#Line of Culture absent

[seagull-astrology]

C190 Maybelline won't be true for Chuck Berry

Maybelline wasn’t true for Chuck Berry, but then again neither was Chuck.  He died on March 18, 2017.  His obit on Billboard  gives a fair account of his life, read it here.  While the New York Post fills in the details.  We are highlighting Chuck’s 1958 publicity shot taken from Rolling Stone’s 500 Best RnR songs of all time — Johnny B. Goode rated number seven. Themetta and Chuck Barry, 2011. …

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#Fixed Star Regulus #Line Of Culture Absent #October Birth

[meadowlarkx]

to me huang rong was so maglor-coded. this is a me problem but also. <3

#when you can dress as a scrubby boy or the fanciest girl #spoiled terrifyingly powerful child of even more terrifying powerful guy #lines suggesting insecurity and loneliness that accompanies all this pride and singularity ?? #daddy issues and absent mommy issues #fighter and knower of art and culture things #side chick feelings despite being the Soulmate #selfish person who feels a lot and falls in love #she basically wrote the noldolante when she cooked all those farewell dishes 2 represent different moments of her relationship w guo jing #<- deranged sentences always welling within me #my posts

[ignitesthestxrs]

there's something about the way people talk about john gaius (incl the way the author writes him) that is like. so absent of any connection to te ao māori that it's really discomforting. like even in posts that acknowledge him as not being white, they still talk about him like a white, american leftist guy in a way that makes it clear people just AREN'T perceiving him as a māori man from aotearoa.

and it's just really serves to hammer home how powerful and pervasive whiteness and american hegemony is. because TLT is probably the single most Kiwi series in years to explode on the global stage, and all the things i find fraught about it as a pākehā woman reading a series by a pākehā author are illegible to a greater fandom of americans discoursing about whether or not memes are a valid way of portraying queer love.

idk the part of my brain that lights up every time i see a capital Z printed somewhere because of the New Zealand Mentioned??? instinct will always be proud of these books and muir. but i find myself caught in this midpoint of excitement and validation over my culture finding a place on the global stage, frustration at how kiwi humour and means of conveying emotion is misinterpreted or declared facile by an international audience, frustrated also by how that international audience runs the characters in this book through a filter of american whiteness before it bothers to interpret them, and ESPECIALLY frustrated by how muir has done a pretty middling job of portraying te ao māori and the māoriness of her characters, but tht conversation doesn't circulate in the same way* because a big part of the audience doesn't even realise the conversation is there to be had.

which is not to say that muir has done a huge glaring racism that non-kiwis haven't noticed or anything, but rather that there are very definitely things that she has done well, things that she has done poorly, things that she didn't think about in the first book that she has tacked on or expanded upon in the later books, that are all worthy of discussion and critique that can't happen when the popular posts that float past my dash are about how this indigenous man is 'guy who won't shut up about having gone to oxford'

*to be clear here, i'm not saying these conversations have never happened, just that in terms of like, ambient posts that float round my very dykey dash, the discussions and meta that circulate on this the lesbian social media, are overwhelmingly stripped of any connection to aotearoa in general, let alone te ao māori in specific. and because of the nature of american internet hegemony this just,,,isn't noticed, because how does a fish know it's in the ocean u know? i have seen discussions along these lines come up, and it's there if i specifically go looking for it, but it's not present in the bulk of tlt content that has its own circulatory life and i jut find that grim and a part of why the fandom is difficult to engage with.

#tlt #the locked tomb #i don't really have an answer lmao this is more #an expression of frustration and discomfort #over the way posts about john gaius seem to have very little connection to the background muir actually gave him #like you cant describe him as an educated leftist bisexual man #without INCLUDING that he is māori #that has an impact! that has weight and importance! #that is a background to every decision he makes #from the meat wall to the nuke to his relationship with the earth #and it also has weight and importance in the decisions that muir makes in writing him #it is not a neutral decision that he's known as john gaius lmao #it's not a neutral decision that the empire is explicitly of roman/latin extraction #it's not even neutral that this is a book about necromancy #it's certainly not a neutral fucking decision that john was at one point a māori man living in the bush #when the nz govt decided to send cops in #like that is a thing that happens here! that is a reference to nz cultural and political events that informs john's character and actions #and with the nature of who john is in the story #informs the narrative as a whole #and i think the tiresome part of this experience is that #in general #americans are not well positioned to understand that something might be being written from outside their experience as a default #like obviously many many americans in online leftist & queer spaces are willing to learn and take on new information #but so much of the conversation starts from a place of having to explain that forests exist to fish

[heli-writes]

A dragon's heart, part 9.

Pairing: Barbarian!Bakugou Katsuki x female!reader

Summary: The dragonblood tribe is known for being cruel, barbarian warriors that slaughter, loot and rape all places they pass through. They are feared among the villagers and even bigger cities. Having lost most of their women to a plague, they're trying to ensure their tribe's survival by kidnapping women from other places. However, they're not the only monsters in human form out there. When y/n experiences this first hand, she has no choice but to ask for help from no other but the barbarian leader Katsuki Bakugou himself.

Disclaimer: mentions of injuries, mentions of forceful behaviour towards women, bad family dynamics

[Please don't read if you are sensible to or triggered by the topics mentioned above.]

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10

Series Masterlist

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Y/n has no idea what is happening. Currently, there are two elder women around her who undressed her, redressed her and now are pulling her hair and painting her face. And by painting her face, it must be clarified that they don't put pretty delicate makeup on her but that they draw bright red lines on her face, arms, and legs. It looks like full-body war paint, y/n thinks.

Also, y/n is not convinced by the outfit they put her in. It's a two-piece. A loose neck holder top ends only a few inches under her boobs. She's also wearing a floor-length skirt. However, she's not sure if the word 'skirt' fits the piece of clothing around her hips. Two long pieces of fabric are strung in multiple hold chains that sit tightly around her hips. One piece covers her backside, the other the front side.

The squishy part of her tummy and her belly button, as well as her arms and legs, remain uncovered. Y/n usually feels comfortable in her body but it's a bit too revealing. At least for this weather. Also, she's a bit scared her butt cheeks can be seen when she's walking.

She tries not to think about it too hard since the two women working on her hair are wearing similar clothes. It seems as if this is normal for women around here, even if they are a gazillion years old.

The women don't speak to her. Also, they don't speak to each other.

When Katsuki left her alone with them, y/n felt a bit relieved since this was the first female company she had in a long while. But now she just feels awkward.

The women braid her hair and pin it up in a lavish updo which y/n finds very pretty. When they're done, they decorate her hair with golden hairpins and put necklaces around her neck that look similar to Katsuki's. They also want to put earrings on her but y/n doesn't have her ears pierced so they leave them as they are.

Absently, y/n massages her earlobes. She wonders if they'd like to pierce them. They have multiple piercings and also Katsuki wears earrings. She's also positive that she saw men with piercings in their noses and other places in their faces yesterday.

She shudders. It's against the beliefs of her people. Her people believe that one is born by nature's divine design and altering your body by piercinging or tattooing it, is a heavy insult to the great being of things. Some even refuse makeup and say it's not how nature wants them to look. Y/n isn't so strict about that but also wouldn't usually wear any form of paint on her body.

All of this feels so very foreign to y/n. Of course, she knew that Katsuki must live a different way of life but when being with him, that rarely became apparent. This outfit makes it painfully aware of just how different their cultures are.

Somewhen, Katsuki reenters the tent again. He wears a similar body paint as her. He lost the cape and more necklaces than usually hang around his neck. He also wears a bunch of bracelets, he usually doesn't wear.

When the ladies are done with y/n, they present her to him. Y/n gets up from where she is seated and gives him an unsure smile.

His eyes run up and down her figure. He has a stern look on his face the entire time, but he gives her an approving nod. Then he steps closer to her and pulls a delicate chain from his pocket. Carefully, he places it on her head.

Immediately, the women step closer and pin it into place. Y/n touches it carefully. The chain is thin with strings of golden beads. In the middle of her forehead dangles a drop-shaped pendant in a rubyred shade.

Katsuki puts a hand on her shoulder. The weight from his arm grounds her. She didn't notice how shaky her breath was.

The funny thing is, she doesn't even know what this is all about or what will happen when they leave the tent. Based on the outfits and Katsuki's grim expression, it must be something meaningful, something big.

She wonders if he drags her down an aisle. Figuratively speaking, because her people don't marry in churches where you would have to walk down an aisle. Her people marry in lakes and rivers or creeks. They believe all life comes from water and therefore they tie their lives together in it.

Y/n is pretty sure, she would refuse to step in a lake around here. It's just too cold for swimming on the tip of a mountain. She wonders if she'd walk down an aisle with Katsukin if that's what is going to happen today.

Anxiety chews at the sides of her stomach. Truth is, she doesn't want to get married. She wants to be with Katsuki, yes, but again in her culture that doesn't mean one just immediately marries. Y/n thinks that a challenge or crisis must be overcome first before two people can truly know that they belong together. That hasn't happened so far.

She needs more time and she doesn't know if Katsuki or his people are going to give her more time.

The two women leave the tent and Katsuki and y/n remain alone. Katsuki steps a bit closer and carefully puts his hand on the side of her head. He leans closer and puts his forehead against hers. The pendant presses into the skin of y/n's head and it doesn't feel as reassuring as it probably should feel.

Y/n swallows hard.

Katsuki leans back and stares into her eyes. The red of his eyes looks particularly hard today.

Meanwhile, Katsuki can see the fear in y/n's eyes. He wants to explain to her what they will do today but he knows he can't. It makes him angry he's never been taught the common tongue. His mother was traditional like that.

He is racking his brain for any words or sentences he picked up. Unfortunately, most of the things he learned, he picked up in battle or from captives or the women they took. He doubts however that things like "die", "you bastards" or "please, no" will be reassuring to y/n.

"Okay?", he tries, the word feeling foreign on his tongue. He holds out his hand to her. Y/n stares at his hand, then at him. She takes a deep breath. "Okay", she whispers and takes his hand.

*~*~*~*~

Katsuki takes her to the bonfire square. It's where his mother, her ladies-in-waiting, and the rest of his people wait for them.

He's as anxious as y/n looks like. He has to admit that while y/n looks absolutely stunning in his tribe's clothes and paint, she also looks smaller and weaker than ever. He tells himself that things will be alright. That even if his mother doesn't approve, he can take her on as his mate anyway. He's chief, he makes the decisions.

But deep down, every child wants to please their parents. And Katsuki looks up to his mother. She's fierce, she's strong and the only reason he's chief to begin with is only because she stepped down after the plague. Some people blamed her for it even though everybody knows that it's not something a human being can control. Maybe that is why she feels so strongly about Katsuki taking on a good mate that will produce lots of offspring.

Katsuki shudders even though he's not cold. He looks at y/n who is also shivering. He holds her hand a bit tighter. Y/n looks up to him and gives him a small smile.

At least she doesn't despise me and comes along willingly, he thinks.

The past few presentations since the plague have been anything than pretty and joyful. After raids, men brought women from other places. Women that didn't want to be there. It was either impossible to make them look presentable due to them fighting it or the paint on their faces was ruined by the time they stepped in front of Katsuki.

Usually, his men have to present their future mates in front of the chief and he has to decide whether they are acceptable or not. Since he's chief, it's his mother who will do the presentation. In contrast to Katsuki's decision, his mother's is completely representative and meaningless. He's chief after all. And still, he feels like he needs his mother's approval. Maybe part of him is afraid that his people won't respect him or his mate when she doesn't approve of her.

They approach the square. His people are lined up at the side desperate to get a view of the woman Katsuki brings along. His mother and her ladies-in-waiting are sitting at the other end of the square.

Katsuki can feel y/n stiffen at his side. He gives her a glance and can see how her face is pale beneath the red paint on her face. She's not shaking anymore but her muscles are tightened to a point where they will probably ache tomorrow.

He links her arms with his and proudly struts along the square. He tries not to walk too fast so that she doesn't stumble over her feet. He's seen women stumble and fall on their presentation and it was always humiliating for her and the man. Of course worse are the cases where they have to be dragged or carried into the square while crying and loudly protesting.

