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criminalamnesia · 2 years

Note

I really like your Don't Be A Stranger story........ So I was hoping if you could do something similar with Daemon x Targaryen reader.

If that's ok with you.

And please do a Harwin POV.

I Want You

warnings: targaryen!f!reader, daemon is probably ooc sorry, chronically ill reader, reader is rhaenyra’s sister, not proofread, no use of Y/N

summary: Daemon is the only one who treats you normally.

author’s note: sooo first time writing for daemon! I hope it’s ok, he’s probably ooc so I’m sorry about that. but I hope you enjoy!

Ever since you were a child, you had been told that Targaryens were closer to Gods than to men. You did not believe that.

You didn’t feel like a God. You felt frail and small and weak. Too fragile to leave bed most days. Illness had taken you as a babe and stayed with you ever since. It was an old, unwelcome friend. One that you couldn’t quite shake, no matter how hard you tried.

Everyone crept on eggshells around you. Afraid to break you, to hurt you. You wanted to scream. To grab them and shake them. To make them understand that you hated being treated this way.

But they all seemed to know better than you. The Maesters checked on you daily and reported back to the King. Your sister, Rhaenyra, came by with small trinkets and stories of her days about the Keep. Your father, the King, would visit when he could and place a gentle kiss to your forehead before he left.

You enjoyed their company, no matter how frustrated they left you. But you especially enjoyed Daemon’s company.

He didn’t visit often, as he tended to be quite busy with the Gold Cloaks or the brothels or being exiled. It was hard to keep track of his doings, and although Rhaenyra updated you time to time, the best information came directly from the source.

Daemon would show up unannounced. Sometimes you wondered if he snuck into the Keep just to see you. He would always bring a gift, something from his travels or just something that made him think of you.

It wasn’t the gifts that made you love his appearances, however. It was the fact that he treated you normally. He didn’t tiptoe around you. He didn’t try to console you about your health or pray that you would get better. He didn’t lie.

He was the only one who treated you just like anybody else. He would grab your arms and pull you up. He would walk around with you, through the halls of the Keep. He had even snuck you into King’s Landing once.

So, Daemon was your favorite. What you didn’t know was that you were his favorite, too. He would keep tabs on you through your servants. He would ask Rhaenyra about you. He would meticulously pick out the gifts he brought you. He would worry that you wouldn’t be happy to see him.

That’s how he felt today as he climbed the steps towards the royal apartments, making his way to your chambers. Anxious. Anxious that you would send him away after news of his latest scandal hit your ears.

He clutched the gift he had chosen for you gently in one hand. He was sure you would adore it.

“Prince Daemon,” a guard nodded to him as he approached your door. “The Princess isn’t feeling well today. She’s to take no guests.”

“Nonsense,” Daemon moved to brush past the guards, but they shifted to block the door. Daemon scoffed, narrowing his eyes at the men.

“Move aside, or I will cut your tongues from your mouths.” Daemon spoke, his tone had an edge to it. The guards did not budge.

Daemon’s free hand fell to the pommel of his sword, gripping it and preparing to make his threat a promise. Before he could, the door to your chambers crept open a few inches, leaving a big enough gap for your head to pop through.

“Let him in, please,” your voice was soft, and the guards turned in surprise at your presence.

“Princess, the King said–” one of them began, but you shook your head.

“I do not care what the King said. I am your Princess, and I am telling you to let my uncle in.”

The men looked at each other for a moment in silent contemplation before they acquiesced, clearing the way for Daemon. The Rogue Prince strode forward as you opened the door for him, stepping aside so he could enter.

You closed the door behind him, and he turned to look at you. His expression softened at your appearance. You seemed paler than usual, dark circles under your eyes and your hands shaking slightly. He reached for you, his free hand gently grasping your forearm and helping you back to your bed.

“Where were you this time, uncle? Exiled again?” You teased as he helped you lay down, earning a scoff from him.

“Have you no faith in me, Princess?”

You laughed, watching as he took a seat on the bed by your legs. You shuffled to sit up against the pillows, your eyes taking him in. His hair had grown since the last time you saw him.

