#One is more compelling to me than the other one
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༊*·˚ HE MADE A SLAVE OF ME | daemon targaryen x targtower!reader, minor aegon ii targaryen x twin wife!reader
summary: confined to the sullen walls of the red keep, there isn’t far you’re afforded to wander. entertained only by the people you silently watch, you find excitement in the visit of your older sister and uncle. though the latter is far more appealing to spend the night with, and more willing.
warnings: nsfw, minors dni, targaryen incest (uncle x niece), porn with plot, p in v, rough sex, slapping, degradation, masochism, blood play?, praise kink, breath play/choking, breeding kink, a lil’ stomach bulge, cheating on both halves, swearing, possibly inaccurate high valyian (i tried?), weird pure bloodline shit, fiending for that valyrian d, hightowerphobic daemon, bastardphobic reader, they’re haters, first time writing full fic of smut how'd i do?
word count: 3.5k
a/n: daemon is so ugly but he’s so hot it’s so bad, i literally felt compelled to write this is and i did?? 😭 there’s no reason for matt smith to have made him that sexy. (this was my inspo for this entire fic, bless tiktok editors 🙏🏼🙏🏼)
As a daughter of Alicent Hightower and Viserys Targaryen, you'd found that most people bent to your will regarding requests. The lords would bend over twice fold if it meant a chance at earning your hand, and the girls at court dared not step a foot before you in the case you'd remove them from your entourage of highborn ladies.
With eyes so doe-like and lips like honey, one would mistake you for just that, a doe, not the dragon draped beneath green silk that shifted like flames in a hearth.
That's how you'd created yourself. How you'd curated each step and each titter of laughter, every slow blink at every lord and all those tight lipped smiles at ladies of court who came too close to your family.
People at court had said that you were the best half of your twin brother, that he had taken all the bad traits so you could shine as the darling of the realm. Poor, sweet Aegon. Ever the scapegoat and always the perpetrator.
So as you sit across from your uncle, Daemon Targaryen, you find yourself rather... without.
He sits beside your half-sister. A beautiful glow on her skin as she laughs along with something your father had said. She's stunning, Valyrian in every sense of the word. With her pale hair and aquiline nose, you can see why she was adored.
Other than the Realm's utter Delight, dinner is less than… familial.
Everyone can clearly see the divide between both sides of House Targaryen. The Hightowers sat to the right of the King, the mix of Targaryen and brown-haired Velaryon to his left. You find no warmth in this arrangement, other than false pretenses of civility and feigned love for each other, the entire affair is only for show of the poor old King.
Though there is an affair that consumes your thoughts, a tryst that would no doubt end messily. So you opt to speak with your family, with a spare glance thrown his way just to divulge yourself after all these years of self-control.
-
Daemon understands the weight of your gaze on him. Even from across the table he can feel the way your eyes trace his features, the way you're devouring him without lifting your fork or grinding your teeth or even touching him. Your supposed indifference to the sides that the house of the dragons has taken makes his fingers twitch around his goblet. You're speaking with Baela and Rhaena as if you've sat beside them in court for years, doting on their new dresses and telling them snippets of what they've missed at the Red Keep.
Jacaerys' gaze is flittering over to your figure every couple of seconds, eyes dipping to your dangerously low neckline of your green dress, every time you laugh and your chest heaves he looks away like a wide-eyed virgin. Red at the ears as he scolds Lucerys for holding a fork wrong, Daemon guesses, with the way the older boy points to another utensil.
And your family, gods.
Your twin brother, Aegon, is attempting to drink away his sorrows but you're always quick to scoop the cup out of his grasp and palm it off to a servant. The fool simply allows you, resigning to watch everyone speak as you have him by the balls practically. And to still have him fawning over you, his pretty little twin-wife, is absurdity.
Aemond is glaring daggers at Rhaenyra's boys and Helaena is off in an entire world of her own.
When he looks back to you and finds those lilac-coloured iris' already poised on him, his jaw clenches and he takes another pass at his Dornish wine. The way your hair falls in pure white curls around your face and frames the heavy gorget necklace that adorns your neck, inlaid with moonstone and rubies that look eerily similar to the ones from the Conquerors crown. Spoiled Hightower brat.
Daemon is far from naïve. He's been apart of how many wars?
He's a seasoned veteran to these types of women, to their greedy plans and treacherous thoughts.
Though... that colouring that she has, so clearly a staple of House Targaryen, he's not so convinced that he's entirely immune. He's sure that his nephew is beyond stupid to not have made you a mother sooner. With tits like that and eyes so sweet? He'd have you swollen with babe two moons after your last birth.
He watches the way you lick a droplet of wine from the corner of your mouth, watches the way your eyes flicker from Jacaerys to him, and he can see it then. Something so wanton in your gaze.
Perhaps paying a visit to his dear, sweet niece tonight would not be such a bad thought.
You arch up into the touch —his touch— as shivers run along the length of your spine. His hand smooths over the swell of your breast in response, easing your ache as you squirm for more. It travels over the fat of it until his fingers pinch roughly at your nipple. A stuttering breath punches its way from your throat as he stares down at your face.
“So eager, aren’t we?” He admires the way your lips part, the way your eyes dance back into focus and meet his heated gaze. The way you seek out the eye contact. Want to know he’s watching the show you’re putting on.
Just as you’re forming the vowels on the tip of your tongue, he’s grabbing a fistful of your thigh and pushing his hips impossibly closer to yours. It makes you shudder, makes you want all the more. But there is no give to his press, he’s seated far too deeply inside you to move any further in. He’s pulling his hips back just the smallest fraction before he starts inching back in, heavy and hot and oh-so deep it burns.
Your tongue swipes over your lips, your hand moving to clutch onto the arm that props him up above you. The thickly corded muscle makes holding onto him all the easier, makes your cunt flutter and your chest heave and your eyes water. He’s so large, far different from your husband, this pure-blooded Valyrian —this man— he’s encompassing your body and stuffing you all at the same time, filling, holding and folding you how he wants.
You move to weave your fingers into the loose strands of his hair but the hand that was cradling your thigh is quick to grasp your wrist, tugging the appendage away as he begins dragging his hips back. “Where did all your words go, dōna riña?” (sweet girl)
You swallow thickly, fingers balling up as he oh-so slowly pulls out til’ just the tip rests in you. It’s agonising, having been so full not even moments ago, you feel empty. It’s involuntary, the way your hips lift towards him, cunt greedily taking him as you stifle the way your breath hitches. His thighs tense up as he groans, fingers tightening around your wrist as his hips rock forwards just the tiniest bit.
“Daemon, please.” It’s breathy, spoken from someplace in your chest that you feel with every inch of your body. “I want you.”
Your eyes only just catch the tic in his jaw as he drops your wrist, immediately grabbing a fistful of your tit and pushing back into you. Hips meeting flush as he glares down at you. The grip he’s got on your fit fucking hurts, but you’d be damned if it doesn’t set all your nerves on fire.
“Ilībio,” He all but snarls. (whore)
You don’t even register the next thrust before he’s pulling out again. He leans forward, large hand coming to press down onto your throat. His fingers curl around your neck —encompassing it entirely as he presses down onto you— using you for leverage as he fucks into you.
You moan, mouth falling open as he uses your body and paws at your tit messily. You can feel the flesh spill from between his fingers, feel the sensitive peak rubbing against his rough palm.
It’s driving you insane.
The hand leaves your tit, moving to the next and grabbing on just as roughly. He hits a particularly forceful thrust that has you jolting up the bed, back arching up as you whine. Your legs curl around his hips, thighs bouncing with each stroke, making a distinct slapping as he fucks you into the plush sheets of your bed. You roll your pelvis to the rhythm he sets, it’s practised, timed and purely filth.
“You belong in the,” He pauses as he sneers down at you, watching his cock sink deep into your tight little cunt. “Street of Silk.”
You can only sigh out a breath as his hand clamps down on your throat, your air coming in short bursts only when he pulls out to thrust back in.
“Your husband mustn’t have fucked you well enough.” He thrusts violently on husband, heavy cock bullying its way back into you as your cunt clenches.
His words are driving you closer to the edge, making you feel all the slicker as he fucks you, uses you like he’s your husband. Like you belong to him. Like you’re the sister he married in the ways of Old Valyria —in the ways of your house— in blood and fire.
The thick drag of his dick brings you back from your cock drunk haze, his words ringing in your brain as he watches your lashes flutter.
“Tight like a Lyseni virgin,” He buries himself into you until oxygen evades you entirely, all his weight resting on your throat as he leans in, licking a stripe up your throat and biting at your pulse point. “Wet like a pillow house whore.”
You writhe beneath him, fingers curling into the thickly corded forearm that presses you down into the bed, he teasingly slows to a stop only to rocks forwards. Watching your eyes turn hazy as your hips twitch up onto him. Jerkily grinding onto him as you struggle to take a breath.
“Struggling to breathe and you still want me to fill you, tala.” He smiles down at you, lifting a hand from your throat to caress the bone of your cheek. “So desperate for it.”
Oh, how badly you want to spit an insult at him. How badly you want to punch him and pull on his hair and suck marks into the muscled line of his shoulder.
He lifts the heel of his palm slightly, just when the edge of your vision was beginning to cloud. A quick respite of air before he’s pressing a bruising kiss to your pouty lips. Teeth digging into your bottom lip as he fully cups the side of your face. Tongue pressing into your mouth intrusively as he overwhelms you. Full of cock, his tongue, and being pinned to the bed by the entire weight of him.
The red hot coil in your stomach is cooling quickly, fading away into nothing as he devours you in the most deliciously possessive kiss you’ve ever had. His thumb presses roughly into the bone of your cheek as he thrusts gently into you. There’s a bloom of pain in your lip as he begins pulling away, teeth biting your bottom lip as he lifts himself back up. Blood smears your pearly white teeth, and you can taste it on your tongue.
Your chest heaves as you grab a fistful of his hair, pulling his face back down so you can kiss him roughly. You practically consume him with this kiss, wanting and needy as you fight to gain control. He pants out a chuckle, thumb pulling on your chin as he licks over the cut and your teeth. Your fingers tangle in his white strands and you give a sharp tug, the rasp that escapes him sends a needy throb through your cunt. But you take his unfocus as a chance to lick into his mouth, cunt throbbing as his lower half folds you over, sinking into you so deeply it makes your hips twitch and writhe in pain.
You fight against the pain, neck aching as you crane up against his weight, biting his lip harshly until you feel the break of his skin between your teeth. Blood mixing in your mouths as he pants into your mouth, thumb hooking into the corner of your mouth as he looks down at you with something akin to satisfaction.
“Smile, tala.” (niece)
You breath in shallowly, greedily taking in air that you neglected yourself of.
“Uh-uh,” He squeezes your cheeks together, until your lips pout and he presses down onto your jaw hard. “Smile.”
And you do, lips pulling up as best they can with his fingers holding your jaws apart. He lets his fingers loosen so he can watch your teeth peak out from beneath your abused and bloody lips. You can guess that you both look the same, blood staining your teeth a burning carmine. The colour of House Targaryen.
“Good girl.” His voice is condescending as he pats your cheek roughly, pushing himself back up, and sitting back on his knees as he stares down at you through wispy strands of platinum hair. Dick sitting heavy inside you, fill to the point of it being a bit hard to breathe. Your sheets reeks of sweat and sex, and the iron tang of blood sits in the air and on your tongues.
