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flamingpudding · 6 months

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Fictober23 Prompt: 7 - "Do you recognise this?"

Fandom: DPxDC

Rating: G

Warnings: -

"So, who did it?" Bruce asked, eyes narrowed at the children before him. Clark was next to him trying once more to persuade Bruce that it was unnecessary to go after the kids like this.

The 'kids' in question were the assembly of three of his children, Clark's child and clone and a couple of their respected friends.

"Father, I do not know what you are talking about." Damian piped up offended and crossed his arms. Next to him Jon scratched the back of his head in mild confusion and Dani despite not knowing what was going on but still glaring in defiance at Bruce.

"If this is about our prank war it was definitely not necessary to interrogate our friends too." Tim added looking every bit like he would be somewhere else than here. Kon and Bart were with him. Kon looked rather unsure while Bart had gone and gotten himself popcorn for whatever was going to happen.

"Look old man, how was I supposed to know Replacement would trigger the glitter bomb inside the Batmobile. I already cleaned that up!" Jason put in his two cents, Roy eyeing the other with a raised eyebrow.

Bruce stared at them quietly, not saying a word as Clark continued to fuss next to him to not make it a big deal and that a deep clean would surely fix everything.

"It's not your prank war I am talking about. Alfred will deal with you about the chaos you caused." The three respected batkids swallowed audibly while their friends chuckled. "No, what I am asking is which one of you decided it was a good idea to dye Clark's hero suit and my cape pink."

"Wait, someone actually did that to Dad?!" Jon piped up wide eyed as Dani broke out laughing causing Damian to eye the ghost girl with narrowed eyes and suspicion.

"Who would…" Tim started but didn't finish as his mind came up with possible suspects. Kon on Bart next to him went onto their phones, trying to search up pictures of Superman in a pink hero suit.

Jason and Roy broke out laughing too, voicing their respect to whoever managed to do that.

Bruce's eye twitch at the children's reaction. He then proceeded to pull out an opened can of pink dye and placed it on the table in perfect view of everyone. "Do you recognise this? Jason? Tim?"

"WHY ME?!" They both cried out in protest and Bruce narrowed his eyes on the two. "Jason, your last prank on Tim involved a glitter bomb with pink dye, the Batmobile's seats are still strained pink. Tim, you dyed Damian's shirts pink a couple days ago at the beginning of your prank war."

"So it was you Drake! You are going to pay for this!"

"And I will do it again if you ever touch my laptop again, Demon Brat!"

"How does that even prove that one of us did it!"

"It doesn't!"

"Do you think there might be someone else that fell victim to the pink dye in the JL?"

"Maybe?"

"Why would someone even go after Clark? He has nothing to do with our prank war."

"Jason, my friend. You are indirectly admitting that you would dye Batman's cape pink."

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose as the children before him (he ignored that at least two of them were over 20, they were children period) started to argue among themselves while Damian's newest friend the Daughter of Phantom, who recently joined the Justice League Dark, was by now rolling on the ground laughing.

Not far from the interrogation Danny sat by a table next to Alfred snacking on some of the best cookies he had ever gotten to eat. He had originally come by to hang out with Tim, Kon and Bart but now he was threaded to some A+ entertainment, Dani was clearly enjoying.

"You recognize the can, don't you Mr. Daniel? I believe you accidentally left it behind in the cave." Danny side eyed the butler next to him and grinned into his next bite of a cookie. "Supes deserved it."

The man hummed and Danny smiled as he was offered another cookie. "I believe I know why but would you please elaborate on why Master Bruce also got targeted? I will most likely be the one who will have to wash out the cape."

The half ghost didn't say anything at first before shrugging. "Kon wasn't the only one who deserved some Justice for how he had been treated in the past. I know they get along now but still… a little pay back for past mistreatment wouldn't hurt anyone right?"

"Ah, so it was for Mr. Conner and Master Jason." The butler smiled in understanding, pushing over a box of take away cookies to Danny. "May I suggest that next time you seek out justice for the boy, that there are other -embarrassing- ways to achieve it."

Danny only gave the man a feral grin as he hopped off the chair with the box in hand. It was time to release the children of Bruce's interrogation. He would just put the blame on Constantine somehow, like a spell gone wrong instead of actual dye being the cause. The man owned him anyway since he had gotten most of his soul back aside from a couple of pieces he was still negotiating over in the Ghost Zone.

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hyyyperfixated · 3 months

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Look up the character Fen’Harel from DA. He’s literally a Lucifer figure and has practically the same backstory as the one Viv wrote. An Idealistic dreamer who is cast out by his fellows and demonized for believing in free will. He even has a female counterpart who defied her domineering husband because she shared Fen’s ideals and their defiance leads to the creation of a new realm viewed as ‘evil’ by the rest of the world.

Maybe it’s a coincidence, but it sounds very damn close.

DA also manages to tackle issues like religious toxicity, drug addiction, systemic oppression, grey morality, AND has better Queer and POC representation than anything than anything Viv has ever done. One of the games had an openly trans character who remains relevant to the story for more than one goddamn scene and this was all the way back in goddamn 2014 so idk what Viv’s excuse is.

My point is if you want a dark fantasy with queer rep and POC rep just go play DA: Inquisition. You’ll have a blast.

Oh my god I would not be surprised if Viv stole that honestly.

#hazbin hotel critical #vivziepop critical #asks

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horizon-verizon · 3 months

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The whole Alysanne/Viserra conflict is so bizarre I’m not sure why GRRM wrote it like that. Alysanne fears Viserra wants a crown…even though Aemon is still alive and Baelon hasn’t been named heir yet. Alysanne weeps for Daella dead at 18, blaming Jaehaerys for having her wed at too early of an age…but then pushes Viserra into a betrothal that causes her death at 15, again with a man older than Jaehaerys in the dreary and boring North, widowed 4 times and already with 5 children. Marrying an older brother for politics isn’t acceptable…even though Aegon the Uncrowed/Rhaena & Aegon/Visenya did it, plus she and Jaehaerys did it in defiance of their guardians, but I guess it’s so much better because of true love. Viserra is said to be a manipulator and committed alcoholic by 14, not even liking boys, but using her looks to get them to fight for her…yet her ambition is to go after Baelon, the man with two healthy trueborn sons already, 14 years older than her, not yet the heir with Aemon alive. How much influence could Viserra possibly have even if she did marry him at the time ? Obviously she had some attraction to him, if she wanted to seduce him (let me just roll my eyes at the mother trying to protect her nearly 30 year old son with 2 children from a “seductive” 15 year old girl…it’s pathetic) with all of the drawbacks. Alysanne’s view of her just makes no sense for her character or the timeline of events. But Viserra is so one dimensionally vain and openly ambitious (even when it contradicts itself, like surrounding herself with boys while having her eyes on Baelon) that she doesn’t come across as a person. It’s like the worst anti’s view of Cersei.

*EDITED POST* (4/17/24)

I recently wrote a Tweet about Alysanne vs Rhaena HERE, & the legacy of women/family destroying the other. And I have a Tumblr post abt Alysanne and her daughters HERE.

I don't know about your points about Alysanne's inconsistency, since I can see it happening in real life from the women I know or interacted with, their hypocrisies & self-defeating compromises. I do, however, see something in your critique of Viserra's writing. I'm offering a set of headcanons based on the knowledge that women are still subject to promoting patriarchy while also trying their best to look out for women's survival and/or rights, especially when their ability to even do that depends on their connection/support/allowance on certain sorts of male authority:

A) Alysanne's Attitude towards her Daughters

This is the passage anon refers to for Alysanne's grief over Daella being too young & her blaming Jaehaerys ("Policy, Progeny, and Pain"):

Watsonianly, I believe GRRM reasoned that Alysanne was less willing to not ship off Viserra because she compared her "slyness" and seeming confidence to Daella's timidity and seeming helplessness and concluded that Viserra was more needing of containment, less needing of her protection and partly because she had more of a will of her own towards her marriage. Viserra, more than Daella, was maybe perceived more as a trip of Alysanne's authority as both mother and a Queen in the face of Jaehaerys'....less charitable and constrictive privileges over Alysanne's earnest desire for women to advance more in the realm and especially in the monarchy itself (heir buisness). She was way more "eager" to have her away than she was for Daella.

