#my unhinged man and my mad woman

[clatoera]

Always Remember We’re Burned For Better Chapter 13(!!!): Don’t Blame Me (Love Made Me Crazy)

...well here we are! Happy SN TV day!! and the 13th Chapter!! I’m aligning spiritually with my god (t swift) rn. (this was posted today on purpose).

Alright so. We have entered the final book so to speak. We are in the war. Now the war is exactly what this fic was always going to be about. And as such the chapters are smaller (4500 rather than 7500) as the war is raging outside and each chapter is less events. Think of it more as a typical fic from here on out, where less happens per chapter, because this is quite literally what the meat of the fic is supposed to be. The war is not one chapter, the war will be many.  Cato is unhinged. Glimmer is going mad. The next like..brick of chapters is essentially all set to Don’t Blame Me because like... welcome to the war💜

Major major trigger warning as there is blatant self harming tendencies here.

AO3

Masterpost

Title from T swizzle of course 

As always this is for my bestie and my loves on this site, who literally never make me shut up and I owe my whole life @ohhowwehavefallen and @afterfawn (and we’ll add @clovecato this time because she will appreciate the SN TV release date for ch 13 and a couple other TS references in the text this time)

Things are going to be different. We have less shippy moments ahead for a few chapters. This portion is about desperation and the loss of love and the lengths one will go for someone they love and to protect them. 

“Kill him Cato.” One blonde ex-victor hisses to the other, the girl tightening the frighteningly deep grip of her nails on the neck of one of her fellow victors. With Finnick on the floor she’s got her hand on the throat of Beetee, watching with frantic eyes as Cato’s arm slips tighter around Plutarch Heavensbee’s neck.

And oh, Cato is close. Neither of them asked for whatever the fuck this is–wherever the fuck it is, actually– and neither of them would have done it had they had even the slightest choice.

Victors, losing their ability to make their own choices yet again, as if anyone is really shocked.

“You’re going to take us back for them right fucking now.” Cato warns, dragging Plutarch by the throat, not even flinching for a second at the hands clawing at the bulk of his arm. “You’re going to turn this freak show the fuck around.”

“We can’t do that–” The man in Glimmer’s grasp gasps out, only resulting in her tightened grip on his flesh.

“Ohhhh we can do that.” Cato insists, a laugh that can only be described as unhinged slipping out from him. His other hand finds the top of Plutarch’s head, holding head cocked and ready to snap in an instant. “We’re going to do that.”

Glimmer flashes him a look, the look of a mad woman, not angry but mad in the way only a woman who has been ripped away from her loved ones, upended in a strange place far without her consent could be.  He knows, then, that if he makes the first move she will follow. If he flicks his wrist to decapitate someone internally she will dig her claw like nails into a neck and exsanguinate the man in her grasp.

They took them. They took them against any wish they might have had, and as a result left them looking guilty. They let them look like criminals themselves, like traitors, treasonous traitors.

It wasn’t even about the two of them now, though, no. They knew they wanted nothing to do with this.

It was for Clove, it was for Marvel, who would be seen as treasonous traitors, too. Suspected traitors who were left behind.

“You know the thing about us,” Glimmer purrs– no, not purrs, hisses like a snake in the grass, about to attack without more than a seconds notice– “Sure, you can keep knives or swords or spears away from us.. But we don’t need any of that.” She digs in and blood pools around the edges of her long nails, seeping out from the flesh of the other past victor. “Look at Cato. You think he needs a weapon to kill you? And God I know that i’ve been waiting years to tear a man’s throat open..”

“You do that and it’s a one way ticket to ensure you never see those other two again.” A new voice rings out, causing Cato and Glimmer both to snap their attention towards the shadowed doorway. Despite the intrusion Cato does not loosen his grip, Plutarch Heavensbee turning all shades of maroon and indigo in his chokehold.

“How did you make the cut?” Glimmer snarls, backing up so that her back was secure against a wall and she could not easily be snuck up on, those arena instincts still flooding through her circulatory system like a hunted animal (which, really, wasn’t she anyway). “Bribe them with a lifetime supply of scotch?”

Haymitch Abernathy comes into view, giving slow claps with his hands. “I knew you two would be trouble, believe me, I did not advocate for your rescue.”

“Oh, rescue, that’s what you call this?” Cato nearly growls, following Glimmer’s motion to protect his back from the unknown.

“Compared to the alternative, yes, this is a rescue. You’re welcome.” Haymitch glances between the two feral careers, who share pupils that are blown wide, dark and never ending as a product of their anxieties and adrenaline. “The smart thing to do here would be let them go..”

“The smart thing would have been taking all four of us-” Glimmer taunts, pressing in deeper with the tip of her french manicure, reveling in the choking sound coming from Beetee as a result.

“You especially should be thanking us Glitter-”

“That’s not my fucking name!”

“Whatever, Shimmer Sparkle Shine, the point stands that you should be thanking us. You don’t think your little commentary was going to have you on a hit list? If you had been left behind I can promise you’d be dead– or begging to be, soon.” Haymitch plays his luck, stepping closer to Glimmer than Cato, hands up in surrender and defense.

“So you left them, what, to punish us? So he can be killed in my place, for the crime of loving me after all they did?”

“There was no selection process, sweetheart. You two were simply closer to the one we wanted. We thought you’d be useful, and we brought you too.” Haymitch does not go to grab Glimmer– doing so would certainly be an act of war against what remained of this career alliance, and would without a doubt result in the death of the mastermind of the revolution at the hands of loose cannon Cato Hadley.

“The one you wanted, who’s–” Cato starts only to be interrupted again by the high pitch wails of a girl.

“You liar!” Katniss Everdeen screams, launching herself full force at her past mentor. While he catches her by the wrist the ensuing power struggle catches both Cato and Glimmer off guard.

For a minute it felt as if they were on the same team, and if she took out Haymitch Abernathy they could get the others. She has something in her hands, that she’s trying terribly hard to lodge into the neck of Haymitch, and he can’t help but think that if she had been one of them she’d have succeeded by now.  She could take Haymitch, Glimmer had Beetee, and Plutarch was as good as gone the minute he decided. They could do it.

She is screaming something absolutely incoherent, at least to Cato who feels like all of his senses are suddenly dull. This is not the instinct of a career in the arena, no. For a fleeting moment he wonders if this is how a prey animal feels, as every nerve in his body desperately screams for him to find Clove.

Clove.

Clove who is gone because of her.

“They left Peeta, too!” The blonde woman recognizes, piecing together phrases from the ensuing fight between Katniss and Haymitch, throwing back her head in an almost witch-like laugh, something more akin to a cackle than the high pitched sweetness she is so known for. “Of course they won’t go back for ours, they left Loverboy too! Come on Katniss, put on a good show for us, pretend you know how we feel!”

Katniss Everdeen and her stupid, unbelievable love story.  With her pins and her gifts and her outright disregard for all things Panem.

It was her fault, really.

Cato sees red. Red like the dress Clove wore when she won her first games, red like the wine the night before the quell, red like the shared favorite crimson hue of him and his wife, and above all else red like the blood he is going to choke out of the Girl on Fire’s eyes. Blinded by a sea of red behind his eyes, he tosses the game maker to the ground, ignoring the choking gasps he lets out. He can vaguely hear Glimmer frantically say ‘cato, no’ in the background, as she realizes he dropped the other major leverage they had.

His right hand wraps around the throat of Katniss Everdeen in an instant, lifting her light frame from the ground and slamming her skull against a metal beam directly behind Haymitch’s left shoulder.

“It’s all your fucking fault!” He absolutely snarls, dangling her a solid foot off the ground as he crushes his palm against her airway. “It’s all your fault, you couldn’t just fucking die. Or better, be a Victor and be grateful” Cato smacks her head off the wall again, feeling how her desperate claws at his hand are already getting weaker and weaker. “At the very fucking least, i’m not letting you slip away again, Fire girl.”

“Grateful? Kids are dying, people are dying! Open your eyes!” Haymitch defends, trying to wrench Cato off of her to no avail, waving someone over that Cato cannot identify from his peripheral vision. “Is this really the life you want?” Haymitch directs towards Glimmer this time, “I know you don’t want to continue on like you were, you know there’s nothing to be grateful for.”

The sudden grasp of a firm hand on his arm throws Cato off, and when he turns his upper body he is faced with the slightly smaller stature of some boy he’s never seen, who looks a little too much like Kantiss to not be related. She was the oldest sister that he knew, so a male cousin maybe?

“Get off of her,” The boy threatens, and he at least distracts Cato long enough that he loosens his grip so Katniss can fall and scamper off. She collapses to the floor, grasping at her neck and gasping for air. “Noone wanted you one and two psychopaths here anyway,”

“Gale that is enough,” Haymitch warns, stepping forward to evaluate Katniss as if she had not tried to claw his eyes out only moments prior. “You’re not helping by–”

“We’ve already got this capitol whore- everyone sees the way you show off.” He directed towards Glimmer with a half thought nod of his head. “I’m glad the little psycho bitch isn’t here too. She’d be a waste of valuable food and air, I hope they kill her for us–”

What happens next is a flurry of events, the order of which is lost on Cato and Glimmer both.