His hands smooth over your thighs, thumb running along a pink scar nestled closely to your knee.
You prop yourself up on your elbows, tits on full display while you look up at him through those pretty lashes, admiring the scars that mar the pale skin of his torso and the blood the runs a rivulet down his chin. “What are yo-“
He unwraps your legs from his waist, grabbing at the back of your thighs and pushing them towards you. You whine at the sudden movement, the blunt tip of him nudging against what the deepest parts of you. Pressing you in half with ease until he can hold your legs against his chest with one arm. The other coming to rest against the soft spot of your stomach as he hovers over you.
“Fucking an heir into you,” He presses a quick kiss to your calf before he’s snapping his hip forward and pressing down on your stomach. And that’s when you feel him. You let out a breathy moan as he fucks you, with your back arched toward him as you let him take you.
Like a virgin during her bedding ceremony.
His fingers leave pale prints in your skin as he grips onto the meat of your thighs so tightly. His thighs slapping against the backs of your legs while he fucks his length into you. With his arm wound tightly around your knees, there’s no way you can move or adjust or even move with him, you’re practically in his lap as he uses your hipbone for leverage.
Choked-out pants and whiny breaths are the only noise you can make as the hand that was holding your legs together drifts to your soaked pussy. Thumb slipping through until he bumps into your clit —he can tell by the way your tits heave and your cunt clenches impossibly tighter— and he can’t help but snicker as he presses down onto the poor thing. Hands used for more than just sword fighting, skilled in pleasing wives long gone that were no doubtingly three times older than you, are so deliciously textured.
“Hightower votrītsos nȳmagon wal morghūljagon.” Your maternal house is spat with hatred, he punctuates it with thrusts that grow more violent as he claims you. (hightower cunt calls men to die.)
“Iksā kempa isse nyke, issi ao daor, kepa?” You heave the sentence, attempting to speak without falter as he continues his selfish pleasure seeking manhandling. (you are heavy in me, are you not uncle?)
He grunts, nose scrunching up for a moment as a strand of hair dangles between his eyes. Silver locks messy. His thumb flicks over your clit again —a full-bodies shudder follows— so he can stare intently at your bouncing tits without the chatter.
“Aōha Valyrio Eglie jorrāelagon mirre.” (your High Valyrian needs work)
You admire the way his hair falls to his shoulders, undone from its hairstyle tonight at dinner, the slope of his shoulders to the plains of his front. A battlefield of cut muscle and scars that create ridges and valleys. Your eyes dart up as his nails cut into the skin of your calf, his lip curls up as his eyes finally drift from the harsh jerk of your pliable body beneath him, to your lilac eyes.
His eyes are dark, ringed by what little purple you can see in the darkness of your lonely chambers. The way he looks down at you, the look of curiosity, of lust, of hatred, it burns in your throat and makes your thighs quiver as he just stares.
You could nearly compare it to the way Aegon admires his cups, the way he drinks in every hitch of your breath, the way he huffs your scent, the stutter in his hips at every flutter of your cunt around him.
(Akin to Aegon’s lust for Dornish import wine, he drinks you in and savours the way your body begs for the extra inch.)
Your fingers tangle up in the silken sheets of your bed as you stutter, stomach quivering as he keeps his hips in motion, brining you oh-so close to your peak. Though it’s barely enough, used to the drunken fumble of your twin, you need a rougher edge, a little more pain. He’d just need a push.
“Iksā iā buzdari naejot kasta orvorta. Hae se dārys.” (you are a slave to green cunt. like the king)
He hums, brows pinching together as his thrusts grow sloppy and unpractised, like the green boy your husband had been on your wedding day.
“Kostilus ziry ūndan mirros hae bisa,” He circles your clit roughly, pad of his thumb rubbing deliciously against your slick cunt. “gōvilagon aōha muña grēza.” (perhaps he saw something like this, beneath your mothers dress.)
You let out a strangled moan, hips rocking up to meet his every thrust. The coil in your stomach is tightening and heating and making your thighs twitch and tense, and he doesn’t seem to take the movement kindly. The rhythm stutters when he forces one of your legs to his side as he surges forward to capture your mouth in a crushing kiss. Your other leg is caught over his shoulder as he moves in and it stretches muscles you hadn’t know existed in your legs as he bullies his way deeper and deeper, like he owns you, like your his to ruin.
“I would have loved taking your maidenhead.” He breaths the word into your mouth as the cuts on your lips open anew, smearing blood across your mouths, cheeks and noses. The kiss he pulls you into next is careless and messy, all knocking teeth and hot breathes.
“I- I’m,” He cuts you off by wrapping his hand back around your throat, pinning you down as his nose buries itself in the hair on the side of your head.
A blinding heat curls in your stomach and your cunt flutters around the abusive cock he fucks you with. The one leg that wasn’t pinned between you both is quick to pull his hips flush to you as you moan wantonly, though it’s smothered by his hand. Chest heaving and pale baby hairs sticking to your forehead as your lashes flutter closed. Taking the last few cants of Daemon’s hips as he finishes inside you, spilling deep inside you with heavy panting accompanied by a groan.
Everything is all warm, floating in your soft bed as the heavy man above you lets his weight onto you fully. Cock keeping you stuffed with his seed.
The hand on your throat drifts to your hair —you gulp down air as you feel an ache begin to form— deft fingers stroking at the loose strands behind your ear as he breathes in the perfume oil of the Dragons Breath flowers you'd chosen for tonight.
“I may take you to wife, with a cunt like that.” He murmurs, fingers tightening around those stray strands of hair as he lifts his face to meet yours. Pupils blown wide as he rolls his hips to nestle nicely between yours. That leg wedged between you both falling loose, and landing on the bed softly.
Oh?
That sentence shouldn't have made you so giddy, nor should it make a delighted grin pull across your bruised lips.
A plan well curated, is always fruitful.
TAGS: @avalyaaa
#house of the dragon#hotd#daemon targaryen#daemon targaryen x you#daemon targaryen x reader#daemon targaryen x rhaenyra targaryen#aegon ii targaryen#aegon ii targaryen x reader#targaryen incest
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LOUD.
a background check.
“Are you angry?”
Obi-Wan shook his head, eyes trained on his hands wringing the shirt’s fabric in his lap.
“It’s okay if you are.”
Obi-Wan shook his head again. It wasn’t okay if he was angry. Even before Melidaan they’d accused him of being too headstrong, too volatile. Too angry.
He’d been so angry on Melida/Daan.
“Are you scared?”
He nodded before he could think. The nod, too, was too volatile, too angry.
“Are you scared you could infect people?”
Amongst others, he thought a bit hysterically. Nodded.
“The healers have tested, rigorously, if you can infect others. They have confirmed that you are not a danger to others, Obi-Wan.”
Which was the only reason he could be outside his room when the walls got too small or too big.
“How are you adjusting to the mask?”
He shrugged. Sometimes he wanted to rip it off and half his face with it. Sometimes he wished he could crawl into it completely and escape the curious looks and whispers of how his jaw was gone, have you heard? I’ve heard he’s rotting underneath—
.
It started with a cough after Melida/Daan.
He got message after message on the progress after he left and it made him smile, sometimes laugh at the betrayed disbelief over how much bureaucracy was actually necessary to form a planetary government.
The laughs soon turned into hacking coughs.
He drank the tea Qui-Gon made him to soothe his throat.
“Just a cold,” he murmured. He’d had that one before leaving Melidaan, and he and the Temple healers figured it was the stress his body had to endure that finally caught up with him.
“If it gets worse,” Qui-Gon started, looked down into his own cup, and fell silent.
Obi-Wan’s return to the Temple was a mixed bag of loth cats, after all.
A year of rumors and no contact showed him exceedingly well and painful in its brutal subtlety of lost smiles and avoidance who his friends were.
Lumi— Luminara had waited outside the healer’s wing after a follow-up check. Had straightened up when she saw him and clasped her hands in front of her. “I am very happy to see you, Obi-Wan,” she said, halted and stiff before the anger got the better of her.
What in the Galaxy had compelled him to leave the Order? No sign of him. Just an official statement that he had chosen to leave the Order. And now he’s back?
“What the fuck, Obi-Wan!” She reeled back immediately. Took a step back.
And Obi-Wan’s life had taught him how to step forward despite the fear clawing at him. “Let me explain? Please?”
She huffed at him, head up high. “This better be good. Quinlan is driving me up the Temple walls with his teenage drama sullenness over you.”
So that was why Obi-Wan hadn’t seen him but exactly once since he’d come back.
Obi-Wan explained. The war. Master Tahl. Master Qui-Gon. The war. The children. The war children. The war. The war. The war—
He hiccuped on the tears and something… something changed. In his throat. He lifted a hand to it—
Lumi’s arm was around him, stroking his shoulder and crying with him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—“
He coughed, convulsed with the cough, and there was blood on Lumi.
It had started with a cough after Melida/Daan began to turn into Melidaan and he, what felt like, crawled back to the Order begging for forgiveness and a new path and a new Master while he was at it.
What followed was multiple summons to the Council, a closed door meeting of the Council and Qui-Gon after which his Master wouldn’t look him in the eye for a week.
What followed was Master Tholme being dragged across the courtyard by Quinlan who avoided his eyes but emanated stubborn help. The Shadow Master, which was only a rumor but a rumor that had lasted decades, drily looked at Quinlan before explaining to Obi-Wan how Quin had washed and pleated the robes Master Tholme was now wearing. Would Obi-Wan like some tea?
Tea turned out to be a monstrosity of a milkshake, a secret even more closely guarded than Shadow identities.
“I have been informed you are looking for a change.”
What followed was Obi-Wan getting to know Master Tholme as a person. The soft, comfortable core of him that was never betrayed by his stoic expression but rather the old fashioned music player his first Padawan had gifted him that he danced to in the sanctuary of his kitchen. His silences that invited to share, his calm demeanor, his high expectations and his steady, grounded, and ever ready provided help.
Before all that, the new Master, the old Master, a planet uniting, there was a kiss in victory, in celebration, and in genuine, heartfelt thanks, that transferred a local bacteria.
And that, that had started the cough.
.
“The Force is with—“ is the last thing he’s spoken with his own voice and, with distance and age, he’s rather proud of that one.
A lot of distance and age, granted.
Getting eaten from the inside out had hurt, had pushed him to the brink of insanity with how much it hurt even with the healers - five, six, seven healers working simultaneously to keep him from dying - keeping the pain at bay.
They had used the Force to try to contain the bacteria’s progress, trying to buy time to figure out what was attacking him.
He’d succumbed eventually. The pain, the sheer force of wills battling against the infection, half his neck just… gone. He’d succumbed to unconsciousness with Master Qui-Gon’s forehead against the back of his limp hand, and waited to see if he’d wake up again.
.
“The system Melidaan resides in has a strain of bacteria that,” newly graduated Healer Che halted, managing to shuffle her data pad like a stack of flimsi, “eats human-based tissue. The population is vaccinated and only very few cases have been reported in the past decades. It has been nearly forgotten.”
It spread orally.