Quickly, he tries to shut out these thoughts. This is different, y/n's different. She's coming willingly, she's looking more than just presentable, things will be fine.

He steps in front of his mother who looks at him with a hard stare. She doesn't even spare y/n a glance.

„Mother, I present to you the woman I have chosen as my mate.“, he tells her. His voice sounds hard and determined.

His mother sits up more straightly. Her eyes shift from him to y/n. Katsuki doesn't dare to look at y/n. He just hopes she holds eye contact with his mother. His mother, Mistuki, looks y/n up and down.

Then she stands up and walks up to the couple. Gently, Katsuki lets go off y/n's arm and takes a step to the side.

His mother circles y/n while examining the woman infront of her. She lifts y/n's skirt a bit and peers under it. She touches her hair and the necklaces that dangle around her neck.

„She's skinny.“, Mitsuki comments. Katsuki stays silent. His mother stops infront of y/n and looks her up and down again.

„She has no muscle mass whatsoever. Can she even carry a bucket of water from the creek to your tent?“, his mother continues.

„She arrived yesterday. I'm sure she can build up muscles over time.“, Katsuki answers her calmly.

Mitsuki cocks her head to the side.

„Can she? She looks cold. She might also freeze before she even finds her way back to your tent.“, his mother continues.

„I get her warmer clothes.“, Katsuki argues.

His mother gives him a glance.

„Sure, sure. You can. But what if she catches a cold? Is she sustainable enough to survive that? To survive childbirth?“, his mother asks frowning.

Katsuki steps closer again and pushes y/n's top to the side a bit.

„When we met, she had an arrow stuck in her shoulder. Look, it healed quickly and without infection. I'm sure she can heal well after giving birth.“, he explains.

„Struck by an arrow?“, his mother says with a raised eyebrow and Katsuki instantly regrets mentioning it.

„That means she lost a fight? Are we not a tribe of warriors?“, Mitsuki asks sharply.

„It's a wound of a warrior. I've been struck by arrows before. Are you saying I'm not a warrior?“, he bites back.

His mother gives him a long stare before returning to her seat. She leans her head onto her arm and runs a hand over her face. He knows what comes next.

„I don't approve.“, she says and Katsuki's face twists in anger. Whispers run through the crowd.

Before he can answer her, Mitsuki continues.

„Katsuki, you understand you are our leader, yes? You understand that it is necessary that you have plenty and healthy children, yes?“, she points out angrily.

„Of course, mother. I intend to ensure our tribe's survival in any way I can.“, he tells her calmly.

Mitsuki slams her fist down and stands up.

„Then, why are you intending to bond to this frail excuse of a female? Why do you not wait until one of our own is of age?“, his mother says loudly pointing towards a few girls at the age of 10-12 at the side next to her ladies-in-waiting.

„The longer I wait or any man of this tribe waits, the bigger the gap between the generations will get. This poses a threat to our tribe. You know that. It's why we began bringing in women from other places in the first place.“, he argues back angrily.

„Wrong“, his mother says cooly, „We began bringing other women here because so many of us died that even the next generation of women can't ensure the tribe's survival.“

Katsuki grinds his teeth. She's not wrong.

„Do you know what kind of insult this is to these women? That their leader chooses a foreign, weak female like that over them?“, his mother continues and gives y/n a demeaning gesture.

Katsuki starts to see red.

„They're not women, they're children, mother. Do you intend to make one of them my child bride? Isn't that an insult to their mothers who died? Is that all they're worth?“, he yells at her.

He knows that will hit a sore spot. His mother cares deeply for these young girls and grieves the death of their mothers equally as deeply.

Absolute silence engulfs the square. No one dares to even move a finger. His mother gives him a long, cold stare. Then she sits down again.

„You're chief, Katsuki. Do whatever you want, but I'll warn you. Your example will precede this tribe. If you fail to produce an heir, this tribe will not survive under your reign.“, she tells him.

Katsuki is fuming. He wants to yell at her, maybe even throw a knife at her. But people are watching and he has to be careful what he says next. He must strengthen his position as chief even if that means demeaning his own mother.

„You've brought this fate upon us in the first place. Why do you think you have the answer to how we ensure our survival? Didn't you step down because you don't have the answer?“, he says striking to kill.

His mother's face contorts in anger and shame. He doesn't give her a chance to reply. He turns to his people.

„This woman came here by her own free will. She's proven herself a great healer and skilled hunter to me. You all feasted on her success at yesterday's bonfire. Therefore, I approve her of being worthy as my mate.“, he declares to them.

Without waiting for a reaction from his people or his mother, he turns around grabbing y/n's arm and he leaves the square with his head held high.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Y/n stumbles after Katsuki. Her head spins. The last few minutes have been nothing but bizarre to her. Obviously, she didn't understand a single thing that's been said but y/n isn't stupid. She quickly picked up on the atmosphere of the conversation. Which was not good.

Even before Katsuki and the women started yelling at each other, y/n knew that the conversation was not going well. It's easy to spot when Katsuki gets angry. Really angry, not the normal state of angry he always seems to be in.

Katsuki walks fast and y/n has trouble keeping up with him. He drags her all the way back to his tent. Only when they're inside, does Katsuki let go of her. He doesn't say a word.

He walks over to the table and pushes it over with a loud, angry yell. Y/n flinches at the action.

Katsuki kicks a bucket filled with weapons to the other side of the room and lets out a string of angry words that y/n guesses are insults.

She's never seen him this angry before and it scares her. She wants to get closer to him, put a hand on his shoulder, and comfort him in his frustration. But when Katsuki starts destroying one of the chairs with a battle axe, y/n is sure it's best to not get close to him at this moment.

So, she stands helplessly in the middle of the room flinching and trying to avoid flying splinters of wood.

Suddenly, there's a rustle at the entrance of the tent. A red-haired warrior enters it.

„Yo, Bakugou!“, the man says carefully and steps next to y/n.

„What the fuck do you want, shitty hair?“, Katsuki yells at him, his face contorted in anger.

„Making sure you don't scare the poor thing to death.“, the man says and points towards y/n.

„Fuck off, Kirishima. She's fine.“, Katsuki growls at him

The man named Kirishima sighs and gives y/n a side glance.

„You sure? She doesn't look too happy about this. You still have to mark her, maybe tune it down a bit until then.“, Kirishima tells his chief.

Katsuki drops the bits of wood he is holding and frowns.

„Whatever, shitty hair. What do you want?“, Katsuki asks.

Kirishima pushes his hands into his pockets.

„Looking if you're alright. I mean the presentation went... not well, I guess.“, the red-haired man says carefully.

Katsuki scoffs. „I'm fine. The hag's opinion doesn't matter. I'm chief.“, he declares.

Kirishima nods. „Of course, you are. And your decision stands.“, he reassures his leader.

„And if you ask me, I think you made a good choice.“, Kirishima continues.

„From all the women that we brought here over the last few years, that one is definitely the calmest. Remember when I brought mine? She was a mess, well, actually still is but I don't need to tell you that.“, Kirishima tries to reassure him.

When Katsuki doesn't answer, Kirishima quickly adds: „Also, she's very pretty.“.

Katsuki straightens his posture and looks y/n up and down.

„Yeah, she is.“, he tells his red-haired friend.

Kirishima nods cheerily. „Exactly. So why bother thinking about your mother's words? Why don't you and... uh...?“, Kirishima gestures towards y/n.

„Y/n“, Katsuki tells him.

„Right, why don't you and y/n come and join us at the stables? Denki, Sero, and I are heating up some mead. Have a drink with us.“, Kirishima proposes.

Katsuki shrugs. „I don't know. Y/n might not feel comfortable meeting more people after this.“, Katsuki tries to excuse himself.

Kirishima gives him a toothy grin. „Oh, what a gentleman. You're really smitten, aren't you?“, he teases.

Katsuki shoots him an angry look. „Shut the fuck up, Kirishima. It's just been a lot, ok?“, he mumbles.

Kirishima doesn't fail to notice the pink dust covering his chief's cheeks.

„Alright, what about this. Y/n stays here and can collect herself. You come with us for a drink. Maybe we can come back and catch her later. What do you think?“, Kirishima tries to convince him again.

Katsuki shrugs.

„I guess we can do that.“, Katsuki says reluctantly.

„Great!“; Kirishima says clapping his hands. „Y/n, you stay! We'll come back later.“, he tells the woman next to him who looks at him with wide eyes when he speaks directly to her.

Katsuki steps over the destroyed chair and follows his friend outside without sparing y/n a glance.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Y/n feels like crying. She's standing in the middle of the half-destroyed room all alone. She's so confused.

What on earth happened?

What's going on?

Who is that red-haired man?

Where is Katsuki going?

Her head starts to hurt by the amount of force she uses to suppress her tears. Eventually, she can't hold them back anymore and hot tears run down her face.

She makes sure that no one can hear her sob.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

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[Please comment beneath the last update if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters]

#mha fantasy au #mha bakugou #mha #mha x reader #mha x y/n #barbarian bakugo x reader #barbarian bakugou katsuki #barbarian bakugou imagine #barbarian bakugou x reader #barbarian bakugou #fantasy!au bakugou #bakugou katsuki imagine #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugo #bakugou katsuki #bnha bakugo katsuki #bnha fantasy au #bnha bakugou #bnha

[hawnks]

It’s not a date. You make that known, loud and clear from the outset.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gojo murmurs absently. “Whatever you say sweetie.”

It’s not a date when he picks you up from your apartment. It’s not a date when he insists you change out of your ratty sweats, or when he buys you a new outfit to his exacting standards (how did he know your measurements?).

It’s not a date when he treats you to Fancy Lunch, or when he splits his desert with you, feeding you from his own fork.

It’s not a date when he takes your hand, doesn’t let go.

And it’s definitely not a date when you finally arrive at the luxury leathergoods store, the whole point of this outing. He hovers around you, watching. He seems to be waiting on you to do something, but since he’s the one who insisted on this you’re not sure what he wants.

Finally he’s had enough of you floundering.

“Pick one,” he murmurs, eyes bright as he corals you to the collar section.

Suddenly your throat is dry as you look down the long row of them. Shiny and bold. Precious. “You want me to… pick a collar for you?”

He’s watching you, keen and hungry. He’s so close you can feel the heat of him all along your side where he’s huddled against you.

Collars have a huge significance to omegas, but you’re not quite in tune with their cultural meaning. Something about ownership, claim. You feel like you should reject this, whatever he’s trying to do here. It’s not right, and you’re not right for each other. This is a job for someone who knows what they’re doing, and besides that, someone of his social standing. You should tell him as much.

But you don’t.

You spend long minutes poring over the options. Feeling the material, testing it’s texture. Careful, you choose one with a soft inner lining, that won’t catch on the neck of his button downs, that won’t chafe when he’s running around. A subtle color, unobtrusive in his loud, bold life.

(He doesn’t ask you to put it on him, knowing, somehow that it would be too much for you, cause you to recede into your shell. He can be patient.)

It’s still not a date.

So you have no reason to be pissy when yet another alpha taps him on the shoulder, says some cheesy line about his eyes.

Gojo just snorts, rolling his eyes, not even gracing the man with a response as he pulls you along down the sidewalk, talking about what to get for dinner.

But this is the fourth time it’s happened today, and you feel like you’ve reached your limit.

You yank out of his grasp.

Immediately, he makes a grab for your hand again, scowling when you pull away, no longer acquiescing to his whims.

“What?” he demands, “What is it?”

“You could be a little more put off by it,” you say finally. It sounds petulant even to your own ears. “Like… offended, or whatever.”

It takes him a second to realize what you’re talking about.

“Comes with the territory, sweetheart,” he drawls. He’s smiling, but you can tell he’s unhappy with your peevishness. Why are you denying him? Are you disturbed by what he is, too? “Omega and all that.”

You shift on your feet, uncomfortable with your own discomfort. “How often do alphas hit on you, anyway?”