Cato’s fist makes contact with Gale Hawthorne’s nose with a satisfying crunch, and before he can get a retaliation shot in, a second fist comes in contact with Gale’s jawline. The blow takes him down, and when his head hits the concrete floor it makes a satisfying crack, the man entirely unconscious even as Cato goes in repeatedly with punches, over and over until even the sound of his breathing gurgles with blood. It vaguely reminds him of his win in his games, all those years ago, though the motivation is very different. While the last time he had wanted to go home to her– how he just wanted to punish everyone who left her behind.

Cato can vaguely hear Glimmer egging him on, cheering on him to kill the man, to make him pay, before the tone of her voice becomes a frantic, warning yell of “Cato watch OUT!”

Something pinches his arm and the world shifts into a blurry hue of bodies and metal. The last thing he sees is his favorite shade of blood– not of Katniss Everdeen, but of her kin nonetheless.

Cato’s world goes dark and when he hears a yelp from Glimmer he knows they’ve gotten her, too.

-

The first thing he notices is that he can’t move his hands. Well, not more than a few inches. The metal around both wrists secures him down, and when he tries to lift himself to a sitting position he realizes exactly how hard that is with his current restraints not only on his wrists but on his hips as well. His eyes fly open and he quickly absorbs the sterile white energy of the room, which is directly offset by the metal clanging on the bed. Somewhere between a hospital room and a jail cell, that's what this had to be.

The sound of scratching combined with the clanging metal tells him that, fuck, he isn’t alone. His senses must still be dulled if he didnt think to look for any other dangers in the room- clearly, whatever they gave them, worked its magic.

The scratching, though, is not the sound of a rodent working on a corpse or an animal scratching to escape, when he finally cranes his neck, he catches a familiar head with blonde pigtails.

Oh, it’s just Glimmer.

But it isn’t just Glimmer, happy, shining, golden girl Glimmer.

He’s a career, he’s seen plenty of horrific things in years of games reruns, he’s seen plenty of mutilation.

What Cato is not expecting is to see Glimmer cross legged in bed, hunched over with thick rivulets of blood streaming from open scratches along her forearms. What he is even more surprised to see, is the way she is repeatedly digging her nails into her own arms, over and over, heavy handed scratches adding to the gashes in her arm.

“What are you–” In horror, he starts, as for all he’s seen victors hurt each other, he’s never seen someone so blatantly hurt themselves.

“I can’t help it.” Glimmer half explains, scratching in her arms as if she has the most severe bug bite in the world, an itch so deep she has to carve it out from her very bones. “I can’t stop.”

Cato stares, eyes comically wide in horror at the absolute mutilation Glimmer works into her otherwise flawless skin.  “That has to hurt, Glimmer.”

“That’s the point.” She whispers, before grasping her bloodied wrist and using her own blood as enough lubrication to slip the offending metal ring over one wrist. “They usually get rid of the scars,” they being the Capitol and the source of her usual severe abuse and resulting anxieties. “I can’t help it..I can’t stop.”

Cato can’t tear his eyes away when she slips through the handcuffs, using her own blood as a mechanism to do so. “How are you–”

“You think this is the first time someone’s left me handcuffed in my own blood, Cato?” Glimmer reminds, before flinching and forcing the other one down over her wrist, immediately grasping at her dually freed wrists. “It hurts like hell, but it works.”

Glimmer hops off her bed, and Cato gets a good look at her for the first time since their ‘rescue’ from the Arena.

Her blonde hair is in the same half braid half ponytails as in the arena, but now frizzed and blood matted. The blood that runs from her arms is not confined to her hands, but instead covers the bed sheets and the skin of her face. She’s been changed into a gray cotton pajama-esk set that reminds Cato of something in a textbook about a psychiatric ward.  Even that is soaked through with deep maroon blood, making her look all the more like a walking corpse.  This is not the Glimmer the world knows, this desperate, bloodied girl. Of course, this may be the Glimmer plenty of capitolites have left behind.

Glimmer settles herself on the edge of the bed, and grabs him by the wrist, noting how her hand cannot even close all the way around. “Your hands are much bigger than mine, I'm not sure if it’ll work.” She warns, before she starts milking blood from her arm right onto his. “I know you aren’t afraid of a little blood on your hands.” She tells him before she braces his arm with one hand and the metal with the other. “I’m only trying once, you’re useless to us both if I break your wrist– actually, give me your non-dominant hand.” She braces the handcuff again and squints her eyes at him. “Don’t be a big baby–”

“Why would I be a- What the FUCK” Cato yells, trying to retract his hand so he can hold it to his chest. In a pleasant surprise, he realizes he can and that Glimmer successfully broke him out of the restraining item. “How did you–”

“LIke i said, not a stranger to handcuffs and blood.” She holds up her hands for him to give her the other, and with the same bracing strategy, she frees his other hand with less of a shock to his system.

Cato twists his freed hands, loosening the stiffened ligaments with loose circles of his wrist. “...what have they done to you, Glimmer?”

“Enough that I'd rather be dead than go back. I don’t know what the fuck is going on but.. I’m not sure they can do anything worse to me here.”

Cato’s chest tightens when the depth of that settles in. He gives a small nod but can’t stop the flurry in his mind. Clove is there. Clove is there. Clove is there.

“What the fuck’s happening?” He leans forward, loosening the leather around his ankles and realizing he is in the same psych ward uniform as Glimmer, now with matching blood stains. “Where are we?”

“District Thirteen is what I keep hearing.” She offers half heartedly, now finally wiping at the blood in her arms to try to make it stop now that she has no more use for it. “That can’t be right. But, I guess there's some big plan. Overthrow the government. My guess is firegirl is going to be their fearless leader. They were all in on it. Finnick..Jo..that's why they refused us, if I had to guess.”

He scoffs, remembering the frightened, screaming girl he had left gasping on the floor. “Yeah, she’s a great leader of the new world alright.” Cato swallows the stuck feeling in his throat, and he can’t resist any longer. “...and they’re left behind?” Cato confirms what they already know, reiterating Glimmer’s meltdown not long ago.

“And since we’re here..we may as well be Finnick or Katniss or Johanna, in their eyes…” Glimmer nods, holding her arms closer to her body to put pressure on her shredded veins. In barely above a whisper, and without raising her eyes to look at him, she allows herself to ask her biggest fear. “...do you think they’re alive?”

“Stop. They have to be.” Cato snaps, before ripping at the bed sheet underneath him, turning it into a long white strip. “We can’t say anything different. They have to be alive. We’re loved in the Captiol, we’re adored…they won’t hurt them. ”

“What do you think they’re doing to them, Cato, I know what they’ve done to me, and they loved me too–”

“Stop, Glimmer. All we can do is hope they are alive or they let them go. I gave my entire life to being the perfect victor, and the perfect tribute. That has to be worth something.” He takes the long cotton strip and rips it again in two, before taking Glimmer by the elbow and beginning to wrap down her arm. The White sheet turns scarlet in an instant, but the blood does not seem to continue to leak out.

“They might be better off dead. I wouldn’t wish what’s been done to me on anyone..” Glimmer admits, letting him pressure-wrap her arms before letting both fall to her lap, as she now sits cross legged on his bed. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, you helped me, I help you.” He rubs at the back of his neck with one hand, before glancing around the room. “They can’t be dead. We can’t think like that, because then what do we have? We just..have to go get them back and then we get the hell out of here and go home and show that we don’t support this–”

“I’m not sure we really have a home to go back to.” Glimmer admits, rocking just a little now that her arms are no longer scratchable. “I can’t go back to one, not after what I said.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong–”

“You don’t speak against the hand that feeds you, Cato, even if it’s also the one that beats you.” She blinks back something that can only be tears, as she looks up to the ceiling. “And maybe..maybe I don’t want to support the Capitol.”

Glimmer hears the door creak open, and both of them react like the wounded animals they are. Cato cracks his neck, primed and ready for a fight with clenched fists, while she uncurls her own hands to give her full use of her jagged nails.

“I was told you two were going to be restrained.” Haymitch announces, strutting into the room with his hands up in defense. “I just want to talk.” He waves off someone coming in behind him– guards, maybe? “Just the three of us.”

“Oh great, just who I want to see.” Glimmer scoffs, jumping onto her feet to run if she needed to, to climb, to hide.

“They wanted to send in Finnick, but he’s still recovering from Glimmer’s little antics.” Haymitch explains, sitting on Glimmer’s empty, bloodied bed. “Did you maim yourself?”

“What’s it matter to you?” Cato snaps, and if Glimmer weren’t between them, he’d likely lunge at this man, too. “Why would you care if she did,”

“Because, if you play along, we can all be on the same team here.” He offers, leaning back on his hands. “You remember all that stuff, Victors working together for each other–”

“Yeah, thats long over when you left my–”

“We work together now.” Haymitch interrupts Cato before it can become a whole outburst. “You two, Finnick, and Katniss are here. The majority of the work falls to Katniss, she’s who we need to lead this thing.”

