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#this is me being insane but also this passage is so so so so so so so so perfect for him 🥺

darlingofvalyria · 7 months

Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"DAUGHTER, PLEASE!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"—your grace, I urge to hold her—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you must raise the Hells unto Winterfell.

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

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

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

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

Even then, you plotted every step you took.

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

Against the husband that dared make a fool of her.

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

"Where are my daughters?"

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"... Yes. Nothing."

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

"D-Dragonstone?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was your brother. No one else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will ask you how high."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aegon blinked. "Tubī daor. Not today."

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

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

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

Whale? No.

Dragon. Dragon bone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That night, you took your first flight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No more.

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

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

"Now, we speak nothing of what happened."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You weren't stupid.

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

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

And for Jace, you had banished him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well. There's getting a calm bath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Less of a dragon, more of a fairytale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You mark each indescretion. You keep a tally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did not mean...

Did not mean to have a dalliance with another woman?

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

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

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

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

"Huh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don't let up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His throat bobs.

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

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

"My lady," Dyanna greets behind you.

"Hm?"

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

"And?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Precisely what I thought, milady."

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

Game, set.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You curdle, you keep, you poise.

"My love?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It will be him.

Your plan moves, your web is perfect.

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

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waitingonher · 11 months

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hiii!! I saw your Percy x Hecate reader and was wondering if you could do a percy x Aphrodite reader?? 🫶🏽🫶🏽

percy jackson dating a child of aphrodite

pairing: percy jackson x reader

content warning: coupley things

word count: 916

author's note: hi!! sorry this took so long (finals r around the corner) enjoy tho! i also put my own gas station order in this LOL

you and percy have got to be the most attractive couple on the planet. honestly, it’s an unspoken camp rite of passage to have a crush on at least one of you two. everyone literally has their own story about how they have/had a crush on either you or percy (or both) it’s crazy.

percy is such a green flag!!

HE FOLLOWS THE SIDEWALK RULE. no matter where you are, you WILL be walking on the inside.

you could be on a super dangerous quest being chased by monsters and percy would still make sure he’s running on the outside. like i’m pretty sure being ran over is the least of your worries… but it’s still cute.

percy is actually so obsessed with the fact that you can speak french/other romance languages. he’d make up any excuse just to hear you speak them.

all of a sudden he’s paying attention in his spanish class and he needs your help pronouncing certain words!!

or one day he’d randomly come up to you and would start speaking to you in french??? turns out he’s been secretly learning it without you knowing?? percy’s 387 day duolingo streak is all because he wanted to hear you speak your language more. he’s definitely dedicated!

sometimes when you’re talking, percy would suddenly be like “wow, she’s so pretty???” and he’d (accidentally) zone out, just completely admiring you. he knows that you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen, but sometimes he just has to take a moment to take it all in.

shopping dates with percy!!

you’d ask him which top looks the best on you and then he’d tell you all of them?? he really thinks you can afford all 10 shirts you showed him.

“perce, between those three pants, which one looked better on me?” you ask, holding one of the pairs against your body. your boyfriend looks deep in thought before coming to a decision, “all of them,” he declares. “babe,” you groan, “you can’t choose them all, choose one.” percy looks genuinely worried when he realizes he has to actually decide on one, because he thinks that you looked absolutely gorgeous in all of them. so he comes up with the only other idea that makes sense, “well i don’t mind buying them all for you. besides, you looked super great in them.” you immediately shake your head, “percy, i’m not about to let you drop $150 on three pairs of pants. that’s actually insane.” “but-” “no percy.”

HE KNOWS WHAT COLOR JEWELRY YOU WEAR. percy absolutely refuses to be one of those lousy boyfriends who don't even know what kind of jewelry their girlfriend wears.

he’s been patiently waiting for the day when someone asks which color you prefer.

this guy has your gas station order down to a tee!

percy walks up to the passenger door with a plastic white bag in hand. he opens the door and begins to take out its contents, “thanks perce! you got my-” “i got your arizona, the green tea flavor, and your hot fries. and yes, i made sure to shake all the bags to make sure i got the one that was optimally filled,” he responds, a smug expression spreading across his face. with an impressed look, you nod your head in approval, “wow babe, you’ve really got my order down.” percy nods his head pridefully, “i know.”

dates where you two have to dress up are one of his favorites!!

him seeing you all dolled up…whewww…someone call 911 for him.

despite how much percy hates dressing up, he’d do it if it means he gets to see you all dressed up.

percy makes you flower bouquets!!

they’re always so unique and special every time?? you didn’t even know that camp had such a wide variety of flowers until he started making you bouquets.

and he always makes sure to keep a flower in his cabin so he knows when it’s time to make you a new one jdfsklds

one of percy’s favorite things to do with you are little skincare nights!

you’d come over to his cabin and you guys would light some candles and make tea. overall it’s a very calming ambience!

even though it’s terrible for his skin, percy has an affinity for peel-off face masks. every single time, without fail, he’ll make some sort of joke about how he’s shedding. LMAO

you look over in the bathroom mirror to see your boyfriend applying the very thing you hate, a peel-off face mask, “love, why can’t you be normal and use a sheet mask for once? or even a clay one like mine?” you point to your face. percy takes a quick glance at you in the mirror and shrugs, continuing to apply the mask onto his skin, “those ones are lame, and it’s not fun if i can’t peel it off,” he responds, very concentrated on spreading the mask around. you cringe when he gets a glob of the mask onto his fluffy headband. “well the formulas aren’t really good and it’s super irritating for your skin, babe,” you tell him, hoping that the thought of a damaged skin barrier scares him out of using peel-off masks. “y/n, you can have the good skin. i’m fine with a damaged skin barrier or whatever,” percy replies, trying to remove the mask from his headband. you roll your eyes, “whatever, lizard face.”

you two are actually a match made in heaven <333

#percy jackson #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson x y/n #percy jackson fluff #percy jackson fic #hoo x reader #heroes of olympus x reader #heroes of olympus #percy jackson and the olympians

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teecupangel · 10 months

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Here's an idea I think you might enjoy: animus but Des is in their head, controlling them. They can feel it and talk to him and everything, ratatouille style.

……………… You know what would be funny, nonny?

If Desmond sucks at controlling them.

Like, we’ve heard the rites of passage in AC games:

We make them jump instead of doing a leap of faith

We accidentally make them climb the wrong high building and the actual viewpoint is the tower next to it

We miscalculate a jump and fall into the waters below or into an unsuspecting civilian

And there’s the game specific problems I refuse to believe I’m the only one who suffered thru it.

So just imagine Desmond trying to control them in the Animus and they know they’re being controlled.

There’s this… change in the air around them. It feels more charged. More… mysterious.

And they also become clumsier for some goddamn reason.