He freezes. Grins. “Are you jealous?”

You can’t even get out a denial before he’s grabbing you, spinning you both in a bear hug. “Holy shit that’s so hot, baby,” he moans.

He’s got you by the shoulders as he starts dragging you down a side street, not at all in the direction of the station you were supposed to part ways at.

“Gojo, what are you doing?”

“Making it up to you,” he says, pinching your cheek. “I think I saw a hotel this way earlier.”

#omega!gojo #cw a/b/o #I just think his eyes would roll back in his head and he would moan SO LOUD if he ever found you’re jealous :/ #heinous man

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 9: Reconciliation (NSFW!)

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. You mend a broken bond.

(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)

Thank you to @angelqueen04​​​, @ewanmitchellcrumbs​ and @ajthefujoshi​ for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of pregnancy, discussion of abortion, medieval beliefs on abortifacients and contraceptives.

You leave under the cover of darkness.

So scattered and stunned are you that you do not think to question being roused by a wide-eyed Bethany and dressed by a yawning Jeyne, led slowly from your chambers with Daeron all but nodding off at your side, conveyed down the stairs and out to the courtyard where Daemon and the wheelhouse await. The particulars seem unimportant. You drowse on his shoulder all the way to the harbour, where the ship is docked and ready. When you are brought aboard and borne to your quarters for the journey, you fall immediately back to sleep.

It is as though some kind of spell has lifted when you awaken once again. You blink as you take in your surroundings: the wood-grain slats spanning up the walls and along the ceiling in shades of tawny richness; the light streaming brightly through the windows adorned with damask curtains of crimson, in complement to the vast rug of Targaryen red and black rolled across the floor; and the subtle signs of Daemon’s presence, from the overcoat carelessly tossed across the back of a chair to Dark Sister placed in her sheath on the table, belt and all. It is the first time in days that you truly see the world around you.

There is something cursed about the capital, you muse absently to yourself. Something strange and unnatural that seeks to steal the joy from all who enter it.

You startle slightly at the sound of your name. “You frightened me.”

Truthfully, you are more than a little relieved to have Daemon in your presence, wanting little else but the surety of your husband by your side. He smiles as he approaches, gentle steps rather than the strident thud of boots against the floor that you are so used to. Your mournful mood has unnerved him greatly.

Poor, poor kepa.

“How do you feel?” he asks, obligingly slotting a hand behind your back as you struggle to pull yourself upright. You wince at the catch and snarl of fabric over your nipples, the sensation of something sticky being ripped from flesh too quickly, sharp and stinging. At the sight of your grimace and the sound of your frustrated huffs as you try and fail to find a comfortable position to sit in, he settles himself along the pillows behind you and coaxes you to lean back against him. He is warm and firm and smells of all the things you love, of smoke and leather and something intrinsically masculine and safe. His lips find the shell of your ear. “Hm?”

You had forgotten to answer. “I am well,” you say.

Grabbing for his hand, you lead him to the place where one of the babes has decided to make themselves known, kicking indignantly out at the side of your belly from within. He laughs at the sensation, pressing back against the assault and engaging in a tussle with the audacious little rascal.

You elbow him gently, frowning up at him. “Do not encourage his behaviour, kepus! He is being terribly rude.”

“She’s just being her father’s daughter, little girl.” Using his free hand to cradle beneath your chin, he leans down to kiss you. It is a soft brush of lips upon lips, barely there, the heat of his thumb tracing a line across your jaw. His eyes glow like vivid spring in the morning sun, vivid beneath his browbone. “No harm in that.”

“They are both free to be their father’s children after they come into the world,” you say, though it is more of a whisper than anything else. “Not while they can use my insides as target practice.”

“Of course.” It sounds distinctly mocking, but not quite insulting. You roll your eyes.

With the heaviness of your middle making it taxing enough to move about on land, it seems all but impossible to take the fresh air while on board a steadily rocking ship. Thus, Ūlla decrees that you are to stay abed for the sennight’s voyage back to your island home. The thought of hauling your body—rife with aches and pains across your spine, your chest, your knees, and swelling unpleasantly at the ankles—around such unstable terrain sounds positively exhausting, and so you submit to her directive with little fuss. You cannot claim boredom, however, for your temporary apartments are a revolving door of visitors come to break up the monotony of each day.

Your new ladies are a near constant presence, which provides you the opportunity to get to know them better. It had grieved you greatly to dismiss Senna, especially so soon after the passing of Miriam, but you knew you could not keep someone capable of such treachery in your service. You had asked Helaena to make enquiries to the court; Bethany and Jeyne were the very first parties to express their enthusiasm for the role. Being from minor Houses, their families bear no particular allegiance in the strife between Green and Black. Your initial meeting with the girls proved them to be every bit as guileless and courteous as you would have hoped.

Mayhaps they are a little dull, you think as you listen to them chatter about the new gowns their fathers had paid for as going-away presents, but there is time to remedy that.

You are gladdened to have Ser Alton also make an appearance, scarred and limping heavily with the use of a cane. He will remain in your service, perhaps as guard to your babes’ nursery when the time comes. Whatever use Daemon finds for him, you are insistent that he be given a worthy stipend for the remainder of his life, though it will be but a mere pittance compared to his great sacrifice. You feel guilty when he grins at your pronouncement of this, for he would not be in such a predicament were it not for you.

You cast the thought aside. What is done is done.

Daeron is your favourite guest of all, though. He reads to you in halting Valyrian, childish cadence shaping around unfamiliar sounds. Though he struggles so, his stubborn perseverance is adorable. He babbles about the ‘tricks’ Athfiezar has taken to the skies to perform, your boy dutifully flying back and forth from his roost to observe your progress home. Your heart aches at the fact that you are missing his little routine, that you are unable to get up and see him as you have craved since first hearing his almighty caterwauling from the highest parapet of the Red Keep, your devoted mount always protecting you from afar. But mostly, your young brother lays about with you, cheek to your belly so that he can feel the babes’ kicks upon his skin.

“Ouch!” He jerks back, glaring at your middle and looking so comically outraged that you cannot help but to laugh. “That one hurt!”

“I am sure they did not mean to,” you say, hand reaching forth to card through his hair fondly. “They just want to say ‘hello’.”

In truth, the sensation is inexplicable. You understand now why it is so difficult for mothers to describe it to one who has not experienced the same. At times, it feels as though your body has become a host to something foreign and frightening, an arcane entity that saps your energy and threatens to burst out from within. But you are strangely relieved by the oddness of it, the bruising signs of lives that are thriving in spite of all that has occurred.

“There’re better ways to say that,” Daeron mutters, bringing you forth from your musing as he returns to his previous position. His next words are muffled into your gown, the sounds vibrating through to your skin and making you giggle. “Be gentle, baby.”

When you arrive on the shores of Dragonstone, it takes everything within you not to cry at the familiar sight of sharp stone contours looming from grey mist, the salt and smoke in the air filling your nostrils with the scent of home. You have missed this place more than you realised. You are guided from the ship to the rowboat to the shore by Daemon and Harwin both, the latter taciturn to the extreme since the discovery of his brother’s crimes. He cannot be faulted for this. You convey what gratitude you can in your silence, leaving him to his thoughts. The sway of the boat makes you queasy, and you are forced to a standstill upon reaching the dock so that you may bend as far as you are able to retch into the sea.

Daemon does his best to soothe you, patting your hip as you grip tightly to his arm for balance. “The worst is over, sweetling. There we go.”

“Ugh.” You wipe the bile from your mouth with the back of your hand. “Never again. Never—never again.”

He chuckles. “If you say so. Hardly a loss. I’ve always fucking hated sea travel.”

You side-eye him irritably. How infuriating he is with that grin stretched joyously across his face, his silver hair ruffling in the wind, expression gleaming with amusement and something wicked.

He is so handsome, you think. You despise him. No, I do not. I cannot.

Suddenly, there is a voice on the wind. You hear your name being called, high and frantic. You cast your gaze down the dock to see a cream-and-scarlet shape advancing quickly toward you, pale hair white and streaming in the weak light. Rhaenyra.

“Sister!”

She is wan and tearful when she reaches you, all but barrelling into you and folding her arms around your shoulders. The smell of her perfume—of jasmine and sandalwood and childhood and simplicity—transports you to another time, a time when you were small and she was so big and not just in stature, but in temperament too, and her embrace was the safest place in the whole entire world. In this moment, you cannot recall why you ever had cause to feel anger, why you had not spoken to her in what feels now like an age. You have missed her, you have missed her and she is with you and all is right and good. All the rest is ash and dust upon the breeze.

“I am here,” you murmur into her shoulder, or perhaps you weep it, tears wetting the fabric of her gown and belly crushed to hers. “I am home.”

“I wanted to come, but Father…” Rhaenyra’s nostrils flare.

It is a profound relief to find yourself in familiar chambers, the rooms where you feel safe and most at ease. Little has changed. The same grim dark walls stand etched with screaming dragons above a stately bedframe swathed in wine-dark velvet, the same bookshelves are stacked with tomes shared between you and your uncle, the same balcony carved from stone is lit by the setting sun. The babes’ eggs remain warmed in their braziers by the hearth, chasing the chill from the room and bringing a merry glow with the crackling flames. You take this all in from your place on the chaise.

“I know,” you say quietly, uncertainly. Despite the fact that your hand is clutched in hers and her eyes are ringed red and raw with worry, you do not quite know where you stand. “Daemon told me.”

She had tried to bully her way to King’s Landing, or so you had been told. Having both witnessed and been on the receiving end of her temper, you do not envy the poor souls who had been made to inform the Princess that she could not mount Syrax to venture forth to your aid.

That she had made such fuss is encouraging, you think. A sister who means to break ties would not threaten to have her staff executed or destroy countless priceless artifacts or scream loud enough to wake the dragons on the other side of the island in her desperation to come to you.

Rhaenyra’s grip tightens to the point of pain, her eyes shadowing with malcontent and the polychromatic thunder of untapped wrath.

“I cannot believe Larys fucking Strong. That he is capable of such—such—” She cuts herself off after a glance at you, huffing in lieu of what would no doubt have been an impressive string of profanities. Shaking her head, the corners of her lips curve up weakly. “I’m surprised Uncle allowed the cunt to live. And Father’s sent ravens, you know—he’s rather put out by the manner in which you left.”

From what you have gathered, Daemon had readied your household with extreme discretion, taking only days to collect what he deemed essential so that he may deliver you from the city without so much as a by-your-leave in the earliest hours. Save for a cursory message passed along to the servants, there was no proclamation made of your departure to the King or the court.

“Yes, well.” What arrogance he has to be wroth after the manner he had discarded my right to justice!  “As for Lord Larys… I do not think Daemon intends to let the matter lie,” you say. “He is going to… well, I do not know, exactly. I did not ask. I just—wanted to come home.”

At that, her countenance lightens. “I’m glad you’re back,” she says, as though it is some great secret wrested from deep within her. You could have guessed such from the way she is looking at you like you are returned from beyond the veil.

And yet, it makes you frown. “Are you?” you ask, the memory of the garden threading through your mind, that terrible argument that had shaken the foundations of your bond with your sister.

You can almost hear her echoing words again, vicious and biting. You don’t even realise how spoiled you are.

Rhaenyra closes her eyes and swallows, and you catch the faint shakiness to the exhalation that follows as she prepares to answer you. She extricates herself from your hold, though it carries no air of rejection, and gazes pensively down at her lap where her hands now lay. You notice that she is turning the ring upon her middle finger with her thumb over and over. She is nervous, you realise. You wonder how it is possible that you are able to elicit such uncertainty in one so unwavering. She suddenly scoffs, though from the brooding set of her brow you suppose she directs this to none but herself. “I’m sorry,” she finally says. “I—hated myself the moment I said those awful things…”

“Why?” This is far kinder than she had been last time you spoke. You do not want to incite her displeasure now. “Why were you so cruel to me?”

As the days have passed, you have found this to be the query of paramount importance. It is not as though you had not known her capable of rage. She is a creature of passion, of fire, and she had rained flames down upon you for a reason. But you cannot—will not—accept the blame for it.