“You want us to show our support for Everdeen?” Glimmer rolls her eyes, and takes a step towards Haymitch. “Go out there and say that we love this silly little revolution and guarantee that Marvel and Clove end up dead before the broadcast cuts? Are you stupid? Do you think WE are stupid?”

“We’re NEVER going to agree to–”

“Let me finish. You four are here. Johanna, Peeta, Clove, and Marvel got left behind. It wasn’t the plan. But that's what happened. The Capitol went into Four and got Annie Cresta too. All of you,  here, have the exact same thing on the line.”  Haymitch holds up a hand to prevent them from interrupting. “Before you ask, no. We do not know where Enobaria and Brutus and Cashmere and Gloss are. Cato, I looked into your sister, too, and as far as we can tell she is safe in two. So no. I can’t say if everyone you love is safe or not. But there is an opportunity here. There is a life after this war that you can have. Glimmer. You can avoid the horrible things they’ve done to you. You can have anything you ever wanted that I know you and your siblings have given up. Cato..well, I’m not sure a life without games appeals to you, but it will at least be a life with her.”

Glimmer falls into the bed, immediate guilt flooding her when she realizes she has not yet asked about her siblings. Cato must feel the same, for any sun bronzed skin of his face goes ghostly pale at the mention of his baby sister. Noone considered that they, too, could be in danger. Noone considered that the people back home would be hunted down, though Annie Cresta proves that to be the case indeed.

There’s something about it, though, for Glimmer. The thought, the offer, the chance, at a life after the games where no one can get to her again. She would be lying to say otherwise.

“My advice? Lay low. Stop going kamikaze on everyone you see. You aren’t going to be a symbol, no. That’s on Katniss. You two just..lay low. Stop losing your minds. The president down here doesn’t really want you here, but frankly, we are your best shot at getting Clove and Marvel home to you both. Lay low. Stop making a scene. Stick to yourselves.” Haymitch suggests, looking at the two bloodied victors, with bruising wrists and the look of murder in the back of their eyes. “And please, leave Katniss alone. She lost Peeta today, too.”

“Oh yeah, sure, and where is the actress of the year? Getting ready to start her mourning performance? Does she have a death veil on?” Glimmer snarks, but does not make any move to actually go at the elder man again.

“Katniss is in District Twelve–”

“Oh so she got to go home?” Cato starts, but is immediately cut off.

“There IS no District Twelve! It’s ash! It’s rubble. She’s walking over the bodies of the people she grew up with. This isn’t a little game, you two. This is a war now!”

An announcement overhead leaves Haymitch staring at two dumbstruck faces, a look of fear in both of their features. He gives a heavy sigh and stands. “I have to go, strategy meeting and all. But please. Heed my advice. Just..keep your heads down.”

He slips out the room without so much as a goodbye, leaving two terrified, dumbfounded victors in his wake.

Glimmer chokes out a response first, body frozen as she processes it all. “...they took out a whole district?”

“A lower level district–” Cato offers as a comfort, though he knows it is moot. One could go as easily as twelve, though maybe two was protected by the sheer value of their product, weaponry. Though maybe they were making human weapons, too, in the form of twelve year old killers.

“......what are we going to do, Cato?” Glimmer turns to him, tears shining in the brink of her spring colored eyes, looking a little bit like a spring storm forming within her.

“Whatever we have to. To keep them alive. To get them home.” He offers, though with the way his shoulders fall, it is not an easy decision on him. “We just get them home.”

He’s staring off, letting the reality of this day set in. A war. He got dragged into a war with Clove left on the other side. He’s brought back by a soft sniffle from Glimmer, and when he looks to her, he sees the tears streaming down her face.

“I miss him, Cato.” She cries out, before burying her eyes into her hands, the burning sting of tears in her wounds making her cry even harder.

“I miss her, too, Glimmer.” He agrees, and he looks away from her as he feels that rage mounting in his chest at her abandonment. He wasn’t good at playing fair, at playing along with what others wanted when it was outside the context of the games and training. Noone told him how to behave, how to act.

“I don’t want to do this without them.” Glimmer admits, pulling her knees up closer to her chest.

As much as Cato wants to offer words of rebuttal, that they will never have to do this without them, that they will be back together soon, he can’t bring himself to lie to her. To lie to himself.

He offers no words of comfort as the war outside the walls bleeds directly into their hearts.

#clato fanfic #arwbfb tag #always remember we're burned for better tag #cato and clove fanfic #thg fanfic #This is glimmer heavy this time #and cato #glim glam and cato against the world #my unhinged man and my mad woman

[comradevo]

anyway I have a very real hatred for people who are so gender essentialist that they say that transmen have the exact same kind of male privileges and power as cis men. like do you fucking hear yourself. do I need to tap the 'Results showed that both transgender women and men had higher rates of violent victimization than their cisgender counterparts, but there were no differences between transgender men and women.' sign again? like babe you're just a transphobe be real.

#this post is very much a vague on specific people lol #imagine saying a trans man mentoring a cis woman is inherently predatory #and not thinking that's a wild thing to say #no I'm still not over it. I remember it every once in a while and go insane bc I hate transphobes #gender essentialism #me: wait why is this bad? them: it just has bad vibes me: what #they got mad at me lol #trying to point out to them that they're being transphobic and get accused of sealioning #they also called me aphobic which was just amazing #transphobes are honestly so fascinating. what goes on in their heads #you know what. I get to be salty about this bc fuck you people #that doesn't just get to slide #do you understand I told my straight cis Catholic friends about this and they ALSO thought this thinking was batshit insane transphobia? #do you understand that my Very Offline Straight Catholic friends are kinder and more accepting of queer people than you? do you understand? #they also thought I was unhinged for engaging in this at all but hey I'd just buried my grandmother what do you want from me

[darlingofvalyria]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"DAUGHTER, PLEASE!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"—your grace, I urge to hold her—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you must raise the Hells unto Winterfell.

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

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

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

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

Even then, you plotted every step you took.

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

Against the husband that dared make a fool of her.

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

"Where are my daughters?"

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"... Yes. Nothing."

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

"D-Dragonstone?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was your brother. No one else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will ask you how high."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aegon blinked. "Tubī daor. Not today."

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

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

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

Whale? No.

Dragon. Dragon bone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That night, you took your first flight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No more.

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

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

"Now, we speak nothing of what happened."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You weren't stupid.

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

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

And for Jace, you had banished him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well. There's getting a calm bath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Less of a dragon, more of a fairytale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You mark each indescretion. You keep a tally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did not mean...

Did not mean to have a dalliance with another woman?

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

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

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

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

"Huh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don't let up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His throat bobs.

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

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

"My lady," Dyanna greets behind you.

"Hm?"

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

"And?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Precisely what I thought, milady."

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

Game, set.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You curdle, you keep, you poise.

"My love?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It will be him.

Your plan moves, your web is perfect.

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

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

#jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon fanfiction #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys velaryon x y/n #prince jacaerys #hotd jacaerys #dark!reader #jacaerys smut #jacaerys velaryon smut #jacaerys fanfic #jacaerys fanfiction #elle writes !! ꒱ ↷˗ˏˋ🍒 #₊˚ପ⊹ hightower green 🕷

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Machiko Kyō (Rashomon, Floating Weeds, Older Brother Younger Sister)— Considered an early sex symbol in Japanese cinema. Also just an ethereal beauty who can also go feral/unhinged in a glorious way.

Judy Garland (Meet Me In St. Louis, A Star is Born, Summer Stock)— Judy is the GOAT when it comes to classic movie musicals. The voice of an angel who deserved so much better than she got. She can sing she can dance she can act she's a triple threat. Though she had a turbulent personal life (her treatment as a child star by the studio system makes me mad as hell like Louis b Mayer fight me ((she was made to believe that she was physically unattractive by the constant criticism of film executives who made her feel ugly and who manipulated her onscreen appearance by capping her teeth and using discs in her nose to change its shape and Mayer called her "my little hunchback" like imagine hearing that as a child and not having damage)) she always goddamn delivered on screen and in any performance she gave. She began in vaudeville performing with her sisters and was signed to MGM at 13. Starting out in supporting parts especially paired with mickey Rooney in a bunch of films (she's the best part tbh) she eventually transferred to the lead role. She is best known for her starring role in movie musicals like the iconic Wizard of Oz (somewhere over the rainbow still hits hard and is ranked the top film song of all time), meet me in St. Louis (Judy singing have your self a merry little Christmas brings tears to the eyes she is that powerful), the Harvey girls (she looks like a technicolor dream and sings a catchy af song about trains), Easter parade ( dancing and singing with Fred Astaire), for me and my gal, the pirate, and summer stock ( with pal Gene Kelly who she helped when he was starting out and he helped her when she was struggling). But she also does non- singing just as well like the clock ( her first movie where she sings no songs and is an underrated ww2 era romance), her Oscar nominated a star is born ( like the man that got away she put her whole soul in that and I have beef with the fact she lost to grace kelly ((whom I love but like still not even her best work)), and judgement at Nuremberg (a courtroom drama about the nazi war criminal trials). Outside of film she made concert appearances to record-breaking audiences, released 8 studio albums, and had her own Emmy-nominated tv series. She was the youngest (39) and first female recipient of the Cecil B DeMille award for lifetime achievement in the film industry. Girl was a lifelong democrat and was a financial and moral supporter of many causes including the civil rights movement (she was at the March on Washington and held a press conference to protest the 16th street Baptist church bombings). She was a friend of the Kennedy family and would call jfk weekly often ending the calls by singing the first few lines of somewhere over the rainbow (she thought of them as Gemini twins).She was a member of the committee for the first amendment which was formed in response to the HUAC investigations. Though she died far too young and tragically she remains an icon for her work and her life. As a girl who didn't feel like i was as pretty as everyone else I have always felt a connection to Judy and I just really love her.