Incidents include:

Altaïr falling into the waters in the docks of Acre for the fifteenth time and he just hisses under his breath, “What is wrong with you?! Do you enjoy seeing me wet?!” and Desmond’s just “Dude, your control sucks!” which leads to Altaïr having an argument with Desmond under his breath about how his ‘control’ (whatever that means) does not suck, Desmond just sucks at this thing he likes to call ‘platforming’ and they both just agreed that, yeah, okay, they’re gonna assassinate Sibrand by going around instead even if it meant Altaïr had to walk slowly and pretend to be praying the entire time.

Altaïr breathing heavily as he glared at the ten (nope, five more guards found him in open combat, damn it) guards trying to kill him. One of them stepped forward and raised his sword. Altaïr readied himself and he still got hit, “(Growl)! Desmond! Get your timing right!” “Your Hidden Blade counter timing is too fast, Altaïr! Let’s just use your swor-” “No! You will learn how to counter using the hidden blade or, I swear, I will find a way to control you and drill it to your body myself!” (Guards just glance at each other, thinking “oh shit, he’s insane”)

Ezio just staring into the sky as he places his hands on his waist as he called out, “Desmond! How about we try this again later?” “No! I almost got it!” “……… It’s been an hour, Desmond. Let’s try clearing this tomb after-” “No! We’re gonna get that Armor today if it’s the last thing we do! Just… this goddamn time limit is annoying! Time limit sucks!” Ezio who is already used to the mysterious voice (who calls himself Desmond)’s strange words: “………… (sigh)”

“I can take them out. Desmond, please, I’m begging you, let me take them out. I can do-” (Desmond takes control and Ezio watches as his recruits take down the targets) The recruits looking at Ezio for approval. Ezio: Bene, that was a good takedown. (inside, Ezio is just tired because Desmond is enjoying all this ‘summoning’ thing too much…)

“Why can’t we have different lethal bombs?! You have the ingredients for it!” “I don’t know, Desmond. Could we just please finish preparing all the bombs?” “Dude, wouldn’t it be better if we have, like, all of these bombs?” “… I don’t think I have enough space in belt for all of them…” “You should get a bag.” “(Sigh) Desmond, we already talked about this. This Animus of yours don’t allow more ‘inventory’, right?” (inside, Ezio is wondering what his life has become that he sorta kinda understand the words leaving his mouth)

“Desmond… I’m imploring you to not mess this up.” “I’m trying, man, this is hard.” “Who are you talking to, Haytham?” “Ziio! No… no one.” “…” “… sigghhh… Desmond say hello to Ziio.” “Hi, Ziio.” “… is this a curse placed upon you white men?” “…” “…” “…” “Perhaps.” “Sorta?”

“You are a Templar. May the Father of Understanding guide us.” “May the Father of Understanding guide us.” “Wait, what?!” “…” “…” “Master Kenway, is something the matter?” “… no, Charles. I simply… remembered something foul.”

“It’s okay, Desmond. You’ll get this soon enough. Just take a deep breath and………… Desmond. Desmond. Please stop doing whatever you’re doing right now. My head is starting to hurt.” “It’s not me! The cameras of these tree view points sucks ass!”

“How is it you came to captain a ship, given the way you sail?” “Oh, screw you, Haytham! You wanna talk shit, why don’t you try doing this shit yourself, huh?!” “…” “…” “…” “… Apologies, father. Desmond was out of line.” “No, I’m not, fuck you, Haytham!” “I can say with absolute delight I have not missed you one bit, Desmond.” “Bite me, tacohead.” “I still do not know what that means.”

#desmond is using the animus #to control them ratatouille style #but he sucks at controlling them #shenanigans happen #is he truly controlling them in the past?#or is this the animus giving them more agency than anyone expected #regardless #they suffer as desmond tries to not get them killed #ask and answer #assassin's creed #desmond miles #altaïr ibn la'ahad #ezio auditore #ratonhnhaké:ton #connor kenway #haytham kenway #teecup writes/has a plot #fic idea: assassin's creed

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bethanydelleman · 6 months

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There’s a new book out called The Darcy Myth that says in the summary that P&P is actually a “horror novel” about how scary love is for women… I know the Bennet sisters’ situation is precarious but to call it a “horror novel” ? :P

Okay... so... ug.... did this woman even read Pride & Prejudice? Because from the news coverage I would say no. Let me highlight some passages from the article:

Darcy should be considered the main antagonist of the famous love story

Not Wickham? Not the man who runs off with literal teenage girls?

Darcy pays Wickham to marry Lydia, saving her reputation, and later tells Elizabeth, “I thought only of you” when acting. For Feder, this phrase is proof of the hero’s self-interest. Darcy condemns Lydia to a life with an amoral man, all so the Bennets don’t become so disreputable that he won’t be able to marry the woman he loves.

Um, sorry, but no. Darcy tried to get Lydia away FIRST, she refused, he respected Lydia's autonomy as a human being. Becoming brother-in-law to Wickham was probably worse for Darcy personally than Lydia being "ruined"

I found Feder’s exploration of “Pride and Prejudice”as a Gothic novel — rather than a comedy of manners — far more compelling than her critique of Darcy.

Wut? No. Not even a little bit, what? That is a different genre.

“Darcy helped codify the dominant expectation that potential romantic partners — especially heterosexual men — are not only still eligible but in fact more appealing when they play a little hard to get, even if playing hard to get involves cruelty, insults, expressions of disinterest, ruining your beloved sister’s chances of happiness, and other red flags,” she writes. Women spend their time, energy and emotions on men who, quite simply, are not worth their effort.

Okay, except ELIZABETH NEVER TRIES ANYTHING WITH DARCY. She just sits there and he falls in love with her. If she did put effort into any relationship it was with Wickham, who again, is presented as a massive red flag in the end. This line of argument is wild.

Yet, seeing the sheer number of times women pursue cruel men in pop culture laid out one after another — in Disney movies, Taylor Swift songs and much more — is affecting. Feder concludes convincingly that this cultural conviction harms women in the same way the patriarchal boundaries of the regency did. She writes: “If we zoom out, we see that the Darcy myth also helps to prop up and fortify a very Gothic, patriarchal universe that is, and always has been, scary for anyone who is not a very particular type of man. After all, if we are trained from childhood to invest ourselves in men who treat us poorly, aren’t we more likely to end up in abusive situations and under threat of assault?”

Okay, so this is a valid point, but it also is based on a misreading of Pride & Prejudice or is heavily influenced by adaptations. Darcy isn't cruel, he's snobby and somewhat rude but definitely NOT cruel. Wickham is exactly the type of man you want to avoid: charming until he isn't.

ALSO WHAT DISNEY PRINCE IS AN ASSHOLE??? @princesssarisa? Can you be offended at that one in my stead?

So... this book sounds like rage-bait insanity and I won't be reading it until proved otherwise. Putting it on the avoid shelf along with Secret Radical.