I also say in my Twitter post these:

Alysanne looked at Viserra wanting to be Queen as insulting to the feeling that ALL the family should mourn & respect Alyssa's passing, not just her seemingly "protecting" her son from Viserra's shamed "preening" & demonizing her daughter for the sake of a male child she favored. Perhaps Aysanne felt Viserra showed she did not care about Alyssa as much as she should have. perhaps she resented Viserra for showing how shallow the bonds b/t the siblings actually were due to the age differences & how little we actually hear of the 1st set of kids interacting w/the 2nd. Perhaps Alysanne thought this reflected a failure on her part as a mother. maybe she partly resented Viserra for not "respecting" the boundaries of a man's posthumous grieving for seemingly one of her favorite kids...certainly she preferred/made more time for Baelon & Alyssa over Viserra, Vaegon, Saera, even though she definitely loved all her kids.

Alysanne perhaps saw in Baelyssa her own marriage with Jaehaerys AND it's "success" proved their joined right to rule/soulmatism (their union created another perfect, happy union & thus and wanting to believe their marriage was perfect, couldn't tolerate any corruption to that...unconsciously). By desiring Baelon for queenship, Viserra--to Alysanne--again does a "taboo" against Alysanne's private-public relation order. She may have taken it very personally (2nd line after "PLUS" in paragragph below).

But most importantly after Saera's "scandal" & Daella's will against a more routine marriage arrangement/determination to find a husband on her own terms, I think the fear of Viserra "ruining herself, being separated forever from the family like Saera (the North is better than Essos), and ruining the family's/Jaehaerys' prospects PLUS her own experience of helplessness transformed into her needing to direct and arrange the circumstances that she did for Viserra. As well as look at her like she was an issue to be reconsolidated more than a child even though she also did seem to love her. It's possible she justified to herself that Viserra would always be as close as she can be.

Marriage is not just about the couple's happiness--the first priority is actually usually for the respective families' politics and it is a business move. There were political incentives for her to marry Theomore Manderly--the old lord of White Harbor in the North that weren't there for Daella marrying Rodrik Arryn. Theomore was a Seven-faithful vassal to the lords Stark. Jaehaerys had severely angered the Lord of Winterfell, and even though Alysanne made him more amicable, the lord liked her better than Jaehaerys and Jaehaerys seemed too anxious to always make sure the North remained less willing to see the Targs as enemies, which a marriage would do. In one of the last 4 pics below, we see Alysanne try to convince Alaric to have one of his family marry some woman of her choosing.: (A Surfeit of Rulers"; "Triumphs and Tragedies").

Some might argue why he didn't allow Daella to marry a Stark: one, she already had the chance to marry an old gods worshiper, Royce Blackwood, but once she found out about the house still worshipping the old gods, she refused the marriage saying she didn't want to go to hell; two, I do not think the Starks even had eligible sons at the time when they were deciding who she'd marry. Neither Rodrik Arryn's loyalty nor his positive feelings towards the crown were doubted.

Plus, Jaehaerys was growing much more impatient and fed up with Daella than he did with Viserra because of Daella's constant refusing to marry any lord that was chosen for her which I don't fault her too much for, some were questionable ("Policy, Progeny, and Pain"):

So again, I think that Alysanne grew more wary & frustrated with his dismissiveness to the point where she became much more protective and also caring or attentive towards Daella in a way she wasn't for Saera or Viserra because the latter both acted more independently or self-soothed. Alysanne also might have seemed to/might have that Viserra--in her "sly" willfulness ("oh, you think you're grown?") didn't deserve or need her protection as much as Daella did, even though Viserra was younger when she arranged the marriage. The eagerness for Daella's departure came more from Jaehaerys than Alysanne, while for Viserra, it was more Alysanne's own negative feelings driving her arrangements. So on Alysanne's end, it's easier or more obvious to blame Jaehaerys for Daella than it is herself for either Viserra or Saera. Though for Saera, though I blame both, I still blame Jaehaerys more and while it was certainly Alysanne's doing to arrange Viserra for the old-guy-with-four-kids Theomore, it came after the heels of the "trouble" with Daella's marriage.

PLUS they came after the group of kids Jae & Aly had & already gave their most emotionally energetic years to (I mentioned in another post that you are less able to practically give your love to more than 4-5 kids, esp if you are devoted to your job, profession, or duties as these two parents were). Daella died in 82 A.C. while Viserra died in 87 A.C. And though they are part both of the second set of kids Aly & Jae had together (the first set Daenerys, Aemon, Baelon, & Alyssa), even within this set the age difference b/t Daella and Viserra was 7 years.

While Alysanne observed their kids more than Jaehaerys and knew what they did and stuff, she also was herself "tired" or less willing to accommodate more deemed "disruptive" personalities even though she loved all her kids. Why? Again, too many kids, her using marriage (as Visenya & Rhaenys did) as a more political tool than one to totally satisfy her daughters' personal preferences, and a less interested-domestically-participating husband while trying to participate in politics herself but also expected to be the head of child nurturing simultaneously. The ones that can be more "managed", the more able/willing Alysanne will be sympathetic towards them or fight with Jaehaerys over their futures.

Therefore, it seemed Alysanne was a lot more eager & self-convinced to "get rid of" Viserra than she ever was for Daella because of the different pressures from her husband, her conclusions about their daughters' characters, and her own stake in the policy-making she wanted to participate in even though she expressed. Women can be like this, semi-subtly & subtly perpetuating patriarchal limitations thinking that it is "for the best" while really using the subject's seeming or real noncompliance with socialized gender ideology and behaviors.

Also, though Aegon V and Betha Blackwood married for love, they insisted that their kids marry for politics and by their direction anyway. Parents/leaders often compromise their own previous actions or intentions for the present necessities or perceived "greater" needs. Jaehaerys himself cites how he doesn't like how Alyssa Velaryon & Rogar Baratheon both seek to control him...and then he goes on to do this to his own kids. 🤷🏼‍♂️

B) Viserra's Desire isn't all that Vain

You:

But Viserra is so one dimensionally vain and openly ambitious (even when it contradicts itself, like surrounding herself with boys while having her eyes on Baelon) that she doesn’t come across as a person. It’s like the worst anti’s view of Cersei.

Yes, it is like the worst anti's view. Because an anti is writing about her. It is their perspective & Fire and Blood is written in hindsight, written around Robert Baratheon's time.

When we talk about her being "one-dimensionally vain", it comes down to the Unreliable narrator and the lack of grace they afford to her. Not saying she wasn't vain...but she had a lot of good motivation to rely on looks.

Viserra was 15 when she died. Fifteen-year-olds hardly know themselves, compared to those above 18, at least. And they tend to be a lot more self-concerned or confrontational, rebellious, testing the social limits of whatever, etc. But they also can still use reasoning and draw conclusions about their society's implications for them based on their roles to get what they want or to oppose legitimately unfair restrictions against them.

Viserra was a female royal of parents who some might describe as "workaholics", determined to politick their way into maintaining the dynasty, and as I mentioned above, Viserra was part of the latter, less-emotionally-attended-to brood. Her role, as we see how Jaehaerys treated Saera, was to marry & reproduce and not do as her brothers Aemon & Baelon did which was to work with Jaehaerys & work together in anticipation of becoming the next leaders of said dynasty and Westeros.

As a princess who'd not politically trained similarly as her brothers and after being taught/directed by Septas, learning how to become a lady of a court for when she marries she's got little comparatively to do other than, hang out with other girls of the court & any willing siblings, read, play games, dance, maybe ride horses and hunt, etc. she's got comparatively bigger slots of time to herself and perhaps be a bit lonely. Especially when she has parents who worked often. We don't see nor hear of her actually having close relationships with any of her siblings: Maegelle, Alyssa, Baelon, and Aemon are adults with families of their own or out of the keep in other ligelong devotions; Vaegon is, I believe a maester by the time she was about to married off, and still, he wasn't interested in any of his siblings; Daella seemed...more attached to Alysanne and not that engaging; Saera, it's said, that NONE of her sister liked, which includes Viserra; Gael hadn't been born until 80 A.C., and was 7 when Viserra was 15.

Viserra was not hopelessly stupid--it's implied that she, like Saera, wanted more autonomy and/or political power. And like every other royal or noble girl, she did not really interact with people outside KL or the Red Keep that she could or was allowed to. Perhaps. As I mentioned, she's not out of KL at all, spending her relatively contained life in the castle or in illicit adventures with her followers. Baelon is not only familiar and a more predictable option to Viserra, but he'd be more willing than any other candidate to treat her respectfully for the sibling tie/his disposition. No, she doesn't love him, but she doesn't seem as romantic or idealistic as 13-year-old Alysanne was like. Yeah, attracted to Baelon, but not in love or nor yearning for him as Alyssa did, as Alysanne was. Which yes, would read as her being less "worthy" of Baelon to Alysanne--even though I think Alysanne still saw/sees Jaehaerys' reign as righteous and herself destined to not just be his Queen but to be Queen, for her own ambitions to shape Westeros through him.

