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#Once again: thank you Anne Carson

pascalsbby · 8 months

Text

The Devil & His Brother

Joel x Tommy x You

Prologue / Part I : 6.4K / Part II

Summary: The Devil was begging you to forgive him, and you wanted to. You wanted to bring your palms together and whisper his name through the cracks, hoping he would hear your silent prayer. “Let me stay here, with you.” He would get down on his knees and pray to your altar. He would bless it first, kiss it clean, before he would send two fingers to spread open your love.

Warnings: 18+ mdni, eventual smut. enemies to lovers, slow-burn, angst/comfort/sex, age gap, power imbalance, possessive tendencies, drugs/pills/alcohol, major daddy issues (that’s why you need BOTH miller brother’s instead of 1). talk of death, shit-talking god & the devil himself.

This was a labor of love, please comment, reblog, & let me know what you think <3

I will take a crowbar and pry out the broken pieces of God in me.

- Anne Carson

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Your soul was given to another man before you had even yearned for the rage to scratch it back yourself- have a choice in the matter of your own eternity. Two eyes looking down upon you, gazing into the depth of your skull. Where the fuck was he, when his children were screaming on their knees for his forgiveness, for whatever they had done to deserve this?

You couldn’t remember your own baptism- despite seeing countless bodies pushed underwater, coming back anew. Later in life, not coming back up at all. Drowning sinfully sin-less. You were thankful now, that the hard stuff was done when you weren’t old enough to know it- or deny it. You wouldn’t have washed yourself clean for him, drown for him, now.

You were angry at him- you had every right to be. You were utterly alone in a world that was trying to devour you whole by sinking one tooth into any part of your tender flesh. Your eternal soul was saved (given) to a hand in the sky before you even knew what a God was, what he was capable of, what he would allow, and you had suffered for it during life. But now, when it mattered most, you didn’t have to do a goddamn thing but lay here and die. Yet he wasn’t doing his part. What a fucking surprise.

He never came like all the people said he would, like the Bible said. There was no reckoning. Even he was too scared of what he created.

“I ain’t no God, sweetheart.” The sound reverberated through his throat in a sickly Southern accent. He might as well have been. His thick arms were the ones holding you, warming you against the soft flannel. You haven’t been touched by another human in a long time, and the veins running through his arms were suddenly whispering love stories into your own running blood. His hands were so big.

They refused your pleas. “Please, if you don’t do it just hand me the gun.” Always met with a thickly harsh, “don’t think so,” from the one who shot you. The younger one is somehow quieter than the first. You had been full of anger for years, but it didn't seem as heavy as it normally would, despite barking, “You already tried once and failed, let me do it myself then.” He looked at you, surprised that you wasted your breath in such a manner, it had barely come out of the back of your throat to begin with. He huffed a laugh as he turned his head back to his brother before looking straight into the dark night again, focusing on something that wasn't even there. Focusing on anything that wasn’t you.

You were used to men not following through. Your father was the ‘savior’ (born-again post-outbreak pastor)(liar) of a small group, all now a couple of feet underground, frozen in the decomposing water of themselves- and whoever was lucky enough to be thrown in the dug-up hole on top of them. Baptized over and over as the ground warmed in the spring and froze again in the winter. Perpetually drowning until they become what they were trying to escape all along- food for the earth to devour.

We didn’t burn them, because that would have given us away, invited anyone near to pluck the last of us out, but fire would have been easier. But we don’t do easy, not here. We gather whoever is responsible for your already rotting body and make them throw you into the ground, all in the name of God. You had written a lot into your leather-bound notebook, at first not wanting to fill the pages, because once the paper was gone, there was nowhere else to rip the thoughts out of your head, let them bleed through the pages. You read that specific entry over and over, having memorized it by now, making crinkles in the dusty pages from how many times you turned back to it and prayed to a God that wasn’t there to save them- you.

He was never planning on it.

Your journal was the same color as the Devil’s eyes, darkened honey-brown, alive. You didn’t have many places to look whenever you did have enough spite in you to open your own, body swaying from side to side on a horse that wasn’t yours, in a man's lap that you didn’t know. He looked pretty, even from below, even more so leaning his chin downwards towards your face and gazing up your body. I guess anything safe looks heavenly amidst fire.

Why would they do that? Kill you and then take you along for the ride. They hadn't spoken much for however many days you had been dying, watching as the sun kissed the sky goodnight and welcomed the moon, at least three times. Maybe you were bait for something even bigger- a young woman goes a long way these days. Always has, really.

You had always harbored a deep fear of death. It wasn't exactly the physical suffering that frightened you, but rather the haunting notion of losing loved ones. The consequences of deviating from the life path thrown on you by your parents. There was always this looming presence of the ‘evil’. The Devil… Lucifer, Satan, whatever moniker you choose. In the narrative your parents scripted for you, he was cast as the villain. It was all too funny now, his thighs warming your skin, setting you ablaze.

Lucifer was a beautiful, Southern gentleman- one who spoke quickly and stern. And God sat right next to him, mouth shut, waiting for command. You were so tired of following orders from men but suddenly it’s as if you’ve known all along that his gaze would be the one you melted under. Sludge. Burning flesh. Maybe there was no God. Sure, the other man who sat next to him looked like one, but so does this one. He was an idea, the fear instilled in you, your parents' guilt. But you knew evil more than you knew true good, and the Devil was below you, only cementing that truth further. He was keeping you right here, draped across his lap, and despite your dying, he still caught glimpses of your naked flesh. And you didn’t know if it was eyes burning into you, or the gunshot wound he had so nicely gifted you. You almost wanted to thank him, if that’s what it took for him to wrap himself around you.

Romans 6:4 hung on a carved board in your parent's room after the first wave of death. After your father decided that the group needed someone to lead them, and that your mother wasn’t it, she sat back happily and carved words into worn wood. You had felt safe there, sixteen and under the guise of whatever your parents told you. Young, naive, pure.

‘We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life. We’re now dead to the power of sin. Being raised from the water.’ It later hung in the main room of a run-down grocery store turned Church. The church itself was down the street, the rotten door holding in rotten bodies from whoever had come before. Maybe they had sat and awaited the way you all did at first, waiting for their savior. He never rang the doorbell, never knocked. He had just walked right on by, whistling his hymns and being grateful he was above it all.

A new life? If Jesus died for our sins, wouldn’t he be upset with you right now? Laying on your… death horse…. And still not bruising your knees for him? Why can’t he be angry enough to let you slip out of line and take the easier way? I guess suffering wasn’t his go-to, at least outwardly. Fear was more his thing, and fear would eat you alive and cement your veins before true sin ever could. Guilt is what gnaws at your ankles, whispering poetry into your hair. Fear had passed. Anger had too, momentarily. Rage was a common home.

He should have taken you by now, held your hand and kissed your forehead goodnight. But you knew that he wasn’t coming. He never came for your parents either, nor your brother. You waited each time by their bodies, but he never called, never even picked up the goddamn phone.

He promised resurrection to people who needed something to hang on to. Promises made to be broken. God was more comfortable than death. You repeated it over and over as a prayer to those who had lost someone. We all have. Your dads own voice booming through the quiet. Now, you are losing yourself.

But really, there was no more you, not really. Maybe the horse knew too, bucked you off, and laughed as you felt the thud of the ground under your shoulder blades, because suddenly there was no air left in the entire dwindling world. The snow that was kicked up into your face from the weight of your body wasn’t melting as it would have before. You were cold. There was no world. There was just endless pain before a bout of relief. Not even enough to fill your lungs in one breath in or out. Even the horse knew you were dead weight. Every animal fighting for its survival. That’s why you were shot, too.

You scared the Devil and he took it upon himself to punish you.

At least that’s what you convince yourself as you lay dying on the cold, unforgiving ground, the weight of your pain bore down on your frail body- words trying to come out in shallow gasps. He wasn’t coming.

“Please,” you begged.

You heard shuffling, and then a shadow covered the setting moon above you. The all-to-familiar sound of his boots gaining on your still body. You could still smell him, had been able to this entire time you had been on his horse, in his lap. You could feel the pressure of his fingers rapidly squeezing your cheeks, feeling for blood flow, then the burning of his fingers on your neck, looking for signs of life amidst the dark night. Finally, he was touching you again. Maybe now he would kill you, too. His final gift.

“Fuck,” he hissed. That muttered obscenity made you feel more alive. “Get the fuckin’ horse away from her Tommy.” You heard the reins of the animal you were sat upon being pulled, and the hooves cascading further into the night. He returned to you, the coolness of his rings stung against your face, the cool air keeping them cold despite the warmth of his body. The bullseye tattoo, the only indication of who was touching you besides his smell. You had seen it multiple times throughout the rising and falling of the sun. It had cupped your body against his. He holds your face, as he leans into you, bullseye sitting right beneath your chin.

Throw a dart and it would hit you right in the throat- where you wanted him. Where you wanted him to breathe life into you again.

“Please. Help me go home.” Home hasn’t existed in years. You’d been unconscious for days.

“Shhh. No point in talkin' baby. Hurts too much. We’re goin’ home.” You looked up at him and despite the hardness of his exterior, you saw the understanding in his eyes. Just as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared back into his skull.

Almost how a lighter ignites, flickers, warms, almost unbearable but not quite. The wind blows the fire to your fingers, stings, then disappears. As did his burning gaze. The feeling of putting out a cigarette as it shoves its last bit of self out into the world, smoke followed by nothing, simultaneously.

That was him, you would come to find out, as his silhouette and his own warmth flees from your touch. As the brown from his eyes turns to black as your own close. He sighs.

The snow crunches under his weight as he assesses how to pick you back up.

“And you ain’t goin’ anywhere but where I take you. Got it?” A half-attempted nod before a sigh of pain.

You didn’t know where you were going- why, you were still alive… or whatever this in-between was. All you know is that you prayed to the Devil. And he answered.

He was the only one who ever answered.

The return to Jackson was painful, the remnants of a long-ago shattered world marred the landscape. As they neared home, the journey became colder, perhaps another reason why it remained a well-hidden place- not many people made it there alive. Joel and Tommy, ever vigilant, guided the two horses with unwavering resolve, constantly scanning the horizon for any indications of danger. Meanwhile, they carried the injured girl, whose body was only partially present after being thrown from the horse three days ago, blankets thrown atop. It had been five days since she was shot. Since Joel shot her.

The way you looked up at him every once in a while was breathtaking- it was too much of a painful reminder that he’d lost (or will lose) everything he’s ever cared about. He could see it in your eyes, the confusion of who and where you were. Watching life move through someone's body and out of their eyes used to be a victorious occasion. It meant he succeeded, that he was still alive regardless of the mangled bodies he left behind. But this felt different to him. You were so godamn young and he plays the scream ripping through your throat over and over an- he swears he didn’t pull the trigger. Joel's gruff voice broke through the haze of silence that had fallen upon them days ago and never left. He broke through his own circling thoughts. As he spoke to Tommy a mixture of concern and guilt for your being broke through, he felt it in his throat, his chest. He didn't want to be responsible for this death, but he sure as hell didn’t want to know you either. Because knowing someone only meant more pain.

“We've been carryin’ her for days, Tommy. How much longer can she hold on like this? No point in bringin’ a dead girl home.”

Denial was a motherfucker, wasn’t it?

Joel knew of death- he didn’t believe in shit besides such. He used to be a God-fearing man but knew if he ever had the chance to stand in front of him he’d rip him in two and gnaw on the pieces of his holiness.

Tommy knew of death too, even before the outbreak, but the difference was that he also believed in life. He knew exactly why Joel had that scar, even though they’d never talked about it. It was a quiet understanding, one he never pushed or even poked and prodded.