Obi-Wan, when everyone was gone and he had managed to limp to his data pad on the table across the room, had sent a message “are you okay? Please go to the hospital”. Had crawled to the fresher, had scrubbed his lips and sutures raw and bleeding, and cried silently until dawn jostled him back to bed.
.
“How are you feeling, Obi-Wan?”
He shrugged. Eyes trained on the cracking open hands in his lap. “How is Thelar,” he signed.
“They are recovering well. Their healer contacted our office to let you know that they are alright and they are sorry.”
Thelar was too nice.
“You pushed them with the Force. What happened?”
Talking and teaching basic sign language and he got to take his first deep breath without the mask and in the company of friends.
Wet and too narrow and he was drowning in the liquified tissue of— no air, no feeling, his lips pressed against his teeth and he couldn’t feel it but the drowning and choking—
“They kissed me,” he signed.
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Hello! I’m curious to know if you listen to Hozier? Since his music also gives literary and it’d be interesting to know what you think!
Hello! Thanks for the ask
Hozier is wonderful! I love him!
I think he's incredibly creative, and he clearly knows how to write! He also clearly knows so much about the history of music, art, international politics, and so much more. There's nothing I admire more in an artist than some real intelligence. It shows in his command of the language. I've been listening since "Take Me to Church" went viral. I was absolutely in tears listening to that for the first time.
One point I've been thinking about lately is the way he wrote "Nina Cried Power" and how it's different from the way someone like Taylor Swift name-drops in her music.
The point here is that Hozier has immense respect for the people he mentions in the song, his obvious knowledge and respect for these people is ever-present. He thematically connects them from the perspective of their own lives into the message of the song. Meaning that it is the type of song they would co-sign. It's so moving for this very reason, it's like the people in his song are singing with him. In "Nina Cried Power" he's clearly using southern-inspired gospel-esque blues to sings about the way in which civil rights activists, and those musicians who broke the chains away, sang their activism into life. It's so lovely for him to use musicality stemming from Afro-American culture to sing about the major civil rights activist and artists from the era. He's literally brilliant, and I love his perspective on how the US civil rights movement impacted Irelands own civil rights movement. He's fucking brilliant.
And this line brings me to tears, "And I could cry power/ power has been cried by those stronger than me/ straight into the face that tells you to rattle your chains." He's so compelling both in storytelling and in intercultural dialogue. Beautiful. And how beautiful it is to remind us that no matter the location, your words and actions matter- activism matters. Power is with the people.
What a writer- what a message to send. Especially these days, when so many major public figures are refusing to speak on current events. How important it is to remind the public that there is no real reason to not speak up in times of injustice.
As opposed to Swift who can only name-drop people like Dylan Thomas in relation to being able to self-deprecate. Her impulse towards self-obsession shows in how she even represents the lives of others as ultimately being about her. It shows an immense disrespect and obvious distain for the people she writes about. She clearly only thinks about others when considering some hierarchal form of self-adulation. People are either better or worse than her- however, it is always about her. Dylan Thomas was an incredibly vocal activist and revolutionary spirit in his day, and Swift puts him in a cheap shot about herself? Painful, stupid, gag. Thomas was an avowed anti-fascist during the rise of the most horrific fascist regimes we've ever seen; as such he would be horrified at being eulogized by someone like Swift who lives and breathes money and power. I wish I could go back in time and unhear her besmirching his name.
Dylan Thomas would love Hozier though :) And so do I!
But anyway, I could totally write some literary criticism on Hozier, and you know what- it would be amazing because he is rich texture to dive into. His command of metaphor and mimetic technique is honestly so impressive! That actually sounds really fun and is totally on my to-do list now :)
#hozier#anti taylor swift#nina cried power#activism#dylan thomas#anti facism#ttpd#ex swiftie#toxic taylor swift#taylor swift critical#andrew hozier byrne#wasteland baby#hozier supremacy#fuck taylor swift
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ok I am in fact using this as an excuse to make a long post about this thank you thank you asjksdjfaljdf
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Interpreting Yuri as asexual is my very very favorite type of headcanon, which is one that 1. is compellingly coded in the source material (even if that wasn't the creator's intent), 2. is thematically relevant to what the piece of media is Trying To Do as a whole, and 3. just means a lot to me, personally, because I said so.
Coded in the source material
Yuri’s short program is “eros”, aka desire (you can interpret what “eros” means in various ways, but YOI itself explicitly refers to sexual love, at least in the English translations). Yuri struggles with this. Hard. He can’t come up with an answer when asked what eros means to him. His big revelatory moment about desire is that it’s how he feels about wanting to eat his favorite food (omg… boy). Even as the season goes on and the way he views the Eros program changes, the program doesn’t ever really embody the idea of eros as sexuality or romance (which was how the other characters expect him to interpret it) but rather as a desire to keep Victor in his life.
Like look. I’m obviously not going to say that the creator intended any kind of ace subtext to be there. I kind of doubt it was her intent. But goddamn is the subtext there.
2. Thematic relevance
The central theme throughout YOI is “love”, and especially loving people in a way that inspires you both to be your best selves: Yuri learning that the people in his life truly love and support him; Victor finding someone who makes him feel joy about skating again.
Like, Yuri’s whole skating theme for the Grand Prix is literally about him exploring what love looks like to him, even when it takes a form that other people don’t totally understand. Viewing all this through a lens of him being ace is really compelling. It adds depth to the idea of learning how to express the way you feel love even when it looks different than what other people expect. I think it’s a really delicious layer that adds even more nuance to what the show is getting at.
Besides, it’s an interesting way of viewing the criticism of the show that occurred for it not being 100% explicit about them being a couple (aka people getting mad because the kiss in ep 7 is blocked by Victor’s arm lmaooo). Like, ok, did you see the ending scene of ep 9? Did you see ep 10??? They definitely, definitely love each other, in whatever way that means for them. Their relationship takes a form that’s pretty different than the other way people in the show are going about romantic relationships, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real for them. That is very much in line with the main themes of the show.
3. Means a lot to me
In the final scene of the penultimate episode, Yuri tells Victor that they should end their coaching relationship after the Grand Prix ends. This is because he thinks he’s holding Victor back, that Victor would be happier being free to go back to skating on his own instead of being Yuri’s coach. When I watched this (and, I’ll be honest, this is completely me projecting here) I REALLY interpreted this as an ace thing. I think it’s pretty easy to internalize the idea when you’re asexual that you just won’t be… enough, for other people. In my case I ended up a strong impulse to self-sabotage relationships because I would rather be the one to end things than to let someone else tell me that who I am as a person is fundamentally lacking. Yuri destroying a connection he desperately wants because he thinks there’s something about him that is holding Victor back from a life he’d be truly happy with? Oh yeah. I can fucking relate to that.
Also: YOI came out in 2016, which was the absolute peak of hostility to ace people I was seeing on this site. It was bad here. At the same time Tumblr was going wild over this show. Everyone was watching it. Seeing a whole site of people absolutely adore a character I very deeply in my heart believed to be ace? Extremely vindicating.
---
In conclusion Yuri is asexual because it is fun and interesting that way, and also because of this:
#like it adds so much to the show if you view it through this lens! it's really good!#same reason for why I hc zuko as gay like ->#yeah ok you don't *have* to see it this way... but don't you want to live deliciously (in your media analysis)???#yoi#yuri on ice#thank u for giving me the excuse to finally post about this lol this has been building in my head for literally the last 8 years
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Why Jonsa compels me.
You know, part of if not all the reason that I find myself thoroughly and continually compelled by Jonsa in such a way that no other Asoiaf ship (or fandom pairing for that matter) does is because of how much it intrigues me from a character, intertextual, and literary/artistic standpoint. And how I’m constantly unveiling new (fascinating) things.
From a character level, I want more than anything for Jon and Sansa to love and be loved in its purest form. For them to finally attain the sweetness after all the bitter. For it to be this unadulterated thing brought into the light - that inspires hope, dreams and peace. Not just in themselves, but in the people who surround them. In Winterfell itself, (perhaps even the realm). That prospers and is unrelenting despite the darkness. I don't and will never subscribe to the rhetoric that either of these characters (namely Sansa, who suffers from this periodically) should be punished and have humility instilled in them by being paired with a fundamentally bad/evil character. Or that either of them should end up all alone, dying withered and without having experienced love and family and life - when they only possessed it for such a small portion of their lives. These are teenagers who have lamented their inadequacies after loss and trauma and abuse. Who just want to go home, who yearn to restore Winterfell to what it once was. Who wish for children and romance - but who have told themselves they can never have it in its most genuine untouched form.
But above all, these are teenagers just wanting to be loved, more than anything else in this world - they want placement, they want a home, and home to them is equated with love.
"She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams." (ASOS, Sansa VII).
"Yet he could not let the wildlings breach the Wall, to threaten Winterfell and the north....For eight thousand years the men of House Stark had lived and died to protect their people against such ravagers and reavers . . . and bastard-born or no, the same blood ran in his veins. Bran and Rickon are still at Winterfell besides. Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik, Old Nan, Farlen the kennelmaster, Mikken at his forge and Gage by his ovens . . . everyone I ever knew, everyone I ever loved." (ASOS, Jon II).
They draw strength from their blood.
"Then you must do what needs be done," Qhorin Halfhand said. "You are the blood of Winterfell and a man of the Night's Watch." (ACOK, Jon VI).
"He was the blood of Winterfell, a man of the Night's Watch." (ASOS, Jon VI).
"He has Stark blood in him. The blood of Winterfell." (ADWD Jon IV).
"I am not your daughter, she thought. I am Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard's daughter and Lady Catelyn's, the blood of Winterfell." (AFFC Sansa I).
In Sansa's case, it is to remind herself of who she is at her core. That she isn't Littlefinger's plaything, or this political claimant, or a traitor's daughter, Lady Lannister any of that. She is Sansa Stark, and her blood will one day carry on the Stark name. And it will be in her own right.
And in Jon's case, it also exists to remind himself of who he is at his core. I can't place the quote right now, but GRRM has stated that despite not knowing who his mother is, Jon knows who he is, deep down. And my interpretation is Jon's core values, his honour, his worth. It has various meanings, but I find it all the more powerful when it's in reference to who Jon is as a person. To how he chooses to take action, seek justice, protect and love despite those flaws, inadequate qualms, insufficiencies. And I truly believe that is GRRM's allusion there.
Jon may not know who his mother is, but he knows who he is at his fundamental core. It's a matter of finding it and having the courage to wear it on his sleeve. And I think that is so vital for self-preservation and to live, to prosper.
When I consider Jon and Sansa together, I consider this mutual healing. And I'm not only talking about Jon endeavouring to retain his humanity after what happened to him, after the knives have swallowed him whole and he's uncertain, unsure, untamed. I expect to see that happen, and I anticipate for Sansa to guide him through that with gentleness and tenderness that he hasn't truly known. But even more so, It's about Jon finding acceptance within himself. I can imagine a scene with Sansa lamenting that Jon is a Stark "you are to me" and It's just so much more emotionally grounding for it to come from the girl most distant to Jon (the poetry of it all omfg).
But Sansa needs that reassurance from Jon as well, desperately.
"Sansa Stark went up the mountain, but Alayne Stone is coming down. It was a strange thought. Coming up, Mya had warned her to keep her eyes on the path ahead, she remembered. "Look up, not down," she said . . . but that was not possible on the descent. I could close my eyes. The mule knows the way, he has no need of me. But that seemed more something Sansa would have done, that frightened girl. Alayne was an older woman, and bastard brave." (AFFC, Alayne II).