“I was angry. Jealous, even.” Rhaenyra sighs at the expression on your face. “I know. It’s horrible of me.”

You are sure you appear every bit as bewildered as you feel. “But why? You’re Rhaenyra.”

“And you’re very sweet, darling.” A beat, then two; she hesitates, staring past you for a moment before refocusing, eyes returning to yours with steely resolve. “You… you know that Laenor is not like—other men. He prefers those of a… particular persuasion. Of which I am not.”

Here, she pauses. You grasp for her hand again, squeezing encouragingly. She takes a breath. “We tried. Of course we did,” she says. “But no child would come. I needed heirs if I was to ascend the Iron Throne one day. So, I… sought assistance elsewhere.”

“Harwin.”

She flushes at your prompt declaration, glancing down. “Yes, Harwin. And he’s been good to me. They were both good to me. He and Laena.”

It grieves you still to hear your cousin’s name, but you keep yourself from lingering overlong upon the thought of dark skin and silver coils and merry laughter.

A wry, pained sort of smile curves Rhaenyra’s lips as she speaks, drawing you further into the present.  “But I always knew—I’ve always known, in the back of my mind, that the gossip is true,” she says. Her eyes shine like polished glass, but you know she will not break. “My sons are the best part of my life, but they are not Laenor’s. Everyone sees it. Everyone knows it. It’s so… draining, living that lie.”

Your sister is a proud woman. After having spent so many years denying your nephews’ illegitimacy to the court, the people, the Greens, to Father, to the gods themselves, it must be dreadful indeed to admit to this truth, even if it is only to you.

“And you…”

She lifts her chin to look at you, forehead wrinkling with the drawing together of her brows. Her tone is not quite accusatory, though the hurt of past wounds brings a weak rise of defensiveness rushing over you. You pull away slightly.

Her countenance gentles. “You have a husband who can give you children. Children whose blood will never be questioned, never be whispered about or mocked or insulted. No one will ever dare accuse you of being a whore. I… It finally became too much for me.”

You do not feel guilty for your response to Rhaenyra’s malice, for the venom you had voiced in that argument from what seems like so many moons ago now. Despite this, you cannot help but to pity her.

‘Tis the folly of youth to think her unmoved by the slander bandied about across the Realm, you chide yourself. You ought to have considered this. “I did not know,” you whisper, regret bitter and tickling in the back of your throat. “I didn’t realise. I thought—”

‘I thought you wanted my husband.’ You let the implication hang in the air. A swooping sensation in your gut heralds the uncomfortable reminder that you still—still—have not told him of this argument.

“Yes.” She nods, anticipating the statement before it has even been made. “And I told you before, when first you were wed. That prospect died long ago. I have no need for Daemon.” She rolls her eyes as though the idea of desiring your uncle is some great folly. You might be insulted on his behalf were it not for the relief that it brings. “None of this was your fault. My own recklessness has led me here, I realise that. I know I do not deserve it, but… please. You’re my sister. If there is anyone I need, it is you. Please forgive me.”

“Oh, ‘Nyra.” Your belly gets in the way, forcing you to contort awkwardly to the side as you move to wrap your arms around her. Her chin falls to the dip between your neck and shoulder, her laugh gusting across exposed skin at the sensation of the babe that is snugged between you kicking out against her body. You giggle with her, angling yourself toward her ear so that she may hear you fully. “Next time you are feeling this way, talk to me. Stop shutting me out. I can handle it, I’m old enough now—”

“I know, I know.” Tugging out of your embrace, she lets her hands fall to your middle.

It is the first time she has truly felt the change in you of her own volition. You remember when you had forced her to touch the burgeoning swell upon first announcing the lives you bear, how reluctant and feather-light her palm had felt, how the strain had unveiled itself at the corners of her eyes and in the weak tilt of her mouth as you had chattered at her in excitement.

“Gods,” she says, fingers mapping the span of flesh in interest, “but you truly are a woman grown now, aren’t you? Look at this!”

“They are already unruly. I feel as though I am perpetually seated in the privy, such is their insistence on entertaining themselves with my insides.”

And once my ablutions are complete, you think ruefully, I am not capable of seeking other locales until someone deigns to find me and help me up. It had not been the best task with which to induct your new ladies—but needs must.

“They’re strong. That’s good. Father must have been pleased.”

“Hm.”

“I’d love to have seen the look on Alicent’s face when she first saw you.”

You shift uncomfortably at the mention of your stepmother. I do not wish to think about her. Not here, not now.

Rhaenyra does not seem to notice your recalcitrance, persisting along her chosen avenue of oration. “She never could stand it whenever I announced another babe. Worried about her precious Aegon, no doubt…” She stops. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I—I—”

At the sight of her concern, so warm and welcome after moons of silence and avoidance, your terrible secret spills forth like water breaking through a dam, unstoppable, rushing torrentially and obliterating everything in its path. You trip over your confession in your haste to get it out, to purge yourself of the burden of carrying it alone.

When you are done, the stillness lingers unnaturally, so quiet that you can almost hear the sound of your blood pumping through your veins.

“Alicent—she… what?” Rhaenyra’s eyes are wide, horrified, face blanched.

“Yes—do tell.”

You turn to see Daemon standing in the open doorway to your chambers, stiffer than the draconic stone carvings that man the entrances to the Keep. Scarcely stemmed rage emerges thunderous beneath the cracks in his control. It seems to vibrate out of him like the dust that quivers on the air after Athfiezar’s landing, deceptively calm until you look closer. The forbidding cross of his arms and the violence that looms in the shadow beneath his brow is enough to tell you without risking inquiry that he has heard you. Has heard everything.

Oh. Your heart twists anxiously. Oh, dear.

“I—”

Speak, for the gods’ sake, you urge yourself, but the sounds refuse to shape themselves into words. Your mettle has fled, leaving you all but a quailing child sitting silent before her elders, awaiting the burn of remonstration.

He advances like a soldier upon enemy territory. “Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps my little wife did not just say that that whore of a Queen has been dosing her with moon tea since who fucking knows when. Perhaps I’ve been struck with madness, or I’m hearing things.”

The last time he was this angry with you…

A blast of inappropriate hilarity washes through your mind as you consider it. Does the instance where you had ignored him for days and danced with Lord Serrett at Helaena’s wedding count? He had certainly been rather put out. You are unsure if it matches with the near tangible ferocity contorting his face into something bestial, barely suppressed and weathering severe hollows into his forehead.

He is already cross, you think. I could tell him about the fight with Rhaenyra. You have been meaning to. Now seems as good an occasion as any.

“Daemon—” Your sister jumps in her seat when he barks at her.

“Quiet!” he hisses, rounding back on you.

You discard your notion, deciding to not to bother divulging that particular secret here. Another time, then. No need to send him to his grave early. He is positively apoplectic. It cannot possibly be good for his heart.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” he asks. “I’m your husband! You don’t answer to Rhaenyra. You answer to me!”

“Excuse me—”

“I wanted to prevent bloodshed,” you say, cutting your sister off. You reach for the arm of the chaise, preparing yourself for the arduous task of rising from such a low surface. You keep your voice soft and light like one who is soothing an agitated stallion. “Kepus—”

He lets out a humourless chuckle, scowling and derisive. Standing in the middle of the room, he makes no move to close in upon you. You think you might prefer it if he would.

“Oh, so you’re protecting her? Excellent.” He laughs again, wild, as though it is a great joke. “She’s murdered how many of our ba—” 

You watch him break off at the end, swallowing convulsively.

“Shit.” His eyes are bright and his teeth grind together beneath closed lips. “I cannot even say the words, and yet you’re defending her? You’d better have—”

“I was not protecting her!”

Grunting, you gratefully accept Rhaenyra’s mutely offered arm of support to hoist yourself up, her other hand pushing against your back. Daemon steps forward, arm outstretched as though to assist you in place of your sister, a rote movement borne from days and weeks of doing the same. It is not needed. The business of getting to your feet winds you for a moment, the uncomfortable bend of your upper half forcing the babes into your lungs and the breath from your body.

“I was protecting us!” You rub your belly with a grimace. “I was protecting you!”

“Protecting me?” He hangs frozen, fingers twitching. A battle rages plain upon his visage. He wars between the need to cosset and the desire to castigate, your loving, hot-tempered dragon of a man.

Sensing a shift in his disposition—or even a fissure through which you may slip through to gentle him with sweet words and a light touch—you make your tentative approach. “I know you,” you say, wincing with each step as the weight pulls low in your spine. It is becoming far too difficult to move about in your current state. “If I had told you when I first found out, you would have slaughtered her.”

“Too fucking right, I would have—”

“Stop. Listen to me.” You lay your palm on his chest. He tenses under the contact, then releases, much larger hand coming up to blanket yours against his body. His chin dips down, eyes closing and brows contracting as though in great pain. “You would have stopped at nothing to take her life in recompense for… for what she has done. You would have killed her. And what then? The Queen dead, and the slayer in close quarters. Papa would have had no choice but to take your head for it.”

You drop your volume low, too low for Rhaenyra to hear, letting bitterness suffuse your hushed tone. “Only a King can kill a Queen, after all.”

It is an old hurt, a terror from so young an age that you had scarcely the words to describe what it was you dreaded.

Mama, whimpers the small, frightened girl locked away in the corner of your mind, snivelling to the echo of dimpled cheeks and crinkled eyes in the barest shape of a woman, a shade of a memory. Is this stabbing pain in my chest what betrayal feels like? Is this how you felt when Father held you down and let them cut you apart? Must I forever wish, hope, pray that he will choose me for once?

You shake your head. This is not the time nor place for such thoughts.

“And I… I would be alone. With child. Forced to contend with the world as a widow not yet twenty summers old. Without you. Without my kepa.” A sharp, plaintive tremor colours your cadence, fear of the picture you paint too real and near to remain impassive. “And do you think Papa would allow his second daughter to remain unmarried with the others wed, even with a womb already full? I was protecting you. I am not sorry for it. I am only sorry that I had not yet had the occasion to tell you myself.”

The world is still as he absorbs what you have said, gaze stormy and troubled and not quite meeting your own. Then, Daemon leans down, presses his forehead to yours, and you believe in this instant that the worst of it is over.

But he bears down harder, and for several moments it is too much, too forceful, and his hand upon your cheek feels less like love and more like punishment, stinging, branding. He shoves himself from you bodily. Taking deep, shuddering breaths, he strides away with his back to you.

“Daemon?”

“I—I cannot,” he says, so low that at first you are unsure if you heard it. He does not turn to meet your stare, just tosses the words over his shoulder like you are someone unimportant, distant and detached.

This is not rage, you realise. This is something else. This is worse.

“We’ll speak later.” With that, he walks to the door, out, footsteps echoing along the hall outside, fainter, fainter, until they are wholly gone.

The first thing you proceed to do after Daemon’s exit is invite Ser Lorent into the room.

You had not expected him to accompany you to Dragonstone, given the self-evident vocation of a Kingsguard to swear himself to the highest man in the Realm. However, he refused to return to his Commander upon discovering Daemon’s intent to take you home, being entirely possessed of the belief that it was his sacred duty to defend those whom the King deems fit. Given that your father had named him your shield in the wake of Ser Alton’s maiming and had not un-named him, it seems he had little desire to forsake this assignation when learning of your impending change in locales.

“Please make sure that my husband is not allowed to take to the skies,” you tell the knight, ignoring the sound of Rhaenyra murmuring your name behind you. “He is not to mount Caraxes today.”

He frowns. “With all due respect, Princess,” he says slowly, “I don’t think I am the one to tell Prince Daemon that—”

You wave him off impatiently. “I am the second-born of King Viserys. He is the brother of the King. Tell me, Ser—which of these is the higher station?”

It is a crass comparison to make, but effective. Ser Lorent’s countenance smooths and he sighs, genuflecting before you in recognition of your case. He offers a cursory farewell and a solemn vow that ‘it will be done’, spinning on heeled boot to march himself off to his task. His golden armour gleams with each movement of limb.