Last note: There is a valid point to be made that jerks or dark broody men have been romanticized, but Austen DOES NOT DO THAT. That is not an Austen thing. Use an actual problematic Gothic or Byronic hero.

#question response #this is nuts #the darcy myth #just looks like rage bait to me #the arguments are nonsensical #Now I'm going to have to fight this book on Reddit too #oh joy

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mtkay13 · 11 months

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-你身上有光 dyptich-

BACK AGAIN with more "Light on you" stuff! I really can't let go of this passage, haha. And I have A LOT MORE TO SAY so Let's go! (LONG post ahead)

This post will contain:

my own attachment and what I love in this scene

what lead me to depict them like this

a personal translation of the passage in the book

But to begin with, a little something about storytelling. In order to help writers, some "storytelling rules" have been set up and theorised about. Those rules are, of course, meant to be broken, and one does not need to follow them in order to write a good story; but during the storytelling course I followed, a few of those rules have stuck with me, especially this one:

The main character, the hero of the story, will be the one to shine or to "save the day" in the end.

Again--does this rule need to be respected for a good story? Not necessarily, but when struggling with how to manage an ending or a main character, it can be helpful.

Anyway. For me, this scene, the "there's light on you" scene, kind of is that scene--that one scene where ZZS is the main character, is the hero. TYK has an interesting story structure, where if you go by the book of typical wuxia stories, ZCL would be the main character; and if you look at whom goes through the biggest internal journey throughout the story, it would be WKX. ZZS's own story technically spans across both QY and TYK, which makes TYK a bit more about WKX's journey than ZZS'.

But that very scene is not only ZZS saving WKX, but also ZZS reaching the conclusion of his own journey. By the end of QY, ZZS didn't go and meet with Jiuxiao. He deliberately looked the other way, too scared to go check on him, too superstitious; and in the end, Jiuxiao died. TYK puts ZZS in a similar position: someone he loves is away, and the choice to go reach them is in his hands. He decided to respect WKX's wish to go and fight his own battle alone, yet he ultimately went against it, changed and moved on from who he was in QY, to go and fight by WKX's side.

It's no surprise that I'm very into ZZS, and this image of him bathed in light, beating the scorpion to his own game and "taking back" this main character spot... It makes me go insane. Not to mention all the incredible quotes of this passage. "His person"? "There's light on you"? Come on!! I'm also. Obsessed with how and what WKX saw. What he must have felt, as he was ready to die, when he saw his person, his husband, dashingly get rid of all the enemies, almost at the peak of his power, come and "collect his corpse"--save him? Just!! Imagine!!! Imagine being WKX and this is how it ends!!! You're the GVM, you've had the life you've had, you finally meet someone that you truly love, the guy's about to die, then maybe not, AND THEN HE COMES TO SAVE YOUR LIFE AGHHHH 😭😭😭 Sorry, I REALLY like this. REALLY.

-------

cough--So, about their expressions and what I wanted to represent. For ZZS, to me... it was a mix of closure, fondness, and satisfaction. I think that ZZS had a "good time", going back to who he was before: tailing the scorpions, going undercover, ambushing from the shadows--not to mention slowly retrieving his full power. I think that this ZZS feels quite good, especially now that he got the confirmation that WKX is still alive. Then, the feeling of having done "the right thing". He's... beyond regret, now. He was able to follow his heart, quite literally, and that also feels good. The fondness is of course because he's looking at WKX. What else is he supposed to feel?? They haven't met for 3 months! I think that he's worried, but they trust each other. He trusts that WKX will survive this, that he'll be strong, that he won't die on him. So yeah. I wanted this ZZS confident--in himself, in WKX, in the future. WKX is a bit dazed, there. Probably in pain, and a bit stunned as he wasn't expecting it. But he's also... a bit enthralled; by this light, by how impressive and efficient his husband is, and, of course, the fact that ZZS came for him. The person he loves, the person whose life matters more than everything else now that WKX has reached his goal, came for him, came to save him. This stupid guy came for him instead of going to the mountain to prepare on his own. Yet another blatant show of them being so alike, isn't it? I guess... it's just a lot of love, a bit of pride, the faintest hint of him being amused, even--and maybe relief, as well. He won't die, and ZZS is there, and he's strong, and again, like for ZZS, there's a future--which he never allowed himself to properly consider, I believe. -------- Finally, a personal retranslation of that scene. I did it not because I thought it really needed it but because the only existing TL of this part of the book doesn't allow for reposting and I figured I may as well try. So for anyone who doesn't remember the passage or hasn't read the book/reached this chapter, here it is!

The Scorpion raised his hand and was immediately handed a weapon. His smile vanished as he looked at Wen Kexing leaning against the tree, already quite injured. He said: “For someone like the Ghost Lord, I must act in person—it would be quite disrespectful to get someone else to do the job.”

As he spoke, he raised his hook across his chest and approached slowly. He continued in a low voice: “I invite the Ghost Lord to walk ahead on the Yellow Spring road.”

He then fell silent, raising the hook higher and higher. Wen Kexing opened his eyes, quietly looking at him, his pitch-black irises like two dark pools of murky water, calm as if he wasn’t the one about to die.

The Scorpion suddenly felt a violent gush of wind surging from the side, charged with killing intent—electrified by an aura of death, goosebumps rising on his skin, he shouted as he lifted his hook in the air and promptly sliced through—the assailant was wearing the black robes of the scorpions, but didn’t wear a mask, had a soft blade in hand—he swiftly avoided the hook; a sudden, sharp pain made the Scorpion cry out as the soft blade wrapped around his arm which, at once, was ripped from his body and fell to the ground.

The several scorpions standing behind their leader immediately assumed a tactical formation—but then, a dashing figure, a metallic chime, and they all stood, dazzled; one swift move for it to be settled: one man standing, several men on the ground. Whether they were dead or alive, all of those who layed still were missing the arm holding their weapon.

Wen Kexing recognised the man. He abruptly sighed, and said in a low voice: “Idiot, what are you doing here?”

Zhou Zishu threw him a side glance and sneered: “I came to collect your corpse, madman.”

The effects of the Nails of seven apertures and three autumns were suppressed by the medicine Da Wu had given Zhou Zishu, and at that moment his gong fu had been restored to nine parts of its peak capacity. If the Scorpion already wasn’t on par should they have a fair fight, then he didn’t stand a chance when ambushed from the shadows.

Zhou Zishu turned to the Scorpion, the pointed end of Baiyi slightly angled down, and he sharply asked: “You dare threaten my person?”

A bit stunned, Wen Kexing watched the back of the man standing in front of him, and slight shivers started coursing through his fingers resting on the ground.

The Scorpion’s face was deathly pale, yet he still managed to smile and painfully say: “Ah… Brother Zhou, my apologies, I didn’t expect you to honour us with your presence.”

He briefly gauged the two men, waving his remaining hand: “Great master, we won’t counter any further. We bid you farewell———retreat!”

