obscure discord server, so might as well.

The Aldecaldos (and Nomads in general of every clan and family) are multi cultured, there's people of every races, every ethnicities- we see it in game and it's mentioned time and time in the sourcebooks. They're communities, formed of many minorities; queers and pocs alike.

Valentin joins the Aldecaldos during the Star ending, just like the canon game event; he makes friends left and right, and friends makes gifts to one another. We also know that resources, clothes, cars, guns, are shared in nomad communities.

The name "wilding" is a direct reference to the Neo Tribe sourcebook, page 21. I used that same name for Mitch's appearance. They use those outfits to ride off near cities, just like the definition on the page below. They're both proudly showcasing their Aldecaldos colors in whichever place / cities they're visiting.

In my own canon, Dakota is kind of a mother figure for Valentin; she helped him after fleeing the Wraiths, she gave him his first gig with Jackie, she made sure the 'caldos ripper kept the bullet he revoved from Valentin's skull, etc etc

That Jacket could've well been a gift from her before leaving to Arizona, but I haven't decided yet. I was just happy to share my modding project of those past two days.

I've always liked Nomads and what they stand for, their diversity, their lives, their outfits and aesthetics too.

None of the above information is presented as an excuse, they shouldn't be seen as excuses either; I'm simply sharing what inspired me (actively or subconsciously) for this outfit.

If Valentin's appearance, both models and name, did actual upset anyone, I apologize, as this obviously WASN'T the intention. If it does bother you, I invite you to block me.

With all of the "explaination" out of the way; why are you really here?

Because we both know you already knew that about the Aldecaldos. You played the game, you know Panam is half native, you know there's a bunch of native characters in the Aldecaldos and in the game in general.

This ask isn't fueled by kindness or by an attempt at educating someone who could've made a simple mistake.

Nope, you're simply part of this "hostile fandom" problem. Everything you said in brackets reeks of past drama.

Again, you claim to not hold any animosity, but I believe otherwise; that's totally fine, but refrain from contacting me with this fake benevolence, everyone can see it's bullshit.

Repeating myself, this could've been a DM, yet you choose to assume I have some "internalized racism" that You Need to point out, doing so via a side-blog supposedly out of fear (since I don't know who you are, I'll choose to believe you simply by-passed a block) while also dragging in the "Housewives" for no reasons.

You're part of this fandom problem. You're part of the reason why nobody feels safe about sharing anything; you and your friends are out there spying, monitoring what everyone does, assuming the worst at any given occasions and ready to write callouts, to throw witch hunts.

Please, do some critical thinking yourself, remove all the bias and all the "Pinky Bad so this is obviously Racist" bullshit fogging your brain, and ask yourself why you really sent that ask.

[evansbby]

I miss Gaza. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss my home. I miss the walks on the beach with my cousins. I miss the corner shops where everything was cheap. I miss going to the mosque with my friends and family. I miss going to the park with my brothers. I miss my school. I miss my kitten Kiki. I miss the summers spent at my grandparents. I miss walking to school with my brothers and talking about what we're going to do afterwards. I miss going to the library every day and constantly reading new books. I miss picking out new dresses at the store. I miss riding my bike with my cousins. I miss my neighbor Mohamed who I would always play chess with. I miss Palestine, my home.

My world turned upside down when my parents told me we were moving, seeing them hastily pack up everything. I was eleven years old, not knowing why we had to leave our home. I remember hearing my mom cry in the other room on the phone with my aunt. I remember my dad driving in a hurry. Nobody wanted to tell me what was happening, but deep down I knew. And then we were in Egypt, my parents were scared that we'd get sent back, if it wasn't for my dad's connections I think we'd be dead by now.

Next thing I know we're on a flight to, in my mom's words, "the big tower clock country" (we were going to London in). Seeing my uncle waiting for us at the airport and talking to me about how much fun it is here and how I'd make lots of friends. All I could think about if there was a chance that l'd ever be able to go back home. Eleven years later and I still haven't been able to go back home. I had to learn to live with the racism, the Islamophobia, the zionists, the constant hate against my people. I had to learn to cope with the dead of my family members, my friends, my neighbor. Luckily some of my close family could also leave, but then a lot could not and I'm honestly not sure how many are still alive.