“If you must know, I was in Pentos.”

You waited for him to explain why, but he didn’t. You didn’t pry. That was the thing about Daemon: if he wanted you to know something, he would tell you. He was straightforward and blunt. So, it was no use trying to pull it from him.

“Is it beautiful there?” You asked, clasping your hands together in your lap.

“You would think anything other than these four walls as beautiful,” he said, to which you rolled your eyes.

Before you could speak again, he held out his gift to you. It was wrapped in a dark cloth, and you gingerly took it from his palm, placing it in your lap before pulling the cloth away.

You gasped, raising the figure to your eyes to examine it closely. It was a dragon with an unusually long neck sculpted from what looked like rubies. It glistened in the light from your window, and you grinned as you turned it this way and that.

“It’s Caraxes,” Daemon told you, his eyes trained on your face. “I had some men in Pentos make it. Costed a small fortune,” he commented as you traced a finger along the dragon’s neck. “But it was worth it.”

“Thank you, Daemon. I love it,” you were smiling so wide your cheeks hurt. Daemon nodded, masking his gratefulness that you had enjoyed the gift behind a small smile.

“Of course. Perhaps one day you’ll be able to see him in person,” he told you. Oh, how you wished for that.

Being bedridden for most of your life had kept you from seeing what made your family so great. You had never been too close to any of the dragons your family owned. You’d seen a few of them, of course– from a distance.

But you longed to be up close, to run a hand over one’s scales and ride into the sky. You longed to feel the freedom that came with flying. The power that came with having a dragon.

The egg that had been placed in your crib when you were born had never hatched. Perhaps it had been a sign of your impending illness. Maybe it was for the best. If the egg had hatched, you wouldn’t have gotten to bond with the dragon anyway. That would have been much harder to cope with.

“I would love that, uncle.” Your voice was soft as you placed the sculpted Caraxes on your beside table. “Maybe I could even ride him?” You phrased the sentence as a question, looking at Daemon hopefully.

He nodded. “I would love to have you join me one day,” he said, beginning to stand. “But not today. I must go see your father, and then I’m due to leave.”

“So soon?” You asked, but you knew the answer. Daemon never stayed long.

He nodded once more, looking down at you with a smile. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, Princess. But when I return, I’ll get you that dragon ride.”

—

He did not return for many months, but you had never forgotten his promise. You held hope as every new day began that he would return and take you to the dragon pit– but he didn’t come. You stopped hoping after a while, but you didn’t forget that promise.

One night while you were sleeping, a knock on your door awoke you. Startled, you sat up in bed before reaching for a candle. The barely burning flame did little to guide you as you shuffled to the door, pulling it open wide enough to see who it was.

Daemon stood on the other side with a mischievous grin. You pushed the door open wider to reveal the forms of your guards slumped against the wall, knocked out cold.

“They’ll wake up,” he told you, and you rolled your eyes.

“What are you doing here in the middle of the night?” You voice was a whisper, afraid that someone passing by might overhear. It may have been the middle of the night, but the Keep never truly slept.

“I came to fetch you for that dragon ride I promised. Unless, of course, you don’t wish to?”

“Of course I wish to,” you huffed, turning to walk back into your chambers. He followed behind you, shutting the door quietly. “Just not in my nightgown.”

“Perfect riding attire,” he jested, and you scoffed as you moved to set the candle back on a table.

“If you’ll wait outside, I’ll be done dressing in a moment.” You told him, but he made no move to leave. He stood by the closed door, eyes trained on yours.

“Don’t you need help?” His voice held a hint of amusement. You brushed it off.

“I am quite capable of dressing myself, thank you.”

“Then what are all those servants for?” He questioned, moving to stand in front of you. You stood frozen, looking up at him in confusion. What was he doing?

“Are you feeling well enough to ride tonight?” His voice was softer now, heartfelt as he reached a hand up to brush strands of silver hair behind your ear.

“Would it matter?” You asked foolishly. Of course it would.

“Yes,” he said, his hand falling to cup your cheek. “Your death at my hands would certainly have me exiled for the rest of my life.”