Tommy's response was laced with a fear, for what Joel had done, but empathy for what he knows he sees every single time he looks down upon you. "We're almost there, Joel. She's tough, you know that. She should have died from that wound but she’s still breathin’, that counts f’something. We'll get her to Jackson, n’ she'll have a chance." He kept looking into his brother's eyes before pulling away and looking ahead into the blinding white. If he said what he really wanted, he wouldn’t stop. “You fuckin’ shot her but now you want to save her? Make up your fuckin’ mind.” The least he could do is help him save someone, even if it’s just for Joel’s sake, especially after he couldn't save Sarah. ‘Least he could do is keep his mouth shut.

Joel was the last person he had- the only person. Ellie didn’t even love him like she loved Joel. It’s always the broken, harsh ones that receive the most attention. People spend so much time trying to put broken people back together that they don’t realize the others are teetering with one foot over the edge.

They’d gone outside the walls because funny enough, they thought it would be more safe this time of year, the dead of winter. Ellie had begged for months for the boys to take her out with them and show her this and that. She was getting homesick for a place she never truly loved. She was tired of sitting still inside walls of safety when everyone she had ever loved was buried outside of them. Tess came along too, providing an extra line of safety, ‘just in case’.

Tommy remembers Joel whispering, “There's somethin’ coming.” More so someone, you. A moment later, a gunshot, a thudding body. Joel was normally calm on the trigger, rifle in hand, looking down the barrel of the gun, aimed at his prey. But Ellie was there, Tommy, and Tess. His people. There was no time to fuck around, so he didn’t. Tommy understood. But that didn’t make it right in his head. His brother was never patient in the moments that mattered the most.

One evening, about ten hours from wherever the fuck they were taking you, the sun began to set, setting ablaze a warm glow over the frozen landscape. You had been awake, more so than the past couple of days, looking up at the moving clouds in the sky, watching as his chest moved and released more air into the sky, breathing visible and dancing in the cold. The horse beneath you abruptly stopped and the two men descended their spots atop of them, stretching their legs and gaining more control of their tired bodies.

“You’re awake,” the younger one let out, moving his focus from the soft mumbles he was giving to the other man. “‘Bout time we clean your wound again, see how it’s doing.” You let out a faint, “mm” and attempted to sit up. “No. We’ll get ya off the horse. Be still,” the other said. The Devil grabbed the water and reached up to you, his fingers moved across your face as he gathered your wandering hair and moved it away from your lips. He turned the canister upwards, slowly, letting you drink from it. “Thank you,” you managed. It was the first time he heard your voice not mangled with absolute fear. He stared, eyes roaming the silence, looking ever-so surprised that you had said anything at all, and so clearly at that.

The angel moved closer and reached out his hand, thinking now was a good time to introduce himself to you. “Tommy, Miller. This is my brother, Joel.” he looked toward him. Joel forced an upside-down grin and nodded his head toward you. “You…” pointing towards the one called Joel, “you shot me.” Silence followed, it was heavy, thick. “I didn- Thought you were dangerous, came around that corner too fast.”

“I wasn’t even armed, I-“

“Don’t wanna talk bout’ it.” he huffed, almost angrily. You opened your mouth again, wanting to rattle off one of three hundred questions that you had, but he looked you over once more, and then turned around and walked off. Tommy, with gentle hands, tenderly lifted your body off of the saddle and carried you towards the fire Joel was nursing. The crackling of a campfire and the scent of cooked food filled the air as they set to work, tending to your wounds with diligence that spoke to Tommy's belief that you would be okay (You had to be. He couldn’t fail Joel again. Couldn’t watch as his face fell with the realization that you were completely dead).

His fingers were deft as he cleaned your wounds, his touch sending shivers down your spine. He saw the goosebumps rise, and felt them, as the fire lit your skin. You caught glimpses of concern in his eyes, a silent reassurance that he was determined to see you through this. Joel's presence was a constant anchor, as he spoke into the fire, keeping it lit. They laid out blankets, far too many for just two people to be carrying alone, and sat you atop and below them.

The rest of the night had been filled with your echoing screams, Joel’s palm across your mouth, “Stop screamin’ or someone is gonna find us.” Sure, stop screaming while dirty, whiskey-cleaned fingers are prodding at your open wound. Not even a sorry moved past his lips.

Joel laid down on one side of you, Tommy on the other. “M’ sorry,” he whispered towards you. They both smelled of sweat and whiskey. Their chests rolled and fell at different times, Joel murmuring in his sleep once he finally stopped looking around the parameter. You could tell they were brothers.

It was night when the three of you arrived ‘home’. You heard a young girl's voice above the gathering crowd.

“Joel!” She parted the gathering crowd as the patter of quickening footsteps approached. His head whipped quickly, finding her immediately.

“What the fuck?”

“Ellie,” he warned.

“You can’t fucking do that Joel, I thought you…We made it home three days ago. Tess dragged me by my hair but I-”

“Good,” he huffed back, “Where is she?” Ellie blustered but gave up arguing.

Multiple men gathered around and took the blankets off your body, the air hissing through your torn clothes. You whimpered as they moved your body off of Joel’s horse. He didn’t say anything to you, instead he turned and followed Ellie out of the crowd, carrying the reins with him.

You were carefully carried to a bigger two-story home on the outskirts of the city. As the night turned towards the morning sun, you found yourself gaining strength. The length of the night had been blurry, chattering voices and hands, everywhere. Needles, bliss, whispers. Stripping you from the blood-ridden clothes and water pouring over your lips. Fingers, hands touching you, always caught in a delicate dance between stoic tenderness and warmth

‘Gonna be jus’ fine, baby.” Tommy had assured you, multiple times.

Suddenly it had been a week. They took turns caring for you, someone sleeping in the same room as you at all times in case you needed something. Always talking about “patrol shifts” and how Tommy was expected to be a leader of some sort. You had overheard a lot of conversations booming through the thin walls of the house. One hurting more than the others.

“Shouldn’t have fuckin’ brought her here in the first place. You know the whole town is gossipin’ about it right now. The Miller brothers bringing in another mouth to feed.”

“Stop it. Sh’can hear you Joel. You know that’s not how anyone thinks of it. She could help this place. Give her a chance.”

“She’s been practically fuckin’ unconscious for a week now, Tommy. You think she’s just gonna get right up n’ run the town?”

“Why did you take her in if you don’t even want to be responsible for her survival?” Tommy threw back at him. He regretted saying it immediately, watching as it hit Joel in the face before he closed his eyes and looked away. Joel was more so there to watch you and make sure you didn’t bleed into his wooden floor, while Tommy tried to provide as much comfort as possible. After realizing that this was Joel’s home, it made sense in what little you knew about him. There were few things on the wall, but there were remnants of him everywhere.

Ellie would come home and sit with you, read to you and then tuck you in after Joel carried you up the stairs and into his bed. You missed Tommy’s gentleness when it wasn’t there, but you missed the warmth from Joel's body, his lap, when he wasn’t there. His breathing, his nervous habit of cracking his fingers. Even though you could tell that every nerve ending in his body wanted you anywhere else but wherever he was- there was still a silent curiosity.

About a week and a half after your arrival, someone knocked on the front door of the tattered house and Joel called for Tommy up the stairs. He walked down them quickly, walking out of the front door with Joel.

He returned a few minutes later, looking at you sitting in the seat you hadn’t left in since you’d been there. He gave you a look, slowly looking towards the ground as he spoke up so you could hear him. “Gotta go for a couple of days. Heard there’s a group who probably followed us close to here, saw their smoke, gonna take care of them before they can make it any further.” You hadn’t spoken much, if at all, the past couple of days. You didn’t think you would make it this far, and now you were sitting with two strangers and a teenager in their house, rotting away. They had poked and prodded, trying to get any information out of you that they could, but you didn’t give in.

You stared out the window and answered meekly whenever spoken to, if at all. You should be ecstatic at the thought of finally being housed somewhere ‘safe’, somewhere with electricity and running water. Somewhere where they gathered the children and let them watch movies in the mess hall (all information coming from Tommy, telling you stories as he changed your bandages)- but you weren’t. You felt like you were still teetering on the edge of death. You felt like a burden to Joel.

You didn’t answer Tommy, just nodded. He packed up a few things and promised to ‘be back in no time, then maybe you can tell me your name.’ And then he was gone out of the termite-ridden front door.

You had fallen asleep, and awoken to Joel in another room somewhere, those same goddamn boots thudding against the creaking wooden floors. His presence was constant, every once in a while getting up from a creaking chair to come look at you. You slept, mostly. Ate the dinner he got from the dining hall. Your rage had returned. But baring your teeth in anger took energy you didn’t have.

Joel couldn’t look at you without feeling like he was looking straight through the blood and guts of you(r)(side). Tommy wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone about it before he left. How pretty you were, how there ‘weren’t many pretty faces left n’ you’re tryin’ to kill one?’ He watched as Tommy cooked you with his stare, warming his next meal only to put on his best-dressed suit and bail on the date before he could even pick up the tab. He was glad he was gone for a while, letting him forget about the fact that he had put the bullet in you. He loved his brother, but he knew his games. He knew his inability to stay.

Joel had nursed you back to… alive. At least. He hadn’t really thought about what that entailed after you were stable. He was surprised you were still breathing. He didn’t think about the feeding, changing, and bathing of you. Of hands touching flesh and natural bodily reactions to such.

You could tell he was the older brother. He held the normal stereotypes, sternly telling you what to do. The older one was always more serious, and stoic. The younger, who probably got away with more, but was the loneliest from eyes diverting. But his big brother was always there, begrudgingly present. And he was in this instance too.

Tommy had washed you multiple times before he left, but never your hair or the rest of you. He was more concerned that your stitches didn’t get infected.

Joel probably thought giving you a rag bath was wasting water, but did it anyway, probably tired of your stench in his bed. It’s cold until he heats the towel after noticing you shiver. “Let me draw you an actual bath. Think you can take one now.” He was softer at that moment, more gently with the way he wiped the towel across your chest. Those moments happened least expectedly. But when they did happen, it hurt even deeper. You felt something for him. And that just wouldn’t do. Rather it be lust, loneliness, or your raging fucking daddy issues.

Tommy likes the water cold, and Joel likes it burning to the skin. Of course, he does. He is all or nothing. Hot or cold. Soft or hard. He’s solitude but brings the same warmth of a front door opening to a sea of snow, chimney warm, lights warmer, hot chocolate, and bourbon- he is. In any other world but this one, he would probably be a good man; one to settle down with. One to hold you against himself, despite of raging night.

°:. *₊ ° . ° .• ♡ °:. *₊ ° *₊.• ♡ °:. *₊ ° . ° .• ♡ °:. *₊ ° *

a/n: Phew do I have plans for these three…

taglist: @worhols @sarap-77 @mishasminion360 @justagalwhowrites @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @romanarose @milla-frenchy @bandluvr97 @alwaysdjarin @basicoccult @hellfyreroz @northernbluess-blog @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @pr0ximamidnight @bambydxll @morgaussy @n7cje @theywhowriteandknowthings @gracie7209 @pedritoferg @twirl731 @med494 @k-ra @gintheginger @obscurexsorrows @cool-iguana @livingdeadmaria @ours-is-a-strange-fate @megangovier20 @rayslittlekitten @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @pedrotonin @bluetattoos @sscorpiiio

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shesjustanothergeek · 8 months

Text

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Twenty-Four

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: I hope y'all like this chapter. It's an interesting one. Just remember to stay with me and that everything will be alright. Well, as okay as an ending within this fandom can be. xD Just a quick FYI, this chapter takes place over a few months. Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter Warnings: violence, blood, technically SA but it's very blurry, the reader is in her revenge era.

"You remember too much, my mother said to me recently.

Why hold onto all that? And I said,

where can I put it down?

She said,

When you see these horrible images, why do you stay with them?