I'm incredibly grateful and lucky that I was able to get to a safe country, yet I still miss everything back home. I'm so incredibly thankful to everyone who attended the march for Palestine in London and overall just in any city over the world. Hurts my heart seeing Noah Schnapp holding stickers that says 'zionism is sexy' while Bella Hadid got death threats because she speaks up about Palestine. My point in sharing my story is to remind people that the Palestinians you hear about in the media getting murdered, ALL had lives, they all had dreams, they all had friends and families, they all had their whole world taken from them. They are innocent human beings.

I still hold out hope that one day, I'll be able to take my kids to see the Gaza that I saw. 🇵🇸🩷

I’m so sorry 💜 I know nothing that I say could even comfort you at all. But thank you for choosing to share this with me, I can feel the pain in your words. The pain of being forced to leave your home and being so young that you don’t even understand why. And being so scared and confused… my heart truly goes out to you and the millions of others in Gaza who have been displaced, or lost their homes, lost the land they grew up on, lost their lives or the lives of their loved ones. It’s an actual modern day horror, what we are witnessing.

This is real, individual people we are talking about. As you said, they all had lives, all had dreams, all had hobbies and interests the same as we do. And it’s crazy the luxury we have, us who have never known the struggle or heartbreak of being displaced. Of experiencing a literal genocide. I am so privileged to be able to sit comfortably in my bedroom knowing that no one could just come and claim it as theirs. That no fuckass rich white bitch from Brooklyn New York could just shack up in my house and call it HER land. (Sorry for my language, it just makes me so angry. The way some people are reacting across the world makes me so angry… and I know it makes you ever angrier and more upset.)

My heart goes out to you and I pray to Allah that you will one day return to a free Palestine. To a free Gaza and your people can rebuild what was so cruelly taken from them. The same people who were so cruelly dehumanised by the Zionists and their religious ethnostate of “Isr*el.” I have no sympathy for the Zionists or their supporters. I have no respect for privileged celebrities like Noah Schnapp and others like that woman from the big bang theory, who can sit so comfortably in their mansions and feel like they know what is going on and try to persuade others to support their Zionistic views. When there are brave Palestinian children, women, men, babies, all innocent, all dying and they think the world has turned their back on them. All they have now is their faith.

I’m speaking to you straight from my heart, I know I don’t know you. But what you’ve said has touched me so much and I wish I could do more. I’m happy that you were able to escape and your immediate family is safe, I’m happy your father had the connections he did. I mourn the loss of your homeland, but I’m praying for you and all your people. And I will not forgive or forget what every single Zionist (celebrity or every day person) has said, how they have acted, what they have chosen to support. Years from now they will say they were brainwashed, misguided, they’ll sweep it under the rug and they’ll be forgiven but I will not forgive them.

There is hope in my heart seeing how many people (1mill+) that showed up every Saturday to protest in London, and all over the world in support of Palestine. The strongest thing in this world is hope… and faith. In my opinion. And it hurts, because reading your vivid memories, and how well you remember your home… But I know it won’t be for nothing. Idc if this sounds sappy but I’ll hope and pray for a free Palestine, and for you to go home one day.

[cookiepotofchaos]

As women's football grows, for all the positives, there is also a growing volume of homophobia, misogyny, racism and other bigotries. I dreaded it, hoped it wouldn't be the case, but knew it was a painfully likely possibility.

I've seen a lot of it this week and last, seems like more than I have before, so I'm just working through some frustration and anger.

(cont. below cut)

It's not like it didn't exist at all before. We know players have been subject to awful abuse previously; a quick search will bring that up. With those who hate women's football even existing, it has never been a surprise to see those abhorrent views, but it's increasingly coming from people who call themselves fans of women's football.

The overt bigotry is horrible: condemning players to hell, accusing them of grooming younger players, and throwing out comments like "I want all the gays out of my club" or "lesbians are ruining the women's game" or "lesbians should just not be allowed in football clubs, they fall in love and cause problems", as if lesbian and other sapphic players haven't driven women's football forward for decades. Haven't been the core of women's football, probably since its inception.

Jess Carter's social media comments sections on and off the last few months have been a source of an ever growing blocklist of homophobes.