Viserra may have seen through her Aysanne's influence, self-confidence, and comfort with wielding what little influence she had over Jaehaerys power that a Queen Consort can do a lot, and that a woman can have "more". Baelon is trained under their father, Jaehaerys...perhaps Baelon will also let her have as much or close influence?

And she knows that in her society, a girl's looks are one of her greatest currencies towards access to a man's power because a girl's looks are what draws a man...besides their rank or family's money/political prospects. But a man will really care about a wife in this society if she's exceptionally or conventionally attractive, as long as she is publicly recognized as attractive. This plus what I mentioned about her not having any granted access to real political activity is thus part of why her vanity is one of the most potent we read in Fire and Blood. If her beauty, rank, and Targness are what she has that gets her what she wants and what she is barred from without, she's going to emphasize and rely on them.

And/or she just loves being beautiful. It's a weird state of being for girls, when they have beauty. Beauty for women & girls tends to fall subject to objectification/currency and a way to trap them in a catch-22 of being perceived as "arrogant" (if they actually acknowledge and celebrate their beauty) vs "having no self-respect/untrustworthy"(if they do not cultivate their beauty or insist--whether genuinely or not--that they do not see themselves as attractive or that attractiveness doesn't really matter). Their beauty can be used for social currency & access to wealthier men's privileges and rights than both women deemed less attractive AND men. Men especially tend to believe that women actually do not go through much hardship bc it's "easy" to have others "take care of" you--as a woman, and esp a pretty woman, you are "in demand" & "don't have to work". Not realizing maintaining beauty does take focus, attention, time AND it can still get objectifying uniquely for women. That beautification is a process & women more than men are expected to do it or have no value at all, while men do not have to be pretty to be respected, though it certainly adds points even to other men.

All of these things, the first level of the narrator--the maesters writing this record--do not consider, because she is a girl with little policy-making or incumbent power, nor does she ever become like Alysanne, supporting and advising a powerful man. No, she is not really treated as a person. They, unlike Septon Barth explaining Saera's motives at the time, not hundreds of years later, do not break down Viserra's.

Let's take this as it is for a second. The girl is fifteen and a princess. Again, fifteen-year-olds are already not that...idk, shrewd? Esp with such a high status or privileges and getting a lot of admiration when their parents may not give them much attention [Saera again], Viserra would have maybe used the male attention for her confidence level, and rationalized it as her due, as she already says she knows she's beautiful when some lord or something says that. Again, reliance on beauty PLUS teenhood with nothing else for her to do with herself. It's a fascinating intersection.

The male admirers thing & seemingly contradiction of attention thing. She, like Saera, led a group of followers/admirers similar, perhaps wishing to emulate a Queen's household or at least to borrow a kind of retinue to mimic that/set up through these male admirers. As I explained about isolation, a girls' beauty, and her possible loneliness, yes sometimes people do not-so-smart things to feel a little less lonely or validated. I know a person who, at high school, actually tried to "seduce" their history teacher. wild stuff, but it came from a place of severe insecurity, which was fostered by misogyny and neglect at home. 🤷🏻‍♀️ Again, she could have rationalized it as her "practicing" "holding court" for the future or affirming her ability to get such admirers. That itself is an attempt at power-denied or trivialized.

Now, let's consider how Viserra rationalized Baelon seeing her with her male admirers. If Alysanne and Jaehaerys weren't too concerned and Baelon was busy or inattentive, then Baelon wouldn't be that suspicious of her virginity...nor care all that much. She's still his sister and Baelon is presumably the least prideful/machismo of all his brothers except maybe Aemon and we don't even know that much of Aemon.

If anything, she might have thought that if Baelon did see these male courtiers around her, that raises her "value", bc these guys think she's pretty enough. Baelon, as a man, must too--if he only really looked at me. If the court gossip about it is true, this would have motivated her into "forcing" her to look at her by catching him with her clothes off. Why getting drunk? Because she is 15, a virgin, never has tried something like this before, and thus sought out liquid courage. She was also very anxious about being married off to Theomore and felt pressure to get Baelon to marry her instead, so the alcohol was also to reduce her fears so she could seem more in control....until she got carried away. Again, IF the gossip has truth.

And yes, some men of power do look at how other men see a women's beauty to evaluate how much social status she'd be to him if he partnered up with her. "Trophy wives" came from somewhere. Plus, men often validate themselves through other men's evaluation of them and whatever they can claim control over or claim, which is nearly often women and "lineage", real or not real.

You:

yet her ambition is to go after Baelon, the man with two healthy trueborn sons already, 14 years older than her, not yet the heir with Aemon alive. How much influence could Viserra possibly have even if she did marry him at the time ? [...] (let me just roll my eyes at the mother trying to protect her nearly 30 year old son with 2 children from a “seductive” 15 year old girl…it’s pathetic) with all of the drawbacks.

Now I don't know if Viserra knew much about the actual ins-and-outs of Visenya and Aegon I's relationship (we don't we just know she was active in politics and loyal and confident and bold) or if she actually put as much thought into this as I have below, but I do think she felt she just had more of a chance to not be subject to others' authority the closest she could be to the highest authority available to women and that if she thought Baelon would be king, it's because Aemon had no male heirs.

From how Saera at least knew that Maegor had 6 wives and presumably their names and what their recorded actions/legacies were, Viserra also would likely have known about Visenya and Rhaena as was recorded by the maesters. More or less what we the readers know, if not a bit more. there would be several accounts written of Rhaena and Visenya, but we don't have that, we have just AWoIaF, Fire and Blood (which was written around Robert's time), and whatever random stuff from the main series.

Baelon already having two sons would seem to contradict Viserra pursuing him just for power. However, maybe:

[Aemon & Jocelyn marry in 70 A.C. Rhaenys was born in 74 A.C. Aemon dies in 92 A.C., so Rhaenys was 18 when he died and she was 13 in 87, when Viserra dies.] In the 13 years Rhaenys was alive, Jocelyn never birthed another kid. And after Rhaenys, the couple enjoyed many years together before Aemon's death, so they all probably thought her infertile. Jocelyn and Aemon had no sons. So, yes, people could have thought Baelon would eventually become the heir apparent to Aemon. And Jaehaerys never went out and declared it until Aemon's death, but he also never declared or approved Aemon's daughter Rhaenys being heir to the heir to the throne...ever. Despite some people praising Rhaenys as the next ruler after her birth. This is where Viserra/a reader could come from is perhaps coming from, if just to rationalize. This sort of almost panicky rationalization so pretty perfect for a girl who desperately did not want to marry a really old man.

part of Baelon's draw would be because, as I mentioned, familiarity, security, and assurance of his taking care of her/non-abusiveness or non-suppressiveness. That comes with or without sons/kids. Even with Aemon being alive.

she'd be escaping a much, too old guy that lives too far from King's Landing, the only home she's ever known and her parents gave her no other options

Women both in real and Westerosi history still relatively benefit from being married over being unmarried in some ways in feudal/monarchial/highly-patriarchal systems. Sometimes even when their marriage has had no children.

Viserra can birth children later after marriage (again, she was 15 and had a lot of childbearing years in her--as gross as that sounds--in the context of the society where she lives). No matter how back in the line of succession those kids with Baelon would be, having shared legitimate kids with the monarch/heir secures her staying married to him and thus secures her own position as one of the highest-ranking woman in Westeros, which is the aim of her marrying Baelon. Because less of her life is determined by others and she is one of the women who has the highest authorities.

Even though Baelon already had sons, she'd still be his Queen Consort, no matter what. After he dies, she'd still become a "Queen Dowager", as Rhaena, Visenya, etc. were. Visenya had Aegon's younger son...still Queen Dowager and a force to be reckoned with in court. Rhaena was once feared (unjustly) by Alyssa Velaryon, Rogar Baratheon, and her own parents--Alysanne & Jaehaerys. Rhaena and Maegor never had kids (thank god), but Rhaena was a Queen Dowager with her own ability to set up a household & direct men & women as if she were a roaming, quasi--Queen Regnant (which inspired the fear in her own family).

Alicent plays a similar game with marrying Viserys. She knows, like everyone else, that to marry a King, you become "first lady" of the realm. And becoming the mother to the next King, you definitely become the most powerful woman in the realm--before any princesses or Dowager Queens of the past Kings. But even if she didn't have Viserys' kids, she'd still have been a Queen Dowager. Alicent managed to bear 4 kids for Viserys, 3 of them male. Technically she should have enjoyed the certainty of being that "most powerful woman" by having a son as King. But unfortunately for her, Viserys had a daughter whom he named his heir and maintained her above Alicent's sons in the succession line. Having no kids or sons is not the absolute end of the world for a woman seeking power in Westeros through marrying the royal family, but Alicent wanted the surety of her sons being King. As we see Visenya has more power than Rhaena.