“Sister.” Rhaenyra is insistent.

You turn to her with as patient a countenance as you can muster. She is pallid, carved out to her core, and it plays out in the abrupt weathering of her face, supple-skinned youth mirroring the bone-deep weariness of a thousand summers past. Making your way to her, you decide not to risk sitting on the seat this time. Instead, you lean against the arm of the chair, from which lifting yourself will be a far easier undertaking to perform.

“Alicent is not—the Alicent I knew was not so vile as this,” she says numbly, frozen.

You reach out to lay your palm upon her hunched back, the river of moonlight spilling from her head catching soft between your fingers. Her gaze is far-off, like she is not truly seeing what is before her, instead watching a mirage from another time play out upon the stone floors of your chamber. She lets out a chuckle, but it sounds more like a cough or a sob.

“When I was a girl, all I wanted to do was fly away with her. Far away, where babes and Lords and thrones and kingdoms meant little. I think she would’ve done it if I truly asked it of her. She was my best friend. Sometimes I wonder…” Her voice fizzles like the flame that has burned down to the very last of the wick.

You hush her. “The Alicent you knew is gone. She is not the girl from your childhood, Rhaenyra, not anymore. She… she is something else. Warped.”

“She is the Queen.”

It is all you need to hear to know that she understands in a way so few do.

Power destroys the goodness in people, even those upon whom it is forced. The promise of it had turned Maegor to madness; had made your father a coward content to spurn the needs of his children for the sake of satisfying others; had created a villain of the woman who had once helped you learn your letters from history books. It is slow-eating poison consuming its prey, unseen, unnoticed, until it is far too late and the person it has claimed is no more.

Rhaenyra’s expression changes as she sits up, nostrils flaring and skin tightening around her eyes, flinty and dark.

“For now. Not forever.” You marvel at how something delivered in such hushed volume can sound so much like a proclamation. She looks to you, taking your hands in hers with a rancorous glimmer in her stare. “Lo Sīkudo Dārȳti jemēban, ziry gūrotrir mazemilza. Drīvī aemilā, kese kīvio isān.” When I rule the Seven Kingdoms, she’ll get what she deserves. You will have justice, I swear.

You nod shakily, the tightness in your gut easing. Truthfully, you had been unsure if she would support you after having ignored you for weeks. The attack had served at least one good purpose, you think. It does not bring you much joy to consider for all that has come to light in its wake.

She leaves you with a kiss to the temple and a promise to return to your old routine. “I’ll have dinner relocated to your solar until these two arrive,” she says, stroking your cheeks with her thumbs and glancing down at your belly. “You won’t have to go far, that way. Alright?”

You smile gratefully, acquiescing to her suggestion. Traversing the Keep in your condition just for the sake of a meal hardly seems worth it.

In the silence of your rooms, you contemplate searching for the caps you are stitching to protect the babes’ heads in the cooler weather. They are among the luggage still being brought up from the ship, you remember. Damn.

You ponder upon seeking a tome from your solar next door—within which your ladies are currently installed for the sake of privacy with your sister—but you do not fancy carrying further weight for any measure of distance. Your books are far too heavy for the enterprise to be worth it. Sighing, you shuffle to the bed, always in eager anticipation of a nap to replenish the energy the twins sap for themselves.

Awakening an indeterminate amount of time later, you are bleary and fatigued, gown damp and back aching and stomach rumbling. Thankfully, your ladies seem to have ventured back into your rooms during your slumber.

“How long until the evening meal?” you ask through a yawn, using both arms to push yourself upright and bracing yourself for the rush of blood spotting your vision. You refocus a moment later upon the pair seated by the hearth, the fire lit and crackling merrily behind them.

They both startle lightly at the abruptness of your waking. “There are—some hours yet, Princess,” Jeyne says nervously, eyes darting between you and Bethany.

I make her nervous, you realise. You do not wish to contend with fearful companions. Smiling, you try to settle her, though the learning of such unfortunate news as having to wait so long brings tears to your eyes. You are starved.

She begins to stammer at the sight. “If—If you’d like, I can ask for the kitchens to prepare you something small?”

“That would be lovely, Jeyne,” you say, sure that the trails spilling down your cheeks coupled with the wide-set gleam of your teeth has only served to further frighten her. You must seem positively deranged.

You try to distract from the picture you make by requesting scones spread thick with honey and raspberry conserve, a staple in your diet as of late. The longing that arises at very thought of it speeds the trajectory of the moisture sliding down your face. You hurry to ensure she passes on a further request for honey-glazed goat with mashed turnips for supper.

I may just sprout black-and-yellow fuzz at this rate, you muse. You almost consider asking for a jar of honey to be brought with a spoon to consume by itself—but you are certain the imbibing of so much sweetness will only send you rushing to heave into a basin.

As Jeyne speeds off to fulfil the task you have set her, you turn to Bethany and petition her to arrange for a bath to be brought in. The relief at having something to do other than make stilted conversation with her new mistress appears to relax her greatly. She quite happily consents, placing her book of prayers upon her empty seat to make the necessary enquiries.

Soon enough, you are cleansed and steeped in warm water laced with milk and rose oil, leaning happily over the side of the tub to partake in the buttery desert. Your ladies leave you in peace after helping you into the bath before the hearth and scrubbing you down with soap, and so you are able to enjoy the simple joy of it without unfamiliar company to encumber you.

The scent of flowers and berries and floured goods swirl together in a haze of saccharine richness, calming you greatly and easing the last of your worries. Daemon could burst in this very moment and scream loud enough to be heard in the capital, and I do not think I would care overmuch.

You ought not to have.

“Looking rather pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

Eyes widening as you slosh about to face your uncle, you brace yourself for the fulfilment of your most recent deliberations. Instead, your gaze alights on his form leaning against the wall, relaxed in a manner that contradicts your suppositions. His lips curve at the display you make, crumbs strewn across the small table beside the bath and collected in the corner of your mouth. The smile does not reach his eyes.

“I was hungry,” you say by way of explanation. “And sore.”

“Hm.” Daemon pushes himself forward, sauntering over at an unhurried pace. You watch him cautiously, attempting to gauge his mood through the mask of inscrutability. He reaches forward to—

“Hey!” You squawk in outrage as he swipes the last of your scones from the plate and lifts it to his lips, hand darting up to try and snatch it back.

“Ah-ah.” He holds it up and out of your grasp. “Consider this payment for being barred from riding my own dragon this afternoon. Care to explain that?” His brow raises even as he stuffs the treat into his mouth, chewing smugly while you flail with indignation.

You pout up at him. “I was worried you would… fly to King’s Landing,” you say, scowling. To murder Alicent Hightower. The implication hangs heavy in the beat of silence after your sentence.

“I thought about it.” Sucking the remnants of conserve from his thumb with obnoxious emphasis, he keeps his tone light, though it is belied by the piercing intensity of his stare. “I wasn’t able to actually do anything, though, thanks to you.”

“Good.” That scone was mine. You sigh, resting your chin upon your hands over the rim of the tub. “I know you are angry—”

“Angry doesn’t even begin to cover it.” That performative gaiety in his voice persists, carrying with it the threat of heated censure should you misstep and say the wrong thing.

You swallow, measuring your words carefully as you grip onto his hand. “I know.” You are encouraged when his fingers fold over yours. Despite the severity reflected in his eyes and the hard line of his lips, his touch is soft. “But you cannot touch her while she is Queen. When Father dies, Rhaenyra will rule, and then we can ensure that she will pay. Justice shall prevail, Daemon—when the time is right. Leave her be. Please?”

His hold tightens and he lets out a harsh breath, wrinkles forming between his brow as they contract. Peering up at him through your lashes, you wait. Then, a minute dip of his chin, a barely-there jerk of assent.

He does not like it, but he agrees.

“You shouldn’t have kept it from me.” There is no utterance of acquiescence. You had not expected it. His voice is low, cross, vibrating through your joined flesh, and the pale hairs on your arms stand upright at the sensation. “I shouldn’t have had to eavesdrop on you to learn something this important.”

“I know. I am sorry,” you whisper.

He grunts. “I know you are.”

“I will be truthful from now on.”

“Good.”

“And you will stop running from me each time we argue.”

At this, he frowns. “I don’t—”

“You do,” you say firmly. “You get upset and walk out, and I have to sit about wondering where you are, if you are well, when or even if you intend on returning. I worry.”

Daemon glances toward the fire pensively, clasp slackening around your hand. When his gaze returns to yours, it is serious, violet so deep that it is like lifting your head to look up at the night sky, profound and unknowable. “I’ll try,” he murmurs, palm ghosting over your cheek, callouses scratching comfortingly. “For you.”

You allow the corners of your mouth to turn upward, cupping his hand with both of yours and turning your head to press your lips to his skin. He smells warm, like the salt-smoke of the isle and something earthy, wild. He smells like home.

You startle when he pulls away to fumble with the buttons on his doublet. “What are you doing?” you ask blankly.

“What does it look like?” Grinning, he tosses first his outerwear and then his undershirt to the floor. He kicks his boots off haphazardly, a movement so thoroughly ungainly that you cannot help but laugh as he stumbles a pace or two. He wiggles his brows, gesturing at you. “You’ve a large bath there. It so happens I’m in need of one, too.”

You hesitate, glancing down at the opaque water, beneath which is your body thick with the weight of carrying two babes and scrawled dark with the evidence of skin forced to stretch too quickly. You do not feel attractive right now. “But—”

“But what? Are you in pain?” He stops for a moment with breeches at his knees, concerned,  shaft half-plumped between his legs and ruddy with the rush of blood attending to its rise.

“No, I just—I am not at my most… inviting, currently.”

“What utter shit.” When he shucks off the rest of his clothing and bares his undressed form proudly, you bite your lip at the view, at wide shoulders and corded arms and firm thighs, skin swirled with old burns like a brand of savagery. He makes toward you. “Go on, there—there we go, sweetling. Ah”—he readjusts you to his liking, settling in before you—“not your usual temperature.”

“I cannot have it hotter.” You grumble as he tugs you to him, tilting you to the side so he can press his face to your bared neck. “The babes.”

“Yes, don’t want to roast the little dragons,” he says, greedily caressing your belly below the water. His nose drags across your jaw. “Mm, you’re soft. Smell good.”

You shiver. “Daemon—”

“Nervous thing tonight, aren’t you? A silly little girl with silly little thoughts.”

He chuckles, mocking and mean, grasping at your wrist and drawing you down, down. His tongue laves a line up your throat even as he coaxes your fingers around his cock, using you to bring himself to full mast.

“Feel that? Fuck. Keep fucking going.” His forehead presses to your temple, his length twitching in your grasp, iron, steel. “Doesn’t feel like someone repulsed, does it?”

“No.” Your eyes water, mortified and desperately aching. Why would I doubt him? Why is he not touching me ? Your breath comes quick like a rabbit’s, puffed little exhales, frantic with desire.

“No,” he says, roughly cupping and squeezing your breasts. You cry out, nipples tingling with a strange heaviness that you are unsure if painful or pleasurable. “Up”—he is already hoisting you by the waist—“show me your tits. There’s a girl.”

You gasp, scrabbling at his hair with your free hand as he dips down to swirl his tongue around a nipple, sweep the flat of it across your flesh, fix his lips over you and suck, hard pulls that shoot straight to your gut, pulsing. It feels good. It hurts. There is a tension climbing, climbing—

“Uh!” A foreign release clenches in your cunny and in your chest, not a climax but something intuitive, primordial, extending from your breast and radiating inward to the very heart of you.

Daemon pulls away with a noise of surprise. “How long has this been happening?” he asks lowly, quivering against you as though poised to strike, wild and barely restrained.

Glancing down perplexed, you spy the moisture collected in the corner of his mouth. You wonder why he has reacted so to the taste of the bathwater until you see the beads of gold-cream collected thickly right at your nipple, too dark to possibly be anything but mother’s milk.

It is too early, you think, but in the same token you are also thinking my gowns, the stickiness on my gowns is from this, from my body preparing the way for the babes to come.