Why keep watching? Why not

go away? I was amazed.

Go away where? I said.

This seems to me a good question." - Anne Carson, The Glass Essay.

You fastened the last button of your gown, having already dismissed your maids for the day after your midday meal. It was an easy slip-on dress that didn't require assistance, and they bid you "good day" after nodding their heads once you assured them you would summon them for supper.

The council had adjourned for the day, the meeting ending with your ideas redirected and brushed aside. The Lords only cared for thoughts of war, taxes, and whether the scheduled shipments of Dornish wine had made it unharmed. It was not your first time bringing the impoverished inhabitants of Kings Landing to the table. More than once, you had suggested diverting the crown's frivolous spending habits toward a food program for those in need or gathering an entourage of the castle Maesters to provide medical care for the sick.

Ser Otto hadn't shot your ideas down per se; he did not see them worthy enough of a thought to decline. His priorities lay elsewhere, ensuring his lordlings and courtly allies were well satisfied. He did not need the support of the small folk, for when he supplanted Aegon on the throne, only those willing to die and sacrifice themselves for the inevitable war of succession.

You debated, bringing Viserys to the chambers again, but his health was finally on the mend, and you needn't put more stress on him than he was in.

With the passing of Grand Maester Mellos in the winter, Orwyle took his place. You had nothing against the deceased man other than his treatments. They were popular in the older generations of the Citadel, Orwyle told you, but the younger Maester explained different techniques, herbs, and potions brought over from Essos that he had seen work on Lepers. However, he refused to say the disease out loud. Lepers were only found in the slums of the poorest sections of Westeros, not within the land's nobility, let alone the King himself.

You observed your reflection in the vanity mirror, inhaling a calming breath that deliciously stretched the muscles of your abdomen. Your outfit was simple and purposely so. No pearls sewn into the fabric, no gemstones decorating the bodice. You need not be dripping in opulence as you typically were. For once, you wanted to avoid being seen, or at least not attract any more attention than you would already gather with your presence.

Slipping two golden hoop earrings into your ears, you stood, grabbing the embroidery loom you had asked your maids to get a few days prior. You knew how to sew before it was engrained into your head by your Septa. It was expensive to take the whores dresses to a sewist when you could barely even afford food, so you learned the essential art out of necessity rather than as a hobby like all the other noble women. However, you last picked up a needle and thread nearly three years ago. There were more important things than sewing.

You traveled along the carpeted halls of the Red Keep, your buckled shoes softly thudding over the imported rugs. Your noiseless footfalls soon turned into a light rapping on the red rock steps to the training yard, stopping your movements on the last landing to rest on a chiseled sandstone bench, the circlet and thread placed in your lap.

All that was left now was to wait and be patient, which came naturally. You were a lion flattened within the tall grass, lean muscles rippling as it crept closer and stalked lower, learning the patterns and movements of its prey to know the right moment to pounce.

***

The royal library was something unfrequented by the inhabitants of the Keep save for a few Maesters and Lords. You immensely enjoyed the silence of it. The only sounds heard were occasional deep inhaleings when you realized you hadn't taken a breath and the flipping of pages. Ser Arryk sat at a simple carved wooden table between the aisles of tomes, polishing his longsword as you rested against a cushioned window seat with a book.

It was just past high noon, and your stomach was full of soft cheeses, meats, and pastries after your luncheon with Helaena. It was an excellent start to your day and left an elated feeling in your stomach as you finished your chapter on Constitutional Laws of The Crown, your mind thoroughly bored with the plain prose of the text.

Your sworn shield turned to face you at the light sound of your book closing, doing one last swipe of cloth to metal as he put his sword in its sheath.

"You are dismissed for the day, Ser Arryk," you announced in silence. He stared, his hazelnut brows furrowed in confusion. "Ser Cargyll, I am giving you the afternoon to yourself. Take it."

The knight was unsure what to do, stunned by his unusual dismissal. He had nothing else planned. His days were filled endlessly with protecting the Princess, forever by her side and only away when it was time to rest. Arryk was her sworn protector and was required to be in her presence to do that. She couldn't dismiss him... Could she?

"If it will ease your conscious, Ser, I will be in the training yard with countless Gold Cloaks and Kingsguard. Should anything happen to me I am certain a dozen men could handle it," you offered with a crooked smile, hoping to appease his overprotective nature.

Arryk felt his heart skip in his chest, your perfect lips sending him a grin he had seen reserved for familial letters and Princess Helaena. He knew he should protest. Explain that men at arms can be just as dangerous as those with lower morals and values, but his will soften at your sweet expression. Ser Arryk would do anything for you if he saw that same look.

"As you wish, Princess," he acquiesced, standing from his seat with a bow and slight flush hidden under his facial hair.

You hid your smirk until he was no longer in eyesight, rolling your eyes and shaking your head.

That was easier than you expected. Usually, the kingsguardmen would put up a resistance to your desire to be alone. It annoyed you to no end, but you understood it was Arryk's duty, which you felt was unnecessary when you already knew how to defend yourself, but he didn't know. No one did in King's Landing beside the Queen and Ser Criston, and they only heard it when you brought the Prince back. Aegon was the only one who knew the true extent of your capabilities, having regularly attended your late-night training sessions.

A sudden stabbing struck through your chest, your fingers white-knuckling the window seat as your palm began to rub the affected area. You shook your head as if that would rid you of the sting, letting a sharp breath through your nose as you stood. You needed to focus on the task, grunting and ignoring the ache within your ribcage as you trekked to the training grounds.

***

Today, you decided to move from your usual spot on the landing, ensuring your presence was known to all who spared on the packed dirt of the yard. There was another bench of sandstone resting against the wall of the high steps, far enough away that you wouldn't be intruding but close enough to be seen.

Your fingers busied themselves with your current project of a dragon black as coal and piercing green eyes. You were sure the Cannibal would be proud of how you portrayed his likeness once you were finished, holding the taught square of fabric to the blazing sun.

"The training yard is no place for a Lady such as yourself, your Grace," a voice sneered from above.

You finished your last stitch, pulling the dark thread with a harsh tug and placing the circle in your lap. Looking up at the tall Dornish man, you smiled, though it was strained and did not meet your eyes.

"I am not training, Ser Cole. Simply observing. It gets rather boring sitting in council meetings all day." He hummed, glancing at your work before returning to your snarky expression.

"I see. Enjoy your observations. I hope the men are to your liking," Ser Criston said stiffly, bowing his head in farewell.

Your smile dropped as soon as he turned, unable to hide your exasperation for the man. You knew Cole would be here, but you hadn't thought the man brazen to approach you in front of his fellow men. He should've learned you were a woman, not so easily scared. However, the knight's little display did show to be advantageous. Every man had turned to see where he went, each countenance staring at the only person wearing a dress in a sea of trousers.

Your eyes danced across as many as you could, halting as you spotted one you would never forget. Withholding a searing gaze, you smiled slightly at the man, your brown and violet orbs flitting away as you fluttered your lashes. The man whose name you had yet to find out looked back, a smirk on his face as the whites of his teeth showed, bowing before resuming his tasks.

Unable to find the other one, you returned to your sewing. Initially, it was supposed to be your dragon, a love portrait for your sweet Cannibal, but an idea struck you. It would be much more fitting to display Cannibal's prowess. All were beneath him, even his fellow species, and showcasing his strength in the art felt right. Mentally, you mapped out the type of stitching you would use, the colors silver, cream, black, and gold, and the amount of space it would take up on your canvas.

The embroidery would be your finest work, and once finished, you would display it for all to admire.

***

You returned to the same spot you had yesterday, with all your supplies in tow, but today, you would only spend a little time on your craft. You observed silently as men in varying states of dress fought each other. Some sparring with thin silver breastplates and shin guards, others wrestling their brethren into the dirt.

It was chaos from the outside perspective, but you knew the complexities and talent it took to defeat an opponent. You had to keep your mind sharp, vision dancing across your rivals' forms, plan your moves, anticipate theirs, and ensure each limb was out of striking distance, all while trying to win. Despite what many arrogant Lords believed, swordplay and hand-to-hand combat took time to learn.

Ser Criston was nowhere to be seen today, a welcomed absence. Your plan worked around the knight's presence; it was a given he would be with his fellow men, so it was a relief that today he was not.

You stood from the chiseled bench, walking across the training yard to one of the weapons racks. Your fingers danced over each of them, admiring the dull practice blades, daggers, and flails. It had been some time since you saw the weapons in daylight, having been forced by the Queen to train at the hour of the bat. Unable to have a sparing partner, you had neglected swordplay, focusing more on the sharpened cutlass and archery.

It was so dull to be your only opponent, competing with yourself to see how many bullseyes you could get in a row. At one point, you had resorted to running endless laps around the training yard to at least feel some challenge.

"May I help you, your Grace?" A voice rang above the sounds of clashing swords and grunting men.

You traced the peaked line of a blade with the pad of your finger, slowly turning your head to them. Your expression of indifferent self-satisfaction quickly morphed into surprise, seeing the face of the man who held your Aunt's chains. You swiftly schooled your presentation into a practiced, polite one.

"If you would be so kind," you prompted coyly. The flush of anger on your cheeks was easily mistaken as one of abashment as the Gold Cloak took the sword you were admiring. "What is it?" you asked, feigning ignorance.

"It's called a spatha. 'Tis the most common doubled-edged sword among warriors. Swords have different uses, but this one is perfect for thrusting and slashing." The Watchmen punctuated each word with its respective motion, causing you to jump back and clutch your hands to your breasts.

He explained each weapon as if speaking to a tot, showing the intricate contrasts between a flamberge, a claymore, a seax, and a shamshir and then onto daggers. You hung onto every word like a young squire speaking to its higher-ranking knight, smiling, nodding, and giving small gasps and squeals when necessary. You felt like a fool from smiling so hard, your cheeks burning from the strain until you could no longer bear it.

"I never got your name, Ser." Your feminine voice was like the toll of the city bells in the mass of masculine sounds.

"My apologies, my lady," he said, placing the flail in his grasp onto the wooden rack. "Edder Dalt is what my mother named me, but you may call me Ed, your Grace. "

You plastered on your signature smile, looking up at the man as you repeated his name. "It's nice to meet you, ser. You've been such a pleasure speaking to me about weapons, though I fear your knowledge is far greater than my mind is capable of understanding." You dipped your head sheepishly, hiding the pink on your cheekbones.

"Oh, nonsense, Princess, the pleasure is all mine. Not many ladies desire to learn swordsmanship, and that alone is proof enough that you're brighter than you believe." Your lips turned into a grateful pout as you peered at him from under your thick lashes, taking a step closer to him as you saw his eyes flicker downwards.

"You are too kind, Ser Edder." You placed your fist delicately on his bicep, feeling the muscles ripple underneath your touch. "If it would not be trouble, could I hold one of them?" Your hand slid down to his elbow as you took another step closer, gaze wide and pleading.

Edder swallowed, his throat bobbing as he stared with fidgeting eyes, looking as if he was about to flee at any moment. You knew what you were doing. Touching a man who lacked the caress of a woman, a noble one at that, you let your fist slide just out of his reach, your warmth a whisper without your skin.

"Of course, Princess," he answered shakily, focusing on the armaments beside him.

He picked the lightest sword, the type Daemon made you use at the beginning of your training, and you had to bite back a laugh at the thought. Edder gently placed the feather-like hilt in your fist as if it were still in the process of being cast, supporting it underneath. Flashing him with an exultant grin whenever he relinquished his assistance, he stood back, observing with his fists on his waist as you held the instrument he believed would be too heavy.

As if on queue, your arms shook, and the blade nearly fell to the ground but was stopped by Edder's firm grasp.

"Easy there, my Lady. I fear your Father would have my head if you lost a toe," he jested, though his voice had some worry.