The few scorpions that were still alive crawled and scrambled to their feet and hurriedly followed the Scorpion as he withdrew. Zhou Zishu didn’t try to follow and just turned around to face and look at Wen Kexing.

Wen Kexing’s eyes shone brightly, but he simply chuckled: “You should be more careful for…”

Before he could finish, Zhou Zishu’s eyes focused, he swiftly twirled, the blade that was in his hand suddenly split through the air in a beautiful arch—a tinkling sound as it hit something, and soon enough a muffled groan rose from the woods behind them. Zhou Zishu shook his head and sighed: “Using the same move against the same person twice—are all these scorpions merely one trick ponies? And they dare claim to be on par with Siji manor?”

Wen Kexing watched him, slightly dazed. His mouth curved into a smile as he suddenly extended his hand in the air, trying to catch something.

Zhou Zishu frowned and asked: “What are you doing?”

Wen Kexing said softly: “There’s light… on your body. I’m catching it to see…”

Thanks for reading!

#tian ya ke #zhou zishu #wen kexing #tyk #zzs #wkx #wenzhou #meta #thoughts

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findafight · 1 year

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god i love when fics have steve experiencing insane things but being nonchalant about it bc he thinks it's normal when it absolutely is not. i like to think there have been multiple instances where other guys have been like psychosexually obsessed w steve so when billy starts acting like that steve's just like "ugh again?" like imagine if when he's dating eddie he's just casually like "god isn't it so annoying when other guys get like aggressively obsessed w you and stare at you all the time?" and eddie is sitting there chanting wtf in his head wondering how steve is a real human.

Ya I think it'd be very funny if kinda very strange things happen to Steve and he figures that it's just a normal thing. He'll be sitting around with people like hey y'all ever think about when you and your friends would dig a big hole and pretend to bury someone alive and hold a funeral for them and then they'd go home and tell your parents you died in the woods? When your mom ran into the forest she found you covered in flowers and dirt staring at the sky thinking about how cool it'd be to decompose into the ground she cried and it was probably the first time you saw a grown up cry? And every one is like uhhhhh no. Our friends did not actually fake our death semi successfully and scare our parents??? And he goes oh. Huh. Weird!

my HC is Robin is Steve first similar age friend that has not wanted to fuck him since eighth grade. This is funny because she has also never been normal about him. No one has ever been normal about Steve.

I think it's also very funny that Billy teamed up with Tommy, who you know has never been normal about Steve in his life. Like maybe when Steve was in middle school there was a guy who also was weirdly obsessed with Steve except he and Tommy viciously hated each other. Like straight up brawling and crying about it and Steve is there like what the fuck are you doing??? And Carol beside him just shaking her head going uhg Steve they're being gross let's leave.

But Tommy and Billy...They sniffed each other out or something idk how but they found each other and were obsessed with Steve together in a toxic positive feedback loop. And poor Steve is sitting here like "uhg 😑 Still? Another one? Why does this keep happening?" As though it's a completely regular occurrence. Bro. Buddy. What is your life actually.

Eddie finding out about this history and he's just like. No. Steve. I do not know what it's like to have men stare at me with thinly disguised lust?? But also keeping to himself that he was ALSO obsessed with Steve. He's like oooh my god. I'm not the only one?? The one thing I have in common with Tommy Hagan and Billy Hargrove is our weird obsession with Steve? What kinda world...

Except he's also immensely smug about it because yeah other guys have been obsessed with Steve. It seems to be a Hawkins right of passage for their age group. But Eddie actually got him. He fucking won.

#steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddie #not billy hargrove friendly #i hope tommys actor knows how much i think about how he said tommy was in love with steve #also i do usually prefer the hc that eddie and steve are just barely aware of each other and dont pay attention to the other #bt for this its too funny #findaanswers #anonasaurus #billy hargrove #IM TAGGING AS AN ORGANIZATION TOOL FOR MY OWN BLOG #its deep enough that it shouldn't show up but.#finda's rambles #steve having an absolutely incomprehensible relationship with any man his age is very funny to me

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somethingclevermahogony · 3 months

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An Introduction to Myself and My WIP!

Hello everyone! A confession, this is actually a re-introduction. I've been here on Tumblr for a little less than a year now, but I haven't been the best about being active, life just sort of got in the way. As such I would like to reintroduce myself and what I've been working on.

For the purposes of Tumblr and in the interest of privacy you can call me C. I am in my mid-twenties, I use he/him pronouns, and I am happily married to my partner, who is also a C. I am queer, as is my partner. I enjoy cooking, fishing, Dnd(ing?), reading, and of course writing.

We both originally come from the US but we are currently living on the east coast of Scotland as I pursue my Msc in Archaeology.

I am trying to be a bit more active on here and I am always open to things like tags and asks, even if it takes me a bit to respond.

I think that's about it for me, and so without further ado let me introduce or reintroduce you to my WIP.

Testaments of the Green Sea

Genre: Epic Fantasy

Themes and Tropes (Or more accurately a random assortment of words vaguely related to the plot): Found Family, immortality, loss, love, war, power, memory, magic, insanity, The passage of time, growing up, queerness in the ancient world, violence, spirits, fantasy outside of medieval europe

Summary: Book one of the Testaments of the Green Sea (The lands of the Green Sea are pictured above) follows the journeys of the giant slave Narul and the princess Ninma. After unexpected tragedy forces the two to flee from the Great city of Labisa, they find themselves on a journey which carries them across the ancient lands of Kishetal. Along the way they encounter spirits, demons, war, gods, pirates, and slavers. TW for death/grief, violence/blood/gore, mental illness, physical illness, abuse, and cannibalism, awkward queerness, secondhand embarrasment etc, etc.

Excerpt( First Paragraph of Chapter 1): The blood dripped into the awaiting bowl, painting its alabaster walls crimson. The slave watched the dark liquid trickle down his arm, skirting past the hairs, rolling veins, and moles. Even after these twenty years of weekly blood lettings, he could not shake a creeping feeling of unease as his eyes followed the sanguine river creeping its way across his arm. His own face gazed back at him from the scarlet pool. He could not meet his own eye, could not stand to look that creature. He turned away.

Draft Status: The second draft of the manuscript is currently being edited, I will be looking for my first round of Beta Readers likely before the end of the year.

This is just part one of a much larger series. My partner is currently working on the beginnings of their own series, set in the same world but 3,000 years in the future, roughly aligning with our own Great War Period. I'm so excited to share more with you, and I love answering questions!

Narul and Ninma courtesy of @faeporcelain

#world building #fantasy #fantasy writing #queer fantasy #worldbuilding #fantasy world #testamentsofthegreensea #narul #fantasy worldbuilding #writing #wip #current wip #kobani questions #fantasy map #if y'all have any questions please ask!#ask #send asks

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healmydesires · 1 year

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enchanted (s.h) - teaser

❥ 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: prince!steve harrington x fem!servant reader

❥ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: “You’ve been in love with the prince for god knows how long. For the longest time you were content with admiring him from afar, knowing your adoration for your favourite prince could never be revealed. Until one day, everything changed.” royal!au. childhood best friends to lovers. fools/idiots to lovers. forbidden romance.