You snorted, pulling your head away from his touch. “Yes, that would certainly be awful, wouldn’t it?”

You turned away from him, making your way to your wardrobe to grab a change of clothes. You could feel his gaze on your back.

“Daemon,” you said. “If you’re not going to leave the room, at least turn around.”

“As my Princess commands,” he said. You glanced over your shoulder to look at him, and sure enough, he had turned to face the door. You exhaled a breath you hadn’t known you were holding before pulling at your nightgown.

Daemon itched to turn around, but he didn’t. He would never, not unless you asked him to.

After a moment, you cleared your throat. He turned to face you, finding you fully clothed. “Will you help me?” You asked, your voice small as you turned your back to him to show him the laces you had failed to tie.

He nodded, moving to stand behind you. You reached a hand back to gather your hair to one side. Deft fingers made quick work of the laces, tying them into neat little knots. Once he was finished, his hands fell to your waist, slowly turning you in his grasp.

You looked up at him, your faces dangerously close. His eyes met yours, and you wondered if he was going to kiss you.

Instead, he removed his hands from your body and stepped back. “We don’t have all night,” he said, seemingly more to himself than to you. “Let’s go.”

—

He had bundled you up in a dark cloak before the two of you approached the dragon pit. You made sure to pull the cloth over the majority of your face to hide your features. Even if the dragon keepers hadn’t seen you in years, it would be hard not to recognize a Princess of the Realm.

Daemon kept you close, an arm slung over your shoulders as he guided you to the pit’s entrance. Caraxes sat outside of it, perking up at his rider’s approach.

Your eyes widened at his sheer size. You almost stopped in your tracks, but Daemon kept you moving.

“You’ll have time to gawk when we’ve left,” he whispered into your ear, causing you to nod.

“Prince Daemon.”

The two of you froze as a dragon keeper rounded Caraxes. The man looked at the pair of you, his eyes narrowed in distrust.

“Who is this?” The man asked, pointing a finger towards you.

Daemon pulled you closer into his side protectively before clearing his throat. “No one special. A whore who showed me a good time. I figured I’d show her one in return.”

“A whore, hm?” The keeper hummed disbelievingly, taking a step towards you. You pulled at the cloak, wrapping it tighter around your face.

“Well, it’s been a while since you’ve liked one enough to bring her to Caraxes.” The man commented, causing Daemon to give a forced chuckle.

“Yes, well, this one deserved it. Feisty thing,” he grinned, his hand around your shoulders dropping to grab at your waist. Your eyes widened slightly before you composed yourself, attempting to play along.

“Very well. Have a good ride, my Prince.” The keeper nodded to the pair of you before he walked away. When he had disappeared from sight, you let out a sigh of relief.

Daemon just chuckled as he pulled you to Caraxes. The dragon lowered his body towards the ground to allow you up.

“A whore, hm?” You questioned, looking at him amusedly.

“It’s happened once or twice,” he grinned at you. You rolled your eyes.

Daemon mounted first before reaching down to help you up. Your bones creaked in protest, but you ignored the feeling in favor of savoring this moment. This may very well be the last time you would ever get this close to a dragon.

“Ready?” Daemon asked as he moved to sit behind you. His hands squeezed your waist before moving to grip the reins. You blushed, thankful he couldn’t fully see your face.

“As I’ll ever be,” you breathed.

Without another word, Caraxes was lifting off into the air, large wings beating to gain altitude. You gripped the front of the saddle, suddenly terrified you would fall. Daemon chuckled behind you as you tensed.

“Relax. You won’t fall,” his lips brushed your ear as he spoke. “I won’t let you.”

You nodded, assuring yourself that he wouldn’t. Daemon would never willingly let you fall. You knew that to be true.

Caraxes rose into the night sky, parting clouds and bringing you closer to the bright moon. You stared in awe as King’s Landing grew smaller and smaller under you.

“Everything you’ve dreamed of, Princess?” Daemon asked, one hand releasing the reins to rest on your waist.

“And more,” you exhaled. You felt as if you’d never experience something this great ever again. If you died now, you would die happy.