This is round 3 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Machiko Kyō:

Judy:

Judy's voice alone qualifies her for at least top ten hottest HOT VINTAGE MOVIE WOMEN. She was a truly incredible swing singer, with a stunning voice on top of her technique. Her short dark hair looked incredible in just about any style. Have I mentioned her swagger? I can’t do it justice with words. She had swagger. She was funny as hell, and clever too. Incredibly charming and cool. I adore her.

Her eyes, her voice have bewitched me

I mean how can you beat the one and only Judy? She's beautiful, her smile is contagious, the way she sings with her whole body. You can't help but love her.

Beautiful woman, love her singing voice. And she can do everything between happy or silly and angry or heartbroken

#judy garland #machiko kyō #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 3

[mo-aiki]

Maximillian Black

Summary: The imperial dog, the hero of the Bloody 10 Year War, a prestigious war hero that somehow became your personal guard.

Warning: obsessive behavior, violence, slut shaming

A/N: THIS ART IS NOT MINE, IT'S THE MALE LEAD OF I TAMED MY EX-HUSBAND'S MAD DOG.

Connected to Yandere Isekai M. Characters x F. Reader

A ball.

A stupid one at that.

A ball ran by the royal family for congratulatories.

How stuffy.

The amount of fake people with fake smiles that surrounded him. He hated it. He was used to these fake smiles when he was younger. Working as a stableboy for a prominent polo club before running away and becoming a knight when he was 11. Everyone around him were terrible people.

Nobles who'd kill over a horse and servants who are willing to kill for them. Money is dangerous.

He was always blamed for everything. He was the youngest and the son of a brothel whore, starving for money, in thousands of coins in debt and taken in by an old man who was a stable man himself.

If a horse wasn't as fast as one servant claimed, the servant would blame it on him.

If a horse wasn't available, he would be blamed.

If a beloved horse died, he was blamed for letting it die.

He didn't want to be stuck as a stable boy. He hated everything. To live only to be thrown under the carriage by savages, from both the poor and the rich.

But when he was 10 years old, he saw something, or more like someone. A girl. Her face, lighting up when looking at the horse. It spooked him when he was surprised by her. "I'm sorry, but I really wanted to see the horse!"

Her eyes sparkled in delight when looking at the horses. "Could I pet one, or is that not okay with you?"

He was speechless with her beauty. Her nice voice, her (e/c) eyes with glitter in them, and her kindness and asking him, even though he was a lowly stable boy. The old man spoke for him. "You can pet the horses young lady. I'm sure people you understand."

Her eyes lighted up. "Thank you Mister..."

The old man took off his hat and held it. "My name is Otto, my lady..."

She smiled, a beautiful sight for his eyes. "Thank you Mr. Otto!"

She petted the horses as he watched in awe. The laughter and the smiling face of that young girl, stuck with him as a beautiful sight.

When he ran away, Mr. Otto was on his deathbed. The only one to take him in. He had told him to run, as far as he can before he becomes like one of them.

He ran, and ran, and ran. He wanted to run away from those looking for the money from his mother. He ended up at a mercenary camp, where he learned about how to protect himself.

He spent a lot of time with them. He had a gist on how to use a sword, but it definitely improved from the mercenaries. They were kind guys but were reckless and a tad bit unhinged at times.

But something all of them brought up were women. How their dream woman would be, what they liked about women, and even the nasty parts, he all heard.

But all of it brought him back to the girl he met at the polo stables with the most beautiful smile and personality. He couldn't help but think of her often.

She had appeared and disappeared in his life, leaving him in regret of not talking to her, the first time. He can only imagine her growing up, as he grew up. He trained for days with a new goal in mind, to meet her at any cost.

The mercenary group he was apart of were sent off to war against the rivaling empire over territorial disputes 6 years after the war had started. He was, as described by his comrades, a monster on the battlefield. He was recognized by the higher ups as someone who could lead troop morale and someone who could monstrously deal with the many soldiers and the creatures that came. He had dealt with the dragon the enemy empire managed to tame with a single hit from his sword, Glamdring.

All of this came from his motivation to survive and to see her once again. He had planned on leaving to find her, but the war dragged him in. He had originally wanted to run, but he overheard the talk about the prestige it would bring to him. If that girl was a noble, maybe he would impress her with his title and newfound fame.

And thus it led him to be the monster that he was, on the battlefield.

And now back at the ball. He held onto his wine glass, dressed in something he had never worn before. A white, heavily embroidered suit with a cape and a sash of all the medals for his accomplishments in the battlefield.

He only looked in disdain as all the noble ladies around him were drooling at his fit.

He went outside for a breath of fresh air. Walking along the garden until, he got to a fountain. He then saw a woman. Her (h/c) hair, perfectly laid, her dress, well thought out, and her hand holding the wine glass of half drunken champagne. He didn't know why, but somehow he was attracted to the woman sitting on the fountain edge.

He walked closer, to be bewitched by her looks, but somehow she felt familiar. Like someone he has been longing for. He was right next to her when she got spooked and almost fell into the fountain, while he caught her before she got wet.

Guiding her up and letting go of her waist, she looked at him. "Hello, thank you for catching me at that moment. May I ask for your name? I would like to repay you..."

He smiled. "My name is Maximillian Black, what is your's my lady?"

She smiled. "My name is (y/n) (l/n). Maximillian Black..."

She seemed to ponder for a few seconds. "Ah! You're the star of the ball tonight!"

He raised his eyebrow out of sarcasm. "Am I? Really?"

She laughed. Her laugh was beautiful to his ears. It almost reminded him of the little girl he met as a stable boy.

They walked and talked. He had never had a more enjoyable time then learning about you. But all of it was interrupted when a man's voice came in. "There you are (y/n)."

He looked directly at him as the woman turned her head towards him. "I have been looking for you since you said you needed to powder your face."

The woman blushed out of embarrassment. "Oh...I seemed to have spent too long out here, Duk-"

"I told you, you can call me Augustus, (y/n)"

The man held her hand as he pushed her towards his body. "I'm your fiancé after all...", he said, looking directly at him with a cold glare.

He had never felt so pissed after that interaction.

"Maximillian Black....MAXIMILLIAN BLACK?!"

Your voice, shocked as he stood right in front of you. A couple days later after the ball, the Emperor asked him a wish he could grant. He said, "To become a guard for the (l/n) family."

"Oh? Why my boy? Wouldn't you want riches?"

To Maximillian, riches were small in comparison to her. The Emperor granted his wish, and thus he became (y/n)'s personal guard.

He is always near her or at least 5 feet away. He always enjoyed the interactions he had with you more than anything. His favorite words were always your nickname for him. "Maxi! Could you please help me pick this orange? It's a bit too high for me to reach!"

"Maxi, could you sit down with me. I'll ask Anna to come as well."

"Maxi, I can deal with it myself. Do not fret. I will be careful!"

"Maxi, have you ever read this romance book? It is so sweet!"

Your kind and tender personality, melted his cold, stoic heart. But he soon saw how there were pest around you.

First was the stupid fiancé who never let you leave his sight, but always shooed him away like he was a pest. Giving you gifts of jewels, ribbons, dresses, bows, and books, he would beat him by a long shot just from his wealth alone. He did overhear that he was a Duke after all.

Second was the childhood best friend. The son of an Earl. Nobody was closer to you both physically and mentally than him. He would cuddle with you, get lap pillows, and be cared for. He wanted nothing more than to break him in half and tear him to shreds, but couldn't from his lineage alone. He was stage extreme of clinger.

And finally, third were all the men trying to flirt with you on a daily basis. He would shoo them, glare, threaten, and maybe if kill them if they didn't listen. Didn't matter if they were a noble or a peasant, someone filthy stained your ears.

He had to get rid of them.

He was in love after all, but at the end of the day, you were still going to get married to your fiancé, that arrogant duke.

He had overheard about your plans of annulment. He felt ecstatic, but his face looked the same.

Now all he had to do was to kidnap you and take you away to a forest to live out each other lives in peace, away from those pests. Easy enough, right?

"Night time would be safer to travel with a sleeping girl in my arms. Everyone is asleep after all..."

A/N: FINALLY DONE. NOW I CAN DO COMMISSION WORK OR IF YOU WANT TO REQUEST ANOTHER TYPE OF YANDERE, I'M ALL EARS!!!!

#yandere x reader #yandere male x reader #yandere male #yandere oc x reader #yandere male lead #yandere x you #tw yandere

[immediatebreakfast]

Well, the consequences for Jonathan's disobedience were quite terrifying, on top of destroying an aspect of Jonathan's beliefs as a character.