You giggled in what you hoped was a delightful sound, not the forced way you felt, the Gold Cloak shuffling behind you to help distribute the weapon's weight.

"Thank you, Ser Edder. Perhaps I overestimated my strength. I am grateful you are here to help me," you chortled bashfully, adjusting the hilt in your palm. "What is this one for again? There are so many," you questioned airily, turning your head to meet his regard.

His nose was mere centimeters away from yours, and the startled gasp you let out was not deceitful, promptly spinning your face away to look forward. You felt the rumble of his laugh against your back, your breath slightly hitching before you crushed your unease like an insect beneath your pretty boot. You would let him think you were just some hoydenish maiden, wide-eyed and in awe of his masculine knowledge, as you released a nervous giggle.

"This is a rapier, Princess. 'Tis the lightest blade one can carry, and even the common person can use it, especially for dueling." You tilted your crown upward in recognition as he continued. "It's used for fast reactions, slicing and thrusting your opponent down before they can reach their weapon."

Edder punctuated each word with a movement, causing diminutive gasps to leave your mouth as he moved forward with it. Though you were toward the back of the training yard, near the enormous stalwart oak doors, you felt like you were being watched like one of the many butterflies Helaena kept within a glass frame, their wings pinned with needles and on display for all to see. You hastily glanced around, trying to find the source of your tension but seeing the men still within their worlds, punching and swinging at one another.

It did not feel right to let someone watch you freely, their gaze penetrating your skull like a pick, and you decided, partially due to pride and the other apprehension, that you would find who they were and give them the same treatment. Hopefully, you scanned the shadows to spot the specific clubbed foot culprit known for this situation. Still, you did not see him, Ser Edder, continuing his monologue about the history of the rapier.

A glint caught your eyesight, the flash of an ornate metal in the afternoon sun as it moved. Aegon stood above you on the steps to the Keep, staring down his nose at the people before him as he nursed a goblet that seemed to be permanently attached to his hand. You felt your heart stop, your stomach falling to your feet, and momentarily forgetting the act you were putting on. Your bright, carefree expression slipped, a scowl taking place as you clenched the sword's hilt.

It had been nearly a fortnight since you last saw the Prince, and it was only in passing as you witnessed him lead a scullery maid into a secluded alcove. You still had to return to that part of the castle since then, even if it meant taking a longer route to your destinations. You would at least expect him to approach you and attempt to make some feeble apology that you wouldn't accept, but he didn't. He won't, you told yourself. Aegon went back to his old ways of drinking, gambling, and whoring without much thought, like it was his second nature, and perhaps it was.

Aegon was a pathetic excuse of a man, and you loathed yourself for feeling an ounce of anything but hatred for him. He didn't deserve your kindness or your love.

Edder noticed your abrupt shift in mood, following your line of sight to see where it was. You felt the man's grip stiffen over your fists, pulling you closer to his body as if it were a means to protect you. You nearly vomited onto the packed dirt below as if you needed his protection-- as if he needed to protect you. You could kill the Gold Cloak here and now if you choose to. You mentally grimaced.

"You needn't pay him mind, Princess," Ser Edder declared into your hair, causing your eye to twitch unconsciously. "He is a lecher, but his tastes tend to lead more toward the Silk Lanes and poor folk of Flea Bottom." This time, you did not hide how you bristled at his words.

"I am from Flea Bottom," you screamed, but your mouth did not move.

Aegon downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, wiping the remnants that escaped from his lips before throwing his brass goblet to the ground. Your mind lurched to go after him, to rub his brow that creased whenever he was upset, to smooth his sheared hair down his head as you held him close to your chest and whispered nothing but praises to him. You shook the thought, replacing your glare with a delicate gaze as you looked at Ser Edder.

***

Ser Edder introduced you to a few of his fellow men at arms in days past, one so happening to be the man that had given you a wolfish grin the day Ser Criston spoke to you. His name was Lorgan Sunderly, and judging by the fleeting moments you spent with him and the others, you could tell he had an appetite similar to Aegon's but knew better than to act on it. Despite being a bastard, you held a title above him, and if he wanted to keep his cock, he would have to think with his head.

You asked them to show some fighting stances since you 'admired their talents,' and each man was delighted to display them for you. Ser Lorgan was more skilled than Edder between the two City Watchmen, but his ego and brash movements blinded him. Lorgan was the Gold Cloak you would run from in the markets, the one your fellow inhabitants at Flea Bottom would fear, while Edder was fair, the one people would pray to be caught by if they were stealing.

Edder suddenly landed a harsh punch to Lorgan's gut that caused all the men around you to leer. They had removed their breastplates and were left only in their underclothes as they sparred in hand-to-hand combat. It seemed to be more of a pissing contest than training, and if your Father knew this was how his former soldiers acted, you were confident he would whip them literally and figuratively.

There was a break within the two grunting men where Lorgan began to taunt Edder, slightly hunched over as he spouted insults about his mother before shifting to you. You waved an ornate fan to the side of your face; your thin, lilac Myrish lace dress cut just above your ankles to release the trapped summer heat.

"Let's say whoever wins this bout gets a kiss from the Princess," Ser Lorgan announced.

You hid your offense at the unconsented offer behind the raising of your surprised brows, looking between the men. Edder glanced back at you, uncertainty written into the hard lines of his pale face.

"If the Princess agrees, then, yes."

You tilt your head to the side, unable to bite back the snarky remark before it forms. "You think yourself worthy of my kiss?"

Ser Lorgan barks a laugh as he circles his opponent, Edder's cheeks a flaming red.

"I do not need to be a champion to know I am worthy of your lips," Lorgan states, a marauding grin on his face. "Though, I do not believe Ed to be the same." You hum in response, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

"I will decide at the end whether one of you shall receive my affections. A lady's kiss is a thing to be treasured, sers, something not to be taken lightly." The arrogant knight guffaws, pretending to lunge forward to tackle Edder.

In the end, Ser Lorgan is victorious, and you press a chaste kiss to his damp cheek, much to Edder's chagrin. You tell the sulking man that he may have lost to Lorgan today, but there is always a possibility he may earn your lips, a mischievous glint in your eyes, as your nails dug crescents into your palms. He brightened exponentially at the prospect before you bid them a good day, heading to your rooms within the heart of the Red Keep.

***

This morning is like any other, waking to the blinding sun through green curtains and the smell of food. You groan at the sudden brightness louder than necessary, catching the attention of Jeyne and Fiorra. They exchange glances but continue with their early-day tasks until one of the maids pulls a chair, its wooden legs screeching across the stone floor.

"Please, my Ladies," you strain out in what you hope is convincing, "my head aches, and noise only worsens it."

Before you know it, Jeyne is perched on the side of your bed, raising the back of her hand to her forehead. "You do not have a fever, Princess. Is it something you ate?"

"Jeyne, please," you beg like a sickly child, wiggling further into the covers.

The oldest maid sighs, brushing the stands of hair that came loose from your sleep style, her touch as gentle as a mother's. "She's having one of her bouts again. Rain must be coming soon," she said to her counterpart, voice much softer. Jeyne rose from the mattress, the quiet rappings of her footfalls becoming near silent as she reached Fiorra. "You know what we must do. Go to the Maester and gather peppermint oil, lemon oil, and her tea. I'll be sure she eats something."

You don't hear a response from Fiorra, assuming she answered wordlessly as the door to your chambers creaks open and takes longer to shut than usual.

"Come now, Princess, you must eat to regain your strength." Jeyns assists you in leaving the bed, putting more weight on her than required as she plops you down at the wooden table to break your fast.

Once your maids ensure you have everything you need to battle what they believe to be a headache, they leave you with a large pitcher of cool water and a matching basin sitting next to it, promising to return at midday to bring you a light repast. You lay underneath the warm blankets of your bed, enjoying their comfort until you're sure the maids won't suddenly be returning. Seeing you dressed in your black attire, dagger strapped to your shin, and hair plaited to the best of your ability would shock them as you peeked through your chamber doors.

It was too premature for Ser Arryk to be at his post, though you knew it would only be a matter of minutes before the silver and white figure would stand guard. You had to be swift. It was the first rotation in daylight, and you needed to take advantage of the momentary disarray of men walking to different parts of the Keep, some finally going to rest after the night's watch, which Ser Lorgan so happened to be coming off of.

The court had yet to rise, leaving the halls nearly barren except for the few servants adorned in red as they bustled about with their duties. You were still on edge, ducking around every corner, looking left, right, and behind in case you caught a pair of unwanted eyes as you made your way to the White Sword Tower.

You knew Lorgan would be exhausted when he returned to his quarters. On more than one occasion when he had the nightwatch, the man complained relentlessly of how tired he was, how he would be unable to sleep properly for the rest of the sennight because of it. At the time, you answered his gripes with comforting words and hands, soothing the brute's unease as you provided an ear to confide in. It was hard not to roll your eyes as the rant continued throughout your time in the training yard, but you kept your annoyance at bay, beaming and nodding like the good little maiden they believed you to be.

Briefly, you glanced down the halls once more before knocking twice on the crudely carved door of the Gold Cloak's barracks. You could hear scuffling, the unhappy timber of a baritone voice through the wooden door, and the click of a lock unturning as you greeted with a scowling Ser Lorgan Sunderly in only his underclothes. His expression soon changed when he realized it was you, brows shooting to his hairline.

"Princess," he said breathlessly, "what brings you to my door?"

You smiled sheepishly, showing him the tiny bundle of cheese, bread, fruit, and boiled eggs in a large cloth. "I thought I might accompany you in breaking your fast. I know you had the night watch and how you detest it."

He gazed down at you with pleasant surprise, his green eyes widening before he stepped away from the door, wordlessly bidding you to enter. You took in the modest surroundings. For some reason, you envisioned a much more chaotic state of living for Lorgan, but nothing was out of place.

There was a small bookshelf on one end of his room, but no tomes lined it, and instead filled with small trinkets, one would collect over time. A small cot on the other end with wrinkled, scratchy woolen sheets tucked underneath the straw mattress, his sword and shield resting at the end of it.

Lorgan pulled out your chair as you placed the food on his small square table, organizing it on the cloth.

"Princess," he started, tentatively pulling a piece of bread from the loaf. "I must confess, I'm surprised to see you here. I considered you a pious maiden who would not venture to these parts of the Keep unchaperoned. Take no offense, my Lady."

You giggled, following his actions by peeling an egg. "Ser Lorgan, you know I am a bastard, correct? My mere existence is a contradiction of piety."

The Gold Cloak hollered a laugh too loud for the small space, causing you to dig into the delicate shell harder than intended, taking a chunk of the white with it. Lorgan pulled a trunk from the side of his room, having only one seat as he grabbed more food from the cloth. A neutral silence blanketed the knight's quarters, the only sound being his loud chewing.

You swallowed the last bit of the yellow-green yolk, the dry, almost powdery contents getting stuck in your throat. Lorgan looked up at you, concerned, wrinkling his brow as you sputtered and coughed.

"Water," you managed to speak, bringing your fist to your chest.

The Gold Cloak jumped from his lower position, running to the pitcher on his bedside table and pouring you a cup. You down the contents quickly, rubbing your throat as the liquid fell from the sides of your lips, unable to swallow all of it.

"Princess? Princess!" Lorgan called, crouching next to you and placing a comforting hand on your upper back. "Breathe. Do not die on me, my Lady, I could not handle the loss of such a beauty within my chambers."

Gods. Now, you were choking, but this time on your vomit at his nauseating words. You sputtered a few more moments as you held down your bile, clearing your throat and wiping at your chin.

"Thank you, Ser Lorgan. I'm unsure what I would've done if you hadn't been here," you blushed, rubbing at the front of your throat in mock pain.