Viserra would have been the stepmother of Daemon & Viserys, but she'd still be a parental figure, raising them (or doing the bare minimum) PLUS their aunt by blood. She still has access to power through them after Baelon dies if she plays her cards right, esp if she has just daughters or never had legitimate kids. And if she has kids, those kids are sibling-cousins to Viserys/Daemon/the future probable King. As long as it doesn't devolve into a green-black situation (which it likely wouldn't, not with her being a Targ already and not so devoted to the Faith as Alicent), she can enjoy and feel secure her stepkids/nephews will treat her own children/her well.

Either way, she has a better deal being the Queen consort, then a Queen dowager, than being a lady-wife to some lord--in her perception and what she's observed has learned so far without knowing of the various lords' holdings or how much power she'd had outside her own family. Again, she doesn't travel and is likely not to have heard any comprehensive details of any lords outside the Keep. Broad strokes, little detail.

Someone said in a TikTok once--I think GoThistorian--that Cersei might have fared better if she married Oberyn Martell and not a royal like Robert or Rhaegar because in Dorne noblewomen have so much more value, authority, & autonomy even as not a lady regnant nor a Princess, which was what Cersei needed above all else. Her mother, Joanna, actually seemed to have started or was planning for her to marry a Dornish person when we hear she was friends with the Princess of Dorne and the trouble with Aerys'...attentions towards her. Viserra--for the moment we see her--is somewhat like Cersei here in that she wants more access to power than she does. Cersei dreamed of being Rhaegar's wife and wanted to be Robert's because she wanted that access above any romances. Viserra, same.

Some real noble women have become the mistresses of kings--whether the parties involved were already married themselves and/or had kids already or not--even though their kids would inevitably be illegitimate. Whether more by their own choice or by the insistence and arrangement of their families.

#asoiaf asks to me #fire and blood writing #viserra targaryen #alysanne targaryen #fire and blood characters #viserra targ's characterization #alysanne's characterization #unreliable narrator #fire and blood #asoiaf

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fenharael · 8 months

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I saw your pfp had reappeared this morning! Congrats! I missed your little guy and being able to easily view your blog!

By the way, I have always been curious about your pfp?

Yay thanks!!

My PFP is a modified version of the Dread Wolf Fen'Harel from Dragon Age! I always really liked the Dalish legends of the Dread Wolf and then when we learn it's an alias for Solas and a representation of his regret, a symbol of defiance, and the role that was cast for him by his enemies combined with the idea it's "the monster he must become to set things right" even if he's already doing that I just loved it a lot.

I also always wanted a fursona since I fell into doing furry art for friends a few years back but never felt like I really connected with the characters I made - they all ended up being OCs. So when I tried out the shadowy church-grim demon dog it felt more right. Also bc quite frankly Solas is an asshole and his fursona is too cool for him so it's mine now.

#the-stags-cave #solas #dragon age #dreadwolf #fenharel #fen barks

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crowtrobotx · 2 years

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Let your followers love you and write us a ficlet of Karl trying to get Lottie to eat her least favorite food.

This is my first time posting one of these, pls be gentle lol. But thank you very much for sending this, and thank you for your patience! I am old and always tired. And sorry for any bad/weird formatting, I am having a Boomer Moment™️ on mobile and can’t figure out how to do anything.

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

Beets Me

Characters: Karl Heisenberg, Original character (daughter)

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: None, unless you count swearing and an old man negotiating with a child.

Word count: 1068

Humiliating.

That was the only word that came to mind - Karl Heisenberg was a Lord, a nigh indestructible and powerful demigod who instilled awe and terror in all who stumbled across his path. He could make life from death, had built machines the likes of which no one in world had seen or would ever see again, and for God’s sake he could wield a fucking lightning hammer. He had worked incredibly hard for all of these things, for his reputation, which made the fact that he was currently being bested by his own personal tiny tyrant all the more miserable.

“Lottie,” he called not for the first time, his tone even but with a twinge of desperation. His latest soldat was due to wake up soon, and he preferred to be present lest the stupid things felt the need to have a destructive existential crisis upon realizing they were decidedly not dead anymore. He searched about what passed as the living room, grimacing internally at all of the not-so-childproof items carelessly strewn about.

Is that a rusty bone saw— nope, better not think about it.

He’d already checked all of the kid’s usual hiding places, and it would have been a lie to say there wasn’t a twinge of panic beginning to worm its way up his throat. Most of the horrors that lurked outside and below couldn’t reach her here, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t leave of her own accord - and there was one person he knew he couldn’t stop, not until his army was finished. Not that he trusted a damn thing dearest Mother said, but she’d sworn she wouldn’t take Lottie - she wasn’t a suitable vessel, she’d made that abundantly and infuriatingly clear.

At last, two little grey-blue eyes appeared from beneath a milk crate stashed under one of the many workbenches that littered the factory. Karl quirked a brow, amusement and relief playing on his lips. After a small squeak of alarm, Lottie disappeared just as quickly back into the shadows - as if it would change the fact that she’d been undeniably caught.

Karl snorted, his knees cracking in protest when he begrudgingly knelt to her level. It was fortunate she was cute - the frankly embarrassing amount of shenanigans she got away with made him feel ridiculous. He barely remembered his own father but he knew that he sure as shit wouldn’t have taken this lying down from his own son. Lucky Lottie, he wasn’t his father. He tossed his hat aside and ran a hand through his wiry hair, waiting for her to reappear.

And reappear she did, squishing her nose up against the plastic to get a better view. Stifling a laugh when he saw the rebellious and familiar expression his daughter boasted, Karl knocked politely on the top of the crate. “Anybody home?”

“No.”

“No? Then who’s talkin’?”

A pause. “…Not Lottie, that’s for sure”

Heisenberg sighed, removing his trademark glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well, Not Lottie, you still have to eat dinner, I’m afraid. I’m running behind already and don’t have time for hide and seek right now.”

The little demon glared out in defiance from the baby jail of her own design. “I hate beets.”

Ah. So she’d seen the cans he’d set on the counter earlier in the day. Observant.

“Yeah, not my favorite either,” he conceded, “but Duke ain’t due back here until tomorrow and it’s dark out. I don’t want to go stomping out there to shake down the village grocer just because you’re being picky.”

Not that he hadn’t been conned into doing that before. Not that there hadn’t been at least three separate occasions where he’d found himself crossing the ancient bridge that separated the Heisenberg Factory from the rest of town and audibly yelled “What the fuck am I doing” to no one in particular. Not that he hadn’t always found it completely worthwhile to see Lottie’s little face light up when he returned with a bag of goodies for the two of them.

“It’s not just beets, y’know,” he attempted to reason with her. “I’m not a monster. There’s some, uh…. Meat of some sort, too.”

Lottie groaned. “But what if the beets touch everything else! They’ll ruin it! Can’t you call the supersized bi—”

“No, absolutely not,” the Lord had never answered a question so quickly in his life. “Although it would be pretty funny to piss her off with a takeout order from those ridiculous kitchens of hers, I think I got on her last mega nerve at the meeting yesterday and she might actually try to kill me this time. Then what’d you do? You might have to live with her. And wear dresses.”

Lottie gasped in horror.

They sat in silence for a moment after, clearly at a standstill. The ambient noises of the factory were much fainter here, amounting to little more than distant humming. Karl could practically hear the gears in that little head of hers overheating while she tried to think of a way out of Beet Hell.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said at last, “you suffer through this hideous torment tonight, and I’ll make it up to you with extra good stuff from the Duke tomorrow. Sound good?” He threw in a good natured wink for added effect.

Lottie drummed her fingers on the floor, her nose scrunching while she considered the offer. “Five donuts this time,” she declared firmly.

“Three,” Karl countered.

“Four.”

“Three and I’ll throw in that new bright ass pink screwdriver you were eyeing last time.”

“Hmm,” Lottie was making an obvious show of trying to sustain the suspense. “I dunno… Maybe… I guess we have a deal.”

“Perfect,” Karl grinned. “I’d shake your hand but you’d have to come out for that.”

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” she grumbled, the sounds of shuffling now audible from beneath the crate.

Karl rose with a grunt, satisfied with the negotiations. He returned his shades to their proper place and glanced at the grimy old clock that hung sadly in his makeshift living quarters, relieved to see that he still had plenty of time to feed the little gremlin and get back down into the bowels of the factory.