“I—I do not know, I—”

His cock lurches in your hand as he leans back down to collect the slow amber trickle from your skin, shuddering full-formed at the pooling of it on his palate. He mouths leisurely, covetously at you, tongue-tip tracing and prodding droplets from the hard peak. Your untouched breast hangs impossibly heavy, throbbing.

“If you taste like this now”—his lips scarcely leave your flesh to shape the words—“I’m hiring a fucking regiment of wet-nurses. They can feed the babes. This’ll be for me.”

You can do naught but keen as he returns to his task, taking great pulls to eke out the scant fluid. Each suck throbs molten in your core, as though someone has seized your pearl between thumb and finger and yanks in tandem with Daemon’s avaricious swallows. His insistent fondling and gusty snuffles and obscene slurps ratchet you beyond the point of speech, feeling so much more than you recall.

He draws back with a slick pop, mouth as rosy and glistening as your flushing chest. “Gods, you’re sweet all over, aren’t you? I don’t know which I prefer to sup from—your tits or your cunt.” His voice is slurred, prompting memories of little Joff each time Rhaenyra had removed him drowsed and milk drunk from her own breast. Daemon looks the same now, eyes drooping and dazed as he stares up at you. His knee pushes between your thighs and knocks your grip away from his shaft, hands angling you to seat yourself firmly over him. “There. Ride my leg like the fucking slut you are. Go on.”

You squirm in his hold, lips parting shakily as he proffers one final wet kiss to your cherry-tip nipple and abruptly switches tack, latching onto the other with a wordless growl. That same sensation akin to the bursting of a bubble radiates through your skin. The renewed greed in his nursing drags tells you that he has lured forth a fresh supply.

With a tremulous whimper, you brace yourself against his arms and slide your core over him, rutting mindlessly and allowing instinct to take over as the sparks coil hotter inside you. The wiry hairs on his flesh rasp against your bud like whetstone across a blade, a pure unadulterated sting that somersaults, swooping, between throbbingpoundingpleaseneverstop and something darker, a bite of agony that feeds into the mounting end. You slide, sticky, viscous, too thick to be water alone, helpless vocalisations escaping as you coat him in your wet. The bathwater splashes about with every movement, spilling over the edges of the tub and onto the floor.

“Kepus!”

Your entrance tightens and your belly tautens, convulsing and contracting with the intensity of a powerful crest, eliciting a roiling heat in your breasts and thighs and cunny. His eyes flick up to yours and dance roguishly in the firelight, his leg bouncing into your pearl so that you can ride out the waves of ecstasy.

Daemon’s teeth graze over your nipple as he pulls away, crowding you back against the edge of the tub as he stands swiftly, sending bathwater careening wildly and swilling over the sides with a slick splatter. He drags you up by your braided hair, giving you clear access to the sight of his hand stripping frantically at his cock.

“Open your fucking mouth,” he snaps, crouching slightly to dig his thumb into your mouth and force your jaw wide. He leers down at you with teeth bared, the head of his shaft burbling pearly white that he spreads across your open lips. “I’ve got my own milk to feed you with. No point dirtying the water when I’ve got a perfectly good hole to spend in right here, hm?”

You beam, rising up on your knees and batting his hand away so that you can take hold of his manhood, welcoming the familiar heft of it with a firm pump and glide of lips along the vein running underside. From the way it tremors at your touch, a flower reaching desperately for the sun, he is not long to finish.

“Uh-huh.” You stick out your tongue and feed him into your mouth, wiggling happily into his groin as far as you are able. It is only when you gag hard enough to incite nausea that you withdraw, taking a breath even as you tongue the stray droplets of seed from the tip, hot and bitter. “‘M all for you. All my holes—they’re all yours.”

He grunts, fingers twisting in your hair tight enough to hurt and cock spasming between your lips. “Fuck!”

You smile, fisting vigorously at the base and suckling over the head in draughts that mimic his earlier movements at your breast, moaning with delight as the syrupy astringence pumps onto your tongue in thick spurts. Daemon’s head tips back above you, eyes closing and hips juddering into your face reflexively. You swallow it all, obedient and eternally eager to please.

“Fuck,” he repeats emphatically, loosening his grip and nearly wheezing, winded and depleted.

You laugh. He hisses as the vibrations travel through his sensitive flesh, extracting himself with a weak groan. Flopping back into the tub with a huff, he seems to care little for the amount of water he has wasted in his endeavours.

“The bath is half-emptied now,” you say, pressing your lips together to stave off the grin that tries to overtake your expression.

Daemon snorts, folding you against his chest like a child cradled by her father. He is firm and warm beneath you, so warm that the water seems cold by comparison, and you rub your cheek over his skin in contentment. “You’ll live,” he murmurs drolly, petting your belly once more. Mercifully, the babes are still.

“I have half a mind to get out and leave you here in this half-empty bath,” you tell him, softening the blow of your snobbish tone with a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He smiles, angling his head to capture your lips more fully, tongue stroking against yours and blending the flavours of his seed and your milk in a strange, sweet-tart amalgamation. “Stay,” he whispers into you, breath mingling with your own. His eyes shine, soft and affectionate in a manner he allows so few to see. “For a little longer, at least.”

When he looks upon you like this—like you are a god incarnate, like you are a miracle brought to life, like you are everything he has ever wanted in all the world—you are hard-pressed to refuse him.

“Very well,” you say, your hand joining his over the place where your family grows. “I will stay.”

Read it on AO3: 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44058132/chapters/116372530

Taglist (😭 thank you!):

Now in the comments!

#terms of endearment │ daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen fanfiction #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen x you #matt smith #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd #hotd fanfiction #daemon x oc #daemon x reader #daemon x you #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #got #got fanfiction #a song of ice and fire #a song of ice and fire fanfiction #asoiaf #asoiaf fanfiction #targaryen #house targaryen #fire and blood

[beatrix-quinn]

hi @blongus64! thank you for your question. and no apologies necessary; Very Long Posts are kind of my specialty. :B

i really appreciated the comparison you drew between making visual art and making music, and i want to bring your attention first to that piece, because you gave some very interesting examples:

"i want a harsh… almost parasitic implication, so i'll use lurid, sickly colors and haphazard lines." "i'll use soft, dull blues, because that's what winter looks like."

the question i want you to ask yourself is this: "where did i learn the idea that This emotion looks That way?"

your art comparison reminded me of a conversation i recently had with someone dear to me who illustrates. they brought up an idea they've picked up from various art instructors over the years, which i'll paraphrase to the best of my recollection:

when you try to draw an apple, you're not just thinking about the object that's right in front of you. you're thinking about the idea of An Apple. that idea is shaped by every apple you've ever seen or eaten—the places and people and feelings attached to those experiences. so when you're drawing from a reference, you have to set all those associations aside and learn how to look at what's in front of you so you can recreate it accurately.

as you mention drawing still life in your ask, no doubt you've practiced this skill already. but what about when you draw a scene from your imagination, or paint something wholly abstract? when it comes to representing certain ideas in your art, the reality is that how you depict them is a choice formed by association. you choose soft, dull blues for a melancholy winter, because those are the colors you see when you look with your mind's eye.

but for me, i associate melancholy winter most with dark greys, and rusty pinks from light pollution in the night sky. someone else might picture the dizzying white reflection of sunlight on snow. these can all be "correct" ways of evoking this feeling you've given as an example, so long as it's true to the artist's subjective experience.

my point is this: just as you can choose to represent one idea visually in a myriad of ways depending on how you look, you can choose to represent an emotion through music in a myriad of ways as well. and that means this:

if representing an image requires learning how to look, then representing a sound requires learning how to listen.

the simplest and most immediate way you can start doing this is to critically listen to the music that evokes the feelings you are trying to capture.

say you have a favorite song that really captures the feeling of melancholy for you. listen to it very carefully. what choices does it make musically? consider this an incomplete list of questions you might explore while listening:

what are the tempo and rhythm like? how do they contribute to the song's feel?

is the arrangement sparse or layered, bombastic or subtle?

what kinds of instruments are being played, and when? which ones take the lead and which ones stay in the background?

how would you describe the music's texture and atmosphere? dark, bright? spacious, intimate? electric, acoustic, synthetic? what elements contribute to that?

how does this song relate back to music history and tradition? can you identify any of its musical and cultural influences? does it fit firmly into a genre, or does it blend different genre elements? does it attempt to defy convention altogether? (does it succeed?)

what is notably absent? how does excluding certain elements serve the song's intended feeling? (after all, landslide would be a very different song if it had drums and bass.)

you might notice these questions are generally not rooted in music theory. make no mistake: music theory analysis is useful, and if you wish to build your musical vocabulary, it's worth practicing it when you can. but that kind of practice only gives you colors for your palette. it will not teach you how to paint what you feel.

if you want to learn how to use those colors, first you must really think about the music that embodies the feeling you want your music to embody. what about This song makes you feel That emotion? think about the sounds around you in everyday life. what sounds make you smile? what sounds evoke boredom, fear, anger, sorrow?

idiophones sound tender to me, so i might reach for a kalimba or music box when scoring an emotionally intimate scene. a I major chord followed by a bVII dominant is dripping with wistfulness to me, so i like using it for bittersweet moments. jagged synths and metallic noises make me uneasy, so i employ them liberally when i want to elicit dread or panic.

these are just a few colors from my own palette. just like my idea of An Apple, they are informed by my experiences, my culture, and all the music i've ever heard. these are the associations that the body forms over a lifetime; you've lived a different life, so you may have different associations for these sounds. and that's okay! what matters is that you pay attention to what sounds make you feel, and stay true in your attempts to represent those feelings.

i should also mention that i didn't figure out how to use my palette overnight. i rarely get it right on the first try. music, like any creative endeavor, is equal parts work and play, and it's the lessons learned from play that serve the work later on. with exploration and practice, you will get better.

so listen carefully. figure out which sounds correspond to different emotional responses for you. this will become your palette. as you experiment, you will learn which sounds are your melancholy blues and which are your haphazard lines. it simply takes mindfulness, a careful ear, and time.

i realize this is only a first step, but i hope you find it helpful. if it isn't, let me know, and maybe i'll do better next time. i'm still learning too. :)

with care, bee 🐦

#asks #blongus64 #shop talk

[dinodorks]

[ The skull of Tarbosaurus bataar, alongside artwork by palaeoartist Hank Sharpe. ]

"Homeland Security Investigations (HSI) returned an impressive collection of dinosaur fossils to Mongolia’s Ambassador to the United States, Batbayar Ulziidelger, at a ceremony at the Library of Congress on Aug. 3. The fossils were recovered through HSI investigations conducted by our offices in Arizona, New York, and Wyoming, and the collection was represented by a tyrannosaurus bataar skull, protoceratops fossil, alioramus skull, and saurolophus skull. The alioramus, which resembles a smaller version of a tyrannosaurus rex, is exclusively found in Mongolia – the source of many, extremely rare fossils. The specimen on display at the ceremony is considered one of the best-preserved fossils ever found of the dinosaur that lived approximately 70 million years ago.