And I believe he will be the one to help her with that.
"the wind was howling fiercely. It sounds like a wolf, thought Sansa. A ghost wolf, big as mountains."
.....
"Snow? Yes, it would be Snow, I suppose."
"She had not thought of Jon in ages. He was only her half brother, but still . . . with Robb and Bran and Rickon dead, Jon Snow was the only brother that remained to her. I am a bastard too now, just like him. Oh, it would be so sweet, to see him once again. But of course that could never be. Alayne Stone had no brothers, baseborn or otherwise." (AFFC, Alayne II).
Although she is meant to be assimilating into this Alayne Stone faux-identity, we see Sansa having the thoughts pertaining to the North, WF, home, Jon. Cracks beneath the surface where it is Sansa who had possessed that thought, who possessed that feeling, not Alayne. She will not allow Alayne to consume her. But it will be undoubtedly difficult, and only someone from the sweet memories of home and her childhood, perhaps a mirage, something that only existed as a conception rather than a fleshed out person. And I believe that is how Jon sees Sansa too. The reunion is where they will know each other deeply, intimately, truly. Down to the bones, inside out. And in regards to Sansa's reclaiming of identity, of the suppression of her own feelings and twisting of circumstance in order to cope with her trauma - Jon could help her there. It'd be a learning curve for both of them, as I said - mutual healing. But that doesn't that make it all the more beautiful?
These are two strong characters disguised by the author under shallow differences: Oppositional climates, but the same disillusioning experience. Assimilation into a different identity, but the same hold onto the "blood of Winterfell," the same strength drawn from rebuilding from the ashes. Opposite social standing parallels; quite literally living in each other's shoes, and reasserting that distant (fond) connection to each other despite it.
"Jon. said,"Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa." (ADWD, Jon IV).
"By right Winterfell should go to my sister Sansa." (ADWD, Jon I).
Despite being offered the chance of lordship, a family, love - everything Jon has ever truly wanted, he rejects it on this basis. He sets himself apart from the rest that have tainted Sansa, have clung to her like a vice, that don't allow her to exist in her truest self.
"I am a bastard too now, just like him." (AFFC, Alayne II).
And as we know, Sansa has been subconsciously (and then made the conscious assertion) modelling her Alayne Stone persona after Jon.
And you have that physical difference. At the beginning Sansa has a more inherent connection to the South (knights, chivalry, the faith, Tully appearance). Whereas Jon has a more inherent connection to the North (Night's Watch, Weirwood resembling Direwolf, old gods, northern features). Geographical opposites essentially experiencing similar disillusioning journeys. Jon learning that not all Night’s Watchmen are noble like Benjen, Sansa learning knights and princes and everything she has idolised as not as chivalric as she believes.
(But Sansa will find that true knight in Jon - it’s his unconventionality in appearance, a ‘black knight’ that has continuously upheld values Sansa believes in, and has fulfilled her wishes unknowingly, that leads me to this conclusion, but I digress.)
You can read more about this concept of parallel journeys here (there is some excellent analysis as early as 2012.
https://asoiaf.westeros.org/index.php?/topic/72119-from-pawn-to-player-rethinking-sansa-x/page/18/
So we have established cultural differences. Visually, it’s pretty obvious. Sansa is auburn-haired, blue eyed, beautiful. Jon is brown-haired, grey eyed, plainish?alongside the presentation of a traditionally masculine and traditionally feminine figure. GRRM has done this intentionally, he has made them as different as possible on the surface.
But both of these kids can be hotheaded, naive, a bit stuck up, and rather defensive and when it comes to what they idealise. (Let’s add snarky in there as well lol). You can pick up on this from their behaviour/actions/thoughts circa AGOT . And you know what ? I’m glad for such character flaws, it just makes them all the more compelling. But it makes them very similar.
Now as I’ve stated, it’s perhaps more difficult for readers to discern this if they’re not reading deeper than the surface level differences. it's easier for readers to consider them insignificant to each other personally and on narrative standpoint… because why would they give them any thought?? If they’re not consciously thinking of each other a lot, and there’s no on page interaction, then why should we care about analysing their relationship at all?
And well, many Jonsas will say ‘ah, you see that’s what makes them so very interesting’ you have to wonder why the author did not convey explicit on page interaction, or gave them much conscious thinking of each other. It’s not always about what the author includes but what the author omits. Even if a character says something that is…contradictory to their character. (Jon’s willowy creature line is self-contradictory because he’s shown on multiple occasions how much he actually appreciates gentle woman, and this boy is a romantic at heart). Can it perhaps be inferred that Jon says this because of repression. Because he’s a complex, fleshed out being who internalises and represses things he actually wants).
“He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. It was a hunger inside him, sharp as a dragonglass blade.” (ASOS Jon XII)
I mean, we even see Ned do this in his chapters. He doesn’t really think about Jon a whole lot, or the fact that Jon isn’t his biological son - but people infer that from the Lyanna references, ‘promise me’ the tower of joy etc etc it’s prettyyy clear that Ned is quite literally repressing that truth and has buried it away so it can never see light. It’s living tucked away in his long term memory, and not even the reader is privy to such thoughts. So if the author can do this for Ned, why not other characters?? Well, the thing is - he does. Because he instils complexity - he makes them raw and human. It’s why Sansa misremembers the events of Blackwater to cope, and Jon tries (and fails) to ignore every impulse to ride south and avenge his family.
But the thing is, people choose to be selectively blind and I'll say it, take things at face value. When you dig beneath the surface, that's when it all starts to make sense. And whew, you realise the potential.
But we know there is no malice between them. We know there is love in perpetuity albeit distant (but that does not lesson it). We know that Jon is not blind to Sansa's "radiant" beauty, we know that he appreciates her romanticism because he is romantic himself, we know that he associates her with softer imagery - singing, brushing out her wolf's fur, that she is appreciative of courtesy. We know that he protects her claim. Multiple times. We know that Sansa includes him in her prayers, that she empathises with him in the Night's Watch, that she models her bastard status after him and that she thinks of how utterly sweet it'd be to see him again, to be in his arms again (or maybe it'll be for the first time?
And then there is how they exist in this subconscious place. The compatible dreams of having a family.
"If I give him sons, he may come to love me. She would name them Eddard and Brandon and Rickon... In Sansa's dreams, her children looked just like the brothers she had lost. Sometimes there was even a girl who looked like Arya." (ASOS, Sansa II).
"I would need to steal her if I wanted her love, but she might give me children.I might someday hold a son of my own blood in my arms. A son was something Jon Snow had never dared dream of, since he decided to live his life on the Wall. I could name him Robb. " (ASOS, Jon XIII).
The blood of Winterfell (as I have previously discussed), the similar idealism, a steady belief in honour, in some goodness left in the world, the falling in love with people who are almost identical to each other (See Waymar being a more handsome version of Jon and Ygritte being a plainer version of Sansa), our beloved chapter transitioning with Jon never being far from Sansa's suitors, the unconscious answering of a hero, snow equated with security, home, Jon. "The Snow of Winterfell."
And of course there is that extra source material, there is the allusion to the inverse songs/stories, the ashford tourney and Jon's similarities with Valarr Targaryen, Jonnel 'One Eye' and Sansa Stark getting married.
The literary influence. The Pre-Raphaelite art, the Byronic influence, the just...sheer Bronte-esque I heard you from the other side of the realm and I shall find you even though the narrative is consistently against us... the human.heart.in.conflict.with.itself. William Faulkner.
I couldn't possibly compile every possible reference and discussion in this singular post, but here's what I can say: Jonsa compels me because of how much in line with the overarching theme of the narrative is . For hope to prevail despite all the darkness. A dream of spring. A dream of better futures, the taste of "innocence" and "dreams." I'm not expecting a fairytale ending, but I am expecting sweetness in some form. And the complexity that Jonsa would undoubtedly bring to the characters, to the audience, to the narrative cannot be understated. It's utterly profound and I believe that's why it is so threatening to the vast majority of the fandom.
It isn't just the human heart in conflict with those of Jon and Sansa, it is also the human heart in conflict with those of the audience. A Song Of Ice and Fire will never be easy on the reader, and when something this textually rich is built up, to then assume that the author has inserted all this in as mere coincidence severely discredits him as a writer. To assume that the author will go by the 'safest' option is disingenuous. To believe that this series will be like any other fantasy series is disingenuous. To believe that the author would go down the most conventional route to appease the general fandom is...disingenuous. I mean, this is the same guy who wrote the Red Wedding, to be clear. And that unpredictability and sheer subversiveness was clear from the first chapter. He is twisting fantasy on its head. He is twisting characters on their heads and everything we expect of them. And if people are this riled up by a theory well... I believe that is exactly what GRRM has intended.
#jonsa#jon x sansa#asoiaf#what is it that compels you about Jonsa?#they're beautiful and poetic to me#meta
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At one point in TMWWBK Alphard comments that he isn't falling for the Voldemort thing because he's too old for it, but that he would've been tricked if he had been younger. Is Alphard right about how he would be an enthusiastic Death Eater to the end if he were that age, or would he be more like Regulus?
The Man Who Would Be King by me and @therealvinelle
You know, interesting question, the answer is as with most things "yes but no". Let's dive in.
Alphard the Cynic
Alphard's extremely cynical by nature, he's just predisposed to it, and when presented anything his first instinct is usually 'doubt' and 'is this reasonable'/'prove it to me'. This is part of the reason he thinks so much about the blood purity thing/more than other characters in the story in his position. He does want to be able to say why it's correct and not just believe that he believes it because he wants to (because that would be stupid). Trouble is he only goes far enough to assure himself he's right then washes his hands of it because it's all settled now.
But some guy showing up, calling himself 'Voldemort' (that can't be his real name), who nobody seems to know, whose saying all these radical things that none of them have accomplished on their own, even though his grand enemies are just Muggle-borns who aren't scary at all, with no real concrete plans of how to do it or what things will look like after beyond "Muggle-borns gone! No Squibs! Hooray!", this guy sounds like a fraud.
When Alphard first hears of this guy, even at 15 or whatever he'd be, he'd be extremely dubious and stubbornly set in to disapprove of this guy. He immediately thinks this guy is after money and any second now they'll all be hearing "and that's why you should fund my campaign to get rid of the Muggle-borns". The more Alphard hears about his friends praising this guy, the more stubborn Alphard gets as now he hates Taylor Swift on principle.
He comes up with all sorts of reasons of why Voldemort sucks, really refining his talking points anybody asks, but half the reason he hates this guy is to just be a hater/out of pure stubbornness by this point.
"All her songs sound the same!"
Alphard the Teenager
The trouble with Alphard would be if he gets cajoled to a party/recruitment effort. He spends so much time hating on Voldemort but he hasn't listened to him/seen him once? Alphard realizes that this is true and that he'll sound much more convincing if he goes once, says he hates it, and is able to throw whatever stupid points this man makes back in his face.
Alphard agrees, determined to hate on this man so hard he'll be run out of town.
Trouble is, Tom's really well-spoken, charismatic, and so hot.