"No need to thank me, my Lady. It is my duty as a member of the City Watch to protect its inhabitants." You graciously smiled, placing your hand on his shoulder as you faced him.

"But please, ser. Had you not acted as swiftly as you did, I would most certainly be meeting the Stranger." Your legs flushed with his, your palm slowly gliding up his neck and onto his cheek. Lorgan stayed crouched below you, a light dusting of pink blooming on his ears as they brushed against his stubble. "You are most worthy of my kisses," you offered timidly, your lashes fluttering as you leaned closer. "If you'll allow me."

The soldier below you grinned rapaciously, his teeth wet and shining in the candlelight. You took his expression as consent, closing the distance with your lips pressed against his. Unable to hold any longer, you ducked away, only for Lorgan to bring his fist to the back of your head, pulling against him again. Your free hand clenched your skirt, your nails nearly piercing through the fabric as you attempted to ground yourself. This is what you wanted. This is what you planned. It was all a means to an end, and it didn't matter how you went about it, but it did not make things more painless.

Ser Lorgan Sunderly was a horrible kisser, his mouth nearly engulfing your own as he moved his tongue against yours. It was nothing like before, and though you would never admit it to him or yourself, you were glad Aegon was your first kiss. You felt no desire churning in your belly with the Watchmen, no heat and insatiable yearning between your legs as you had with the Prince many times before. And so you proceeded into the recesses of your mind, becoming a spectator to your actions as you rose from your seat and to the small cot, Lorgan following your lead.

You placed the burley man onto the straw mattress and straddled his waist, having met no resistance. His hands went to your waist, and you had to refrain from the instinctual reflex to pry them off as he moved your clothed core along his hardening length. You could see yourself above him, your braids still neatly pinned back as Lorgan began to paw at your breasts. You couldn't stop the way you immediately went to move them but quickly disguised your disgust by placing them back on your hips, leaning down to kiss him again.

"I have never done this before," you whispered against his lips, your arm slowly slinking down your curves. "Will you be gentle with me?"

Lorgan's stomach tensed at your words, nodding feverishly as he chased your mouth with his. "Of course, my Lady." He could feel how your hand hiked up your skirt, his soon following along.

"Thank you."

You smiled against his lips, unsheathing your dagger as you plunged it into his chest. You didn't see the blade break through his skin before you stuck it in again, again, and again. The Gold Cloak watched in horror, his eyes wide and mouth agape as he released involuntary grunts, the air leaking from his punctured lungs. Unable to move and protect himself, you quickly removed the knife from his sternum, his blood flinging from the blade and onto his cheek before it found home in his

throat.

Red sprayed onto your face and dress, darkening the fabric further as you yanked it out. Lorgan's hand immediately pressed on the wound, his mouth opening and closing as words fought to break free. You didn't see his face before you, leaking the crimson liquid from his lips as you sliced through the side of his neck, his essence further showering your exposed skin like fresh spring rain.

The flesh easily split for your dagger as you sawed through muscle and tendons, the sound of your labored breathing covering that of slicing meat. You met resistance when you reached his bones, the tiny circular columns attaching his tissue to the rest of his body. Letting out a displeased grunt, you repeated your actions on the other side, snapping his neck from the nerves with your hands.

You stared at the Gold Cloak's lifeless face, his brown hair tangled between your white and crimson knuckled, his once lively green orbs glassy and looking upwards as blood still leaked from his mouth onto the flat pillow. The desire to place his head atop the same battlements Lyra's and Sara's were crossed your mind. A poetic justice, you thought. But that would be too risky, and it was already dangerous enough being within the apartments of the White Sword Tower. Kingsguard lurked around every corner and slept in every bed, and you wouldn't doubt their loyalty to their ruler outweighed any fear a bastard of Daemon Targaryen could inspire.

Surprisingly, guilt did not consume you as you worried it would at your immoral actions. A vindicated sense of triumph welled in its place as you stared at the decapitated corpse of Ser Lorgan Sunderly, smearing the excess blood from your hands onto his tunic.

You knew Lyra and Sara would not be proud of what you did if they were still here, but they weren't. They couldn't feel or think anything; Otto Hightower and the Queen's inaction ensured that. Lorgan's death was on their hands, and if they had not sentenced two innocents to a cruel fate, the Gold Cloaks would still have their brother.

Walking over to the small table, you sat at the same seat as before, pouring water and popping a slice of cheese into your mouth. You needed to use the cloth the food sat on to clean yourself, and there was no chance that you would place the snacks on a dirty, unvarnished table where a man had put god knows what on it. Besides, you needed to wait until the following guard change. Being caught was not an option, so you stayed, ate, made sure not a speck of blood dusted your skin, and cleaned your dagger while the lifeless pile of man soaked his sheets with red.

Masterlist of Series

I hope you guys liked this chapter. We're getting to the parts of the story where you will either love or hate it. I'm very worked up about this chapter and the next, and that's partially why I had a hard time writing for a little bit. You have no idea how worked up I am about whether y'all will like this, so if you do, pretty please let me know. I live for praise. xD

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte, @silverslive, @prettykinkysoul, @duesobabe, @djlexi, @ynbutbetter, @legolas017, @iiamthehybrid, @dd122004dd, @ladybug0095, @millies0bsimp, @kalfild, @sheislonelyalways, @tempt-ress, @minttea07, @trikigirl271, @esposadomd, @prettywhenicry4, @daenerysqueenofhearts, @justarandomflowerchildofthenight, @please-buckme, @pastelorangeskies, @existential-echo, @priyajoyy, @merovingianprincess, @candy12110, @w3ird11, @ruhjkie, @somemydayy, @marikkjj, @zillahvathek, @sunfyresrider, @heavenly1927, @prettylittlelady, @hjgdhghoe, @im-sidney, @aurorathi, @marihoneywk

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alecscudder1987 · 2 years

Text

BILE AND BLUE PANSIES

theend4’s supernatural poetry event

hey everyone!! egan here<33

so…. i recently hit a follower milestone… and i want to say thank you!!! wtf fr!!!! i love all of you so so much. i’m still an internet baby, but i’ve been active in different fandoms since around 2017, and this past year has been one of my favorite fandom experiences ever. i’ve made some really good friends and gotten inspired by so many different artists, writers, and ideas. thanks so much for being on this crazy journey with me.

SO WHAT?

one of my favorite things i got to do this year was share my poetry with you guys! it’s been an absolute joy to receive so many lovely messages from you saying how much you love my work. truly, your feedback means the world!

so, in honor of that, i’d like for you all to share your poetry with me! whether you’ve got 7 published poetry books or you’ve literally never even read any, i’d love for you to try your hand.

OK, WHEN?

September 18—September 24th, 2022

ALRIGHT, NOW HOW DOES THIS WORK?

READ the poems in the prompts, and then think about what you like about them—themes, voices, characters, endings, beginnings, word choice, formatting, etc!—and do some brainstorming!

WRITE one or more poems inspired by the ones listed! when i'm inspired by a certain poet, i like to try out writing in their syntax, their mannerisms, or their subject matter. give it a go! (for example: richard siken breaks up his lines across the page. if you've never tried this, playing around with indentation can be a super fun way to break up your lines!)

POST your poem either as a screenshot, photo, or plain text post to tumblr. (note: please provide a transcription of your poem in the caption if you decide to upload a photo.)

CREDIT the author of the poem you were inspired by in the caption! i won't reblog poems that don't give credit to their inspirations.

TAG your post with #bluepansypoetry and @ me so I can share your lovely creations!

DO YOU HAVE READING RECOMMENDATIONS? PROMPTS EVEN?

i do!!! please find my list of all-time-fave recommendations of supernatural-esque poems that i love below!! each day of the event focuses on one poem as a “prompt” or inspiration, so please read them all to see which ones you like! i tried to include a variety of styles. GOOGLE DOC OF THE POEM PROMPTS HERE!

SCHEDULING NITTY-GRITTY

SEPT 18: “french novel,” ritchie hoffman

SEPT 19: “colosseum,” jericho brown

SEPT 20: “fragment 147,” sappho, translated by anne carson

SEPT 21: “cagnes sur mer 1950,” jorie graham

SEPT 22: “road music,” richard siken

SEPT 23: “telemachus,” ocean vuong

SEPT 24: “object permanence,” madeline cravens

BUT I'VE NEVER WRITTEN POETRY!

i hear you say. yes. i have never tried oil painting, but i would like to! i believe it's important to keep an open mind when practicing new arts—you're never going to be "good" right away of course. besides, my goal isn't to write "good" poetry. (ok, maybe a little.) but i write poetry because i feel like a wildfire when i do. i write poetry because i might die if i don't. art keeps us alive. words feed the soul.

the best advice i’ve gotten about how to write poetry… is to read poetry. read bad poetry. read good poetry! and then sit down for a hot second somewhere and write. write for 8 minutes without stopping. you can write "i don't know what to write" 100 times over if that's all that comes to you. or you can write a play. describe the space around you. talk about what you had for lunch. something will come to you, i promise. and if it doesn't? gently put it away for now. there isn't any rush. you can come back tomorrow.

FINAL WORD

first: no hate speech! second: if you do create nsfw work, please tag it as such. i want everyone to be able to participate in this event safely.

thank you once again for being on this journey with me, whether you arrived today or have been here since before i even got into supernatural, i love you all dearly. good luck, and happy creating!!

also, if you were curious, this event is based on my poem (and song) blue pansies! which you can find here, if you like!

LINK TO THE POEMS AGAIN!!

remember to tag your work with #bluepansypoetry, and happy writing!!!

#bluepansypoetry #egan's creator event #poetry event #supernatural poetry

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rainstormcolors · 5 months

Note

I know I just sent one but also, 3, 17, 37 and 41 for Seto Kaiba? Please and thank you!

Hello again! I don’t mind answering another ask from you at all. You’re sweet. I previously answered 17 and 37 for Seto, and I’ll copy/paste the answers at the bottom after the two new questions.

3. Obscure headcanon

I’m not sure what counts as “obscure.” I feel like writing fanfiction ends up developing our ideas outside of canon. I’ve encountered more than once the idea that Seto’s biological father may also have committed suicide, whether actively or passively, and even I’ve played with that idea in my head before. Readings of young child Seto seem to vary. I personally tend to lean towards a melancholy and more socially cold reading of him. These don’t feel obscure to me as ideas though.

I once included Seto not eating any roasted carrots in a fanfic, and a little detail like that feels more obscure to me.

41. If they could have lunch with anyone in the world (living or dead, from any fictional universe or the real world), who would it be?

Man… this feels like a loaded question for Seto with all the ghosts in his life. I feel like some of them he’d be afraid to see and others he holds so many thoughts and questions for.

“Atem” kind of feels like an answer he gave in part of canon admittedly.

17. Quotes, songs, poems, etc. that I associate with them

The song The Last Day by Moby is a go-to for both Seto Kaiba and Noa Kaiba. The song Dark Star by Moby also feels Seto-ish to me.

For a poem, The Committee Weighs In by Andrea Cohen.

Some quotes:

“Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.” Euripides, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides, tr. Anne Carson

“No greater desire exists than a wounded person’s desire for another wound.” Georges Battaille, Ecstasy, from Guilty, tr. Bruce Boone

“I burn, I freeze; I am never warm. I am rigid; I forgot softness because it did not serve me.” Catherynne M Valente, from Deathless

“I wasted so many years being miserable because I assumed that was the only way to be.” Bojack Horseman, from Bojack Horseman

37. What they really think about themselves

Seto’s mind and heart are cloudy and tangled places in canon. I think he wants to see himself as strong and powerful and capable and that he does not feel lonely and that he does not need friends or warmth or love. He’s very defensive to cling to those ideas about himself. He holds himself to a standard he cannot reach. I think he has very complicated feelings about Gozaburo he can’t examine closely – it was easiest to ignore those feelings after Gozaburo’s death at first and then to realize how much he hated Gozaburo and to focus on that. The complications of these feelings leached out regardless. That Seto is lonely and feels his weakness leaches out regardless. If Seto himself answered this question, I think he’d write down lies he tells himself are true. I also think he does know on some level that something is wrong here and that he needs to change. He is trying to save himself but he's very clumsy at it. He does reach out to others at times but he does so in self-sabotaging ways.