❥ 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)

❥ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 3,5k so far (it’s gonna be a big BOI)

⟶ A/N: I know for a fact that this will be a big fic. I have so many ideas that it’s driving me insane and I have to have this finished!!! NOW!!! anyways pls anticipate this fic with me 🫶

let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list or if you wanna ramble in my inbox about this with me! <3

You had worked at the palace of the kingdom Pagrarus for as long as you could remember. You knew every nook and cranny—every secret passage and hidden room in that palace. It was practically your home. You took care of it, making sure that it was clean and pretty every day. Your childhood wish was to work for the royal family, just like your parents did. Your family had served the royal family as maids and whatnot for generations, so it only made sense that you grew up around them, and subsequently, their child.

Steve Harrington.

You don’t regret it. Working for royalty.

In fact, if anything, you’re grateful. Because if not for your position now, how could have you crossed paths with a soul like him?

You still remember the day you met him. Clear as day.

Such a sweet sweet day it was. The memory is still fresh in your mind, like the scent of your childhood room. A scent you never quite forgot. It faded over time, sure. But if you strained your memory even now, you can still smell it. The scent of comfort.

—

Decidedly, there have been many days in your life. Some happy, some sad. Some you remember better than others while others fade away into the back of your mind. Some are ingrained so deep in your mind that when you close your eyes, you can see every detail as if it’s currently happening. None, however, do you remember more clearly than the day you met Steve. It had been almost two decades ago; when you were five, and he was six.

You remember being nervous - your parents had brought you along to the castle, to introduce you to the royal family - you used to be a very lonely child, not being able to make friends easily. You were in awe as you walked through the luxurious castle with wide eyes, seeing it for the first time, it was truly a beautiful place.

As a reward for your family’s many generations of loyalty, they got the honour of working directly for the royal family. Your parents were close to the royal family despite that they were working for them. When you were very young, your mother was a personal attendant to the young prince.

It had all been incredibly overwhelming back then, and you’d only hidden further behind your mother’s legs. Until - you’d spotted a boy, looking just as lonely and nervous as you, also behind his mothers legs. The prince.

A fond smile curls on your face as you remember Steve’s little frame. With cute round cheeks, curious brown eyes, long brown hair, dressed in fine fabrics that were only made for royal people. He had sparked your curiosity, his intriguing eyes looking at you as if he longed for your friendship already.

Your parents pushed you into his direction, you’d approached him hesitantly. Immediately, he’d give you the brightest smile once you were in front of him. And that one action - that one smile - had sealed it between the two of you. Ever since then, Steve has been your best friend. He’d stick out his hand for you to take and would tug you along with him down the hall, showing you around the palace as you both giggled.

Nostalgia cascades through you as you continue mulling over your relationship with prince Steve. You’ve lived twenty-five years, and throughout the vast majority of it - he has been your only constant.

And for as long as you could remember, you’ve had an intense and hopeless crush on the prince, Steve Harrington.

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normal-thoughts-official · 1 year

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Why Joe and Nicky deserve to win the sun and moon showdown, and if they don't I'll end up in the INTERPOL Most Wanted list

A not at all dramatic essay

(Plain text version here)

1. Not only do they canonically use moon imagery to refer to each other, but their context adds new symbolism to that metaphor that other duos don't have

If you haven't seen TOG and aren't familiar with the van speech, well, I recommend that you do, but I'll transcribe it for your convenience:

"He's not my 'boyfriend'. This man is more to me than you can dream. He's the moon when I'm lost in darkness and warmth when I shiver in cold. And his kiss still thrills me even after a millennium. His heart overflows with the kindness of which this world is not worthy of. I love this man beyond measure and reason, he's not my 'boyfriend'. He's all and he's more"

Yeah, pretty long way of saying "actually we're husbands", but let's focus on the "he's the moon when I'm lost in darkness" bit. That bit alone is already insanely romantic and enough to make us fans go rabid with this tournament, but there is an extra layer of romanticism to it, because Mr Yusuf al-Kaysani (aka Joe) is Muslim, and in Islam, the moon represents the guidance of Allah through life, the calendar is based on the moon cycles, and the brightness of the moon is compared to both the face of the Prophet Muhammad and the first batch of souls to enter Paradise. Therefore, the moon, in Joe's culture, is intrinsecally linked with the divine, guidance, holiness, and time

So, when Joe compares Nicky to the moon, he's not only saying that he brings light into a dark world; he is saying that he is the very guiding light that leads him to a blessed life, that he is the foundation through which the world and time can be understood, and that his beauty and holiness is comparable to that of the souls of Heaven themselves

Which is all already enough for me to bite through wood, but the specific relationship between the moon and the understanding of time in Joe's culture is also particularly meaningful for Joe and Nicky, because Joe and Nicky are two of the 5 people who are immortal in the entire world. And one of the core themes of the movie is how that sense of timelessness leads them to isolation, and a constant state of loss. There is a deep melancholy that permeates their entire existence due to the fact that time as we know it no longer makes sense to them, and they live outside of it, skirting around eras and history. So, by comparing Nicky to the very body that marked the passage of time for Joe, he is saying that Nicky is what helps him make sense of the impossible, that he is the constant in Joe's eternity, that he brings meaning to their confusing and sometimes alienating existence

But wait! There's more!

Because Joe and Nicky met in al-Quds (also known as Jerusalem) in the year 493 AH (also known as 1099 CE in the Gregorian Calendar) and had to travel together across the desert for a long time, which means that, for the first few years of their life together, they were in fact relying on the moon to guide them in their path. So they both have a deep intrinsic understanding of how the moon is a compass, the most reliable thing in uncertainty. And the moon has been guiding their steps, their relationship, since their paths were first joined. And they weren't separated since

Like. Listen, I'm sure Star Trek is great and its fans are lovely, and I salute the Star Trek fandom for everything it did for fandom history in general, but you cannot tell me that Spirk has this much baggage associated with the sunmoon symbolism. It just doesn't. If this were a hand touching tournament, no one would have as much symbolism linked to it than y'all, but when it comes to being the sun and moon, no one is doing it like Joe and Nicky

2. The most appealing aspect of the SunMoon dynamic is how they need to defeat all odds to be with each other, and Joe and Nicky have that in spades

"Oh I don't think that's the most ap-" IRRELEVANT. I'll talk about the other ones too. Just keep reading, okay? /joking

As you might know, Joe and Nicky met on opposite sides of a battlefield. They killed each other. (Many times). And what happened then?