Alphard finds himself unwillingly captivated watching this guy speak even though he's saying complete nonsense. He's magnetic, his speeches have this compelling quality to them, and has Alphard mentioned he's stupid hot?
Alphard finds to his horror that instead of coming up with great talking points of "this man is so stupid, here's all the stupid things he said" he ended up drooling on his robes and forgetting his name for thirty minutes.
Alphard is probably then offered the opportunity to talk directly to this guy, friends and family inspired as Alphard hasn't softened exactly but isn't able to say anything after that very convincing speech.
This is even worse because now the man's a foot away from Alphard, even hotter up close, and paying attention to every word Alphard's saying in a way that most people really don't.
Alphard manages to splutter out the arguments he thought were very very impressive not so long ago but they come out sounding very dumb and worse the man isn't even insulted. He instead listens patiently as Alphard explains himself and (smelling fresh blood) comes up with some explanation for each of them (Alphard still wants to be dubious and his answers are weird but he's just so hot). Alphard walks away in shame, having been thoroughly humiliated, and muttering out his agreement of "sure... I'll go... next time..."
He makes himself a script, even further talking points, because this time he won't look like a fucking tool only to have the same result/worse as somehow he and Voldemort get into discussions about history/magic/the arts/books, everything Alphard's super into that everyone finds really boring but somehow this man knows all about. Worse, he clearly knows more about it than Alphard, the man seems to know fucking everything and is incredibly gifted with magic for all Alphard doesn't want to admit that.
He's even read fucking Shakespeare.
What the fuck.
Before Alphard knows it, he's just as embroiled as the rest, and while he likes to get into esoteric debates over "hey, why are our stupid property damage plans actually a good idea or not" he's a sucker just as much as the rest of them and really really really wants hot senpai to notice him.
About Regulus
The heresy of the day about Regulus is I don't think Regulus is what fandom or Harry thought he was either. (Yes, here's where I messed up remembering things). And after rereading HBP, there's updates to be made of that.
But that's a story for another day.
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Bedtime thoughts I think crystalized in general would have been more interesting if the overlord had more solid motives and intentions than the same exact one he has had every other time he showed up
And I don't mean the taking over ninjago thing. Obv that will always be his thing but like
Imo it would have been more compelling if the overlord wanted Lloyd on his side more instead of being like oh well he doesn't wanna guess we have to try and kill him even though that hasn't worked every other time I've tried
Would've been more interesting to me if his intention was to use harumi to manipulate Lloyd's feelings in an attempt to gain control of his power rather than ohh harumi is in love with him now for some reason despite that going entirely against the foundations of her character and also being weird and gross and the overlord is just gonna do the same thing he always does and expect a different outcome
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Impulse Control
Part of a longer fic I have in the works that I thought I would share here at the behest of a few friends. Might be a lil rough around the edges, most of this was worked on while sleepy haha
Necessary context: This is the first time these two sleep together, the woman (Umi), has been hosting him and they've met several times prior. Neither has made any moves or expressed interest though they've individually had thoughts unbeknownst to the other.
other: Asobi were singing performers who also offered sex, she is not an asobi, but he mistook her for one in their first encounter and she was too shy to correct him
Warnings: Smut!! Dub-con (heavy), biting, scratching, mild gore(?), cunnilingus, the stomach mouth(tm), vaginal intercourse, mentions of cannibalism, dacryphilia (tears), bruising, sadism/masochism, and uhhh? I think that’s it?
..........................................................o0o.............................................................
“Give yourself to me.”
It was neither a command nor a request, but somewhere in between. She blinked, four arms reaching out and pulling her in. Two hands gripped her hips, guiding her forward until she stood practically in his lap. He buried his face in her neck, nose grazing her skin as he drew in a languid breath, taking in her scent. The sting of the salt of the surf was softened by the aroma of floral perfume oils and tea leaves, lingering in her hair with something warm beneath like sunshine on a summer's day. Lips pressed to the thin skin over the column of her throat, feeling the quiet breath she sucked in. He’d considered taking her before, the temptation and desire to consume her in every sense of the word a tantalizing prospect. But something within him remained indecisive. The supple softness of her flesh in his hands made his mouth water and his cocks twitch, but he was torn between two separate compulsions. He wanted to devour her. Wanted to taste her; her skin, blood, muscle, sweat, tears. But in which way? The distinction between the two impulses was muddled. He no longer had the patience to sort out which was more compelling, choosing to start with one and see where it would lead. His upper hands slowly untied her obi, face remaining nuzzled in her neck as he lazily placed kiss after kiss, feeling her pulse racing with every gentle caress. Thin hands came to rest against his collarbones, but didn’t push away. Already he could feel the heat rising across her skin.
“Spend the night with me.” He urged, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye, azure hues bearing an intensity and hunger she’d yet to see.
Her heart skipped a beat, so entranced that she almost failed to notice the sudden slack in her obi. Before she could respond he was loosening it until the coils pooled at her feet in a heap. “W-Wait,” It wasn’t that she didn’t like the idea of where things were going, but she feared she wouldn’t live up to expectations. “I don’t know if we should…”
He paused, thumbs rubbing slow circles across the front of her hips, pleased at the subtle shift in the way she stood, thighs pressing together at the proximity and stimulation. “Are you afraid?” He asked, upper hands brushing the hair over her shoulders and nudging the neckline of her kimono lower.
The nerves made her dizzy and her stomach flipped. No, she wasn’t afraid of him. Daunted? Most definitely, but not afraid. “No…” His warmth against her palms was steadying and she focused on it to ground herself. “I only worry that I may disappoint. Surely you could choose someone better to spend your evening with?” It pained her somewhat to make the suggestion, but the fear of letting him down was greater than her desire.
He let out a low chuckle, a twinge of malice dancing mirthfully in his eyes. “Your only fear is of not being able to satisfy?” He smirked, “What a foolish woman. Have you no sense of self preservation?”
Her face flushed, burning with embarrassment. Brow furrowed, her expression bordered on a pout. “I trust you.” She insisted stubbornly, a stunning sincerity in silver hues as she held his gaze.
An astounded cackle rumbled forth from him at her admission. “Foolish and obstinate.” Nearly grinning, he hummed in mock consideration, thoroughly amused. His thumbs ceased their motions, squeezing her hips lightly as he leaned closer. “You should be more careful who you trust, little asobi.” He murmured against the shell of her ear, relishing in the way she shivered.
The ties of her under-kimono came apart with one little tug, falling open as his fingers crept beneath the worn silk. A soft gasp escaped her slightly parted lips as calloused skin met silky soft flesh. The upper set of hands pushed the kimono down her shoulders, encouraging her to remove it. Steeling herself, she let him drag the garment down until gravity took over and it piled on the floor at her feet. He let out a low hum of approval, azure eyes trailing down her form as he took her in fully.
When the upper set of hands moved to caress her breast she sucked in a quiet breath. As he squeezed she let out a small squeak, unprepared for the sudden roughness of his handling. The brief veneer of gentleness was abandoned at once, the façade seemingly having served its purpose. A wet warmth enveloped her left nipple in his palm, the sensation of a tongue stirring against the sensitive peak. The new stimulation had her leaning into his touch, shock of the discovery fading quickly. What else could he do? Teeth caught and pressed the sensitive bud until she let out another yelp. A quiet huff left him and he leaned back, the lower set of hands grabbing her hips and pulling her with him. She toppled forward, hands flying out to brace herself as she landed in his lap. The distinctive firmness beneath her twitched and her stomach fluttered as she registered not one, but two. His head tilted slightly, a knowing look in his eyes as the corners of his mouth tipped upward.
“Having second thoughts?” He teased, having caught the brief look of apprehension. Dutifully her head shook ‘No’ and he couldn’t help another chuckle. What a stubborn woman. Even as he nipped and grabbed, gradually handling her with more strength, she remained undeterred. He guided her hips against him, pleased by the growing damp patch on his hakama from her excitement. Every little sound he managed to pull from her was perfect, spurring him on and stirring the hunger deep within him. Her scent ingrained itself in his mind, the softness of her flesh ever so inviting. So squish-able. When his caresses neared bruising he thought it might earn some complaint, yet she said nothing, moans changing only slightly in response. More durable than she looks, he praised inwardly with a note of surprise, admiring bright red handprints that appeared on alabaster skin as he adjusted his hold and brought her even closer.
His tongue lolled lazily across a swath of skin, the salt of sweat bearing an odd twinge of sweetness. The urge to bite down grew stronger with each passing moment until he surrendered to the whim. He sunk his teeth into the meat of her neck where it became shoulder, feeling her entire body go rigid against him as she let out a strangled cry. Deeper, rending flesh until teeth scraped against bone. The iron tang of blood was familiar, a distinct sweetness underlying the warm savory notes in a way that complimented nicely. He’d not considered himself a sweet-tooth before, but this was something else. When combined with the scent of fresh torment– it was mouthwatering. The flutter of her pulse and the taste of her life on his tongue made for an exquisite medley. He bit just a little harder and she squirmed, hands scratching and grabbing desperately at his back until she drew blood. It dimly occurred to him to loosen his grip as he felt her bones begin to creak beneath his embrace, relaxing his hold on her slightly. With a pang of disappointment he released her flesh, teeth sliding free of her abused skin rather than taking a mouthful with him like he was ever so tempted to do. His tongue traced every laceration and indentation left by his teeth, a weak whimper rising from her as her scratching slowed.
It hurts. It hurts. It hurts it hurts it hurts ithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsit–
Suddenly she could breathe again, his death-grip on her loosening just enough for her lungs to expand. Blessedly, his teeth let go without taking a piece of her with. Jolts of pain ran through her as his tongue played along the new wound in an exploratory fashion, drinking in every bit of blood to the point of nearly sucking on the wound. Fragments of dreams she’d thought she’d forgotten flashed through her mind's eye. The heavy stench of blood. A flicker of candlelight dancing and casting blurry shadows on thin paper walls. The sound of bone crunching and flesh tearing. Yes, she’d seen this before. Familiarity made it worse, recalling the abrupt end that chased the nightmare every time she’d had it. Unease crawled slowly up her spine as she reconsidered how trusting she had been. She knew better; had been willfully ignorant, blindly following her curiosity and placing her trust in him without an inkling of reason. She trusted him simply because she wanted to, rather than using any real rationale. He was right; she was a fool. A fool that might be about to die. Cautionary tales she’d conveniently forgotten sprung to the front of her mind; ones that spoke of a king who devoured the flesh of man. The idea of becoming a meal hadn’t crossed her mind, but perhaps it should have. Her nails dug into the broad expanse of his back, tucked between the sets of arms in a way that left them entrapped. There was no room to pull away even if she wanted to. The lower set of hands gripped her hips, thumbs tracing the curve along the front of the bone as he brought them closer to his body and something wet met her thigh.
A deep rumble of a laugh vibrated through his chest and made her skin tingle at the point of contact. “Has it finally sunk in?” He queried, a trickle of mirth in his tone as he noted the tension in her form refusing to abate. “Too late to run away now.” He taunted in an almost singsong inflection, leaning back a bit as he angled her hips into himself, then slouching comfortably forward for the best reach. It wasn’t something he usually did, but curiosity drove his whimsy as he chose to be adventurous in his toying with her. This was something he knew he wanted to have a good view of her expression for.