He hadn’t made it but two steps toward the kitchen when he heard an uncertain voice call out from behind.

“Papa?”

“Yes, princess?”

“I think I’m stuck.”

#I can’t believe I’m putting this in the tags I have truly lost my mind #my mediocre writing #karl heisenberg #resident evil village

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itzroboticgirl · 5 months

Text

For: @yaboymacaroni

My Dear, Rod

Cars 2 [Grimdark/Romance/Darkfic/Sadfic]

“Rod! It’s Axle! He’s in this place!” Maxwell screamed out, pulling the handle on the door, only to find it wouldn’t budge.

Another scream, this time in defiance, came from within. Maxwell slammed hks body against the door, hoping it would give way, but it remained firm.

“Rod! Let me in!” Maxwell shouted, pleading with the man who he could clearly hear tussling with someone else from within. When more slams to the door didn’t give way, he backed off and blasted it with his gun the bullet hit the knob. However, the bullet instantly deflected, as if it met an invisible, magical shield. It ricocheted and whizzed over Maxwell’s head, colliding into one of the hideout pillars behind him. Maxwell jumped aside when the pillar collapsed into a pile of gemstone-textured debris.

“Miss me, Mr. Redline?!”

Maxwell heard Axelrod’s voice behind the door and he grew more desperate. The crumbling pillar beside him gave him a frantic, but potentially helpful idea. He shifted his focus from the door, to the wall beside it. Maxwell's bazooka steadily grew with light, as he gathered all the strength he had for this singular headshot. When he released it, the collision roared through the hallway as stone crumbled, and dust billowed. The hole it created in the wall was barely large enough to fit his frame, but Maxwell pressed forward. He sucked in a deep breath and squeezed, contorted, and pushed himself through the wall. The dust hadn’t settled, so Maxwell had to squint through yet another haze to find both Sir Miles and Rod "Torque" Redline. It was then that Maxwell’s eyes fell on a gruesome sight.

“ROD!”

The secret agent was laying on the opposite side of the room, near the ruins of what were once Miles belongings. As the dust from the explosion slowly settled, some of the destruction in the room came into view. The desk was in pieces, paper from the plans still adrift in the air, mixing with the dust from the explosion. The armoire was nearly unrecognizable, all that remained were sharp splinters of wood and strewn about clothing. The mirror that once stood atop a vanity table was smashed into tens of thousands of pieces that were scattered about the room in disarray. Clothing, tapestries, childhood memorabilia: eviscerated. Then there was Rod himself, who was in a similar state of upheaval. His skin was marred with fresh injuries, the red soaked through his skin so thoroughly that wounds were indistinguishable from one to another. A bone in his back hand was jutting backwards, disconnected from its place. But, most notably horrific of all, was a cascade of blood oozing through hooves that clung desperately to a severed jugular.

“Wh-why?” Rod asked, his breath caught in his throat. He was looking up at something that had been hidden in the haze. Maxwell blinked a few times, to bring his eyes fully into focus in the dim light, and found Sir Miles Axelrod looming over Rod. There was a strange, unnatural and unnerving smile on the earth person’s face, looking pleased with herself for ridding the world of this so-called fighter.

It was this moment that Miles was no longer a brother, in Maxwell’s eyes, but a demon that needed to be destroyed. Clearly fighting was no threat to this evil beast, so Maxwell changed tactics, gripping a sharpened shard of mirror in his hand and leaping towards Axlerod with a frenzied cry. Surely the weapon would instill some fear, and at the very least, draw Axelrod away from Rod.

Much to Maxwell’s surprise, his plan worked. Axelrod’s face contorted to that of surprise, maybe even shock, and he didn’t stick around long enough to see if the lemon could bring himself to murder a person in cold blood. He whizzed past Maxwell so quickly, it seemed as though he was flying. In less time than it took for a man to blink, Axelrod leapt out of the hole the former family of his had just made in the wall, and disappeared without a trace. Maxwell could do nothing but stare after his, his strength finally failing as the shard of glass clattered to the ground. He knew the severe consequences that would soon follow if he didn’t pursue him, but Maxwell’s mind wouldn’t detach itself from the need to save his boyfriend.

Rod. Rod. Rod.

His heart beats were drumming loudly again, echoing Rod’s name over and over as he allowed insanity to creep into his reality.

“M-Max-w...well?” Rod stammered, each syllable uttered only strengthening the waterfall of life drenching the man’s skin, and pooling beneath him.

Maxwell cried out unintelligibly, collapsing on the floor beside his boyfriend. He wanted to hold him, to ease the pain, to promise he’d be okay, to make it stop… but it would only delay the inevitable. Rod’s gasping and gagging was fading, and Maxwell could do nothing but watch as Rod clung to his last shred of life.

“I d-don’t c-care wh-what you are o-or … th’past,” Rod slurred. “I l-love … you … for who you are … n-not … what … or … was …” His eyes dimmed. “Please … live … for me.” His breath hitched wetly in his throat. “Don’t … let him … make you i-into … somebody y… you’re … not…” His words became a single breath, and then he was still. His bloodied hand hit the floor. His eyes still stared, but Maxwell knew they could no longer see his.

“Please, please don’t go. Please don’t leave me!” Maxwell managed through garbled cries. He watched Rod’s face change from fear, to confusion, and finally to sorrow.

Rod "Torque" Redline was dead.

His Rod was dead.

Just like that, Maxwell was a small child again, screaming for the only other person who had loved him for him – and who his brother’s twisted plans had taken away.

He circled his arms around Rod, burying his face in the top of his hair. “It wasn’t worth the cost.”

And there, in the tattered remains of his life, Maxwell Axelrod screamed out his endless grief.

Maxwell let out a scream that would echo through every hallway in the warehouse. He pulled Rod into his embrace, cradling his body against his chest like a mother coddling a child. Maxwell was consumed in grief, letting no other emotion take precedence despite the severity of the situation around him.

#cars 2 (2011)#Maxwell Axelrod #rod torque redline #gay #lgbtq #sad fic #dark fic #grimdark

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avatarvyakara · 2 years

Text

Got to get back to work again, but in the meantime...a continuation of this post!

They find Bobo, arm broken and face nearly clawed off by a bear. They drag him, kicking and screaming, back into the pit.

More specifically, they drag him to an inn and give him a comfy room with lots of light and a great view of the valley and then the plant lady from before comes and force-feeds him an arepa and cures his broken arm and might have removed a few acne scars by the feel of it.

And now she’s sitting, watching him in perfect astonishment, after he tells her what his family knows about hers. And just how terrifying it truly is.

“What. The. Hell.”

Apparently she hasn’t taken it very well.

“Okay, so maybe the segue about jungle botany was a bit cheesy—”

He’s deflecting and he knows it and so does she and it’s likely only that shared knowledge that’s keeping him alive.

Isabela Madrigal, from what he recalls from Antonio’s descriptions, is the oldest grandchild, followed a couple of months later by Dolores, his big sister. She used to be “kind of poofy, like she was trying to float everywhere,” which sounds a lot like kid-speak for “full of hot air”, but apparently she’s much more like herself now. Herself being someone who has covered herself head to toe in dyes and pollens that make her look like a living rainbow. And as Bobo himself can attest to, she controls plant life. Better than that, she apparently understands it.

Under normal circumstances, Bobo would probably be in love. Unfortunately, his survival instinct keeps getting in the way.

“Look, I’m sorry. You wanted the story, that was it.”

“This is insane.” Señorita Madrigal begins pacing the room. “Literally insane. Was this someone we knew before? Who has enough reason to hate us and leave? I don’t actually think I’ve heard of anyone leaving the encanto for good.” Vines are wrapping around her, quite quickly.

“Uh, señorita?”

“But you don’t look like anyone in the valley, either. Maybe it was a different Madrigal family somewhere? Macondo’s pretty insane, maybe they’ve got some Madrigals. But those powers...they match Mamá’s, and Tía’s, and Tío’s. In a sick, twisted way, but they match. How? You even had some bastard version of the Candle!”

“Señorita!”

Señorita Madrigal stops and takes a deep breath. “Clear skies, damn it,” she mutters for some reason. The vines slip away.

“Does that...happen often?”

“Specifically when I get told my family’s a pack of demons from Hell in some kid’s bedtime stories. When my Pá’s nearly comatose from bee stings it’s strangling figs.”

He can’t help it, the deadpan delivery makes him snort.

“Sorry.”

“You should be.” She takes another deep breath. “I don’t care much for people outside my family, Señor Márquez, unless they’ve proven themselves. I can pretend, but I try not to these days. But I will be damned if I don’t set the record straight for you about them.”