I've seen claims that the USWNT are better again because they "got rids of the gays". As if there aren't gay players on the team, out publicly and otherwise.

But there's the less obvious bigotry growing, too, which I see and have to weed out of the algorithm constantly on TikTok. Using trends to insult players or demean them, pitting players against each other and using terms and implications rooted in bigotry to do so. Then claiming it's just banter or club rivalry and that's all "part of sports".

It's the edits where a player is juxtaposed with another one, claiming one is utter shit and doesn't deserve to be thought positively of compared to another player, and how often the player being put down is a woman of colour. At least half the ones from accounts I've blocked, the player has been LJ. The comments sections of those are awful.

It's the edits with those daft vertical bar charts of the amount of Talent vs Popularity a player has, asking which players are over-popular but terrible footballers, with comments sections filled with thinly veiled misogyny or racism or homophobia. You want to know who has that little talent in football? Me. Any footballer who is better than me is automatically excluded as a response to those silly edits.

Then people on heavily algorithmically reliant social media are stunned that their messages insulting players and pushing thinly veiled bigotry are attracting outright hateful people who despise all women's sports. "Why are there so many homophobes and racists finding my edit/post/tweet? How did it end up on that side of TikTok/Twitter?". Probably because the algorithm thought what you were saying would resonate with homophobes and racists and misogynists. Or one asshole found it, agreed with what you were saying, and as soon as they responded, you were pulled into that part of the algorithm.

Might want to consider why?

I hate that this is probably going to become more and more commonplace. I want it drowned out with positivity, with love of women's sports. I'll find a way to just keep looking at the good; like I said, just working through some feelings. But I wish this wasn't happening at all.

[radiobelle-bitxch]

So... someone finally expossed me to the leaks, it wasn’t done in bad faith (it wasn’t online either) the person just assumed I knew them, since they always claim I'm a walking wiki of any fandom I get into.

So... yeah 🥹, on one hand, it sucks, but on the other they stopped when they noticed my face, so I actually only heard about the leaks regarding Alastor, so that’s... good?

✨️✨️Anyway, I have thoughts now, but I'm putting them all under cut✨️✨️

I'm actually not angry over the reveal of his contractor, and me loves pathetic men who try to pretend otherwise, so I can't wait to see him being pitiful 🤭

Rosie being his "owner" makes an strange amount of sense when I think back to certain inconsistencies of s1, and I had long since suspected she wasn't 100% an ally, so there's that, yes, I know many of us were hoping for either Lilith or Roo, but this is why you should never get too attached to fandom theories, you still got right the part of him not being fully recovered! 🥂

I still suspect there's more to their contract that what it looks, and what her true identity might be, no, I don't believe she's another fallen angel, but not sure if she's a sinner or hellborn to grant the amount of power she gave to him.

I wonder if this leak correlates in any way to a small surge in Alastor/Emily content? Since now it's clear his friendship with Rosie is anything but, people may start looking at other characters to befriend or pair him with or just someone who can heal his wound?

Among some of the angry reactions I saw, I can't help but find lowkey hilarious how, now that we'll finally have more of Alastor's backstory and motives some people are disappointed that he isn't an OP human eldritch abomination anymore? If you don't find him hot anymore, you have my sympathies but if you wanted him to remain badass and OP forever, I don't know how to tell you this, but s1 finale already showed us he is not like that??

Related to the above, I remember a HH version of one of those posts linking characters to some (in)famous tumblr quotes, and that one had linked Alastor to that one tumblr post about characters who wears masks upong masks (or was it layers??) only to find a 404 not found beneath all of it... and this leak may actually prove it? Because if Rosie has called his every move ever since, including his public persona and moods... who is Alastor beneath all that? You guys can be angry, I'm excited 🤩.

I suddenly remember the comic of one day in Alastor's life, and I feel like there's a whole new way to read it now that we know he's bound to Rosie, how much of what he does is controlled by her? Is she constantly keeping tabs on him? I can't help but wonder how much of this persona that she apparently molded him into is her idea of the perfect gentleman? How genuinely displeased he looked at the rose and how he (apparently) withered it with his touch, and of course the one where he saved the sheep demon from the butcher, was that himself or Rosie directing him? So many questions

And to finish, a crackpot theory of mine:

I saw some people calling BS the fact that Alastor was a radio host in the 30's as unrealistic, because now we know he wasn’t white-passing, racism, timelines etc etc and yeah I do agree that it is stretch, along with changes to his backstory from what we knew before, but also...