We already have seen plus noticed how Jonathan identifies with what femininity, and women represented in the 19th century. He is a male character that expresses so much love for the ideas of safety, and comfort that the feminine entails without the narrative trying to paint this in a derogative light anywhere.

So, it's not wonder that the visit from the Weird Sisters (a.k.a. the speculated brides, and housemates of Dracula) left him totally traumatized. Nothing that Dracula has done so far has gained such huge reaction from Jonathan.

Great God! merciful God! Let me be calm, for out of that way lies madness indeed.  ... for now, feeling as though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock had come which must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose. The habit of entering accurately must help to soothe me.

In his journey as a gothic heroine as he is trapped in the castle, Jonathan has been surviving by employing the same ideas used by fictional heroines he admires and looks up to in dire times, and he has comforted himself with Mina's memory, and his undefying love for her. Everything that Dracula represents regarding masculinity means danger for Jonathan, he is scared how the power that the Count holds over him; not as a man towards another man, but as a man towards a conceptual woman within Jonathan's mind that is part of his being.

All of this concludes in Jonathan taking a nap in the ladies' chamber room, away from Dracula's aggresive masculinity in his tainted designated room, and inside what he now deems a safe space because women lived there.

Then the Weird Sisters appear in their ethereal, beautiful glory, and as Jonathan recalls the incident in his diary, the feeling of angry loosing sanity is written with an underline tone of pure defeated betrayal. It feels as if Jonathan keeps asking himself "why did they do that to me? Aren't they in the same position as me?"

The feeling of what Jonathan calls repulsion cut through the sexually charged scene like a knife. All of the soft adjectives to describe the Sisters' appearance, Jonathan's attraction to them as he shames himself for thinking like that because of Mina, the emphasis of voluptuos charm laced with danger, all of it gets cut when Jonathan realizes what the Weird Sisters are planning to do.

There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal.

The ladies that he thought were a dream at first are there to use him the same way that Dracula has been doing... the only difference is that the vampire ladies made very clear that they will kill him. So out it goes the kind language to describe women, and what enters is the language that Jonathan uses to describe the Count.

The femininity that Jonathan felt comfort in to shield himself from the horrors he has seen is now fractured to incorporate the monsterhood of the Weird Sisters. It's a realization that shatters him, not all women are soft, and kind, these women would have killed him if not the Count arriving, and if Jonathan cannot go to the Weird Sisters for safety against Dracula, then it means that the only being who stands between his death and life is the Count himself.

The man who is keeping Jonathan as a prisoner in everything but name is who he has to run to if Jonathan wants to keep living... What a nightmare indeed.

#Jonathan's world view on women and femininity in general is still painted in social biases despite being his preference over masculinity #The assumption that the brides could be ladies like all women he has met was shattered #Not all women are interested in being warm protectors #Specially lady monsters made exaggerated on purpose for the narrative #dracula daily #dracula #jonathan harker #brides of dracula #the weird sisters

[tarjapearce]

Idk if it was mentioned (I'm still working my way through all the soccer family stuffs) but is Mama Hispanic? Or did she learn Spanish?

Sure it's not that important to some people, but I'm curious to know what you had in mind when writing her, cause I'm obsessed and wanna know all the background info on all your things

First of all, lemme welcome you to this madness hehe ❤️.

And she learned Spanish, thanks to Miguel mostly.

She's this lovely latin-american woman that moved to Nueva York when a kid but didn't grow up with the language. Her parents were too concerned with her learning a new language than anything else that they forgot to keep encouraging the spanish.

It served it's purpose but it was hard for her being one of those kid that was part latino but didn't know any spanish. Bully ensured, but she was feisty. (Resulting in her being in trouble a couple of times because she got fed up with their shit.)

When she meets Miguel, we see her boasting up spanish cause she just reconnected with her mother tongue. (Thanks to her elder aunt Isa), however it was one of those things that come and go if you don't practice them enough.

Miguel had sooo much patience with her once they get married, it was hard and kinda frustrating to make progress only to be regressing with little things. But It was the perfect chance for Miguel to say the filthiest things right into her face and she would just look at him with a loving and curious look, thinking he was being poetic and in love.

But after years, and some extra lessons and a gorgeous half Mexican man as her personal tutor, nothing escapes from her.

Sometimes it gets under Miguel's skin cause she has such a potty mouth when angry. (It arouses and scares him)

The only one in her generation that ran away from home (More like forced to leave) when she was 17, worked her way through college, got a decent looking job until she started to get underpaid and the load work was the same if not worse. She meets Miguel at the age of 21. (He was 25 that time), only to become a mother two years later.

Her family criticized her for getting married so young, but look at her now ~

Happy, a spoiled housewife, a marriage of 13 and a half years and three lovely kids with a beautiful and dreamy husband that would do anything for her.

And her character is born out of the need to see more Latina women in Miguel’s fics :') There was soo little content about it. So I took matters in my own hands. Even though she is mixed, I wanted to make her a relatable character for everyone that has came across this AU. (Be it either family issues, growing up without the mother tongue, finding independence really young, toxic and unhinged family, going to therapy to heal, and other emotional thingies that are often overlooked ~)

So even if you aren't a Latina, you can still feel part of her character ❤️.

Its therapeutic and fun to write her, ☺️.

Hope this offers a little more insight on Mama ❤️

#miguel o'hara #talking with t✨ #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #soccer family ⚽🕷️ #atsv miguel #mama o'hara

[queerplatonicshipshowdown]

Quarterfinals, Match 3

Stanford Pines and Fiddleford McGucket (Fiddauthor) from Gravity Falls vs. Moomintroll and Snufkin (Snufmin) from Moominvalley!

Propaganda for Fiddauthor:

very very close guys who do mad science together and also lived together for a little while

1. College roomies. 2. Ford called Fiddleford later on, asked him to cone to Gravity Falls, and they temporarily moved in together (on account of Fidds having a wife and child back in Palo Alto or something).

They Were Roommates. And DnD nerds, unhinged scientists (one of them made a deal with a demon and put a metal plate in their skull to prevent possession from said demon, the other builds homicidal robots and made a memory-erasing cult.), Best Friends, etc. Ford also wrote things like how they talked about their futures while star gazing, "my poor. beleaguered assistant".... stuff like that. TL;DR: roommates, played DnD one-on-one, and Ford talked about Fiddleford a LOT in his journal.

Propaganda for Snufmin:

BASICALLY. The author of the original books was a queer woman and Moomintroll kinda was her self insert. At some point she had a relationship with a man who was always traveling so they had to break up. So she made Snufkin's character, who was inspired by this man, and Snufkin and Moomintroll's relationship was inspired by both of them. But at this point of time you couldn't make queer rep in a book, so it was never canon, only ambiguous. However, the creators of the most recent cartoon, Moominvalley, are clearly aware of this backstory and made them even more ambiguous. Kind of "ambiguous best friends"... And ambiguous best friends is like, the perfect trope for queerplatonic headcanons.

#tournament #tournament poll #tournament polls #poll #polls #tumblr poll #tumblr polls #tumblr tournament #qpr #queerplatonic ship showdown #queerplatonic ship #queerplatonic #quarterfinals #stanford pines #fiddleford mcgucket #fiddauthor #gravity falls #moomintroll #snufkin #snufmin #moominvalley

[dreamingsnowflake2013]

My gorgeous, unhinged, blood-sharing OTP! First, she fed him hers, and now she sucks his, each time to protect him. It feels like a blood vow. Moreover, exchanging bodily fluids must be their love language, first blood, few minutes later saliva, and few days later you-know-what, and all that before marriage! And they say perfect shows don't exist!

If you had problems with her medical practices, you should have told her to stop. In the past 20 years, Xie Wei has associated touch with pain and avoided it, but he starves for hers. Even the slightest of touches from her means so much to him and can't get enough of it. The woman he loves so much has just suck his skin with her mouth, it must be the most erotic experience he's had in his whole life. I mean, the way he fixes his eyes on the spot she was sucking on and ever so slowly caresses it, as if to feel it again and make sure he didn't dream it!

It doesn't matter what sort of touch it is, as long as it comes from her, he treasures it and keeps reminiscing about it, retracing the memory.

He wants to get rid off the transactional way she treats their relationship, not only because it means Xue Ning doesn't see him as a man no matter how much he openly cares for her, but also because once she considers that she doesn't owe Xie Wei anymore, it destroys the only link she thinks they have, and he fears that will be the moment he will irrevocably lose her.

But he fears hurting her even more, so he adds with the same breath to abandon him, once he descends into madness again.

#story of kunning palace #zhang ling he #bai lu #cdrama

[ninadove]

Nina reads Dracula 🦇

May 16th

Thought things couldn’t get worse for our good friend Jonathan…? WELL YOU WERE WRONG:

God preserve my sanity, for to this I am reduced. Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the past. Whilst I live on here there is but one thing to hope for, that I may not go mad, if, indeed, I be not mad already. If I be sane, then surely it is maddening to think that of all the foul things that lurk in this hateful place the Count is the least dreadful to me; that to him alone I can look for safety, even though this be only whilst I can serve his purpose. Great God! merciful God! Let me be calm, for out of that way lies madness indeed.