There’s an odd mix of emotions in her voice. Anger, certainly. Defiance, also. Annoyance, just a smidgen. But also...resolution. And just a smidgen of...clarity.

“Look, first and foremost, before we do any of this...is your mother’s food actually addictive?”

“It tastes good and it heals you. That’s all.”

“Oh. ...so...what parts did my parents actually get right?”

She rolls her eyes, and starts to speak.

As it turns out? Too little and too much.

Señorita Madrigal explains the story of the Candle, and the Miracle it birthed, or maybe was birthed from. She tells him of her grandfather’s sacrifice, and how her grandmother kept the ragtag group of refugees from being destroyed by centauros. (Must be a local dialect thing.) She tells him about her mother who loves her work and has turned it into an art and dances so beautifully but is too shy to do so very much these days, and her aunt who loves romance novels and dreams of travel, and her uncle who does live radio soap operas with rat performers. She tells him about her other uncle, who is the most truthful man in the encanto, and her father, who handles a lot of trade with the outside world and made a game with her out of flower language so she could use an entire field to curse someone out and they’d think it a compliment. (That gets a laugh from both of them.) She tells him about growing up with a cousin-twin, Dolores, who can hear everything—

“Seriously everything? Ouch. Sounds like more of a curse than a blessing.”

“Who’s telling this sorry, you or me?”

“Sorry. Carry on.”

—and who has made the valley that much more peaceful by nipping arguments in the bud before they go on too long, and a little sister, Luisa, who can move mountains single-handed and has a better understanding of philosophy than anyone she knows. She tells him about her shapeshifter cousin—

And notices the small twitch. “No, not like La Tunda. Camilo’s a jerk sometimes, but he’d never do something like that.”

“How did you—”

She sighs. “We see that look a lot on recién llegados.” Then she grins. “The little bribón usually changes their tune in about a week.”

—who’s a massive sucker for kids, and a bit more about Antonio, who’s finding it easier to talk to people now that he can understand animals properly. And then her other little sister, who can sew like a champion.

“She didn’t actually get a Gift,” she admits. “At least, that’s what we all thought. Turns out, her Gift was keeping us all together. We got Rooms. She got the House.”

Unvocalized there seems to be the thought, I wish I’d known. Maybe I would have behaved differently.

Bobo can sympathize.

And then she tells him—tells him bluntly but carefully—about how, last year, their Casita, their heart, started cracking apart. How their uncle who’d been missing for years suddenly came back as a broken prophecy. How she was about to be engaged to a man named Mariano Gúzman, and was doing it because she didn’t want to think she had any other choice.

(Which honestly does not do wonders for Bobo’s self-confidence, from the way she describes him as “basically just a sweet idiot galán for most of my life”. But that’s really not important right now.)

How, because of...various events, the engagement hadn’t gone through.

How her sister—Mirabel—had tried to set her and her middle sister, Luisa, straight, and how that led to Isabela discovering that she could make much more than flowers.

“Flowers? Actually just flowers?”

“Pretty much, yeah. ‘Symbol of the perfect life’ or something like that.”

“But then...” he gestures to the vines around her, to the bromeliad on the table which is her gift to him for reasons he doesn’t quite understand.

She smiles, a real, genuine smile. “I can do a lot more than that.” The smile fades. “And maybe if I’d realized earlier I wouldn’t—”

She stands up suddenly. “I gotta get going.”

“Wait.”

Señorita Madrigal turns around.

“...thank you. I think that helped a lot.”

Bobo came to the jungle seeking to disprove the old stories of monsters called Madrigal. He’s honestly afraid that he—she—might have succeeded in that.

Isabela smiles—a little tight, a little practiced.

“You’re welcome, Señor Márquez. Hope you like the bromeliad.”

“I already love it,” he replies honestly, and her smile becomes just a little more real.

“Look, you caught us at a bad time. There’s been things going on I can’t tell you about, and there’s nothing to do except wait for them to get better and work like hell in the meantime. Leave or stay as you like. My other tía can fix your bear suit if you want.”

Bobo shudders. “Please just get rid of it. I’ll buy some fresh clothes.”

A thought strikes him. Now that he’s found a bromeliad beyond imagination...

“I don’t suppose anyone would mind if I stay a few more days?”

Isabela shrugs. “Probably not. And you should tell Antonio you’re okay.”

“I will.” He wants to, anyway. “But...look, you don’t have to do this, but I’d be very grateful if I could meet your family properly. All of them. You’ve got stuff to do, but, like, would they mind? It’s...” Oooh, boy, this is gonna sound cheesy. “I want to wake up properly. Open my eyes a little bit more.”

If anything, the smile gets bigger and softer at the same time.

“Come by the house tomorrow,” says Isabela. She turns to leave. “I might be around too. Good day, Señor Márquez.”

“To you too, Señorita Madrigal.”

#fanfic #encanto #encanto 2021 #isabela madrigal #bobo marquez #Bobo x Isabela #i do apologize #and yet I do not #family madrigal #100 years of solitude #tiles on the roof #just bear with me

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pugpugpusheen · 2 years

Text

will of the people: the chances are turning, the future is ours (free will)

compliance: We just need your compliance/You will feel no pain anymore/And no more defiance (acceptance of abuser)

liberation: Silenced, you'll make us feel silenced/You stole the airwaves, but the air belongs to us (realized that being with the abuser is not good and want freedom again)

won't stand down: Won't stand down/I'm growing stronger/Won't stand down/I'm owned no longer/Won't stand down/You've used me for too long, now die alone (standing up for oneself against the abuser to get out of their hold)

ghosts (how can i move on): Here's to letting go/But I am lost in a void with your ghost and our memories/Lest we forget/The great reset (moving on with your life without your abuser and coming to terms with lingering feelings)

you make me feel like it's halloween: Each day I fall to my knees/I see the writing is on the wall/Now I'm in withdrawal (recovering from the abuser and having nightmares from it)

kill or be killed: Cornered, I'm exhausted with fear/Our love and compassion dissolved/And demons have materialised in me/Can't fight them, they're taking control/Fate, is driving me insane/It's forcing me to face/I must kill or be killed (not dealing well with the aftermath of the memories the abuser has left)

verona: We will kiss with poison on our lips/Well I'm not scared/We will touch and reach forbidden bliss/They can't stop us now, I won't let you die alone/Because I love you so (the person thinks they are tainted/poisoned, but has found love and the other person is willing to go through anything to be with them)

euphoria: Sealed off/We are running out of air/So start a fire and spice up this love affair/Give us euphoria/It's been all work and no play/Give us euphoria/Give us euphoria/I need to numb all the pain (sometimes victims of abuse are not used to a normal relationship and feel an urge to either start a fight/chaos to feel normal)

we are fucking fucked: is an outlier. muse is known to make songs to show their views

#muse #matt bellamy #i want people to see my thoughts those dipping my toe in the matt bellamy tag

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busines-as-unusual · 19 days

Text

˖ ࣪ ⭑⟡Chapter 1 - Key Signature⟡⭑ ࣪ ˖

“Where the fuck is that fucking raccoon slag?!”

The avian-like demon stomped backstage at his sleazy burlesque show, not caring if the roar of his voice was louder than the band playing down in the pit. Sinners under his employ dashed back and forth to keep busy and stay out of his way. The unlucky few who got caught in the Overlord’s crossfire of his rage were sent flying through the air with a flap of his wings, crashing painfully on props or other demons.

The demon yanked the cigar out of his mouth to wipe the drool of alcohol gathering in the corner of his mouth. “Bitch, you got to the count of four–”

That always did the trick. You scrambled out of your dressing room in a blur of purple and silver. You wore your signature outfit: a corset pushing up your best assets, with fringe and feathers everywhere hiding nothing from view. He'd have you for himself tonight if he weren't so irritated.

Your arms were crossed, face in a shitty frown, eyes trained on something behind him. “Yes, Roman?”

“Yes, Roman,” he mocked, taking pleasure when you cringed in on yourself. “You know you're on in five?”

“Of course I know,” you spat the words, testing out your defiance. “I-I was just–”

He yanked you by the arm, talons threatening to pierce your skin. You winced, shaking in his grasp, looking up at the demon who owned your soul with barefaced vitriol.

Roman cupped your cheek in a grotesque caricature of an affectionate gesture. His thumb caressed your cheek right under your eye, right where he knew a bruise was hiding under your shitty makeup job. It would be invisible on stage under the harsh lights, not that anyone would care if it wasn't. This was Hell after all.