#seto kaiba

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overthinksinbisexual · 1 year

Text

To Stay and Let Go

"I don't know what to do with it,

with all the love I have for her.

I don't know where to put it now."

Why am I still carrying it all?

("where can I put it down?")

My hands are overflowing but they're bleeding, too,

and I've bitten my nails down to the quick

but you'll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands

because I can't seem to make my fingers release- what?

"I'm afraid I will spend entire years trying not to need you."

(I already have)

And you say that you're a cringey poet now

but my thoughts have always been poetry around you

and I feel like i'm trying to scrub it away so that

we might get to somewhere where it didn't actually happen

but I can't unwrite the words that you carved into my heart

with soft touches and goofy laughs.

("I just want to make you laugh.

can't that be the whole poem?

I just want to make you laugh.")

And Jesus you're so beautiful

that it makes my chest hurt sometimes

and I feel like a failure because somehow

I stopped holding on

even though I've forgotten how to let go.

And I'm lying in a bland hotel room

reading Anne Carson and looking out the window

at the rows of rooms on the building next door

and I think I read something once

about cutting open a heart and finding only love instead of blood.

I don't think you're all that I am

and I'm certainly getting better at living without you

but I'm still debating if that's just because

I've successfully scaffolded the gaping hole inside of me

into something that can be ignored for the most part

aside from the continuous thoughts of you that

keep slipping through the gaps.

And you wouldn't even let me blame myself. Of course.

I hate you (no I don't).

I couldn't even bring myself to do that

and I'm getting worse and worse at faking it.

I always thought that it would kill me to lose you.

I am somehow disappointed that it hasn't yet.

And to be honest this doesn't really feel like getting over you

more like circling something over and over again

hoping that it will get blacked out.

My hands keep shaking and

I wish I could stop you affecting me like this

because I keep thinking that if I'd only known you better

if I'd only noticed sooner so you didn't have to tell me

if I'd only never met you so I wouldn't be standing here

heart ripped open like a pair of old jeans

knowing you won't even beg for it.

Knowing that you'd never ask me to stay.

I told you not to, you see

and I was always too good at asking and

you were always too good at doing

but of course none of that

applied to the things that mattered, in the end.

Maybe we never should have been here

but neither of us were ever very good at

controlling ourselves, were we

because it's hard to judge where to cut from this angle,

and now the knife's slipped and i'm spread open

because you always did know me better than anyone else.

I would’ve thought you’d have put a bit more effort

into not hurting me, then.

(Who let the fire start though, honestly?

Maybe we'll never know)

And you know what hurts the most is that

somehow, even after all of it,

it seems that the fact that you lied

still doesn't fix the fact that I love you

and you are so well woven into my life

that I wouldn't even know where to start trying to cut you out.

------

@gaslight-gaetkeep-gayboss thanks for bullying me into this ig

@florida-preposterously words!! (idk if you'll appreciate the tag but i hope so)

@not-perry-the-platypus i don't think you've seen this one yet

#my writing #free verse #poetry #my poetry #free verse poetry #have some free angst people!!

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beatfreesmysoul · 8 months

Text

REPOST & LIST 6 SONGS THAT INSPIRE YOU TO WRITE YOUR MUSE

+ September - Earth, Wind & Fire - | Do you remember the 21st night of September? | Love was changing the mind of pretenders while chasing the clouds away | Our hearts were ringing in the key that our souls were singing | As we danced in the night, remember | How the stars stole the night away |

& 6 QUOTES THAT INSPIRE YOU TO WRITE YOUR MUSE.

+ "Usually life takes more than it gives, but not today. Today it's givin' us something, it's givin' us a chance--to give a shit, for once." - Peter Quill

+ “I’ve found that no matter what life throws at me, music softens the blow.” – Bryce Anderson

+ "I'm not afraid of dying. Pieces of me die all the time." - Sage Francis

+ “Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.” – Maya Angelou

+ "A time to laugh, a time to weep. A time to mourn...and there is a time to dance." - Ren, Footloose.

+ "To never see her face again is what grief is." - Euripides, tr. by Anne Carson

tagged by: @eideticspider tagging: @innerwar @insidemyblood @survivics and anyone else that wants to!

#;memes #;saved #// choosing only six songs out of a 5 hr playlist was hell #// but ty for tagging me Cait!#;read more for length

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ginkovskij · 1 year

Note

☕ translations of your favourite books

Inch resting question, Small R, you know I'm very opinionated about translations I love you!!

Here I have some considerations about two of my favourite books:

Bacchae: I got my first little copy of this tragedy when I was fifteen and I am very fond of it. It's in Italian, has a very nice and poetic translation which is probably my favourite because it manages to keep the greecity of the original text in a way that I prefer to others. I don't know exactly how to put this feeling into words (surely there is an academic way to speak of it), but to me there is nothing more beautiful than to be able to feel the original language even in translation, and for me the best translation for Greek and Latin literature maintain their character in the way of structure and vocabulary. This is by the way the main reason I found the English translations I read so far disappointing. The one I usually refer to (forgot the translator and publisher, wow) is not half bad, but there's this incredibly annoying addition of stage directions!! Aurrgh!! And to name names I don't like Anne Carson's work, which I may be wrong but it's more a rewriting than a translation? Surely it reads like such. Her Bacchae is frustratingly bad: there are cuts everywhere and I cannot say this enough the poetification of the text makes it plain and ugly. Way to wipe away once again the idea of god-induced madness staining a man and being passed by the touch like a disease. Great, truly.

Note to the People: if anyone has a good English or German translation to recommend please do!!

Crime and Punishment: This one I needed to actually read from several translation at a time because this one single Italian translation was at traits not very good. But as the second one I got (super funk edition with drafts and notes written by the Dostoevskij himself!!) was better, it didn't offer the super interesting notes about the original Russian text and the explanation of the many clever word plays and puns, which is sad. Two examples: in the first translation a note indicates that "Dostoevskij uses the recurring adjective dikij, which properly means wild, but in his writing it assumes the meaning of extraordinary, fearsome, delirious, etc." it's a little extra but lets the reader appreciate a peculiar choice of words that would be otherwise lost; in the second translation "batjuška" is actually translated into "dear". Little things that make me a little sad, because once again it missed the uh russian-ity? Whatever. Thank God I'm not mentally well and kept switching in between books.

At this time I also picked an English edition, but it was unfortunately Garnett's and we all know that's not good. Characters in the middle of 19th century St. Petersburg speaking like British dandies? No thanks. Pevear and Vocholonskij's work in translation is far better and in general they are my favourite couple for English editions.

I also have two different translations to German, which I have quickly read without brainwork behind it.

I wanted to add a third book, imagine how much I love it I don't remember which one it was (:

send me ☕️ + [topic] and i’ll tell you my opinion on it

#thank you for asking r!! i am a mess at writing more than seven consecutive words (:#i like the demons more than crime and punishment but i have no opinions of the translation mm i think i actually discussed it with pum and #masha at some point but head empty rn #i'm still doing the ask thing (i'm slow)#abominableastronaut #gin answer

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creepyspice · 2 years

Text

Tag Game

Thanks for the tags @cutestkilla and @ileadacharmedlife! I loved reading ur answers 🖤

relationship status: Im single rn. I already kind of feel like a jaded old hag who’s seen it all and just wants to brush her cats in peace but I know that won’t last (it never does)

favorite color: purple probably, though im also into pink and teal. I wear a lot of orange…like obviously not every outfit is orange but how many people do you actually know that wear orange frequently? I guess in comparison to the general population I wear a lot of orange but it’s not everyday i don’t have a problem or anything 👀

favorite food: this is so hard bc I don’t eat to live I live to eat but my favourite food growing up was prawn biryani with lots of cardamom and saffron rice…it’s so good. But I’m the kind of person that likes to make a whole production out of eating, like just the other day I crushed some pistachios and rolled a scoop of Häagen-Dazs in it which is so extra now that I’m reflecting back

song stuck in your head: werewolf by Fiona Apple 🐺

last thing you googled: where the closest p.f. Chang’s is

time: 1 am

dream trip: vegas or Florence. Vegas bc I love so many movies set there and I’ve kind of always wanted a vegas wedding. Florence probably bc of Hannibal but I love facts about Italian renaissance paintings so it would be nice to see some in real life. Also I heard the food is good

last book you read: if not, winter: fragments of Sappho by Anne Carson and Sappho (of course). It was really good, I’ve been flipping through it again and again ever since

last book I enjoyed reading: Like I said, Sappho was great. My favourite thing I’ve read in a while is probably the locked tomb series bc it makes me feel alive like nothing else does

last book you hated reading: I know a lot of ppl wont agree, and don’t come at me for this but The Song of Achilles…I wouldn’t say hate bc that’s a strong word but I’ve read the Iliad and I really really love it like I really do and my friend convinced me to give tsoa a try bc they swore it was amazing but I just couldn’t enjoy it I kept thinking homer slayed this already why does this book exist…if u feel the need to block me for this I understand

favorite thing to cook/bake: I don’t cook daily but I feel like i can confidently claim I make the best fried eggs out of anyone I know like I just go off so hard every time, they’re crispy from the bottom but the yolk is gooey…I was just born to fry eggs it’s what I’m best at in life none of my other skills compare. I also make very pretty charcuterie boards

favorite craft to do in your free time: Idk what constitutes crafts but I don’t think I do them…I’m more of a handy out of necessity kind of girl. Just give me some sand paper and a bit of multi purpose filler and I will repair the fucking colloseum. Does doing ur own nails count? Bc I do some pretty good press ons and nail art and that’s kind of crafty 🤔

most niche dislikes: i hate shallow spoons!

opinion on circuses: if we’re talking actual circuses w animals and freak shows then those are historically very bad, and have had negative effects on society as a whole so don’t like those. As @cutestkilla mentioned I think cirque du soleil is really cool. Love the Britney Spears song.

do you have a sense of direction and if not what's the worst way you've gotten lost?: I never get lost, but once as a child my dad who is not very good at his job (parenting) took me to Disney land and lost me after about 10 minutes. He didn’t notice I was lost somehow and when I found him an hour later he was smoking and eating a Mickey Mouse shaped chocolate. I have forgiven but I will never forget 😂

I’m tagging and saying hi to @wetheformidables @facewithoutheart and @moodandmist :)🖤

#tag game

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irulanpaul · 1 year

Text

best books read in 2022 by yours truly, in no particular order:

the seven deaths of evelyn hardcastle by stuart turton (technically started in 2021 but finished in early january 2022, so it counts). murder mystery + time loop + redemption themes = perfect mix, 10/10 recommend

this is how you lose the time war by amal el-mohtar & max gladstone: space lesbians but what if they were enemies? lovely, lovely prose. one flaw tho: more of a ~i'm being poetic for the sake of being poetic~ than a character story. still, interesting read.

the plague by albert camus: i couldn't not include him. 5/5 stars, he's easily becoming one of my favorite authors.

hygiène de l'assassin by amélie nothomb: a female journalist succeeds where everyone else fails and interviews an old misanthropic and cynical nobel-winner author. but not everything is as it seems... insane little book, great characterization for the female protagonist. perfect ending. i couldn't put it down, thankfully it's quite short.