She struggled to glance down as something warm and borderline slimy ran along her inner thigh, dexterous muscle familiar and foreign simultaneously. At last she managed to peek between them as he gave her the tiniest bit of room. A sliver of moonlight revealed what she had previously thought to be possibly a scar, was in fact a massive mouth. Her stomach lurched, seeing a maw that could easily bite her in two. Once more the fear of becoming a meal reared its head. The tongue curled around her thigh teasingly, twisting and rubbing along the inside as it crept closer and closer to her center. Teeth scraped against her inner thighs, sending a chill through her as she grappled between fear and arousal. Hot breath washed across her sex. It was exhilarating as it was terrifying, heartbeat thundering in her head. The tongue played along her entrance, tip prodding almost tauntingly, flicking over her clit sporadically. Azure hues studied her every reaction, narrowing in silent mirth as he pressed on her clit, watching her jolt at the contact. His grip tightened slightly, pulling her hips snug against the mouth as its tongue wriggled its way inside. A choked sound barely escaped her, arching against him. The thin lips of the mouth wrapped around her as the tongue undulated, giving a long suck. She’d never felt anything like this, clinging to him in hopes of keeping herself grounded as her breaths grew shallow.
“You taste as good as you look.” He remarked, enjoying how she struggled deciding what to focus on. Silver hues flicked toward him for a moment, clouded by lust but still bearing a twinge of renewed fear. “I should have taken you sooner.” He punctuated the statement with a roll of his other tongue, withdrawing and pressing back in with force. Her back arched with a breathless gasp, nails biting into his chest as her eyes rolled. He liked this view, he decided, continuing his motions. One hand trailed the tips of claws along the curve of her spine, enjoying how she shuddered and attempted to hold his gaze. His fingers wove through the hair at her nape and scraped along her scalp, settling with the back of her head resting in his palm. Her skull felt so small and fragile in his hand, so easy to crush. Even as she sank into his touch, weight resting in his hands, he was reminded of how delicate she was by comparison. Knees pressed into his ribs as her thighs made a pitiful attempt at clenching around him. The iron tang of blood mixed with the taste of her and he noted the trail of crimson that ran from the bite he’d left. It dripped sluggishly down her chest and between her breasts, continuing all the way to where his second mouth was busy with her cunt. The sight made his cocks ache, tongue flicking out to wet his lips as his appetite stirred again. With a twist of the other tongue her hips bucked and she whined. As entertaining as this was, he wanted more. Now.
He stilled just as she was on the cusp of release, wrenching a noise of complaint from her. As she mourned the sudden loss of friction, the rustle of fabric was all the more warning she got before he was lifting her hips and lining her up over one of his cocks. Wide eyes jumped to his face, a moment of painful clarity only seconds before he pulled her down onto him in one smooth motion. The sound she made was something guttural, forgetting how to breathe for a beat as her mind struggled to catch up. It felt like he was going to split her in half. She didn't have time to process the feeling as he began to thrust shallowly up into her. “W-Wait—” she choked on her words. The burn was intense. Each time he bottomed out, she could have sworn he was pushing into her cervix. It was too much, almost making her nauseous at times. She clutched at the nearest arm like a lifeline, nails leaving deep red marks beneath.
He huffed, watching her expression contort as she struggled to take him. Another noise, a quiet gasp followed by a whimper as soft flesh began to bruise under his touch, holding her a bit tighter than he should. This was around the time his bedtime companions often gave out, yet he found himself strangely optimistic– hopeful, even, that she would pull through. Petite or not, she’d already proved more resilient than so many before her. Her face scrunched, eyes screwed shut as pleasure veered closer to pain again. In a mockery of intimacy, he pressed a kiss to her cheek, gaze lingering on dark lashes and a furrowed brow. Don't break too soon, little asobi.
Throat tight, she tried to find her words as he continued the brutal rhythm he’d set. It was difficult to think, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the room, his every impact making her body shudder from the force. The burning had become more of an aching throb, pulsing around him. She pushed at his hips, willing them to stop. She wanted to beg for mercy, for a break, for a moment to breathe— anything. But the words wouldn’t come. The hand in her hair released its hold and slid around, long fingers curling around her jaw. “Please…” she finally managed to croak out, silver hues pleading with him. “Too… much…”
A flicker of disappointment ran through him, expression relaxing into one of mild boredom. “Too much?” He echoed, watching her attempt to nod enthusiastically despite his hold on her. “Hm.” He lessened the force he put into each thrust and slowed his pace. Her face flooded with relief immediately, a sigh whispering out from between slightly parted lips. Nimble hands ventured from his forearm back toward his chest, craving to be near him, seeking comfort in him despite it all. Perhaps he was mistaking comfort for gratitude? Still undeterred? Disappointment shifted back toward optimism. No, she wasn’t tapping out yet. A smirk twisted his lips. Without warning he stood, enjoying the way she instinctively clung to him, one hand under her rear to support her as he paced the short distance to the wall. She arched away from the chill of stone as he placed her back against it, fleeing from the cold. The momentary distraction allowed him the chance to hook her knees under his arms and press them to her chest. Her attention snapped back to him with a sharp inhale, wide eyes peering up at him with apprehension and anticipation. His second set of arms kept him braced comfortably against the wall, ensuring he didn't accidentally crush her.
The change in angle allowed him to reach even deeper than before, the wall keeping her from retreating or shying away. Her mouth went dry, mortified by the realization. All she could do was stare, resigned to her fate. Azure eyes gleamed with sinister mirth, lips twitching upward in a devious smirk. He leaned closer, whispering as though it were a secret.
“You can handle it.”
He pushed teasingly against her limit, situated as far inside as he could reach and then some. She whined, gasping for breath and squirming. Overwhelming didn't begin to describe it. It hurt and yet… he nudged against her favorite spot as he kept her pinned, sending a jolt of pleasure through her. She struggled to reconcile the two sensations simultaneously. The first thrust had her seeing stars, forcing a tortured moan from her. Although his size would have been more than enough on its own, he wasn't without technique. Not only that, but he was observant, the smallest of twitches giving her away to him. He angled his hips with precision, making sure to hit the exact place that would lead to her undoing as he set the perfect cadence. A particularly rough buck of his hips and she mewled, nails raking across his back hard enough to draw blood. When had she wrapped her arms around his neck? When had she tucked her face into his chest in an attempt to hide? Something familiar slithered between them, brushing against her center. The lower tongue. It toyed with her, tracing circles into her clit without his hips faltering. Tension pooled low in her core, winding tighter by the second. She threw her head back, vision blurry and eyes stinging. It didn't occur to her that she was crying until she felt the warm damp of his tongue dragging from the line of her jaw to the apex of her cheek, savoring the taste of her tears. A low rumble of satisfaction made her skin tingle, his sound of approval music to her ears.
His nose grazed the crook of her neck, hot breath flickering across her collarbones as he returned to the bite he’d left earlier. Ruined flesh was still sticky with blood and sweat as he peppered the sore spot with kisses, tongue flicking out occasionally for another taste. Delight crawled across his skin as she made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a moan in reply, hands finding purchase in his hair as her nails scratched pleasantly along his scalp. He fought to stave off the urge to bite again, dragging his teeth, nipping and pressing down until he was just shy of breaking the skin. A deep inhale and he let the scent of her wash across his palate, accompanied by the salt of sweat and tears blending with the metallic tang of blood. It felt like a frenzy; the cocktail of scents, sensations, and flavors all melding into a borderline euphoria. The way she writhed beneath him with every sweet sound she had to offer. A feast for the senses, and he, a gluttonous king who wanted to indulge in everything at once. When his lips again ventured to the column of her throat he could feel the vibration of another moan through the thin skin, disturbing the rapid thrum of her pulse as they mingled. She clenched around him, legs twitching in a way that seemed like an attempt to pull him closer. He was so engrossed in the moment that he almost missed the motion until there was a more insistent tug at his hair.
“Mmh,” she dug her nails in, needing to be closer to him. She knew she was nearing the cusp, latching onto his hair and pulling, hoping to get his attention even if only for a moment. Would he mind if she…? “I’m— can I…?” Soon enough she would end up hitting her high regardless if he didn't stop, and she prayed he wouldn't. He hummed questioningly, teasing. “Am I ahh-llowed t—” A particularly sharp thrust stole her breath momentarily and he chuckled.
Such manners. “You want it?” He mused, lifting his head enough to look her in the eye. Pupils blown wide in lust, staring at him like he was the only thing to exist, desperation and need etched into her expression. It was delectable how badly she needed him and the way she begged. This was an image he could get used to.
She nodded, the intensity of his gaze sending a chill up her spine. “P…Please?”
He hummed in mock consideration. “I suppose, since you asked so nicely.” He obliged her, keeping his pace and upping the force ever so slightly, pushing ever deeper into that place he could tell drove her crazy. She’d surpassed his expectations with flying colors and his excitement boiled over as he murmured against the shell of her ear some praise, deciding she had earned it. “Good girl, just like that.”
She hadn’t been expecting his praise, blindsided as his velvety baritone and the words he spoke made her stomach flutter. “S…Sukuna…” The tension snapped, spasming into him as she held onto his hair with a vice grip. Black spots danced in her vision and she fought to keep her eyes on him, the white of his grin the last thing she saw as the pleasure overtook her.
He paused, feeling her go limp. A slight frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, a wave of confusion sobering him momentarily. Did I break her? He pondered, pressing a thumb to the major artery below her jaw, feeling the steady twitch of her pulse. No, no he was certain he hadn’t. Slowly, he realized what had happened and let out a low chuckle. “Heh, greedy bitch.” He patted her cheek, waiting for her to stir. Nothing. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this and just leaving me hanging.” Grabbing her jaw, he gave a gentle shake. “C’mon now.”
She came-to with a start, sucking in a breath as she blinked open her eyes.
“There she is.”
Disoriented, it took her a moment to piece together what was going on. A blinding gleam of teeth— his grin as he regarded her with no small amount of mirth, practically purring the statement. He didn’t give her more than a second before he resumed his motions, making her squirm as the sensitivity left in the wake of the intensity of her previous orgasm made the feeling altogether too much. Thankfully, the second tongue had receded temporarily, giving her sore clit a needed rest. With a soft sigh, she buried her face in the crook of his neck, arms slung lazily over his shoulders. “Sorry,” she mumbled, exhausted. “‘M sorry.” All she got in reply was an amused hum as he pushed her legs up further until they slid outward slightly, knees nearly touching the wall.
She was even more pliable beneath his touch now, enjoying the way she had completely fallen apart in his arms. A whisper of a moan met his ears and her nails scratched playfully along his shoulders. More force, squeezing supple thighs until she squeaked, leaving bruises in the perfect shape of his hands. The sting of skin opening along his back from her scratching spurred him on, reveling in the mewl that left her as her back arched. Moans and mumbles bordered on incoherent, what was needy and desperate becoming euphoric cries. Quickly, she reached a second high and he relished in how she clamped down on him, walls pulsing around him as her eyes rolled and her thighs trembled. This time she managed to cling to consciousness through it, perhaps aided by the pain of another bite that just barely broke the skin. Perfect crescents of torn flesh and mulberry splotches decorated flushed ivory skin, his own personal mosaic. It was intoxicating. Endless praises fell from her lips until words abandoned her to the point the only thing left she seemed capable of speaking was his name, over and over again like a mantra or a prayer. The more he pushed, the more she gave him, the more was unveiled. When teeth scraped against his neck he was almost taken aback. A glance into glazed over silver hues told him how fucked out she was. Not a single thought left in that pretty little head of yours, is there? And yet… there was a certain hunger there that reminded him of his own, an element of something feral buried deep. He was elated. The gesture could hardly be called a kiss, a ravenous tug of war, drawing blood as each attempted to take more than what the other was willing to give. For all her manners and kindness, it seemed there was more to his little asobi than met the eye.