They ressurrected and became immortal. That alone is already impossible, but it gets better - even for the rules of immortality in their universe, Joe and Nicky are still an impossibility that has never happened before or since

Because in The Old Guard, immortality is extremely rare. There have only ever been 7 immortals in the entire history of humanity. There are usually several millennia between the appearance of one immortal and the next one. Other than them, the shortest time gap between one immortal appearing and the next was 800 years. But Joe and Nicky became immortal at the same time, on the same day. Their very existence bends the rules of an universe that already bends the rules of the universe they lived in beforehand anyway. Joe and Nicky being together defies the very fabric of time, and if that isn't some sun and moon shit, I don't know what is

But it's not just some destiny shit either. Joe and Nicky were also not supposed to be together by other standards. For starters, they were on opposite sides of a war. Nicky was a fucking priest, and he joined the goddamn actual honest to god crusades. He was hateful and ignorant and awful, and when he chose Joe, he left behind everything he knew before him. All his certainties, his beliefs, his faith, his family, everything he had ever been taught. I'm also gonna go ahead and say that that ties into the whole "the sun is what makes the moon shine" metaphor - because everything that defines Nicky as he is now is the direct result of how meeting Joe changed him

And listen, listen to me. I'm not saying that he stopped being a bigot for Joe, because if he did, I doubt Joe would want him. He did it because it was the right thing to do, and he was wrong and ignorant and indoctrinated by the church. But he still had to make the choice to turn his back to all that, and that plain and simply would not have happened if he hadn't met Joe. It was Nicky's own effort, but meeting Joe was the catalyst

Joe, similarly, had to overcome a lifetime's worth of (well earned) resentment and hatred for what Nicky did. Joe forgiving Nicky at all is already nearly an impossibility (and he would be well within his right to never do that), but he didn't just forgive Nicky, he fell in love with him. And he chose him, well aware of how bloody and terrible his past was, and despite the fact that there is no way he wasn't deeply conflicted about what he felt for Nicky after everything the Christians put him through. I cannot even begin to imagine how hard this process must have been for Joe, and it was one he didn't have to go through at all - which means that he chose to

And that's not even taking into account the very personal resentments between the two of them, because they weren't just on opposing armies, they literally and personally killed each other. Several times over. And yet, impossibly, against all logic, against everything they had ever felt and believed in prior to each other, against possibly their own desires, they fell in love. They fell in love and have been hopelessly devoted to each other every since

And THEN, on top of all that at the beginning of their relationship, they lived as an interracial, interfaith*, gay couple, through what were undoubtedly the worst times in humanity's history to be either of those things. For 900 years, they had to love each other in secret and with varying degrees of risk associated with ever being found out as a couple, or even with being associated with each other at all to begin with

(*It is debatable what their current relationship with their respective original faiths is, since it isn't mentioned in the movie. But even if both of them had turned their back on their religions, they are still culturally Christian and culturally Muslim, and that makes a difference. Personally, though, I don't think either of them turned their backs on their religions, although I do believe Nicky turned his back to the Catholic Church as an institution for obvious reasons)

That's not even counting all the incredibly traumatic shit that they went through ever since (which I won't mention in detail because it's spoilers and also this is long enough already) and that would definitely break a couple with a less unbreakable bond. Through centuries and centuries of pain and regret, they have chosen nothing and no one but each other, first and foremost, no matter what that meant.

Nicky even brings it up in the comics:

[ID: Joe and Nicky touching foreheads with their eyes closed. Nicky is holding Joe's chin and he says, "why is it so difficult, Joe? We've been afforded more time than any lovers I can name. And still, every moment we scrape together feels precious. Something always happens-" End ID]

(From the Tales Through Time one-shot series. I generally think the comics are meh and the movie is where it's at, but I do recommend reading this one. It is set before the movie happens so there are no spoilers)

There has never been a time where being together was easy, and yet, Joe and Nicky chose each other no matter what. They chose each other even when it meant being separated and getting only scraps of time together in secret. If that isn't some sun and moon shit, I don't know what is

3. They complement each other

And not in the dumb stereotypical "the sunshine one and the grumpy one" way either. For starters, Joe isn't bubbly, and Nicky isn't grumpy. No, they have two characteristics that I think represent the sun and moon way better than that anyway - Joe is an extremely intense person, and Nicky, an extremely cool headed one

Joe doesn't feel anything by halves, and despite the fact that he has lived through several lifetimes, it still seems as if everything he goes through is happening for the first time. Every time Nicky or another one of the family dies, Joe looks just as desperate as he would a millennium ago, despite the fact that he's had centuries to get used to the fact that they die and then come back to life. He's the only one who's that affected by it (obviously none of them enjoy seeing each other die, but the rest seem to have accepted to some degree that it's a part of their lives, or at least gotten used to it). He has experienced so many horrible things, yet he is still as affected and disgusted by it every time, going as far as lashing out sometimes. When he's angry, no one is able to hold him back from yelling at the person he's angry at (not even Nicky). Similarly, not even an actual van full of armed homophobic guards is able to stop him from simply dropping a passionate speech about how important Nicky is to him, complete with getting misty-eyed and kissing him at the end (and I'm not even bringing up the fact that both of them have their hands and their feet tied)

To me, that is the most sun-coded possible trait, because the sun is intense, hard to ignore, and quite literally burning. The intensity with which Joe feels also feels like it could burn, but it's also what makes him so warm and loving

Nicky is also a pretty intense person, but, unlike Joe, he is super cool headed about it. For starters, Nicky is a sniper; he is capable of staying still for hours at a time, observing, figuring out the best time to strike. That demands an amount of control over himself, his feelings, even his instincts, that is admirable. But he's not just like that on a mission; Nicky is very careful with what he says, when he speaks, what he lets other people see of him. His expressions are all subtle, contained, and even when he is in a state of murderous rage, he doesn't lash out. He doesn't lose control. The same way that the moon and the sun share their brightness, Joe and Nicky share their intensity, but Nicky is able to subdue it while Joe burns with it and lets that be his strength

Where Joe is expansive and wears his heart on his sleeve, Nicky is cautious and guarded. Where Joe gets lost in his own feelings and loses sight of what they need to do, Nicky keeps their heads straight and reminds him of what they need to do. Like the moon that guides one through the desert

They're different and complementary, but also intrinsecally tied to each other. They have the same spark where it matters, but present it in different, complementary ways. They are a part of each other, but they're also themselves first and foremost. That's what the sun and moon are all about

Sun and moon imagery has been the staple of the Joenicky fandom since day fucking 1, and for good reasons

VOTE JOE AND NICKY IN THE SUN AND MOON DUO SHOWDOWN

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plan-3-tmars · 6 months

Text

"You're Just Sitting On The Train" - Double MV Analysis

There's a conversation between the two main character's in a podcast I love called Red Valley which reminds me of the imagery in Double.