I choose to add this to the red thread wall of theory of Alastor being an angel!!! 😂😂

Like, just think of the possibilities ✨️

He could be secretly an lower-ranking angel that was somehow captured by Rosie, brainwashed into thinking he was a sinner and literally sewn a smile on his face?

What if he was a human, but wasn’t a dammed soul? What if he was abducted from heaven and made into a demon instead?

What if he is an angel who made a deal with Rosie and she forced him to forget?

NOTE: This is a CRACKPOT theory, adding to the existing one purely for fun, I'm 99% sure that Alastor was and has always been human/sinner, but on the remote 1% chance that I may be onto something, I get bragging rights 🤣🤣🤣

[jewishbarbies]

I didn't know about the antisemitism in hp because while I wasn't explicitly taught "this is antisemitic" I still learned those tropes. I just didn't know they they were tropes. The only thing I knew was nazi propaganda, because that was in textbooks. We didn't learn about everyday antisemitism. We didn't learn about the history of jews in any other country. And that doesn't excuse me or the school I went to. But I know better now, and I can look around and recognise certain tropes. But I can also recognise that jkr was hateful to so many different groups of people. Jews, the Irish, asian people, gay people, trans people, ironically women in general (Ginny Weasley in particular who only existed as a character for Harry to save and get married and have babies with) and women who like "girly" things (Lavender Brown deserved better.)

at this point, so much of pop culture is steeped in these antisemitic things (tropes, imagery, caricatures, etc.) and a lot of fantasy lore in some areas is just antisemitic to its core so while I’m angry I have to sift through the distressing nonsense, I try not to get angry at people who genuinely don’t understand. because you can spread antisemitism while not being an antisemite. the entirety of the witch aesthetic is stolen and twisted from jewish caricatures, antisemitic history, and practices appropriated from indigenous cultures - but that’s just The Witch now. same with goblins. that’s just what That Thing is to people now, so if you want to stop it, you have to throw the whole thing away and barely anyone is actually willing to do that. on top of that, they believe they don’t have to.

with HP specifically, I don’t blame anyone for not picking up on the bigotry from the books they read as children. now, if you reread it as an adult and still don’t get it, that’s another issue. but at least with the antisemitism, it’s much more obvious with the movies and a lot of people try to excuse JKR from it bc of that, when she had such a heavy hand in making those films. she had/has enough sway to change literally anything. and I think a lot of people understood the antisemitism more when they could see just what these goblins were supposed to look like, and that brought it all together. however, there are people obsessed with goblins (I think there’s a lot of neurodivergent people who have a special interest in goblins for one reason or another and that makes it more difficult to let go, in my experience) who absolutely refuse to come to terms with the antisemitic nature of the creature to begin with, when it’s antisemitic originally AND in JKR’s interpretation. I never got into HP so I didn’t know about the goblins, having not seen the movies, and it was really easy to not interact with it once I did. I can genuinely understand how heartbreaking it is to find out something you love goes against what you believe in, bc for jews it’s just part of our lives. we find out creators of and the things we like are nazis or antisemitic every single day. moreso than usual as of late.

imo the racism and general bigotry of JKR should be more than enough for HP fans who claim to care about other people, but it’s hella odd that antisemitism is the sticking point for so many people. they’ll say they’re streaming the movies and playing the games and reading the books but but but they’re not giving money to JKR and therefore not supporting her transphobia and racism, but you mention her antisemitism and the fact that the HP game was just antisemitism the simulator and they immediately dismiss it. her bigotry is embedded in the work. it’s in the imagery of the franchise. hell, there’s a storyline where a villain is a villain bc he wanted to stop the holocaust. that speaks for itself, and should be enough for literal adults.

(on the It’s The Thing Now point, it’s happening with lizard people as well. everyone is calling themselves a goblin and making lizard people jokes and it’s just apart of the young people dialogue now. I could go on for hours but I think I made my point.)