He took a drag of his cigar. “You can give me all the lip you want after you do your fucking job. Capiche, honey?”

You grimaced, trying not to gag on the acrid smell of his cigar curdling in your lungs. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

You fumed in silence, wishing you could tell him to wrap his lips around a Smith and Wesson. But you swallowed the retort, giving him exactly what he wanted to hear. “...yes, daddy.”

He grinned. “There's my favorite girl.”

With a smack on your ass, he pushed you to take your mark. One of the stagehands reminded you of your cue to enter, but their voice mixed with the band and backstage chaos turning into pure white noise irritating your brain. This had been your routine since nearly your first days in Hell. You did not need a recap.

Squaring your shoulders, you plastered on a well practiced show-stopping smile. You strutted center stage with all the confidence in Hell, hands on exaggeratedly swiveling hips to greet your adoring audience of savage beast.

The music swelled as if the instruments themselves were applauding the sultry sway of your body.

You allowed yourself to get lost in the music, your body taking over the reigns as it did what it did best. It was the only way you could get through this with your sanity intact. In life, you’d made it your mission to dance to your own rhythm, but in Hell you found yourself once again forced to follow another's rhythm for survival, your well-being at the mercy of vile men.

You could strangle every single one of them.

Rip them apart with your bare hands.

Like most denizens in Hell, you loathed the owner of your soul. Once a fresh sinner, confused with your new surroundings, and terrified of heaven's wrath, you made your deal out of naivety and fear. Only later did you understand what you’d done when it was far too late to take it back.

So you danced every night for the pleasure of others, preferring to let your eyes burn staring at the spotlights rather than at the hungry faces of lustful demons, preferring to let the music deafen you so you couldn’t hear their wolf whistles and vulgar comments.

Your soul and body no longer moved in tandem, the pain of the unsynchronization intractable and ever-present.

You were so far away the flickering lights above didn't reach you until they all went out, bathing the club in darkness. All at once you returned to yourself, body stopping on its own accord. The patrons muttered, confused, concerned, and disgruntled. Somewhere not far away enough, Roman was shouting at some poor soul to fix the lights.

The temperature dropped in the blink of an eye. Pins and needles scratched at the underside of your skin, a sensation felt by all as silence swept throughout the establishment, louder than the band.

“R̸͙̃ő̶̧͍͠ḿ̶̨̺̋a̸͈̱̽̓ñ̸̻, R̸͙̃ő̶̧͍͠ḿ̶̨̺̋a̸͈̱̽̓ñ̸̻, R̸͙̃ő̶̧͍͠ḿ̶̨̺̋a̸͈̱̽̓ñ̸̻…”

The familiar voice distorted by static was enough to make everyone lose their collective shit. Screams pierced the air as patrons and employees alike rushed to the exit, trampling on each other and shattering windows, clawing for escape.

You froze as the chaos unfolded. A light fixture above you crashed and shattered on the floor, shards of glass flying, biting your skin.

The building shook. Tendrils of shadows snaked through the windows and doors like murderous tornadoes, tearing through concrete and sinners alike with no discretion, cutting them down like weeds. Like a house of cards the building crumbled on top of you, the darkness all-consuming.

The weight of a collapsed building in Hell was the equivalent of a stubbed toe. It won't kill you, but it'll hurt like a motherfucker.

You clawed your way out of the rubble, coughing up dust and debris that invaded your lungs. You breached the surface and gulped down fresh Hellish air. The sounds of a bloody brawl were mere background noise as you assessed your damage. Blood dripped and bruises ached but you were alright otherwise. Unfortunately the same couldn't be said for the other residents of the club.

Hell made one accustomed to blood and gore, but it was still a shock to see it unprompted. Blood soaked into the remains of the ex-establishment, limbs strewn about with abandon. The air grew thick with copper. A leg free from its owner stood beside you, comically upright.

You regarded the leg with mild distaste, then to the rubble still covering your own legs.

You’d done grosser things…

With the leg, you shoved off the remainder of the rubble pinning you down, tossing it behind you with a sigh of relief. You stood, then immediately nearly collapsed like the building.

Your chest burned as if your heart combusted. Grabbing at the white-hot pain behind your ribs, you dropped to one knee, drawing in ragged breaths that couldn’t reach your lungs. Vision blurred as your body struggled to stay upright. A scream shredded itself across Hell like a bloodied siren was drowned out by the maddening ringing in your ears.

As suddenly as the sensation appeared, it stopped, replaced with an invisible weight lifting from your shoulders. You felt inexplicably lighter.

A crimson chain— your chain, bestowed on you by Roman— manifested around your neck, then shattered like glass on a hardwood floor, dissipating into the wind like smoke from his cigars. In that moment you knew he was deader than dead. His soul was no more.

And you were free.

You nearly sobbed at the realization, euphoria washing over you like a wave. Fingers instinctively stroked your throat in disbelief.

The celebration was cut short when the familiar chill of static crawled over your skin. Sensing the presence behind you, you turned, and there he was.

The Radio Demon.

He had quickly made a name for himself down in Hell as one of the realm's most powerful, dangerous, and evil beings. You’d been around for a year before he made his presence known, but even then you could tell how much he alone had changed the landscape of Hell.

His broadcast kept him a mystery for the most part, but there were a few artistic renditions of his likeness from sinners who crossed his path and lived to tell the tale. Some were more accurate than others, but they all got his sadistic smile down perfectly.

And now that smile was aimed your way.

You should be terrified, and maybe you supposed you were, but pure awe overshadowed the prudent fear that should be in its place.

Your eyes made contact with the dials in place of his irises. His grin skewed in thought as he approached her, theatrically spinning his cane around him.

You didn't shrink back. You couldn't if you wanted to. Curiosity took hold of your flight or fight instincts as you watched him draw near, stopping when he was less than a meter away.

He was a lot redder than you expected, with antlers like a deer perched on oddly fluffy hair and golden teeth like a shark. His pinstriped suit was pristine and exquisite despite the battle he'd been part of not too long ago. The dials of his eyes vanished, replaced with red.

It was like he bathed in blood.

And you supposed he did.

You stared up at the towering demon, feeling small but not intimidated. He inspected you, crimson stare taking you in, intrigued by your next move. You were all too aware of your heart in your chest.

“That was quick,” was all you thought to say.

His smile turned closed mouthed, head tilting in amusement more so than confusion. “Oh? And did you expect the buffoon to have me put up a bigger fight?”

You shrugged. “The buffoon was an Overlord for over five hundred years. You don't accomplish that without knowing how to hold your own in a fight. At least that's what he always told me.”

The Radio Demon laughed, a hearty, campy sound full of bravado. “Braggarts souls like him, I find, are always the fastest to fall. You can never trust a man who sings his own praises, my dear.

You snickered in agreement but held back a retort. Something about the demon before you rang familiar. His voice, the way he talked and held himself, it all nagged at you to place where you’d met him before. But you couldn't have, you’d definitely remember a man like this.

Unless… you didn't meet in Hell?

Before you could ask, he grabbed your face with a single hand and forced you to look at him. Thumb and forefinger dug into your cheeks bruisingly as he smiled down at you. His eyes glimmered with hunger, and not the lustful hunger of need you were familiar with. He looked ready to devour you.

“Subservience to utter filth is unbecoming of you. You'd do well to use that brain of yours to not find yourself in the gutter again.”

You didn't pull away, scowling up at him for having the nerve to condescend to you. You weren’t stupid. You were always determined that if you were ever freed of Roman, you'd never let another demon have your soul ever again. You finally, finally belonged to you again, you weren’t dumb enough to jeopardize it.

You'd rather die permanently than give up your freedom.

Somehow, the Radio Demon read your intent. His smile grew despite the daggers you shot at him. His hand fell from your face and gave a dramatic bow. “Well I must be off! Do have a Hellish evening, my dear.” He turned on his heel and retreated, shadows swallowing him before he was even out of view.

You scrambled off the ashen remains of her past afterlife. You needed to act, and fast.

You stepped out onto the porch of your mansion to greet another wonderfully Hellish day in paradise. The air was sweet with the scent of blood and brimstone. In the distance the usual turf battle soundtracked the morning. With a final goodbye to your house staff, you closed the door and skipped off to meet Rosie for mid-morning tea.

For decades, you two would meet biweekly at a cafe not too far from either of your territories to gossip and catch up. Rosie wasn’t like your normal company of rowdy barflies, shakers, and movers, but she was the kindest soul in the nine circles and never held a dull conversation. She was your oldest friend, not just in Hell but ever, having helped you land back on your feet after your soul contract came to a welcomed end.