"You know when you're on a train, and it's held up, and you're just stuck in the middle of a field while they get the leaves off the line or whatever, and you're going to be hopelessly late, there might be awful consequences to get stressed about but... there's literally nothing you can do about it. It's not your fault. Hopefully you've got a book or something. You're just sitting on the train."

The conversation in context with the scene is about being able to put your problems and stresses, like being late for work, on someone else's shoulders. Let them take responsibility for what's going on so you can feel some relief. It got me thinking about Mikoto and Orekoto (who I'm just going to call John thanks to Neoplasm) and I want to talk about what I think the meaning of it is!!

Trains have many, many different meanings - like almost a ridiculous amount of different interpretations can be made - but I think the meanings that are the most important while talking about Mikoto are trains representing the passage of time, destiny and loneliness.

Loneliness:

While on a train, or waiting for one, you are surrounded by people. However as shown here, most keep their head down and don't speak unless spoken too. It gives a sense of loneliness, you are surrounded by people yet completely alone.

I think this could apply to Mikoto's situation and was possibly a stress factor for him. It is implied from his T1 interrogation questions that Mikoto was popular enough, knowing a lot of people either now or back in high school, but he doesn't seem to open up to any of them. He lies to his mother that everything's okay in their phone call and bottles up his stress. Because of this he is dependant on John to function : "But if you persist, I guess it's my job to keep things on an even keel."

The Passage of Time:

This shot showcases how long the train actually is, it flies through each carriage insanely fast, blurring slightly from the speed alone.

It's been extremely clear since T1 that Mikoto suffers heavily from dissociative amnesia, something that is a very common symptom of DID, and I think the fact this shot blurs could be representing that.

Trains representing time and how humans view the passage of time is probably one of the most popular ways they appear, we tend to think of time as one thing that moves forward constantly in a straight line, similar to an uninterrupted train on a train track, but for Mikoto (and John) time is blurry, hazy. It may seem like things move too fast to keep track of (pun not intended) or individuals with DID can sometimes describe it as feeling like you're missing hours, fronting in a place or room you know you weren't in before and being unaware of the events that led up to you getting to this point.

This feeling of missing hours is relevant to this specific scene as after the camera moves through the train the first person we see is Mikoto - not John, who was in the doorway.

Destiny:

Trains are always headed to a specific location so they can also be associated with life's journey, or in other words, fate and destiny.

Both Mikoto and John are shown as the passengers on their train, not the conductor. They are not in control over life's events, just sitting on the train and this is extremely stressing - especially for Mikoto. John says things like : "another day with that hardly barely there of a smile // You're going to break // You're overdoing it, you're already broken". Mikoto seems to find it hard to deal with life's events, aka the train ride, and perhaps feels like the end destination is unattainable at times of stress.

This point is stressed further imo by the fact that we can't see outside. The windows of the train are either white or black for the majority of the MV, sometimes light or 1 image makes itself known but never a full image of what's actually outside.

Bonus: The Train's Maps!

The map's of the train are shown glitched out, also possibly hinting to the feeling of the train's final destination being unattainable, or could also be referencing hazy memories, but I think this specific detail is about John.

We see the maps glitching out when John sings the lyric : "I don't even know the reason why I'm here." I think the maps glitching could represent the feeling of the loss of purpose.

John was 'born' in order to protect Mikoto, to help carry the burden of whatever is stressing him so much, yet instead of helping Mikoto he ended up being scared of him ("hey, now I saved you right? So why in the hell are you crying?") and it was John's actions that landed them in Milgram - an environment that Mikoto finds extremely stressing, to the point of there being a chance he goes dormant in T3.

Trains are created to arrive at a certain destination, so a train with no idea where it's going (glitchy maps) has lost its purpose.

Despite being an alter 'born' to protect, John has accidently caused Mikoto more harm when he tries, so he questions his role in the system.

Edit: Journey into the Subconscious

After staring at the MV a couple more times I think there's one more train theme I forgot to mention that fits here too, which is that trains can sometimes represent a journey into the mind.

I think there's a chance that the train could represent the system as a whole, or more specifically headspace. The only people on the train are John and Mikoto and the fact we never see what's outside gives a sort of surreal, dream like atmosphere, almost as if this was happening in an environment with no psychical appearance.

The lyrics sung in Double seem to be more directed at Mikoto than the actual audience, and from the last line "I'm so sorry" we can deduce that this song is something of an apology and explanation of John's actions that he wants Mikoto to hear.

#im not rlly 100% certain on any of these points but i wanted to throw them out here to see what others think #also just wanted to write atleast 1 thing on Double because god damn it was SO COOL #also i am in no way an expert on DID - any info here is based on my own research so if there are any inaccuracies pls lmk!!#also yes thats another podcast referance in my milgram analysis. i like sprinkling them in when i find the excuse to talk about them #also sorry for calling orekoto john but im sticking with it cuz that reminds me of john doe from the malevolent podcast #and he is my blorbo #milgram #mikoto kayano #red valley pod

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born-in-hell · 4 months

Text

q!BBH's Desert Lore is eerily similar to a scene in Salad Fingers Episode 10 "Birthday" ─ and other coincidences

WARNING: Salad Fingers is a gore web series. Therefore, All pictures here are going to be censored as to not havily disturb anyone. The links for the original pictures will be listed at the end for whoever wants to see them in full.

While reading this, its good to keep in mind that cc!Bad has made references to gorey underground web series before, such as "Llamas With Hats". Therefore, it wouldn't be a big stretch for him to have used Salad Fingers as inspiration for his character's lore, or as reference.

Also huge huge huge thanks to @demodraws0606 for listening to my insane thoughts and helping me w this go give them some love !!

On the day 26/nov/2023, Badboyhalo opened stream in the desert for the last time. Most people started comparing this scene to the Pinkie Pie birthday scene. But i could not help but think "huh, this reminds me of that salad fingers scene. I might be insane". so i went to look and.....:

U can't say they arent similar. An immense desert with a clouded sky and a wooden table with 6 places, which are taken by copies of the main character. The only difference is, besides the obvious gore, that one of the chairs is empty for q!BBH, while all are taken in Salad Fingers.

Another simmilarity is that Salad Fingers tries to interact with the clones, but just as q!BBH's, they neither aknowlege him nor respond.

Demo noticed how the scenery is really similar between the two:

Despite all this, the episode has no narrative connection to q!BBH's lore. It revolves around Hubert Cumberdale's (a finger puppet created by Salad) and, later on, Salad Finger's birthdays. Generally, i understood it is about the passage of time, together with childbirth/motherhood.

But, right before this scene, still on episode 10, Salad Fingers goes to the doctor. Eventually the focus changes, and the doctor is now examinating a horse while Salad Fingers watches. The horse seems to represent Salad Finger's child. When q!BBH lost his memory, he kept talking obsessively about taking Dapper to the doctor.