Is the Count running for N.1 Abusive Technically-Not-Boyfriend? Because he has a pretty strong shot.

Up to now I never quite knew what Shakespeare meant when he made Hamlet say:—

"My tablets! quick, my tablets!

'Tis meet that I put it down," etc.,

for now, feeling as though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock had come which must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose. The habit of entering accurately must help to soothe me.

We’re his only comfort and we can do nothing to help… 😭

When I had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the book and pen in my pocket I felt sleepy. The Count's warning came into my mind, but I took a pleasure in disobeying it.

The fact that this was an intentional infraction breaks my heart in the best way possible.

In the moonlight opposite me were three young women, ladies by their dress and manner. I thought at the time that I must be dreaming when I saw them, for, though the moonlight was behind them, they threw no shadow on the floor.

More normal human things!!!

There was something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those red lips. It is not good to note this down, lest some day it should meet Mina's eyes and cause her pain; but it is the truth.

Honey I think Mina will forgive you for [checks notes] being manipulated through vampire pheromones

There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed about to fasten on my throat.

SOMEONE DRAG HER AWAY FROM HIM

I was conscious of the presence of the Count, and of his being as if lapped in a storm of fury. As my eyes opened involuntarily I saw his strong hand grasp the slender neck of the fair woman and with giant's power draw it back, the blue eyes transformed with fury, the white teeth champing with rage, and the fair cheeks blazing red with passion. But the Count! Never did I imagine such wrath and fury, even to the demons of the pit. His eyes were positively blazing. The red light in them was lurid, as if the flames of hell-fire blazed behind them.

NO NOT YOU

"How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on him when I had forbidden it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to me! Beware how you meddle with him, or you'll have to deal with me." The fair girl, with a laugh of ribald coquetry, turned to answer him:—

"You yourself never loved; you never love!" On this the other women joined, and such a mirthless, hard, soulless laughter rang through the room that it almost made me faint to hear; it seemed like the pleasure of fiends. Then the Count turned, after looking at my face attentively, and said in a soft whisper:—

"Yes, I too can love; you yourselves can tell it from the past. Is it not so? Well, now I promise you that when I am done with him you shall kiss him at your will. Now go! go! I must awaken him, for there is work to be done."

Queer-coding? In my XIXth century monstrous villain? It’s more likely than you think!

"Are we to have nothing to-night?" said one of them, with a low laugh, as she pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the floor, and which moved as though there were some living thing within it.

Oh oh.

Then the horror overcame me, and I sank down unconscious.

Jonathan would love 2024 Tumblr slang! He too was once overcome by The Horrors™!

I awoke in my own bed. If it be that I had not dreamt, the Count must have carried me here.

YIKES.

I am sure this diary would have been a mystery to him which he would not have brooked. He would have taken or destroyed it.

😭

As I look round this room, although it has been to me so full of fear, it is now a sort of sanctuary, for nothing can be more dreadful than those awful women, who were—who are—waiting to suck my blood.

Was this staged…? Was this entire assault staged as a fucked up manipulation tactic to get Jonathan to seek protection from the Count??? I need answers

< Prev 🦇 Next >

#dracula #dracula daily #jonathan harker #count dracula #dracula’s brides

[tyrantisterror]

Things I learned during day two of this Medieval Studies Congress - in a fun coincidence given that Wolf Man post of mine that's blowing up, Marie de France's lais Bisclavret is the primary subject of most of these:

So, as if the universe heard my desire for more evidence for the distinction between Garwolfs and Bisclavrets, one of the speakers actually articulated how they're distinct in Bisclavret specifically. In the introduction of the lais, Marie de France says to her audience, "You may have heard of the bisclavret, which the Normans call the garwolf," suggesting at firs the two are linked. However, as she goes on to briefly describe the more stereotypical malevolent werewolves, when she does so she ONLY calls them garwolves, while the rest of poem, which details a far more reluctant and benevolent werewolf, exclusively uses bisclavret. This is something that the English translation of the poem I have in my collection does not make clear, so I'm pretty thankful for it.

More importantly, the words themselves have different meanings when you analyze their parts. Bisclavret is a combination of Bleiz, which means wolf, and Claffet, which means illness, which makes Bleizclaffet/bisclavret mean "wolf sickness," which is by far a more fun way to refer to werewolfism than lycanthropy. Garwolf, on the other hand, is rooted in the word lupus (made more obvious in its French spelling of "gaurauf," which is close to "garou," as in "loup garou," another term for werwolves), which means wolf but ALSO is itself derived from a word that means madness in both senses (anger and insanity) and has connotations with rabidity. OR, TO PUT IT MORE SUCCINCTLY, bisclavret = person with wolf sickness, garwolf = man who becomes a violent and unhinged wolf.

In Bisclavret, the most accurate translation of the French grammar of the poem when the knight with wolf sickness explains his condition to his wife is "Lady, I become bisclavret." This explicitly frames his condition as an affliction rather than a purposeful and controlled transformation, further establishing that the werewolf of this lais is very different than the garwolfs Marie's audience would be more familiar with.

Bisclavret is a Breton word for werewolf, Garwolf is a Norman word

The word "berserker" may have some connections to the way Marie's werewolf transformations work, i.e. clothes being key to them. "Serker" means, roughly, "shirt," while "Ber" has two equally likely meanings: both bear as in the animal, and bare as in, well, lacking clothes. Thus Berserker can mean either "Bear Shirt" or "No Shirt," which in turn means berserkers either acted savage because they were wearing bear skins to act like bears, or were doing so because they were fighting buckass nude. The bisclavret, of course, transforms by slipping out of his human clothes and getting buckass nude, and transforms back only when he can slip into his human clothes again (a Manserker if you will).

The Saga of the Volsungs contains a passage where some guys find a bunch of wolfskins which, when they wear them, 1. won't come off right away and 2. make the guys act like vicious, flesh-hungry wolves against their will, which is fucking terrifying and absolutely something I'm going to use

Marie de France's version of Bisclavret is the only take on the story where the wife's nose is bitten off by the werewolf and all of her female descendants inherit noseless faces as a result - the other takes on the story by different poets go for different punishments. This is notable because of the connotations that removing someone's nose had as a punishment in the middle ages - namely, it was specifically a punishment reserved for women, only being used on men when the person punishing them wanted to emasculate them specifically. The reason this was a gendered punishment was tied to the meaning behind removing the nose specifically - it was to mark the woman as either an adulterer or a prostitute, and specifically to make her undesirable to men thereafter. It was sometimes self-inflicted by women, particularly nuns and other women of faith, as a way to keep men from desiring them sexually. So the werewolf's choice of punishment for his wife in Marie's version is pretty damn apt.

Funny coincidence re: Wizard School Mysteries: though Marie de France hailed from France and wrote all her poetry in French (well, Middle French, but still), she actually wrote those poems while living in Wales, which might be why so many of them adaptations of British folklore. I say this is funny because Margot d'Francane in WSM, whose name is partially derived from Marie de France, falls in love with James Chaucer, whose home kingdom, Galfridius, is specifically based on the parts of British folklore that intersect with Celtic mythology, which is primarily the domain of Welsh folklore specifically. So the wizard I named (in part) after Marie de France is in love with the wizard whose homeland is based on Welsh folklore, and Marie de France wrote a lot about Welsh folklore because she spent a good chunk of her life in Wales. Just funny how that accidentally lined up is all.

A Morturium is a big ass medieval building used to house a shitload of corpses, like a Super Crypt.

[cressthebest]

Crimson Rivers thoughts pt. 27

chapter 46:

1. WOLFSTAR MY BELOVED

2. god i hate that james is having a lapse of time. but also, i LOVE that zar is including their disabilities throughout the fic and not just making it a one-off thing

3. black brothers angst is hitting like a freight train

4. “"The plan was always to take James' place, but I'd be lying if I said the words didn't leave my lips a little easier knowing that Sirius would choke on them."” jesus christ

5. regulus and remus friendship means so much to me. i love that when regulus asked remus the worst thing he did, remus trusted him enough to tell him

6. LILY AND DORCAS FRIENDSHIP!!!!!!

7. also, i love the chaos dorcas knows she’s gonna cause chaos by breaking people out

8. “Lily fucking Evans, everyone.” -dorcas

and that’s the woman i’m in love with!!!

9. AWWW marlene showed up on dorcas’ doorstep!! i love them so much!!

10. “Regulus wonders if James still thinks he's beautiful.” jesus christ, what a way to start a pov

11. “"I didn't break up with you," James snaps. "I didn't exactly get the chance, seeing as we weren't together in the first place."

"Yes, we were," Regulus whispers. In his head, they were. In his heart, they still are.”

oof that fucking HURTS like a punch to the gut. i don’t know how reg is able to survive james being that mad at him

12. god, james is so mad thinking that reg lied about wanting to marry him, and reg meant it 10000%

13. 😶 reg just proposed, right? i read that right??