“One day, you’ll have a dragon,” Daemon was speaking into your ear to be heard over the roaring wind as Caraxes flew. “And we’ll be able to fly together, side by side. Wherever you want. Pentos, Naath, Dorne, Highgarden. I’ll take you wherever.”

Your stomach fluttered at his words, at the promise behind them. You doubted it would ever happen, but it was nice to dream. Nice to have hope.

“I don’t think my father would like that very much. His fragile daughter frolicking around with the Rogue Prince.” You spoke over your shoulder, catching a glance of Daemon’s expression.

He was watching you intently, eyes dark as he met your gaze.

“Fuck what my brother wants,” Daemon told you. “What do you want?”

“That,” you breathed, leaning back into him. “I want everything you said.”

“Then you shall have it.” Daemon leaned forward, his lips ghosting against your neck. You shivered at his touch.

“You shall have anything and everything you want.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you breathed, attempting to call his bluff.

“I never do, Princess,” he replied.

He fell silent, and you took the chance to focus on your surroundings. You reached a shaking hand forward, moving it toward’s Caraxes’ scales. The dragon’s high-pitched whistle pierced the air as your hand smoothed along the red scales.

“He likes you,” Daemon said. You gave a shaky laugh in relief.

“How do you know?” You questioned.

Dameon chuckled. “He hasn’t thrown you off.”

“I guess that is a good sign,” you smiled, turning to look at Daemon. His face held an expression you couldn’t place.

The Prince cleared his throat, gripping the dragon’s reigns tighter to steer Caraxes back towards the Keep. Your brows furrowed in confusion. You hadn’t been gone long– had you said or done something to upset Daemon?

Moments later, Caraxes was landing next to the dragon pit. The dragon gave a satisfied whistle as Daemon slid from the saddle, holding his arms out to you in assistance. You took it, allowing him to set you gently on the ground.

“Did you have fun?” He asked, watching you with affection as you ran a hand along Caraxes’ long neck.

“Much,” you replied, a hint of awe in your voice as the dragon turned its head to face you. You slowly reached a hand towards Caraxes’ snout, unsure if the dragon liked you that much.

The creature nudged your hand and you sighed in relief, petting his snout with a wide grin.

“I told you he liked you,” Daemon spoke as he moved to stand beside you.

You didn’t reply, continuing to stroke Caraxes’ scales. The dragon snorted before deciding he had had enough, turning his head away from you. You dropped your hand back to your side before turning to Daemon.

“Thank you, uncle.”

Daemon gave a small nod but didn’t speak.

“I assume it’s time to take me back?” You questioned, unsure of Daemon’s intentions.

The Prince nodded, seemingly breaking himself from his thoughts. “Yes, of course. It’s quite late.”

You nodded, turning and beginning the journey back to the Keep. He walked beside you without a word. The silence between the two of you was loaded with tension, and you couldn’t quite figure out why.

When Daemon had finally snuck you back into your quarters (the guards were still knocked out), you expected him to leave right away. He didn’t.

He stood at the door, eyes watching you as you moved towards your bed.

“Everything alright?” You asked, confusion on your face. He was never this quiet.

“Are you alright?” He replied.

“I’m fine,” you said, but he shook his head and crossed the room to you. His hands cupped your cheeks, forcing you to look up at him.

“Do you really believe that? You’ve been stuck here for your entire life. Tonight is the first night I’ve ever seen you truly look alive,” he told you.

“There is a reason, Daemon. I do not always like them, but–” you began, but he swiftly interrupted.

“A shit reason,” he huffed, causing your eyes to widen at his outburst. “You could come with me. We could make your dreams reality. Go wherever you want.”

“Where is this coming from?” Your voice was soft. Your hands reached up to cover his. “You’ve never acted like this towards me.”

“Come with me,” he ignored your words. “We can leave now.”

“Daemon,” you breathed, pulling your face from his grasp. “You do not want me, not truly. Today was a good day– all my days are not good days.”

“You’ll be taken care of,” he told you, but you shook your head.

You loved him, perhaps more than you should. He had treated you normally. He had gifted you things. He had taken your side.