[ The skulls of Alioramus (left) and Protoceratops (right), alongside artwork by palaeoartist Hank Sharpe. ]

“Today’s event is dedicated to acknowledge the solid contributions of the officers and special agents from Homeland Security Investigations, U.S. attorneys, judges, scientists, and all individuals present here at ceremony as well as those who are absent due to their duty, who made this day possible,” said Ambassador of Mongolia Batbayar Ulziidelger. “This ceremony is a testament to the strong partnership between the Government of Mongolia and the Unites States and we are fortunate to witness the first-ever public display of these Mongolian dinosaur fossils.” “We have gathered here to witness the return of dinosaur fossils from the United States to their homeland – Mongolia; these fossils, once lost to time and distance, now find their way back to the land, where they were first discovered,” said Minister for Foreign Affairs of Mongolia Battsetseg Batmunkh. “The remarkable journey of these artifacts demonstrates the strength of collaborative diplomacy and a solid dedication to preserving our cultural heritage. I am delighted to acknowledge the valuable contributions of law enforcement officers and special agents, agencies, attorneys, judges… our collective efforts demonstrated the potential to effectively fight illegal smuggling, both bilaterally and multilaterally.” The first of these cases began in May 2012 when HSI New York initiated a cultural property investigation after receiving information alleging the illicit sale of protected fossils by a U.S.-based auction house. The investigation revealed that an individual, who later pled guilty to criminal counts of illegal importation of dinosaur fossils, was selling a fossilized alioramus skull through the auction house; that skull is part of the collection being returned. That same year, HSI Casper, Wyoming office received an HSI Tip Line report that a retail store was selling a fossilized tyrannosaurus bataar skull. HSI Casper began its investigation relating to the illegal importation and subsequent sale of dinosaur fossils originating from Mongolia, which has strong patrimony laws that prohibit the export of prehistoric fossils. These investigations led to multiple seizures of a wide range of paleontological fossils illegally taken from their country, including:a rare juvenile tyrannosaurus battar skull; a fossilized gallimimus skeleton; a tarbosaurus bataar skeleton; nests of dinosaur eggs; a saber-toothed cat skull; a complete psittacosaurus skeleton; and a protoceratops skull. Some of these dinosaurs lived more than 100 million years ago in an area now known as the Gobi Desert."

Read more: "HSI repatriates high-profile dinosaur fossils to Mongolia"

#Palaeoblr #Palaeontology #Paleontology #Fossils #Dinosaurs #Repatriation #Article #Tarbosaurus #Tarbosaurus bataar #Alioramus #Theropod #Protoceratops #Ceratopsian #Photos #Art #Cretaceous #Mesozoic #Prehistoric #Extinct

[dogbunni]

[begins coughing like a cat about to throw up a furball] [spits up several nendo headcanons and then looks at u proudly]

-nendo collects hot wheels. I have no justification beyond this except that I also collect hot wheels and I think we'd have that in common. if he was real I would take nendo to a toy shop to look at all the hot wheels. just stand there and observe them for an uncomfortably long time. my friends aren't deeply autistic enough to do this with me so I can never observe the little cars for long enough before making a purchase :(

-nendo trans ally #1

-nendo has no idea what his sexuality is but not in a confused/questioning way, in a "I have never thought about it longer than 1 second" way. he likes who he likes and has no thoughts beyond that. he is label-less in a [shrugs shoulders] way. (saiki is also label-less but in a "fuck you" kind of way)

-nendo loves rollercoasters and watches weird essay length youtube videos about theme parks and animatronics. its a hobby that deeply disturbs everyone around him bc this guy cannot do basic math but he can and will channel the spirit of akechi rambling about defunct animatronics. sometimes he shows saiki pictures of animatronics in late stages of decay in horrible pitch black nightmare settings and saiki reacts as if nendo has placed a live cockroach in his lap.

-he has a condiment problem. steals sauce packets from restaurants with diagnosable compulsion.

-he doesn't Get memes. everyone has tried and failed to show nendo a meme. it's like trying to show your mother a funny picture and she holds the phone as far away from her face as she can and then stares at it for way too long before silently handing it back. he just doesn't Get It.

-hes like, really good at making memes though. he will just absently turn a phrase or take an image so absurd that everyone is still saying and reposting and reacting with it years down the line. he has no idea that he has this power

-he feeds stray cats and makes little shelters for them outdoors <3

-nendo and kaido roleplay together sometimes. I'm talking like, warrior cats roleplay. sometimes dark reunion but kaido gets pissy if nendo messes up The Lore. nendo calls it "playing pretend" bc he has no concept of cringe culture and kaido dies inside every time

-he manages to forget his own birthday. every year. saiki remembers though, and it's the one and only day he will ask if nendo wants to get ramen with him, instead of the other way around. it gets to the point that saiki asks if nendo wants ramen, and he says "what, is it my birthday ahaha" and saiki is just like. you goddamn idiot. good grief.

-last time I did one of these I said that nendo loves cute things like sanrio plushies and holds them so gently. well I see that and I am correct, but I raise you nendo thinking that SAIKI is the cutest thing he's ever seen. something about the pink hair and glasses and the little limiter bubbles on his head and his purple eyes and little frowny eyebrows- nendo wants to. hold gently. sometimes he just grabs saiki by the shoulders and stares at him blank in the face and saiki is like [nervously] "what the fuck? what the fuck????"

-he and aiura actually get along weirdly well. they're unhinged in similar flavours and it gets saiki's blood pressure up. he tries at all costs to keep them away from each other. their singular brain cells cancel each other out on sight.

-akechi makes nendo's brain hurt a little. he just can't process all of akechi's akechi-ness and it makes him feel dumb. he's fine with being dumb most of the time but akechi just makes him feel a little self conscious for some reason. (definitely not because he's jealous that akechi was friends with saiki first)

-he still likes the funny lil guy though. akechi's the only one who will enthuse with him about rollercoasters and he values those talks. so much.

-toritsuka is afraid of nendo for some reason. no one is sure why but nendo LOVES it. he's always trying to jump out and scare him. saiki supports nendo in this endeavour ardently. toritsuka suffers.

-nendo falls down the weirdest tiktok rabbit holes. it got so bad once that they got teruhashi to distract him while kuboyasu lifted his phone and deleted the app off of it. it took nendo several months to realise he could redownload it.

#(projects all of my little idiosyncrasies onto nendo) #yeah that tracks #also #(sprinkles a little nensai into my headcanons. as a treat) #nendo posting #i love him a normal amount #saiki kusuo no ψ nan #saiki k #the disastrous life of saiki k. #nendo riki #nendou riki #nensai #saiki kusuo

[cryptticrow]

You like Neil Cicierega? His work on Lemon Demon is a little too new wave for my taste. But when Mouth sounds came out in 2014, I think he really came into his own, musically and comedically. The whole album has clever, funny mashups, and a new sheen of pop culture references that really gives the songs a big boost. He's been compared to other mashup artists, but I think Neil has a far more abstract, complex sense of humor. In 2017, Neil released this; Mouth moods, his most accomplished mashup album. I think his undisputed masterpiece is "The starting line". A song so catchy, most people probably don't listen to what songs it's composed of. But they should, because it's not just the starting lines of multiple popular songs. It's also the grand return of the song All star that has been completely absent in the previous album! Hey Paul!

#neil cicierega #lemon demon #mouth moods #mouth silence #mouth dreams #mouth albums #american psycho #patrick bateman

[seagull-astrology]

C203 Claes Oldenburg the artful joker

CLaes Oldeburg and his gigantic Pop Expressionism. Was it bound to happen?

Claes Oldenburg made gigantism his sculptural stock-in-trade. Christos did it too, the difference was the former got underwriting from public while Claes worked for private organizations. Thus Christos in the end was more successful, though not nearly as long lasting — all of Christos work was ephemeral. Spoonbridge and Cherry Claes in partnership with his second wife, Coosjie van Bruggen,…

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#Cancer rising #Grand Trine in Air #January birth #Line of Culture absent #Line of Efficiency squared #Line of Vitality absent #Locomotive Pattern

[mlmxreader]

My Best Ally | Aragorn x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ “You will never age for me, nor fade, nor die.”With Aragorn please ❞

: ̗̀➛ Aragorn has an alliance with the general of an army, although it isn't just politics

: ̗̀➛ blood, injury, war, violence

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

There was no surrender, and there was no way that withdrawal would work either; the flap of the coat of arms flew high above you, displaying a great red dragon with claws as big as mountains and teeth as harsh as sunlight. There was only one thing to do - drive them through the hills, and out of your lands.

Just as your ancestors had done for years, it was now down to you to follow in their footsteps; it was down to you to ensure that the white flag with a red cross never took over. You would die before seeing your countrymen perish to those dogs.

Drawing your sword, you turned to your men, and took a harsh breath.

"This is the killing field!" You bellowed. "This is where we show them no mercy! Ride with the wind!"

They cheered, although you clenched your jaw in a vain attempt to stop your heart from hammering in your chest; with an absent hand, you reached up and touched the small chunk of metal around your neck.

The small necklace that Aragorn had given you, inscribed with an old elven saying, was always around your neck when you went to battle.

The men fell into line in their respective battle positions; cavalry at the front, archers at the back. All wearing bright red armour made from dense dragon scales.

They were never fearful of what may come, knowing that if the battle was lost then those bearing the white and red flag would take over everything; they would flood villages and ban the language, outlaw and violently suppress the culture and traditions. They would not allow the land of the dragon to flourish and thrive.

Your men could not afford to be scared.

"Ride them down!" You called out, getting up on your horse with a huff. "Hunt them until the last man!"

It was true that your battle tactics were always less than merciful; you always left one man alive to go back and warn his countrymen, and he was always on the brink of death.

If he refused, his horse would be sent back, dragging his body as his shoulder blades were forcibly pushed up and out of his skin, and they would always find rats feasting inside his stomach.

You were very good at breaking the enemy's will.

You charged with the cavalry, herding the enemy lines into a small circle so that they were completely rounded up with no escape; you liked to watch them beg for their lives with fear in their eyes as they dropped to their knees.

As they surrendered, you gave the order, and they perished.

But while the rest of your men stood tall as they marched home, you did not; you gave word to your right-hand, telling him to look after the group, before heading towards the woods.

You left your horse at the edge, and felt relief wash over you the second you stepped onto the mossy ground.

"Aragorn!" You called as you wandered down to the little bridge, taking a seat and letting your legs dangle over the edge as you waited.

He was never very long, always running out of some of the bushes before smiling and letting out a quiet laugh. "You lived."

"As always," you nodded, waiting for him to sit down before you rested your head on his shoulder. "Good thing about dragonscale armour - you don't get killed."

Aragorn laughed softly, although his eyes soon caught the spatters on your armour. "Did you get hurt?"

"It isn't my blood," you whispered. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come to see you before-"

"It's alright," he murmured. "You seem tired."

"It seems the more they try to take our lands, the more tired I become," you started, "it's difficult, disgusting work... slaughtering them like cattle... but we are only trying to stop them from destroying our land."

"I know," Aragorn nodded slowly, letting his hand rest on your thigh as he cleared his throat. "One day, they will sings of you."

"I sure hope not," you laughed quietly. "I do not want to be remembered."

"You have no choice," he mused. "You will never age for me, nor fade, nor die. I will never let you be forgotten."

"Now you're just rubbing it in," you joked.

He gave your thigh a little shake as he hummed. "You know, the woods are whispering again."

"Really?" You asked. "What is it this time?"

"They say that there is a war coming," he explained, "and that your lands will have to unite with the rest of Men in order to save the world."

"I would do it on one condition," you admitted.

"Which is?"

"It would be under your banner," you told him plainly. "You have my alliance, Aragorn, just as you have my heart. If you want my men, you will have them - but only under your banner."

He nodded slowly. "I hope it does not come to it."

"As do I," you breathed out. "But you know as well as I do that the woods are not wrong. Can't you feel it? Something... brewing."

He nodded slowly, chewing at the inside of his lip. "I feel it. But where there is anxiety, there is hope."

You extended your hand to him. "If you shall ever need an ally, promise you will call upon me."

He held your hand tightly, kissing your knuckles. "Always. You are my ally in every way, General."

You nodded curtly, daring to smile at him. "And you are mine, Ranger."

He smiled back, licking his lips. "Shall we walk?"

Slowly, you stood up with him, and linked your arm with his. "I might be a little slow, today..."

"I'm aware," he whispered. "You are fresh from battle, I wouldn't expect differently."

"Thank you," you told him softly. "Really, Aragorn, thank you."

"Anything," Aragorn insisted. "Anything that I can do for you, I will, always. You are, after all, my best and favourite ally."

#mlem writes #aragorn x reader #aragorn x you #aragorn x y/n #aragorn imagine #aragorn fanfiction #aragorn one shot #lotr aragorn #aragorn lotr #aragorn #lotr x reader #lotr x you #lotr x y/n #lotr imagine #lotr fic #lotr fanfiction #lotr fanfic #lotr #lord of the rings x reader #lord of the rings x you #lord of the rings x y/n #lord of the rings imagine #lord of the rings fanfiction #lord of the rings fic #lord of the rings fanfic #lord of the rings

[roguekhajiit]

A debate I had on Reddit about abortion rights.