14. “”He stops, swallows, then gives Remus a soft smile. "You can say it. You probably shouldn't, but—"

"Come back," Remus whispers, like it's a sin, and Sirius' breath hitches.”

i haven’t cried in like five chapters, but this had me SOBBING. i love wolfstar more than the air i breathe

15. “"Do you know that you're the only person who has asked me that? Everyone else—they all just accepted it, what I'm going to do, and there was no one who even—I mean, no one even…argued, or protested. Maybe it's because I'm so stubborn and they know it wouldn't get them anywhere, but—but no one tried. And maybe it makes me selfish, but I'm so glad that you have."”

STOP IM CRYING HARDER NOW WTF THIS HURTS

16. “"I'd die for them, but I'd live for you."” YOOO THIS HURTS

17. “"No, no, I want to hear about this secret fantasy of yours to have sex on or against household appliances. Do tell me more, sweetheart. Give me all the filthy details."”

18. “"I'm partial to the kitchen table. It'd be nice, I think, splaying you out there and enjoying you like a meal. Wouldn't that be nice?"”

remus is so unhinged 😭😭😭

19. 🥰 dorlene mornings after sex

20. awww dorcas is cutting marlene’s hair. this is so intimate

21. god i’m so worried for marlene in this arena

22. james being a big meanie (i don’t blame him) and regulus breaking down and crying and james being like 😶😧😦😟 no! why are you doing that! stop!!

23. “James lasted ten years dealing with Regulus hating him, and being unkind, and ignoring him. Regulus didn't even last five days.”

awww reg is just a big softie

24. 😦 uh oh. dad and pop are fighting. they’re having the screaming match of the century

25. god, this whole fight is reminding me of when effie called regulus gentle.

26. “Not will you marry me, because James can't, but would you marry me, if you could?” i-

27. honorary authors notes from zar:

“oh, and *bursts into tears* THEY'RE ENGAGED 😭

well, okay, not really—but tell that to regulus, who will ABSOLUTELY be running with this new information lmaooo. this is the same man calling james his ex when they weren't even together. james just stating he WOULD marry regulus if he could—yes, regulus' brain has immediately decided they're engaged now. james, babe, you really should have seen that coming 💀

regulus: would you marry me if you could

james: yeah

regulus: so what im hearing is we're engaged now. we just got engaged. that's what this was.

james: ...that's...not... why do i even bother trying to keep up with you? sure, whatever you say!”

#marauders #regulus black #james potter #jegulus #sirius black #remus lupin #wolfstar #sunseeker #starchaser #dorlene #dorcas meadowes #marlene mckinnon #zeppazariel #crimson rivers

[anatrik]

First thoughts TTPD:

What a lana x folklore girlie win this issss!

1.Fortnight is about matty?? HAHAHAHA also why did this make me think of when holt was going running with the ladies when he was in witness protection??? Crying. Fav line has to be they were supposed to take me away but they forgot to come and get me. So sad but also so cool in relation to her cancellation/return. 10/10

2. TTPD- not so hahahaha anymore IS THIS ACTUALLY A FUCKING MATTY HEALY ALBUM??? There was a typewriter at the 1975 show she performed anti-hero at? Unless its somehow about harry? Who else is tattooed on her roster??? Or is this about herself? Kinda feel like modern idiots/who’s going to decode is directed at us lol😂 9/10?

3.My boy only breaks his favourite toys- went in expecting mad woman rage. Pleasantly surprised. king of my heart to queen of sandcastles he destroys….DESTROYED ME. Are you fucking kidding me rn? Im caling it. Best song. Im crying at 7.30 am this is not funny anymore. Also THANK YOU FOR NOT SLANDERING DAD. I knew you wouldnt let us down like that. Also the chorus sounds like long story short😭 oh this is so sad. Once i fix me hes going to miss me? He was my best friend?😭 he runs because he loves me? Stopp😭😭 1000000/10

4.Down bad- ….aaaand we’re back to MATTY AGAIN? He does not deserve this spotlight but why are all the song so goood😭😭😭 is this why artists love to date problematic men? It unlocks some extraordinary potential? Crazy crazy girl😭 also stay down (bad) 🤌🏾 shes done it again 10/10 also for personal reasons i will be believing this is about joe in that Tom/Joe/met gala overlap period when she was photographed going to the gym a lot and that this is about all that yearning please let it be about that plesplesplesplesplesples also down bad waking up in blood staring at the sky…like i lost a twin is giving bigger than the whole sky🥺

5. So long, london- so so long long, lon-don DONE? ok miss girl😭 the hoax parallels😭 dont be undoing the song i was going to play at my weddddding what is wrong with you😭 my only one my smoking gun to two graves one gun youll find someone??? Also reminds me of la la land :/ how much sad did you think I had in me? You wrote hoax so a lot ok leave us alone. crying again. 10000000000000000/10 oh lol its a track 5 ofc it is😂

6. But daddy I love him- she really said if you ever liked, shared or even LOOKED at the ‘vivaa las vegas’ memes you cant come to the wedding and shes so real for it. Lfgggg. Ubothered unhinged uhmazing. Growing up precocious sometimes means you still hold on to that princess/quarterback wattpad fantasy AS IS YOUR RIGHT QUEEN GO THE FUCK OFF🥳 100000/10 calling out toxic fandom for the first time and we love to see it🫡 this is suchhhh a happy songggg you deserve ALL the chaos and revelry.

7. Fresh out the slammer- god she gets it. Like sure he was great and he is still my biological father and everything but as a decidedly melancholy person myself who has constantly had atleast one close friend in a deep depression I can see how all that heavy lifting can just get heavy at some point especially when youre a partner and their sole lighthouse in wtv storms be out there buffeting their mental health. Its not for everyone and thats so fair and so valid but so sad as well. 10/10 for the honesty.

8. Florida- she really said girlrot summer🫡 this is the lanaest song ever. So lucky one/nothing new coded. This will be the First song I repeat and then so long london. Aaaghhh how i love a self aware melancholic anxious little superstar. 90283749292/10 thank you for giving florence an entire verse whew. Little did you know your home’s really only a town you’re just a guest in is soooo going on my body forever

9. Guilty as sin?- honestly just fuck if it means we dont have to hear about how desirable ratty healy is man ffs. IThe only reason he looks so hot is bc hes forbidden. You have to trust me on this. He’s sooo mid JESUS. U cant be writing hozier lyrics about a man that hasn’t met a shower😭 1000000/10 writing. -16392992/10 content. Unrequited love/lust truly is the greatest weapon in a poets arsenal bc where is this energy in the joe songs binch?😭 this is such a teen in love with a 26 yo creep who called me so mature for my age mom you just dont get ittt anthem😂😂

10. Who’s afraid of little old me?- is a warning 😂 im so here for it. Like yes I still hate matty with all my heart and soul but yes I agree fans should not be allowed so much of an opinion on another persons life and yes I should be afraid (I am). She said aight love letter era over I AM WRITING YOU ALL HATE MAIL AND I’M HAND DELIVERING IT. Shes sooo done pretending to be the relatable girl next door when she’s anything but and is now reminding us of it and yes yes yessss girl OWN ITTTTTTTT. I’ve been saying for agesssss that there is a darkness under all that sunshine from where she clawed her way to the top and this is sooo vindicating. 10000000000000/10 favourite song ever. Mad woman wishes she was who’s afraid of little old me. I am unwell. I am in love. This is the Taylor Swift i stan. The marketing genius the calculating business woman the puppet master with narcotics in her songs thats why we sing along🫡 she so can handle a dangerous man

11. I can fix him (no really I can)- you cant.

12. loml- ofc. OFC. Its the saddest song of all time. OFC. Fuck offf ughhhh. 😭😭😭😭😭 its giving happiness. Its giving divorce. i am a child of a broken home now and my parents still love each other and hold so much regret still. What do i do with thissss? Im just a little girl taylorrr! 1002380292011010101/10 soo so gooood.

13. I can do it with a broken heart- first of all track 13. Love it. Second of all the upbeat barbieness of it all. Third of all I FINALLY PLACED IT. Shes in her unrelatable era. She is not your girl next door. You will never understand her life. She is as much a phenomenon as a person and we literally only see as much as she allows us to and honestly if i have to get put in my place theres noooo better way to have it done. Im having such a great time actually. 10 BILLION TRILLION OUT OF 10 you tellll em girl you FUCKING TELL EM.

14. Smallest man who ever lived- not going to speculate on who it is bc they clearly had a serious problem and its not a joke but damn :/ thats so sad :/ hope they get help? Didnt expect this to be what the song was about at all?

15. The alchemy- she said TRAVIS IS MY BOY WITH HER WHOLE CHEST😌 10/10

16. Clara bow- did she just name drop herself ? I was so right about unrelatable era. Also the Subtle nod to olivia/sabrina noted and appreciated. Lucky one/castles crumbling (mature version) fr fr. Solid legacy song.