You all but danced down the street, waving back to the friendly faces and familiar demons along your well-traveled path.

When Rosie spotted you, she beamed and waved you down to the table. You returned the warm smile as you sat and greeted your friend. An impish waiter sat a pot of piping tea on the table along with sugar, milk, and a basket of scones before scurrying off.

“Rosie, love!” You sang, pouring both of them a cup. “How’s tricks?”

“Oh you know, same old same old.” She pulled out a familiar tin and popped it open. Rows of dismembered fingers, some polished and some with the rings still on, lined the dainty box. She carded through them like an address book before landing on one she deemed tastiest to use like a stirrer to cool her drink. “Although I know a gal who may be looking for an acting gig.”

You chuckled and poured milk into your tea. “Send her my way. We’ll see what she's made of. But you know I don’t play favorites.”

They both laughed, and the two of them settled into the usual pleasantries: the state of Rosie’s colony and residents, her upcoming appointments; your beloved theater company, and even more beloved bar and club.

You were proud to run two successful businesses in Hell after decades of hard, dirty, violent work. You owned plenty of souls who were happy to do their jobs in return for protection and good pay. The assets left behind in the wake of Roman’s death were used to rebuild your life in Hell.

In life, you ran a little speakeasy and a small off, off Broadway theater and did quite well for yourself all things considered, but your success in Hell made your living accomplishments look like small potatoes.

Rosie laughed at the anecdote you told , shaking her head in amused disapproval. “Tem, dear, stop antagonizing poor Ramona. You already slept with her husband.”

“I’ll stop when she stops sending bombs to my club.” You reached for your third scone. “Poor Jet is getting tired of diffusing them, and half the time the damn things don’t even work! I thought she was some kind of weapons expert.”

“She sells knives door to door.”

“Good lord, that's even sadder.”

Your laughter died down as the air dipped in a staticky chill, making your damn raccoon tail involuntarily twitch, fur stand on end. From a cloud of shadows stepped a familiar grinning face that always had your stomach doing undesirable flips.

“Alastor!” Rosie cried in delight. “Where have you been hiding? Don’t be shy, pull up a chair!”

The Radio Demon did just that. With a snap of his fingers he manifested a chair beneath, sat his cane to the side, and sat with a flourish. He was never one to do something mundanely, even something as simple as sitting. “Rosie, Temerity! Always the pleasure to be in the company of two fine ladies.”

You returned the greeting casually, then turned your attention to your cup of tea, taking a long sip as Rosie chatted Alastor up. You were happy to let Rosie take the lead in the conversation, as your heart decided now was the perfect time to take up tap dancing. Dead at thirty-four, in Hell for nearly three times as long, but here you were, heart a-twitter like a virgin at a petting party.

You wanted to drown in the feeling everytime. It made you sick.

Your ears perked when Rosie mentioned your name, your cue to rejoin the conversation. “It is certainly a surprise to see you out this way this morning, Alastor.” Your smile was bright but guarded. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I’m actually in the business of business this morning.” The crackle of the white noise that accompanied him always made his voice so warm in a way you could never describe, but by Satan’s glorious wrath, you’d be willing to listen to him talk for hours to figure it out. Thankfully, upon his return from his seven year holiday, his radio broadcasts were once again a pleasant addition to your morning routine.

“Always with the work, this guy,” Rosie said, playfully tapping him on the shoulder. “What did you need this time, darling?”

“I’m in need of Tem’s services.”

It was a gift you didn’t spew tea all over them. “My services? You’ll have to be more specific.”

His perpetual smile was hard to read, his eyes conveyed nothing but mirth. “I’m sure you’re well aware of my dealings with the princess of Hell and her hotel for wayward sinners?”

You nodded. It was common knowledge Princess Charlotte was trying to redeem sinners and Alastor had taken up the duty of the hotel’s protector. It was the stuff of rumors. Why was the Radio Demon involved in such an endeavor? What sinister plot was he playing at? What diabolical plans was he brewing? Personally, you thought he was there for shits and giggles. You knew how he liked to watch people struggle and fail; the hotel was his own personal circus.

“The poor thing is anxious that check-ins are slow and is pulling hair for recruitment ideas,” Alastor continued. “So I told her I had a friend who may be able to help draw in potential souls.”

You frowned, ears shifting in confusion against your will. You tried so hard to keep careful control of how others perceived your emotions, but those damned ears and tail of yours were determined to always give you away. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

“Why your performing arts company, my dear! I think your shows and entertainment expertise are precisely the thing Charlie is looking for to draw in more damned souls.”

“Oh!” You were at full attention, ears popping up in excitement. You had no higher power to be grateful to, but were nonetheless glad Alastor couldn’t see your excited tail swish behind the chair. “I see your vision now. You've come to the right gal.”

“Splendid!” His smile shifted in tone. Something at the crossroads of satisfied, cheerful, and a third something you couldn't quite place. It reached his eyes, lending them a mischievous twinkle.

The two of you finalized a plan to meet up with Princess Charlotte, and with that Alastor was gone as quickly as he came, melting into the shadows. Once gone, Rosie served you a devilishly knowing grin.

“Don’t,” you warned.

“What?” Rosie asked with faux innocence from behind her tea cup. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

She didn’t need to say anything, because you were near bursting at the seams.

You rested your forehead on a hand, flushed skin warm under your palm. “What is it about that man that’s got me so… what do the kids say these days? Down bad?”

“That’s the word for it.” She took a bite of her finger like a biscuit softened by milk. “I still say you should tell him. Get it over with, his reaction be damned.”

“Rosie. Sweetheart.” You looked at said friend, eyes dead serious as her tone. “What about me makes you think I’m suicidal?”

“I’m just saying. With your taste in men, you could do a lot worse, hun.”

“Oh, please. I have soliloquized about your taste in men.”

“Touche, dear. But you'll never see me this worked up over a fella like you get with Alastor.”

“I am not ‘worked up!’” You waggled her fingers, rolling your eyes at the phrase. “Rosie, you know me. I do not get worked up over any man.”

Rosie nodded, knowing look still on her face.

“I just happen to find Alastor… deeply and endlessly enthralling and morbidly attractive.”

“So you're down bad but not worked up?”

“Precisely!”

Rosie was right, and you hated it. You’ve been stupidly worked up for decades over the worst man to be worked up over.

In life and death, you’ve had more than your fair share of flings, swings, and misses. No harm, no foul. You were in the game for fun. And what fun would it be if there was never a chase or challenge?

But when it came to Alastor, there was no game to be played. Which wouldn’t be so bad if your feelings for Alastor were shallow and fleeting like they were with most men, and not the twisted web of complications and confusion you spent so much of her afterlife trying to understand so you could properly suppress it.

At first, they were trifling, easy to ignore as you made moves to turn your shitty afterlife around. The two of you rarely crossed paths in the beginning. Then, somehow, he managed to worm his way into your life in little ways. An appearance at your birthday parties here, joining in on picnics with Rosie there, an occasional run-in at the bar Mimzy performs at for free drinks. You became cordial acquaintances on the surface, but deep down each meeting only fanned the flames of longing you developed for him. After fifty years you couldn't write it off as simple infatuation.

You smacked your cheeks. Now was the time to get your shit together. You were an adult, not some love-struck teenager. You spent a lifetime and more practicing careful control of her emotions, your mother hammered in the importance of temperance until you bled; unrequited feelings shouldn't be a problem.

After leaving your theater in the capable hands of your co-managers, you waited outside for Alastor to pick you up. You’d changed outfits since this morning; something more akin to doing business, but still plenty cute and classy.

(And no, you didn’t change to impress Alastor. That would be stupid and fruitless.)

Your signature choker graced your lovely neck. A simple black lace choker held a large pendant. Within were two intertwined bloodshot eyes, wide and restless and unblinking. They swam and circled each other like rabid cyclones.

The shadows folded and solidified beside you and Alastor appeared in all his glory, startling a sinner passing by. The poor sap ran, not looking where he was going, and was pulverized by a speeding car, the man left in its wake now half a grease spot on the road.

Alastor tutted and shook his head, his ever-present smile curled in twisted amusement.

You’ve seen sinners do that before, preferring to be maimed over crossing paths with the Radio Demon. You always found it darkly hilarious. No doubt Alastor did as well, though he hid it better behind that dapper smile of his.

“Jaywalkers,” you said with a sigh, not noticing when Alastor’s grin grew a hair.

“Shall we, doll?” He held out his hand and you tried not to look too eager to take it. His shadows wrapped around you both as he whisked you and him away.

A/N: This was a bitch to do on a tablet, lol. Please message me if you want to be added to the taglist.

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