He pulled away from the wall and let go of her thighs. Instinctively she scrambled to support herself but her aching body didn’t respond. Strong hands gripped her hips and lifted her off of him. The sudden emptiness ached and she let out a mournful cry, stubbornly clinging to him. He let out an annoyed grunt, prying her off and tossing her onto the futon. Before she could get up he was on top of her again, flipping her onto her stomach and dragging her back by the hips. Lining up the lower cock of the two this time, he fully sheathed himself in her with one thrust. He paused with a quiet groan of satisfaction and a noise of content escaped her, arching her back in a luxurious stretch. Everything felt right again. One set of hands kept ahold of her hips, pushing and pulling in tandem with the rutting of his own. Every impact made her shudder, skin crawling in a perpetual shiver of pleasure. She’d lost count of how many times she’d climaxed, a particularly loud moan wrenching free of her as his fingers wrapped around the back of her neck and forced her down into the bed. The ability to think was long gone, the only thing she could perceive was him. His scent was etched into her mind, the feeling of him engraved in her in a way her body would never forget. Gods, did she hope this wouldn’t be the only time he bedded her. As his hips stuttered she felt herself close, weakly canting her hips back toward him. The hand on her neck let go at the last second as both of the upper set came into view on either side of her as he hunched forward over her, bracing himself. His grip on her hips tightened as he came, pain intercutting her final orgasm as he struggled to control his strength in the moment. Warmth flooded across her back as well as filled her to the brim, an answer to a question she hadn’t previously dared ask. His grip softened, thumbs tracing the back of her hips as they caught their breath. When he let go she collapsed, limbs heavy and barely able to keep her eyes open, completely spent. Part of her hoped he would stay, though she knew better. As the world faded, she felt the feather light brush of fingertips swiping away a few errant strands of hair from sweat dampened cheeks. His voice was a distant lullaby, words fuzzy but filling her with a glimmer of hope.
“Until next time, little asobi.”
#jjk#jjk ryomen#jjk ryomen sukuna#jjk sukuna#ryomen sukuna#sukuna ryomen#jjk sukuna ryomen#jjk oc#jjk smut#sukuna smut#true form sukuna#jjk fanfic#sukuna fanfic#true form sukuna smut#sukuna x oc#jujutsu kaisen#ryoumen sukuna#sukuna#sukuna jjk#jujutsu kaisen sukuna
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Hi! Voices & Gemstones here, I saw your reboot of my post about the phrase the future is plural and I wanted to ask something. I would send my ask off anon but it's my main blog and I'm a little ehhh about using it lol but I come in good faith
Im a trauma based system, trying to navigate syscourse and I agree the human brain can split with no trauma, I just... Struggle with the idea someone could purposely give themselves alters in the same way we've known systems to function.
Do self created systems have amnesia & memory issues too? What about issues with control of the body & fights for front? Foreign thoughts and emotions? If it's a self created system why would you create these problems? It doesn't seem possible or reasonable to us, but we can't not ask.
If life stress is what compelled someone to start a self made system then... Doesn't that count as some form of traumagenic?
And like we said way forever ago on our blog, we don't care what source you claim as long as it helps your function in life, we just
We want to understand different sources of plurality better, and you seem very passionate about education, so we wanted to ask. Thank you for your time
- Gemstone System
Thanks for the questions! 😁
Do self created systems have amnesia & memory issues too?
Nope! I mean, not generally! There's like, one guide that purports to be able to induce amnesia between headmates, but the process requires months of mental conditioning and I don't know of anyone who has actually gone through it.
I have noticed we have sort of speed bumps when trying to access someone else's memories, and our own memories often pop up in our head more easily than memories from other headmates do. But I wouldn't call that amnesia.
What about issues with control of the body & fights for front?
Sometimes.
It depends on the system though, and it's not something that I feel happens too often.
For us... by the time I was created, my host was already a mature adult. (I think with a lot of systems who are plural in childhood, the lack of maturity probably contributes to internal conflict and sets up adversarial relationships.) If I wanted to front, we could talk things out. Most of the time, he'd let me if I asked, but If he didn't want me fronting right then, we could work out a compromise so I could front later instead. It doesn't always work out perfectly. But 99% of the time, negotiation works.
Things were a bit harder in the very beginning, but we got better with thime.
Foreign thoughts and emotions?
Like, passive influence where we feel the emotions of other headmates? Yeah, we get that.
If it's a self created system why would you create these problems?
Most tulpas are created for companionship, with loneliness being a major reason cited in studies of tulpamancers.
Something that's important to understand about tulpamancers is that most don't make tulpas for the switching part. I think originally, in the very very early days long before I got here, the tulpamancy community didn't even know switching was possible, and it was something they discovered later.
How a lot of tulpas start out is purely in the inner world or imposed externally. And learning to switch often takes effort and practice. Maybe that's another reason you won't see many fights over front in the tulpa community, because switching is often an act of love, where the host is willing to dedicate their time to it just to allow their tulpas to be happy and interact with the world. It's not generally something that we'd be fighting over.
If life stress is what compelled someone to start a self made system then... Doesn't that count as some form of traumagenic?
I don't think so. At least not in the same way.
The typical traumagenic systems is a system who experiences trauma as a child. They separate this trauma and their brain tries to distance them from it. As they undergo repeated trauma, they have to return to that traumatized state and the dissociation becomes ingrained into them as a trauma response, often resulting in the presence of triggered switching once the traumatized state develops into its own entity that holds those trauma memories. At the same time, in avoiding trauma, they distance themselves from the traumatized part, creating these memory barriers.
While one could argue that loneliness is traumatic and therefore headmates created due to loneliness are traumagenic, the tulpa isn't holding traumatic memories of loneliness. They're just created to provide companionship.
Hope that helped clarify things a bit!
Have a nice day! 😁
#plural#plurality#pluralgang#tulpa#tulpamancy#multiplicity#endogenic#systems#pro endo#system#pro endogenic#pro tulpa#actually plural#actually a system
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🔥 on fuffy's dynamic? or anything fuffy related
I think most Fuffy shippers – me included for sure – have a habit of making Faith seem a bit too … well, nice.
Don’t get me wrong: I like Faith a lot. Not just as a character – and she is one of my favorite characters on the show, even if she only appears in less than two dozen episodes – but on a personal level too I have a lot of empathy for her. I think she has a pretty rough deal in life. I think she’s very badly let down by a lot of people, both before and after becoming a Slayer. I think the narrative itself is often far less sympathetic to her than it is to other characters. I think she’s pretty miserably unhappy most of the time, and I think her redemption arc is genuinely very good, even with the little we see of her post-Sanctuary.
That said, it feels to me that a lot of Fuffy fanfiction is written by people who have decided, whether consciously or not, that the “real” Faith is the Faith we see awkwardly asking Buffy if she wants to go the dance with her in Homecoming since she already has the tickets, or showing up on Buffy's doorstep in Amends with some crappy Christmas presents, still not quite able to admit there was never any “big party” she could have gone to instead, however obvious it is at this point, and somehow managing to make a million different heartbreaking microexpressions when Buffy says she’s glad to see her.
Yes, I like those moments too – I like them a lot – and I think that they are definitely indicative of a real aspect of Faith, one she tries hard to keep hidden most of the time. But I think it’s an injustice to her character to make that the sum total of her personality. If this were all there was to Faith’s character, she wouldn’t be half as compelling.
What about the Faith who, however troubled she looked at first, manages to shrug off the fact her new boss is planning to have Willow murdered when he tells her he’s also bought her a Playstation? What about the Faith who attacks Joyce, ties her up and threatens to kill her? What about the Faith who fantasies about stabbing Willow and taunts Tara by telling her how much Willow used to love Oz? What about the Faith who, right from her first appearance, is perhaps a little bit too into beating up vampires and killing demons? What about the Faith who threatens to torture Buffy, who tries to kill Angel, who definitely does torture Wesley and who kills Professor Worth while he begs for his life? What about the Faith who probably was going to kill Xander? What about what Faith does to Buffy in Who Are You?
I’m not saying all Fuffy authors should exclusively write angst-ridden enemies-to-lovers in which for the first 100,000 words Faith really does seem to revel in being able to kill things without consequences even as she lets her obsession with Buffy Summers lead her into actively and deliberately trying to hurt her or bring her down to her level. (Though it would perhaps be nice if some of it was like this!) I don’t have any moral objection if people would rather write fluff in which Faith and Buffy have an awkward first kiss at the Homecoming Dance, or AUs in which Faith never sides with the Mayor, or post-canon fic which takes for granted the fact that Faith is now redeemed and happily devoted to Buffy (it would make me a bit of a hypocrite if I did, since I’ve written all of these things).
But the sort of Fuffy writing and meta that I most enjoy, even if it doesn’t dwell on Faith’s worst moments or if it takes place in a continuity where they conveniently haven’t happened, always treats Faith as somebody who could do those things, if the circumstances were just a little bit different. Always recognizes her as somebody who does have a lot of barely-suppressed anger in her, who is more likely to listen to an authority figure who tells her what she wants to hear than one who doesn’t, who is more than a little bit jealous of Buffy’s life, who does think, deep down, that being a Slayer makes her better than other people.
To me, that’s the appeal of Faith as a character and also of her relationship with Buffy. The two things are kind of inseparable. Faith is a reflection of a lot of Buffy’s own worst impulses; she’s somebody that Buffy could have been if things had turned out differently (and if Buffy hadn’t had a certain inner strength and self-belief that Faith, for all her posturing, doesn’t quite ever have herself). She’s the Buffy we’ll see hints of throughout Season 6, the Buffy we saw in Season 2’s When She Was Bad, the Buffy we see in Season 3’s The Wish. And, as a reflection of Buffy, she has some of Buffy’s strengths as well as exaggerated versions of some of Buffy’s flaws. She’s not uncomplicatedly Evil, even at her worst, but she does a lot of things that are very hard to forgive, and she enjoys doing some of them more than some people like to admit.
I think if somebody’s going to try to write Fuffy, and get both Buffy and Faith right, that’s something they need to remember. Let Faith have some jagged edges. Let her be a little bit dangerous. Let her be a little bit cruel. Let her be a little bit self-destructive. Put simply: let her be Faith.
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pspspsps I have not played BG3 but I’d listen to you get on the soapbox about Astarion and Gale and Lae’zel. :] I love the vampire…twink(?) and hearing good things about that Gale guy and the frog(?) lady who makes my gender kinda start buzzing like a cicada <3
THE PEOPLE HAVE SPOKEN, AND HOW NOW SO SHALL I.