carmilla by j. sheridan le fanu: this doesn't need introductions, does it? :)

hedda gabler by henrik ibsen: a play revolving around a woman - daughter of a general, unsatisfied by her current circumstances and marriage. a fascinating female protagonist, especially for the time; the kind of writing you usually get for male characters, and a role every actress would give everything to play at least once.

salomé by oscar wilde: one act only, but it stays with you. particularly incisive adaptation of the biblical story; wilde's writing as usual is stunning.

an oresteia (agamemnon by aeschylus, elektra by sophokles, orestes by euripides) by anne carson: another read that doesn't need introductions.

the hours by michael cunningham: somehow based on mrs dalloway, it is about one day (and the life) of three women in three different time periods; among them, virginia woolf herself. lovely prose.

the cycle of earthsea by ursula k. le guin: series of 5 books (including one of short stories) masterfully written by ms le guin. the first book is a sort of fantasy buldingsroman about a young wizard named ged who, because of his hubris, makes a peculiar sort of enemy... the next books follow ged as he becomes an adult, a middle-aged, and an old man + a varied cast of characters (most importantly tenar, introduced in book 2). original worldbuilding and story (especially for the time - the first novel was published in the 60s), lovely prose and themes (light/dark as yin/yang, necessary to each other's existence - sw wishes it had what earthsea has) + beautiful love story in the last volumes. bonus: most characters in earthsea are very much not white. again, very avant-garde for the 60s, and something all adaptations deliberately ignored.

grendel by john gardner: based on the beowulf poem - the story told by the antagonist's point of view. just striking, and oh my god the themes. couldn't stop thinking about it for days.

in the night garden by catherynne m. valente: a girl trapped in a garden spins a labyrinth of fairy tales for a boy - the only person willing to listen to her - a la scheherazade. told in the usual beautiful prose made in valente, amazing settings and atmospheres.

the sundering duology by jacqueline carey. (thanks for the rec, @queen-zimraphel ❤️) basically a lotr retelling told by the Bad Guys' povs. the inspiration is clear but also it's meant to be a mirror and say 'what if?'. grey morality everywhere, elegant but simple prose + death and the maiden vibes from the local tormented dark lord/the beautiful elf lady. (tho the main love story is not about them specifically... but still.) a great tragedy, but masterfully told - this is how characters who were dead from the beginning and given a role to play in the narrative by a fate larger than them should be written.

honorary mentions to áqua viva by clarice lispector, waiting for godot by samuel beckett, enrico iv by luigi pirandello, and then there were none by agatha christie, sharp objects and gone girl by gillian flynn, in the margins by elena ferrante, ficciones by jorge luis borges, and obviously demons by fyodor dostoeveskij <3

#val speaks #misc books #txt

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grapecaseschoices · 2 years

Note

10 & 13 for oc awards?

10. Best Kiss?

The way this took me quite a few hours to think on. I am a huge shipper -- when it comes to characters that are not my own (IF is a new experience for me because I love romance based games but essentially I am putting my ocs in romance scenarios qweds lmao) . And most of my OCs havent macked in an IF yet/if they have it sorta, just happened. Also, I have the worst memory.

BUT! I recalled a spicy thread that I did (one of my first publically posted qawerd) Henriette - aka Henry x Colette - were childhood friends who got married but divorced, because Colette (emotionally and magically) wasnt at a place to love Henry the way he wanted/needed. But they re-united. And had a bunch of good kisses. But none as great as the time they had s*x on her altar. Yeaaah, that was some good ish. This thread had a LOT of good kisses. Many really soft. But, uh. This is the first time I ever wrote something like that.

A snippet (warning: blood play - ish):

--- START SNIPPET ---

He could only stare at her in gratitude as his eyes drifted closed and he allowed the words to sink into his marrow. He turned his head to kiss her wet palm, a soft brush of affection, before his tongue rubbed at the base of her thumb, eyes open and holding hers. The taste of something duller than wine sunk against his tongue immediately. It was heavier, and the scent of it had only hit him a moment before. There was a hesitance, yet he didn’t pull away, as his fingers cupped Colette’s hand while they tentatively sought out the injury. He had not realized that she had cut herself but once the raised skin was found, he pressed his lips against it, tentative and concerned.

--- END SNIPPET ---

Honorable Mention:

From another spicy thread, lmao. Andy and Ben. Basically, in Autumn Grove a lot of the characters were getting in touch (or back in touch) with the magic in the world (tl;dr explanation). And one of the characters, basically put out a good vibes. It came out to a delightful thread. They were just soft kisses, smiling into the kisses. And it just something they wouldn't let themselves have naturally -- at the time. (Andy still wont wertfd lmao).

Snippet:

Surprisingly, Andy allowed himself to be led. Unsurprisingly, Andy let himself be kissed. Surprisingly, Andy was also still smiling, still laughing as Ben kissed him -- a puff of breath glancing Ben’s lips. Surprisingly, unsurprisingly, he kept his lips gentle as he pressed back in return, his hands cupped the other man’s elbow as he drew him closer, as he savored him.

And so it went, surprisingly, unsurprisingly, surprisingly, each movement calculated to elicit a response, each touch causing Andy’s fingers to buzz pleasantly.

13. Best playlist

Andy again. It goes from very life development with a touch of aesthetic to very aestheticy but still representive of his life to a mix of both but mostly vibes. The title comes from the Anne Carson translation: “Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.”

Honorable mention:

I think I have one or two that are better done (though not complete), but I wanted to showcase another OC aside for Kendis (plus this one hurts me a lot): Mason and Alvaro’s ship playlist qwsdefrd lmao. Just me exposing myself for loving layered opposite ships (especially if it’s grumpy/quiet & sunshine/hyper). About two boys with major self-esteem issues who handle them, and life, differently but find a home in each other. I CRY ALWAYS ABOUT THEM.

Here.

Thanks for the ask, my dude :-D!

#jakubdumortain #oc: andy yasar #oc: henry parish #henry x colette #grapecase answers #twenty years later me realizingi meant to say fingerTIPS not fingers but wte #it is #done lmao #almost didnt put a snippet but they're good threads #oh man henriette is so much #gonna go cry in their tag #they're at first glance grumpy (she) x sunshine (he) but there's so much there i could cry for a thousand years #tried to seclude the snippet bc it really is very minor blood stuff but i know it isnt everyone's cup of tea #oc: mason harris #fun fact for those following at home #mason was/is og irvin --- a lot of him influences my kotsam mc tho they ended up different in big ways (... tho apparently not in falling in #love with famous drama queens)#this turned much lengthier than i wanted but you unwittingly (to us both) triggered the FEELStm #mason x alvaro

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noxtms · 10 months

Text

dear rachel ; we are pleased to inform you that your application for ASTORIA GREENGRASS has been accepted to 𝐧𝐨𝐱 ! go min si is now taken. you have twenty four hours to submit your account, or else your role will be reopened !

⧼ go min si, cis woman, she & her / dead girl in the pool by girl in red + once upon a time, 호랑이 담배 피우던 시절에, latha bha seo, a gallant king and beautiful queen long thought to be barren finally welcomed three bonny daughters and their kingdom rejoiced with the ringing of the bells. the king held a christening feast unlike any seen before and invited the three fairies in the land to join in the celebrations, secretly hoping that they would bestow the most magical gifts upon his children. a great storm rolled in on the eve that the owls were sent to deliver the invitations and one was blown off course ; it was a harmless mistake. the youngest fairy stepped forward as the eldest child was presented to court and bowed low. "this princess," she proclaimed, "will be wealthy in wisdom." the king and queen, of course, thanked her greatly. the middle fairy stepped forward as the middle child was presented to court and bowed lower. "this princess," she said, "will have the courage to change." the king and queen, of course, thanked her profusely. only when the youngest child was presented and the eldest fairy was nowhere to be seen did the king and queen realise the blunder, with the dawning horror that there would be no more gifts to give. "this princess," the eldest fairy might've announced, "will be the fairest of them all." i say might because, of course, the eldest fairy found herself busy elsewhere on that particular day. this is the part of the story where everything goes wrong. fairytales always have rules ; if one princess is clever and the other is brave, the last will almost always be doomed. sorry - beautiful. but also doomed. / INTERLUDE #1 : anne carson wrote, "a golden flower of a girl; a precarious girl." / spoiler alert : that girl is going to die. at least that's what they're saying on the internet. have you ever heard of a little trope called 'fridging'? don't let yourself get too attached to the most unfortunate princess, now, because there's a world of ways in which the narrator can and will take her from you ; a wicked witch burst in to place a rotten curse on her, her mother's love smothered her in her sleep, the goddess of love was in a particularly bad mood that day, a man needed some character development and no one could think of anything better than a slow, painful end for the unlucky lady. god forbid she looks pretty in pictures - extra, extra, read all about it! 'BEAUTY SLAIN!' / INTERLUDE #2 : ALWAYS AN ANGEL, NEVER A GOD, ALWAYS AN ANGEL, NEVER A GOD, ALWAYS AN ANGEL, NEVER A GOD, ALWAYS AN ANGEL, NEVER A GOD- / even her name tells her what you need to know. derived from the german surname 'astor' or perhaps the name of the titan goddess 'asteria' in greek mythology. from the latin astur, meaning a species of hawk ( a hawk is a predator with good eyesight and a short, hooked beak ; a predator is a creature that hunts, kills and eats other animals, known as prey ; this, to a hawk, would be small birds and rodents easily clasped in the death trap of sharp talons ; this, on second thought, is rather unpleasant to think about, but you can already sort of see the irony ) or the ancient greek aster, meaning star ( a star is an astronomical object comprising a luminous spheroid of plasma born from the gravitational collapse of a gaseous nebula - that's a mouthful, isn't it? try again ; a star is a luminous ball of gas, mostly hydrogen and helium, held together by its own gravity. the sun is the closest star to earth ; the sun is the star at the centre of our solar system ; our solar system is a gravitationally bound system of objects, meaning the planets, circling the sun ; someone told me once that by the time the light of a star reaches us here on earth it's already dead & if the sun ever happened to change its mind about shining and collapse in upon itself then we'd all die, too ; bottom line, they're all beautiful, but doomed. ring a bell? ) / INTERLUDE #3 : in the words of friedrich nietzche, "you have always approached everything terrible trustfully. you have wanted to pet every monster." / the princess wants a better story. who can blame her, right? it begun so promisingly. what if the bells at the start of the story woke a sleeping witch? the storm still rolled in and the owl still got blown off course and the eldest fairy still decided she had something better to do with her time but on the day of the grand christening feast, this witch got curious and wandered into the midst of the celebrations in time to see the king and queen exchange terrified looks. she's a bit rusty, but surely something, maybe even anything, is better than nothing. "this princess," she says, and all eyes turn to look at her, "will have the strength to persevere." still doomed, then, but given a fighting chance. maybe that's the best they could hope for. / FINALE : in a dream you saw a way to survive and you were full of joy. ⧽ ━━ hey, isn’t that ASTORIA GREENGRASS? i read a daily prophet article on them, once ; the TWENTY FIVE year old pure blood WITCH is a HUFFLEPUFF alumnus who has gone on to be an OWL POSTAL WORKER. i’ve heard they can be quite WHIMSICAL & EBULLIENT, but i don’t know… they came off very SCATTERBRAINED & HEDONISTIC in that interview. it really is hard to know what to believe these days though, isn’t it? [ rachel, twenty four, gmt, she / they ]

#accepted.#hp rp #harry potter rp #appless rp #fandom rp #canon rp #oc rp #mumu rp #established rp

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camgoloud · 1 year

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5, 9, & 24 for the book ask :)

(side note inside problems is soooooo good omg your writing is incredible)

ahhhh thank you! that's seriously so nice i'm really happy you liked it <333

5. What genre did you read the most of?

Pretty easily sci-fi/fantasy for this one, I think! (I will forever at the core of me be a genre nerd 😊)

9. Did you get into any new genres?

Probably can't call it "new" exactly, but I read more plays within a few-months window this year than I ever have since the Shakespeare class I took once... and had a lot of fun doing it! For next year it's really a goal of mine to 1. Sit down and finally read some of the major Greek tragedies—I got ahold of a copy of Anne Carson's Oresteia (of "It's rotten work / Not to me. Not if it's you" fame!) recently and I am SERIOUSLY excited to give that a go... and 2. catch up on my Shakespeare comedies/romances, because I genuinely think the only one I've ever read is Midsummer?? and this just seems Not Correct????