Another curious coincidence is that, on the same episode and same scene as the table, "Birthday", Salad Fingers is gifted a tophat as his birthday gift:

Demo pointed out, aswell, how on epidsode 13, named "Harvest" salad fingers is walking through the deserted wasteland towards a glowing circle in the sky (the Sun). During the first desert stream, q!BBH is seen walking towards the Sun aswell. Here are some screencaps from said Salad Fingers episode:

The "Edge of Forever" name is also funny considering q!Forever's and q!Bad's close friendship. But i personally think the usage of the word "forever" is only a coincidence. Or it could be related to q!Bad's immortality, the Edge of Forever, than, being where bbh goes to be reincarnated.

On the end of this same episode, "Harvest", Salad Fingers dies and is substituted by Boy Fingers, who is essentially a clone of Salad. This might be relevant, regarding q!BBH possibly dying, but i dont really know how to fit this into a complete theory. Although, since Salad dies from being boiled in a soup and consumed by Boy Fingers, there might be some connection to q!Bad's theme of gluttony.

The way both Salad Fingers and amnesiac Q!Badboyhalo behave also overlaps a bit. The constant jumping from subject to subject, a certain level of innocence and naiveness, a detachment from reality and unacknowledgement of death and violence.

Overall, the themes that Salad Fingers explores ─ birth, motherhood, fatherhood, conflituous familial relationships, some may say xenofobia or racism, and the 1st World War ─ arent at all related to q!Bad's story. I don't believe cc!Bad used Salad Fingers for anything other than inspiration ─ if it was even used. But, i still found all of this curious and interesting, and i wanted to share with all of you.

If u have any thoughts, feel free to share them! I personally am not a fan of gore, so i haven't seen all of Salad Fingers. This is another reason i'm writing this, so ppl that know more than me can share what they think.

Ty sm for taking ur time and reading this !!!

Uncensored Pictures:

─ Table Scene

─ Tophat

Banners/Dividers by @/inklore

#pls rb<3 #u guys can tell im losing my mind starving for lore #but idk this was fun to think abt #qsmp #qsmp theory #qsmp analysis #qsmp badboyhalo #qsmp bbh #qsmp lore

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bellshazes · 2 years

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a list of bdubs-centric continuities that make me fucking wildly insane, in chronological-ish order:

boomers + vote scar posters in the moon base as a memento of the prior season

don't worry, it's not the clock (start of hcs8 with impulse, who has come to give bdubs presents and spots the accessory on his new skin)

this brings back memories (the very first seconds of partnering with etho in last life)

now it feels like home! (cleo arriving in what will become the snow fort for the first time, to lighthearted complaining from etho)

I heard you've been messing with my buddy (cleo bullying etho mostly for fun, but an opportunity she had solely because she'd already been doing pointless favors for bdubs (pretending to have found the enchanter randomly while both red, even though no one would fall for that bc she's red) solely because he asked and she's still fond of him)

that man has a hold on me, I guess (about his habit of making dumb deals with scar for no good logical reason)

I trust you because bdubs trusted you (not only is the crastle a running undercurrent in LL, it's also transitively extended to etho)

that was in another world (tango to bdubs, not long before escaping obliteration by moon in an extended bit where he chooses to take his horse instead of his business partner despite some asymmetrically heart-wrenching videos exchanged after it was too late)

Double Life #1: The Nick of Time (bdubs makes impulse, his government assigned soulmate, get him the thing he betrayed impulse for in an identically titled third life episode)

I have NEVER lied to you, Bdubs (cleo taking bdubs to task for not continuing to return the loyalty they've had to each other over the seasons)

he's just jealous (explaining that etho, who despite being the first person to call bdubs and impulse married can't stop asking if bdubs is really happy, is insulting impulse's honor because of missing their past partnership)

she scolded me so badly, one time (explaining above scolding to ren as a relevant criteria to cleo's hcs9 court audition tape)

and, in fact, the way that bdubs' reputation as the hermitcraft server's most dedicated sleeper led to his constant carrying of clocks as a done thing, to keeping clocks close in the life series where you can't one-person sleep the night away so they're much less useful, leading to I'd do anything for a clock because that service he provides in another world has become central to who he is as a character, to the keeping of time and history, and also bundled here associations with the moon, which recalls the passage of time and now also the ending of worlds, and you'd think it should have been planned from the start but he's just always taking every opportunity to say, "that world is over, but don't you remember what I did or didn't do? doesn't it still matter, here and now?"

#bdoubleo100 #blogging with bdoubleo #the self-restraint it took not to put wellsglazes let'sbuild and wellsglazes buildingwith in here. please clap #meta tag #ive made a 'betraying tango in LL lead to his obliteration by moon in a passive aggressive act of revenge tango denied wanting' post #but the world still isn't ready for my essay on how mindcrack s5 led to his sleeping obsession.#AND the magma cube death loop in hcs7 -> his avoidance of it in s8 -> his foolhardy braveness in the nether as an intentional shift #toward something brave and heroic.

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decamarks · 8 months

Note

Here is a question if you feel like answering.: How do you feel about the "every copy of Sm64 is personalized/old Mario games are liminal" sort of thing that started getting popular in 2020

Oh, this is a wonderful question to answer... I think it kinda rules! It is an appealing sort of idea to me; I obviously really love the idea of creepypasta, and it's always interesting to see the way that it branches out, especially nowadays. Super Mario 64 is a game that is quite good at instilling those specific, surreal sort of feelings, so the works that revolve around it definitely feel like a natural evolution of creepypasta as a genre—an evolution that follows the advancements of technology in general.

The more time put between now and the game's release, the more alien it seems. Even if it wasn't that long ago, N64 graphics are so far removed from modern 3D; it's ancient in Gamer Years, but in the general passage of time, 27 years isn't that much! It feels distant, but really not that far off. Modern, but... not. It certainly occupies a perfect liminality in that regard.

Like, SM64 presents such a zany, colorful, strange world—a type of world that had basically never existed before. Which is insane! It obviously has its oddities, being basically the progenitor of all 3D platformers. It's weird as hell! Seeing people expand upon those aspects is sort of cathartic, in a sense. The game itself doesn't acknowledge its own strangeness; it kind of couldn't. The game was an innovation first and foremost, working with what little it had to go off of. At the time, it'd be unfamiliar enough that it wouldn't really register as strange—at least not the same strangeness it has today.

Amplifying or building additional horror around those oddities is just a really fun way to express the strange feelings it can invoke: a sense of nostalgia, alienation, the uncanny—returning to something you loved and seeing that it's not the same. Really, I just think weird early 3D graphics are beautiful and I'm glad to see their properties explored in any art, including silly creepypasta stuff. Also Mario-based horror is kind of great to me in general.

Coincidentally, I was kind of talking about this just yesterday? But only kind of. I was encouraged to share it though so please enjoy this discussion about Scary Mario and Scary Sonic:

#Mario is the coolest and scariest and most powerful guy ever. That's my conclusion.

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