Seriously though, thanks for giving me an excuse to yap. As much as I am an enjoyer of fandom shipping, I am also a friendmaxxing visitorpilled individual and while I'm a strong proponent of pretty much every Baldur's Gate 3 Origin character being friends to some degree, I have my favourites, and Lae'zel, Gale, and Astarion are a trio I find particularly compelling. Maybe just because my first playthrough I exclusively travelled with them and loved their shared dialogue. So! THE DYNAMIC (as I see it.)
This is gonna be a long post. Oops.
Gale + Astarion
The one that I like equally as a romantic and platonic venture. I'm gonna be real, I tend to like these two as an actual romantic pairing- but that's irrelevant here. I've been over the lighter reasons why I think they'd be the ultimate pompous wine aunts of the group before, but there's a bit more to it than that.
Asides from shared aesthetic and literary interests, when I say I think they like each other in a surprisingly uncomplicated way despite their personal complexities, I truly do mean it that way. I feel that Gale is the type of person Astarion could truly come to cherish as a friend, once he's in a better place personally. He's startlingly authentic, giving Astarion a space to be as well, should he wish, rather than keep up his entirely charming facade- kind to others while also being... morally flexible enough to pique Astarion's interest and to avoid making him feel like he's being monitored by someone TOO well-intentioned (because I love Astarion, but he IS a bit of a bastard and will be forever, I reckon). On Gale's front, I genuinely think a part of him would feel incredibly vindicated by having a friend in Astarion- someone who would unabashedly encourage his ambitions and wilder interests (but whom I believe would still have his best interests vaguely at heart). Obviously that can take a darker turn under some scenarios- but I like to think that Astarion's playfulness and willingness to embrace his curiosity and passion about the stranger and more... reckless side of his work could be freeing to him. Like having that one friend that finally listens to you when you say "hear me out" and only intervenes if it's a TRULY bad take. Someone he can actually be mischevious with- because Gale IS a bit of a little shit himself, when he's given the freedom to be without guilt.
Gale + Lae'zel
This is the unusual friendship that I go the hardest about. I am so normal about them and what they could mean to each other. Lae'zel is incredibly dismissive of Gale initially, as she is with most of the others- but she's incredibly soft towards him by gith standards starting from the moment he demonstrates genuine respect and curiosity towards her and her people. Assessing his physical combat skills as less-than-deal shortly after meeting him, she even goes so far as to offer to *literally* train him in gith combat tactics shortly into your journey. That is not an offer I think Lae'zel makes lightly, or out of pragmatism alone. Is it because she sees him as weak? Yes. But it's also because she sees him as capable enough to become stronger, and worth training so that he is no LONGER weak. Most githyanki would not do that for another, especially one they had not met. Lae'zel is incredibly kind and giving to the others from the get-go no matter what anyone says about her "attitude"- putting her life and the code of ethics she lives by on the ropes to help a bunch of outsiders from the very start- but she is especially so to him, someone which many of her people may have outright discarded as useless.
From there, she starts to answer some of his questions. I like to think he talks to her about Faerun in turn for every question he asks- recognizing that the earth is as alien to her as she is to it. That's a good start for any friendship, really- mutual curiosity.
And then it gets stronger, as their personal struggles are revealed. The moment Lae'zel begins to waver in her faith and her dedication to Vlaakith is right around the same moment she hotly declares Mystra a fool for "demanding that Gale place all her faith in her and giving him none in return". She defends him against a literal god, declaring him capable and part of a mighty group- a stunning turn from her initial assessment. She balks at the idea of sacrificing him when she believes so firmly that it's an unnecessary waste of a skilled man. Possibly one she now considers a friend.
They are, in many ways, similar. Groomed in different senses by gods/god-like powers that only sought to milk them for all they were worth and then discard them when convenient. Manipulators of a celestial variety- the type of people who leave you with the realization that your entire life has been wasted serving them. Both of them were even wanted for their power- Laezel for her unwavering loyalty and militant prowess, Gale for his magical ability.
So, TLDR: They have, from the beginning, connected to each other via mutual understanding. They go through shocking life changes together and find solace in finding understanding in someone whose struggle initially seemed so alien to the other. From there, I feel like they'd genuinely find more casual things to bond over as Lae'zel discovers her enjoyment of Faerun and its wonders. No one would go ham over having a friend newly excited to learn about the world than Gale "could talk at length about anything" Dekarios.
Astarion + Lae'zel
This doesn't seem right at first, right? Poncey (lovingly) vampire meets unwaveringly stoic alien warrior. Except there's something ruthless and downright STURDY about Astarion that I can see Lae'zel quietly appreciating from the beginning. She can tell that he's willing to go the distance- even if they butt heads over her revulsion concerning the tadpoles and Astarion's attempts to wheedle the group into using them for their own gain. I feel like respect is shockingly easily earned for him on her front. In turn, I feel like Astarion is quite wary of her first- but honestly? He might be vaguely assuaded by the fact that Gale, arguably the most vulnerable of them all, just seemingly wanders around chatting with her intermittently without losing any limbs or being verbally abused. He also definitely clocks right off the bat in that scheming way of his that she'd be an incredibly helpful ally to have.
Except she's not easily seduced, or swayed by charm and friendly platitudes. Instead, I think the thing Lae'zel would silently begin to appreciate about him first is the subtle ways he shows interest in the world around him- his dialogue about not remembering how much colour there was in the world, and the like. As someone who's learning to love her new surroundings bit by bit, I can see her sympathizing with his newfound adoration of the daylight and outdoors he was deprived of for so long.
Later, she wholeheartedly supports Astarion's campaign to be rid of Cazador, and he even gleefully states "good for her" when she decides to turn her back on Vlaakith- so I reckon they're another check on the front of "friends bonding over overthrowing those who have been unrighteously in charge of them for so long". The circumstances are highly different, but the sentiment is shared: fuck that guy, I won't be their puppet anymore.
Finally, in the ending where Lae'zel chooses to stay on Faerun and forge her own fate exploring a new world, I can see her and Astarion working together- both enjoying their newfound freedom from cause and control and absorbing all the joys of a *functionally* new world for the both of them. With the aid of their far more local wizard friend who's less prone to the battlefield, of course. I can see them teaming up for a glorious adventure or two easily. Battle buddies, and the like.
#this is me yelling#gale dekarios#baldurs gate 3#bg3#lae'zel#lae'zel bg3#astarion ancunun#astarion bg3#gale bg3#long ass statement huh. i have a lot more i could say about any of them but this was already extensive as is... man...
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Sometimes I just sit there and think about how Dean getting pulled out of Hell was an order, and pulling Sam out of Hell was an act of free will.
#One is more compelling to me than the other one#sam winchester#castiel#dean winchester#sastiel#samstiel#samcas
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Lab tech brain compels me to ramble through my OC
#fallout#arcade gannon#my art#you fools- by liking my previous art post you compelled me to do more art#anyhow I suppose that the one upside to wasteland medicine having less people involved is that there's less room for miscommunication#this is one thing on a canvas with far too many things#and the one other finished thing can sit in my drafts to post later for the illusion of me doing more art than I have haha#woe be upon y'all I can only post non-OC art when it's with an OC present it's just the law of my brain#it's a significant motivating factor I cannot sidestep around#anyway if you read these tags know that his speaking cadence is 1000 miles an hour#one of them say nothing OR flip a switch then be a chronic yapper kinds (like myself)
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Always emotional about the fact that Atsushi never feels the need to force himself to be okay whenever he's around Akutagawa
YES!!!!!! YES!!!!!!!!!!! EXACTLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THAT'S THE WHOLE POINT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Look I already elaborated on this a bit in the tags here before but. The thing is that Atsushi doesn't even realize that he's so relieved to have found a guy that sucks so bad, who is his enemy and who he doesn't fear, he can finally drop the good guy facade he feels like he has to put up as a defense mechanism with everyone else. AND IT'S SO GOOD. And it's so good to see Atsushi's true colors, this snarky and even cocky I'd dare say side of him that he so rarely shows. And the fact that Akutagawa is the only one that can bring it to light!!! Just. AAAAAAAAHH.
#And I know it makes Atsushi look awful‚ but like. Atsushi *is* selfish.#It's been established since chapter 8‚ Atsushi saves others just for survival rather than any true altruistic intention.#It's one of the most compelling aspects of the character‚ his double nature.#atsushi nakajima#sskk#bsd#bungou stray dogs#people asks me stuff#They make me go insane I love them so much 😭😭😭#shin soukoku#Edit: Check the reblogs for more!
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Oh, my friends, don't ask me what your sacrifice was for.
There is a burden to being the survivor.
The witness to other's tragedies.
It only grows heavier with time.
#i will actually make a pretentious ass gifset thank you who's stopping me give me one good reason#Baldur's Gate 3#bg3edit#gamingedit#bg3 spoilers#Halsin#otheredits#my stuff#this is for @roofgeese who annihilated me the other day#i have a whole ramble rant about halsin's being a survivor and carrying that guilt is enough of a compelling story in itself#without scrapped EA content - because this is guilt that *never goes away* even when perhaps the root is solved#but i will hold my tongue and sit in my corner because the parallel of this song with halsin#destroyed me even more than the impossible dream alignment did#i mean 'and i can hear them now/the very words that they had sung/became their last communion' *twitches*#'their screams...it's all i can hear'#halsin lost *everyone* important to him
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free my complex female character, she did the same thing as complex male characters but the fandom takes Any analysis of her actions/choices/motivations that doesn’t strip her of all of her agency in bad faith and claims that only misogynists would dare to critique the things that they’ve noticed in her character because she’s a woman, completely ignoring the over-presence of discourse about similarly traited male characters in their fandom.
#exhausted by people categorizing CRITIQUE. not even genuine hate just literally basic analysis of imogen’s character#as a) hate at all but b) misogynistic simply because… they assume the person like caleb and percy uncritically like#i love imogen and i love her because she’s riddled with complexity that gives reason for her to be unlikeable#the shit ashton says makes me want to tear out my hair and i could write analysis on why but they’re still one of my favourite characters#i enjoy caleb but watching him infuriated me because of his self interest which is a coherent trait of his but is a tiring one#similarly with percy of love his pretentious Smartest In The Room shit but sometimes it meant he treated others more poorly than necessary#but i’m not unpacking all of that just so i have some fandom mandated right to say that i think there’s an aspect of a female character#that is imperfect in the human sense#because like. i will continue to call imogen’s self interested until the world burns and the moon shatters. because she is.#the only reason her choice to do good is compelling at all is because the choice to do otherwise is so tangible#it isn’t a Mistake or Fault that she’s self interested. it’s by design#like. she reaches towards the storm in curiosity in her sleep. but then she fights back when she’s awake#that’s it#that’s the dynamic. that’s what’s compelling#but no ur right fandom. let’s instead all agree that imogen is actually just intrinsically good#and take away all agency and complexity and humanity from her#and instead slap a sticker of Morally Good and enjoy the caricature of her where she’s made to fit into the imagine of#the latest aesthetic ad for diarrhoea medication#imogen temult#critical role#inspired as always by dumbass twitter posts that i’m subjected to because of school n work#the worst part is i do like the laudna n imogen dynamic in the stagnancy where it is but so much of that fandom is so clear in their erosion#of both characters actuality to suit the picture of Ship Tropes#like fuckin. so much of imogen’s fanart in imodna making her fat which as a fat person great love to see it#not so much when it’s clearly to make her short n stout against laundas tall n lanky.#anyway
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