24. Did you DNF anything? Why?

I rarely make the conscious decision to DNF something unless it, like, actively offends me or something—and too often not even then—but there are definitely a couple things that I tried to start, made it a couple of chapters into, and then ran out of steam on before they had to go back to the library or some such... Children of Dune comes to mind (I swear I'm coming back for it soon!) and so does The Steerswoman. Also: I am embarrassed to admit that I did NOT keep up with my Dracula Daily past the first couple of weeks and found myself lacking motivation to catch up later on... so that's another thing on my agenda to try again next year!

[end-of-year book ask: send me a number!]

#thanks again for the compliment it was very kind!!! <3 #ask game

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soracities · 2 years

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hi, can u share some of ur fave one liners from books? something that struck u most, something that has stayed with u even after a long time of first reading it. thank u :)

“A loveless world is a dead world.” (Albert Camus, The Plague)

"Once again they broke the Love Laws. That lay down who should be loved. And how. And how much." (Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things)

“Love is not consolation. It is light.” (Simone Weil, Gravity & Grace)

“Mother, heart of my heart, truly each of us is guilty before everyone and for everyone, only people do not know it.” (Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov)

“But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human.” (Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughter House 5)

"His wedding gift, clasped round my throat. A choker of rubies, two inches wide, like an extraordinarily precious slit throat.” (Angela Carter, The Bloody Chamber)

"(we are not single, we are one)" (Virginia Woolf, The Waves)

“You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose.” (Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince)

“Herakles’ gaze on him was like a gold tongue. Magma rising.” (Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red)

“She needs me. She needs me more than I need untainted hands.” (Oyinkan Braithwaite, My Sister, the Serial Killer)

“His face, which carried the entire tale of his years, was of the brown tint of Dublin streets.” (James Joyce, Dubliners)

"What good is a writer if he can’t destroy literature?” (Julio Cortázar, Hopscotch)

“At the trial of God, we will ask: why did you allow all this? And the answer will be an echo: why did you allow all this?” (Ilya Kaminsky, Deaf Republic)

“It’s not that we have hope; we shelter it.” (John Berger, From A to X)

#this is v late so im v sorry for that!#ask #answersthatnevercame #quote compilation #book talks #kind of

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derangedrhythms · 3 years

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do you perhaps have a few quotes / lines of love that symbolizes one being the wolf and one being the lamb? ( or really any other type of predator to prey relation? )

Sylvia Plath, 'Pursuit'

"The panther wakes and stalks again, and every sound in the house is his tread on the stair…"

— Sylvia Plath, from ‘The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath’

“It’s not difficult for the ewe to love the lamb. But for the wolf? The wolf’s love for the lamb is such a renunciation, it’s a Christ-like love, it’s the wolf’s sacrifice—it’s a love that could never be requited. This wolf that sacrifices its very definition for the lamb, this wolf that doesn’t eat the lamb, is it a wolf? Is it still a wolf?”

"There is no greater love than the love the wolf feels for the lamb-it-doesn’t-eat."

"But happiness is when a real wolf suddenly refrains from eating us. The lamb’s burst of laughter comes when it’s about to be devoured, and then, at the last second, is not eaten."

"But sometimes it’s the wolf that falls into the jaws of the lamb. The wolf, out of love, falls backwards into the circle of fire. It goes around so fast, it just so happens that the lamb catches the wolf, the double."

"The lamb loves its wolf. The wolf turns all white and starts quivering out of love of the lamb. The lamb loves the wolf’s fragility, and the wolf loves the frail one’s force. The wolf is now the lamb’s lamb and the lamb has tamed the wolf. Love blackens the lamb."

— Hélène Cixous, Stigmata: Escaping Texts; from ‘Love of the Wolf’, tr. Keith Cohen

"...the Wolf which—just this once won’t hurt—spared its lamb, carried it off in the deep forest to love it…"

— Marina Tsvetaeva, 'Mon Pouchkine', tr. Markowicz & Hiver, quoted in 'Stigmata: Escaping Texts; Love of the Wolf’ by Hélène Cixous, tr. Keith Cohen

"Suivez-moi. Je vous attendais. Vous serez ma proie."

— Angela Carter, The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories; from ‘The Lady of the House of Love’

"A hunter is someone who listens. / So hard to his prey it pulls the weapon. / Out of his hand and impales. / Itself."

— Anne Carson, Plainwater; from 'Town of the Sound of a Twig Breaking'

"Are you the target; am I the bow and dart? / Are you the deer that doesn’t want to flee / and turns to give the hunter her wild heart?"

— Gregory Orr, The Caged Owl: New and Selected Poems; from ‘Wild Heart’

"The beloved is a lion. / We’re the lame deer in his paws."

— Rumi, Rumi: The Book of Love: Poems of Ecstasy and Longing; from ‘Fringe’, tr. Coleman Barks

"Here the horn-scarred hunter and the tall stag / Have exchanged places. Each is dancing / Inside the other."

— Ted Hughes, Rain-Charm for the Duchy; from 'A Birthday Masque'

"I owe so much / to those I don’t love. / The relief as I agree / that someone else needs them more. / The happiness that I’m not the wolf to their sheep."

— Wisława Szymborska, Poems: New and Collected; Thank-You Note, tr. Stanisław Barańczak & Clare Cavanagh

"He takes hold of me like prey."

— Anaïs Nin, from 'Henry and June'

"I keep trying to find / the words for what happened: / Was it love / Who was the hunter? Who the prey? / The roles reverse."

— Marina Tsvetaeva, from Bride of Ice; from 'Girlfriend', tr. Elaine Feinstein

"…my lovers divided into exciting predators and insipid prey."

— Jeanette Winterson, from ‘Gut Symmetries’

#compilations

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vivaciouslady · 3 years

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thank you to my dear @marilyn-monroes-jeans for tagging me in this ❤️

MUSIC

• favorite genre: this is so difficult because i listen a a lot of different things but probably 1930s-1950s standards, golden age musicals, or just whatever taylor swift is currently doing

• favorite artist(s): julie andrews, john denver, taylor swift, ginger rogers, soccer mommy, one direction (i yearn for the good old days), tchaikovsky, debussy

• favorite song: once again i have a TON but my favorite songs of all time is probably Farewell Andromeda by John Denver (the live version from An Evening With John Denver) and You’ll Be Reminded of Me (from Vivacious Lady) by Ginger Rogers

• most listened to song recently: either August by Taylor Swift or Old Cape Cod by Patti Page (both have the best end of summer in new england energy)

• song stuck in your head currently: the theme from Come September (1961)

• five favorite lyrics (not in any particular order):

- “Welcome to my evening, the closing of the day. You know I can try a million times never find a better way to tell you that I love you and all the songs I play are to thank you for allowing me inside your lovely day” Farewell Andromeda by John Denver

- “my house of stone, your ivy grows, and now i’m covered in you” Ivy by Taylor Swift

- “and when your heart is broken in two you’ll be reminded of me and i’ll be laughing… you’ll be reminded of me” You’ll Be Reminded of Me by Ginger Rogers

- “It's a bite of the apple, the touch of your lips. I'm stuck in the bathroom and sick over it” Scorpio Rising by Soccer Mommy

- “Birds love and bees love and whispering trees love, and that's what we both should do” He Loves and She Loves from Funny Face (1957), the original and the Julie Andrews Cover

BOOKS

• favorite genre: classics and fantasy

• favorite book: Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen or Ella Enchanted by Gail Carson Levine

• favorite author: Jane Austen

• favorite book series: Nancy Drew (but if you want an answer that’s more of an actual contained series i’d have to say Throne of Glass by Sara J. Maas)

• comfort book: The Complete Brambly Hedge by Jill Barklem

• the perfect book to read on a rainy day: We We’re Liars by E. Lockhart, Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen, or Ella Enchanted by Gail Carson Levine

• favorite book characters: Anne Shirley, Elizabeth Bennet, Fitzwilliam Darcy, and Nancy Drew

• five quotes from your favorite book(s) that you know by heart:

- “That fool of a fairy Lucinda did not intend to lay a curse on me. She meant to bestow a gift. When I cried inconsolably through my first hour of life, my tears were her inspiration. Shaking her head sympathetically at Mother, the fairy touched my nose. ‘My gift is obedience. Ella will always be obedient. Now stop crying, child.’ I stopped.” Ella Enchanted

- “In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” Pride and Prejudice

- “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.” Pride and Prejudice

- “He loved me. He'd loved me as long as he he'd known me! I hadn't loved him as long perhaps, but now I loved him equally well, or better. I loved his laugh, his handwriting, his steady gaze, his honorableness, his freckles, his appreciation of my jokes, his hands, his determination that I should know the worst of him. And, most of all, shameful though it might be, I loved his love for me.” Ella Enchanted

- “There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense.” Pride and Prejudice

TV & MOVIES

• favorite genre: for films it has to be rom-coms or just anything old hollywood in general (i know that’s not a genre) and for TV i like dramas and comedies

• favorite movie(s): Vivacious Lady (1938), The Sound of Music (1964), Stage Door (1937), and The Dream Lady (1918)

• comfort movie(s): (I have so many i’m sorry this isn’t even all of them) Angus, Thongs, and Perfect Snogging (2008), Ever After (1998), BBC’s Pride and Prejudice (1995, yes I know this is a miniseries), Funny Face (1957), Summer Magic (1963), The Parent Trap (1961), The Philadelphia Story (1940), Curly Top (1935), The Princess Diaries 2: Royal Engagement (2004), Come September (1961), Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House (1948), Cinderella (1997), Sense and Sensibility (1995), The Last Jedi (2017), and all my favs

• movies you watch every year: White Christmas (1954), Auntie Mame (1958), Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (1954), Legally Blonde (2001), and literally all of my comfort movies (if i’m being honest all of these are comfort movies as well i’m a mess)

• favorite tv shows: Derry Girls, Downton Abbey, New Girl, The Julie Andrews Hour, Gilmore Girls, Gossip Girl (original), The X-Files, Criminal Minds, Sex Education, M*A*S*H, and The Haunting of Bly Manor

• most rewatched tv show: I think Derry Girls and Gossip Girl are probably tied for this one

• ultimate otp: oh my god obviously jamie and dani 🥺 (but also mary/matthew and mulder/scully my loves) EDIT: HOW DID I FORGET JEAN MAITLAND AND TERRY RANDALL OH MY GOD I WAS ONLY THINKING ABOUR TV BUT THEY ARE MY OTP

• five favorite characters:

from tv shows - Mary Crawley, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, James Maguire, Orla McCool

from movies - Francey Brent/Morgan, Danielle De Barbarac, Maria von Trapp, Mame Dennis, Mia Thermopolis

bonus: Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy from the 1995 adaptation because it’s technically not a movie or tv show it’s a miniseries

oh wow okay that was so long!! i’m (no pressure) tagging: @retrodame @johnsonshildy @norashelley @chantalstacys @glamourofyesteryear @lickingyellowpaint <3 (sorry if you have already done this tag)

#i’d prefer long seasons if they didn’t have so much filler #rewatching/watching once depends on how much i liked the film/series lol #this was so fun #tag game #tagged

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