17. The black dog- shared your secrets with and location is the same whiplash as a red rose grew up out of ice frozen ground with no one around to tweet it🤌🏾 joe songs hit so so different 😭😭😭 1000000000/10

18. imgonnagetyouback- the valiant roar was not so valiant and more of a mew i guess. 7/10

19. The albatross- oh this is the ONE. The album defining song for sureeee. Mad woman on coke. A rose by any other name is a scandal???? Thats my religion right there. Little last great American dynasty twist there at the end! Fuck yea. She does reallly try to warn the men in her life have to give her that. One gazillion/10

20. Clearly god has favourites and they are the ppl called chloe or sam or sophia or marcus😭 ALSO this song is about joe for sure. The internet starlet hasss to be delaney rowe!!!! It HAS TO BE. 10/10

21. How did it end?- shes back for the fans😂 plot twist the breakup is with yall🤌🏾 but yesss say it louder! One gasp and then how did it end. So good. 100/10

22. So high school- lmao aristotle grand theft auto ONLYY taylor swift man😭😂 you know what you want and boy you got her🫡🫡 11/10

23. I hate it here- mother’s having a mental breakdown kids yk the drill🤌🏾 10/10

24. ThanK you aIMiee- what better way to say fuck you to a hater than to thank her for jumpstarting your legacy my god!!! She is insane for this. The capitalisation is a bit petty tho ngl. 8/10

25. I look in peoples windows- once again I thank you for the kindness and respect shown to joe. Never doubted you but thank you nevertheless. 10/10 short as nice to have a friend but it didnt need to be longer.

26. The prophecy- its so sad and humbling to see even a woman at where she is having to beg for love bc that literally is the nature of love. Something humiliating, to have to beg for 🤷‍♀️ cards playing out like fools in a fable cursed like eve got bitten. No one writes like her damn. 10/10

27. Cassandra- very madeline miller on this one. Love love loveee modern takes on tragic greek women. 100/10

28. Peter- ah fuck. This one is going to hurt (it did). 1000000/10 my ribs get the feeling she did😭 all her joe related aches are so bone deeeep ugh. Promises oceans deep but never to keep😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 oh god it hurtsss it hurts it hurtss

29. The bolter- curious child ever reviled except by her father wow.

30. Robin- OMG! I needed this song growing up sooo bad. That way to go tiger felt so so warm like running into a kitchen after a day of being in the mud and u tell ur mum the silly things u did and shes genuinely interested and impressed by your smol victories. A bajillion/10

31. The manuscript- postmortem of every ex ever🤌🏾 love it.

#taylor swift #anatrik #ttpd #fortnight #clara bow #but daddy i love him #the smallest man who ever lived #loml #my boy only breaks his favourite toys #down bad #so long london #fresh out the slammer #florida #guilty as sin? #who’s afraid of little old me #the alchemy #i can do it with a broken heart #first thoughts #the tortured poets department #my writing #the black dog #the albatross #chloe or sam or sophia or marcus #how did it end? #i hate it here #thanK you aIMee #i look in people's windows #peter #cassandra #robin

[poppyandzena]

Poppy is having a meltdown on twitter rn and it just feels different.

At first all of the accusations she was flinging made me mad because of how wildly inappropriate and unhinged they were. Mad for NF, Gayfesh, all her friends she alienated and villainized on the way, but now? Now it makes me sad.

We have a 42 year old woman that has lost close to everything, a job, friends, a child, etc. And it's just sad to see the hole getting deeper. She reminds me of how I was at my mental lowest and that ended up in the hospital so I don't know. She a tiny, shrinking circle and one of the last remaining people is now doxing her villain's with a document even the drama obessed people aren't into.

It's only going to get worse from here, we all know that, but man is it depressing to see. She really is her own worst enemy but has enough enablers to keep it going.

^

#poppy #poppy and zena #zena and poppy #poppy diabolique #ladydiabolique #poppy & zena

[kit-williams]

Actual seduction by Dadatar

Dadatar loves to say the most out there shit imaginable

and the worst part of my stupid fan addled brain is that I've recently been just picturing him either as (he puts it) Emperor's Children Presenting Alpha Legionary (Night Lord rising) OR a god damn Slanneshi Night Lord.

Like my man whispered to me "damn girl I wanna make your pussy resemble a pomegranate." Or something like that and another

"its going to be your wet sex that gives your sneaking away"

And he like holds my head and whispers this shit into my ear all while I'm giggling like some mad woman blushing all the while he's just groping me.

I don't care if I'm just gushing about my husband! I gotta somehow just let you all know where I get some unhinged shit from.

#musings #i love my husband #Momrad & Dadatar

[youremyheaven]

Hello, Purva bhadrapada, Leo stellium native here, I also wanted to add that I think purva bhadrapada, since it is Brahmin caste is probably more prone to this, then punarvasu and finally vishaka, who in my experience is the most materially/self interested Jupiter nakshatra, which is why we see it in so many celebrities compared to the other two, especially purva bhadrapada.

I've always been at the role of teacher/smart one since I was a little girl, I've always been a bit parentified and I think that comes out a lot in my relationships with nodals, since I'm the one who has to keep things in control, now that we are on the topic, I'm gonna trauma dump about my Magha sun, mula moon friend 😭

I don't want to bad mouth her since I do still have affection for her, but this woman put me through so much. One time she face timed me whilst she was drinking, she got so drunk and then started driving! She face timed me whilst she was drunk driving talking about how sad she was, all whilst I could hear all the dangerous turns she was making, so I called her mom to come get her, I couldn't do it myself cause I live too far away. The next day she wouldn't stop complaining about how pissed she was that I called her mom on her, talking about how she got in trouble, but what was I supposed to do? WATCH HER DIE ON CAMERA?! She made me the villain and not our other friend who she also face timed, who is also nodal.

Another time, she was dating this dude and SHE ALWAYS DID WHATEVER HE SAID FOR NO REASON, one time we were all hanging out as friends, a whole ass group of people, and this girl started sucking this mans dick in front of us 💀😭 like they were not slick in the slightest, I caught sight of it and then I tried to politely tell them to stop before the others noticed, she did not stop and others caught them, to which they all collectively said "Wtf? Stop please" AND THEN SHE COMPLAINED TO ME ABOUT THIS? HOW DO YOU WANT ME TO TAKE YOUR SIDE? 💀

Another time, I was really busy with some work but she texted me about how suicidal she was feeling and how she wanted to attempt, I stayed with her the whole night trying to talk her out of it until she just stopped talking to me all together, I panicked and spent hours debating whether to call someone, since I don't know if she really attempted something, but I didn't want her to be mad at me again. It was one of the most anxious nights of my life. Eventually, she called me and said she was fine 💀 I SPENT ALL THAT TIME WORRIED AND SHE DIDNT SAY ANYTHING! that was my breaking point and I just cut contact with her after that

The worst part of all of this is that she never took any interest in my emotions or any of the problems I had, in all the years of friendship we had I only opened up to her twice and I regretted it immensely both times. She never took any time to take care of me, and would always accuse me of telling her what to do after giving her advice THAT SHE ASKED FOR!

Anyway 💀 yeah it was traumatizing

💀💀💀💀 I'm glad you've cut her out

My Swati Sun, Magha Rising ex was somewhat like this. He texted me saying he's having a panic attack and does not know what to do (at like midnight) and then after I text & call him mad worried, he does not respond. He texts me back the next day afternoon saying that "it was just a spur of the moment thing, I'm alright" like wtf??? He always kept me on edge with his mental health stuff and I was always made to feel like I'm on suicide watch only for him to turn around and be like "oh I'm over it now bc I've drunk away the last thought I had in my head"

He once video called me at 8 in the fucking morning because he wanted company while he smoked

Let me just say that there was a clear imbalance in our relationship bc I had to watch out for him while he did batshit stuff and I could never do the things he did and expect him to have played the supportive role 😒

There was another Magha Moon girl I used to know who completely did unhinged shit, she jumped from man to man every week (not slut shaming, just pointing out poor choices) in India, the arranged marriage system prevails and she received a proposal from some 5'2 30 yr old (when we were like 21) who was loaded 💸and her family rejected the proposal and she was already dating some deadbeat loser. Guess what she did after she broke up with the deadbeat loser many months later?? She started talking to the 30yr old guy who came to her house with a marriage proposal 😭and literally 2-3 weeks later he publicly announced his desire to marry her at the wedding of a mutual relative and she said "I'm not interested in marrying you" PUBLICLY, it was super shameful for the families and all parties involved bc like ??? what on earth was she thinking??? he made his intentions clear from the get go??? did she think she could hook up and rebound with the guy who contacted her family with a goddamn marriage proposal??? and she played the victim when in reality throughout their 3 week tryst she led him on and on and on, why didn't she say she would never ever marry someone like him?? so embarrassing lol

There was a Magha Moon guy who I had mutual friends with and he's a complete deadbeat loser. He hasn't finished his degree (he was my senior at uni) he's broke as hell and all he does is go on road trips and drink till he drops and he had the audacity to ask my friends if I'd be interested in seeing him and I was like 🤢🤮ew no and he literally repeated this process every month no joke. He's asked me out more times than I can count, he's made our friends ask me on his behalf a billion times and I'm like ??? how oblivious or lacking in self awareness do you have to be?? He always told them that he thought I was "hiding" my interest in him 🤮🤢🤭so idk I feel like Nodals can be supremely delulu