The person I'm arguing with is an active participant of the Mensa subreddit, so they already fancy themselves a genius to some extent.

Me:

No arms, no legs, no heart, no brain. Just a blood vessel pumping blood from the host to the clump of cells.

And the "But there's a heartbeat" excuse is a lie. You're only hearing the host's blood pumping into cells cause the heart isn't fully formed until 10 weeks. Additionally, the brain isn't even fully developed until 24 weeks. No heart organ, no brain, it's not a viable life outside its host body.

Them:

Yeah that's an empirical argument to deny ontology. That's not convincing to anyone who thinks there is an essence to being human that isn't tied to having arms and legs.

Me:

I'm sorry, but are you trying to use philosophy to argue whether or not someone is capable of living without a heart, brain, and lungs?

Them:

How do you determine what is human and what is not? Arms and legs? What do you call someone without arms and legs? Or a mechanic heart? You can't answer the question 'what is human' based on physical qualities only. So yes, logically you cannot answer the question without philosophy.

Me:

I think you are confusing personhood with the human species.

A person is someone who can think, breathe, and exist on their own. They have a personality and their own opinions on subjects like abortion.

A human being or homo sapiens is a species on earth that evolved enough to form social groups and cultures and, therefore, are capable of personhood. Some other more complex animals might be capable of personhood, like Koko the Gorilla. She was intelligent, learned to communicate using sign language, and even had her own pet.

I'm not discussing this subject in terms of personhood. A fetus isn't developed enough to form a sense of personhood if it can't even survive on its own at 2 months gestation.

Them:

I'm talking about the essence of what makes one a living human. As long as pregnant women before the 3rd month believe they're carrying a child, which is all of them who want to *keep* the child, I am not appealed by the argument that it's suddenly no longer a child but rather a fetus for biological/scientific/empirical reasons when there are various financial and social advantages of it being so.

The points you mention are even still different from mine.

Me:

>The points you mention are even still different from mine.

Correct because again, you fail to see the point of the argument.

You yourself say;

>As long as pregnant women before the 3rd month believe they're carrying a child, which is all of them who want to *keep* the child,

That's all fine and dandy cause it's her *choice* to do so, not yours and not the government's. But it's not yours or anyone else's place to force your philosophical or religious views on an entire nation and bully us all into following them by making your opinions a law.

Them:

It's a choice to recognise a human as a human, you're saying? So where's the end to that travesty of logic? A cat is a dog, a man is a woman, that dog is a man and that man is a dog. That's a wild world you're living in. I don't see the world that way, it defeats both logic and common sense. But it surely makes a way to justify doing whatever the hell you like doing. I won't force morality on you, but I'll tell you when it's absent.

Me:

Again, you're trying to use philosophy to argue science, and that gets us nowhere. I already stated I'm not talking from a philosophical standpoint.

You can see the world however you want. Your morals aren't always going to line up with your neighbors morals. Your neighbor might think it's immoral to eat any kind of meat. Are you gonna give up that steak dinner cause they can smell it in their living room? How would you feel if the entire government decided eating meat is a crime and, therefore, it's banned and you go to jail just for eating a hamburger. Kinda sucks when other people force their philosophy and religion on you by passing laws to get their way.

Now I know you're gonna be like, "But you can't compare pregnancies to diets!" But you're already equating philosophy with science. So, let me give you another scenario.

Do you like eggs? Eggs are just undeveloped chickens who were denied the ability to develop and hatch. Will you give up your eggs and bacon just because your vegan neighbor says it's immoral?

Since to you personhood and human are one and the same. Say aliens decide to visit earth; they have arms and legs and a brain, can speak, express emotions, and have their own culture. Are they human? Do we give them the same rights as you and me even though they weren't born on earth and are basically invading our planet? Or are they just displaying personhood?

If you say yes, they are human and deserve the same rights as you and me, then you also need to give those same rights to the "illegal aliens" that cross the border.

Why are undeveloped fetuses given more rights to life than families with children who are trying to seek a better life? Why do we value a fetus over the actual baby? Once it's born, if the mother says she needs help, she's scorned and looked down on for asking for WIC, foodstamps, and cash benefits to help feed and cloth her baby. She should have thought of that before deciding to have a baby, right? But if she decides she's unable to afford a baby, and she can't afford to take time off because the pregnancy is making it hard for her to work, she's called a murderer for seeking an abortion.

To pro-life advocates, a fetus is more important before it's born than after it's born. And you won't convince me otherwise. The same people pushing for abortion bans, banning mifepristone (a drug that's also necessary to help with incomplete miscarriages), and even simple birth control are the same people who vote to cut funding to welfare programs, free lunch programs, and to entire school districts. That's not very pro-life of them now, is it?

-------

They gave up the argument after that.

I could have converted this into a rant solely from my perspective, but I felt it would be better just to copy it as a script.

Pro-lifers are not actually pro-life. They are just anti-women and anti-choice. If they actually cared about the fetus, they would care about it after its born by passing laws and regulations that would ensure the child has the best quality of life possible and every chance to succeed. Instead, time and again, they vote against those laws.

They don't care about the fetus once it's born. Why is that? Could it be that their true goal all along is to force women back into submission because they romanticize the bygone era of the 1800s and early 1900s when women didn't hold jobs, didn't vote, and couldn't do anything without their husband's explicit permission?

I dunno, that's just the vibe I get from the anti-choice supporters. Why else would they say things like, "Stop riding dick if you can't take accountability." But then start foaming at the mouth when you remind them accountability goes both ways. When's the last time they made a child support payment?

#pro life is anti-women #reddit #reddit rants #pro choice #personal rant #rants #rant #long post #long rant #my body my choice #abortion is a human right #abortion is healthcare #abortion rights #reproductive freedom #reproductive rights

[it-hurts-because-it-mattered]

I'm not fucking about with Twitter, but I am... In absolute awe at this take.

I scarcely know where to begin.

Zuko and Katara seem to live ideal lives in line with their existing goals, and survive to show on screen they're still living relevant heroes.

Aang, within about thirty years, dismantles the empire of the Fire Nation, and founds Republic City as an instrument of balance and communication, to act as a check materially, culturally, and diplomatically, to that kind of conquest happening again.

Sokka is glaringly absent and undescribed, but that's very much a choice. He becomes an important part of Republic City, but aside from that we know little about him. That sucks for Sokka fans, but also I think there's a wide range in what his fans want his life to look like, so it always feels like people are free to see his life however they choose.

Toph... I just... How far up the secret tunnel is your head right now?

Because she's absolutely never been able to deal with people. It was inevitable that she would be a terrible parent if she had kids, because she's incapable of the specific emotional stuff necessary to be a good parent.

Except, in canon... She handles it amazingly. She gives both of her kids every bit of attention and/or praise that they are desperate for. And when it comes to it, she helps both of them in every way she can, and she gives up everything for her children.

Realistically, she's a terrible mother, and never should have been one, but she sincerely does her best, and she pushes herself and learns in order to do so, and she does so much to help her daughters become incredible people living the lives they choose.

#Avatar #Legend of Korra #Legend of Aang

[quitealotofsodapop]

Before S4 I would have thought Pigsy to be a decendant of Zu Baije rather than an reincarnation and this is entirely because Zu Baije was said to have been cursed with never having a happy love life due to the way he'd creep on Chang'e. Which we all know he and Tang are basically married.

true.

I personally hc that Pigsy is more of a decendant, especially with his line in S4 with "The Roast of the Monkie Kids";

Pigsy: Oh, what, you think we're the same, just 'cause we're pigs, huh? Bet you think I'm just a disgusting little monster too."

Pigsy probably grew up with seeing images and critiscisms of Zhu Bajie his whole life. A lazy, gluttonous, lech who didn't even obtain enlightenment at the end of his Journey.

Imagine if your most celebrated cultural icon was pretty much a Aesop-esque caricature of what "pigs" are.

And then imagine you're *related* to the guy. Scratch that; you might BE the guy in a new life 'cus he didn't break the cycle of reincarnation.

Fun fact! In the 17th century fan-sequel "Later Journey to the West"; Zhu Bajie has a son... one he only managed to meet after the Journey because he unknowingly (unwillingly mind you) left Gao Cuilan when she was pregnant. The son is named Zhu Yijie/豬一戒 (meaning "one commandment" a ref to Bajie being named for another buddhist principle, it can also mean "joy").

Imagine if Pigsy came from that son's lineage. A son who grew up with not only an absent father, but also as a half-demon in a family/village that already resented him as a reminder of Cuilan's marriage to a demon. In a time where the life of a demon was valued far less than even an animal. Thats some generational trauma fuel right there.

Pigsy having a birthname that, without doubt, marks him as one of many resentful decendants of Zhu Bajie - hence why he's far more comfortable being called just "Pigsy" even by close friends.

Pigsy, accidentally breaking the cycle of love tragedies by looking fate in the eye and saying he's not his predecesor, and that he'll love who he'll damn well pleases and they will love him back. And if that person happens to be the reincarnation of a super power buddhist deity that the gods can't touch, then thats just good luck. Or Yue Lao laughing to himself as the pig demon and his scholar soulmate meet for the first time, the red string of fate winding around their feet so hard that they tripped over it. XD

#lmk theories #lmk #lego monkie kid #lmk pigsy #lmk zhu bajie #freenoodles

[dispatchwithlove]

WIP Whenever

Thanks for the tag @angry-jager! I've been a bit absent from tumblr for a while and this was a nice reason to jump back in 😊 I started poking at the next chapter of In Your Arms and I'm having so much fun giving these two the moment they've been yearning for. Here's a little snippet.

“I've been thinking about dancing with you all night,” Garrus said. The words came from him so easily, and she wasn’t sure if his confidence in telling her that while looking straight into her, or the fact that the words mattered so much to her, gave her the flush that was settling into her cheeks.   While she struggled to form the words that her heart felt, he shook his head. “No, not just all night. Since the last time we danced I’ve been thinking about how I could do better next time, if you ever wanted to give me another chance.” As if he hadn’t made that the most intimate, beautiful moment of her life. Until she ruined it, of course. The memory, her shame and her fear, caught her breath. “I messed up that moment, not you.” “How?” 

“By running from something that scared me.” There was a pause, time enough for him to process that, to read between the lines and understand what she was really saying. Not scared of dancing. Scared of her feelings for him. His hand tightened at her back.  “Hm, didn’t think there was anything that could scare you enough to make you run.” “Only the important things. The things that make life worth living.” Her teeth pinched her bottom lip, like her mouth was the party to blame for saying something that had been locked up tight for so long. She didn’t realize her heart was racing until his fingers brushed the back of her wrist just slightly. To calm her nerves. It worked. With her next step she slid closer to him, until her body finally pressed against his. A soft hum fell from him.  “Well, we’re dancing again,” he said. “That’s what matters. And it’s even better this time.” “Yeah, I’m not running away.” “There’s that. Also, I’m partial to my own culture’s style of dancing.” His thumb brushed her wrist, pressed into her pulse, as if she needed reminding that he could feel every single beat of her heart. “Do you like it?” She would have felt embarrassed by her bashful smile, but his mandibles fluttered. God, how was this happening? They were flirting, weren’t they? Openly flirting.  “I like it.” The words rode from her mouth on a warm breath. It was all she could say, because the heat in his eyes was blazing and her succinct thoughts were fleeting.

I hope to post this chapter in a few weeks. Please send good writing vibes!

I'll tag @otemporanerys @dulcidyne @serendipitys-teapot @diaphanouso @kalliesa @dwarrowdams @westernlarch along with whoever else would like to post something they're working on, and be sure to tag me so I can read what you post!

#shakarian #garrus vakarian #jane shepard #shepard x garrus #garrus x shepard #shakarian fic #the cases of shepard and vakarian