But he was still Daemon. The Rogue Prince. He was spiteful and unpredictable. He had rarely seen you on your worst days. Would he stick around for that? Would he care for you?

You didn’t know. You wanted to think he would, but you were not so naive as to blindly hope. You shook your head again, dropping your hands to your sides.

“If you truly care for me, then you may have me. But I do not think you fully understand what you’re asking.”

He did not speak. His fists clenched at his sides. You thought he would try to convince you further, but he didn’t. Instead he turned and stalked towards the door, opening it and stepping out. It clunked shut behind him.

—

You did not see Daemon for a while after that night. You had assumed he was done with you. You had denied him, and his pride was wounded. You tried not to think about it too much, but all you had was time to think.

Then, one day a year later, there was knock at the door. A servant entered with a wrapped box. She handed it to you before leaving. You looked at it skeptically, but opened it anyways.

Inside was a deep green dragon egg. Your eyes widened as you touched the egg, breath catching in your throat. You spotted a scroll in the bottom of the box, grabbing it eagerly and all but tearing it open.

Princess,

My offer still stands.

Daemon

This time, you took him up on it.

#house of the dragon #game of thrones fic #game of thrones #hotd fic #hotd #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #targaryen!reader #targaryen reader #daemon targaryen fic #rhaenyra targaryen #viserys targaryen #the rogue prince #female reader

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silverjirachi · 9 months

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when i was 19 i was broken up with unexpectedly in college on the first day of sophomore year by my long term committed boyfriend who had just come back from studying abroad, causing a chain reaction of ill-timed events that unraveled my health physically, mentally, and emotionally in a way that i am still recovering from almost 10 years later, including my effective exile from said boyfriend’s family and friend group, which was emotionally devastating because his family, particularly his mother, provided the only sense of comfort and support i had due to severe problems in my own family, and i never got to say thank you or goodbye to her for that, and in high school she would always pack extra cookies in his lunch specifically for me to have. and like. i cannot emphasize to you enough that these were god-tier cookies. this was a southern mom who knew what she was about and it was god-tier cookies. anyway therefore when he broke up with me i lost access to anne’s god tier cookies because i had no baking or cooking skills myself, but immediately after he broke up with me on my first day back to college in my dorm room, in my delirious daze about 10 minutes before i passed out from shock, i had enough sense in me to email anne about her cookie recipe. and of course this got lost to time because i was too delirious and shocked to do anything about it and then would be sent into spiraling uncontrollable panic attacks when thinking of or confronted with any memory of him or his family, but just this week i finally did it. i managed to dig up the old recipe in my email and i did it. i baked the god tier cookies and they are just as incredible as i remember. it felt illegal. it felt evil. it felt conspiratorial. it felt like i had made away with some government secret and would never be caught for my crimes. with the completion of these god-tier cookies, i have officially regained every valuable thing in my life that was taken away from me in the fallout of this event save for the people themselves, most important of which was these cookies, and on god i was running around and evil laughing in my house because it felt so illegal it felt like this

what have you taken away from me that i could not then regain myself?

#also it turns out the secret was just a shitload of vanilla extract #anne knew what she was about and it was actually just a fuckload of vanilla #very apollo’s dodgeball tumblr girlie of her #anyways anne i love you thank you for letting me download these cookies #with my final dying action #you can reblog this btw its supposed to be funny

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myechoecho · 4 months

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Captivating the King, ep 4

God the king remains awful to the end. He's about to kill Jinhan when the poison/his illness finally overtakes him. And what does he demand? That Jinhan find whomever tried to hurt the king. Dude, you just tried to kill your brother based on what you know is a lie.

If only anyone, ANYONE, had listened to Jinhan none of this would have happened. He was truly absolutely loyal to his brother and would have served him devotedly. Heck, he probably would have served the Prince Royal too. But alas, no one did and that's how we wind up with Jinhan as king.

Jinhan for the first time tells a lie that he was named the successor. The Minister of War really overestimated his plans and underestimated Jinhan. And Yoo Hyun Bo. He should have realized that if Hyun Bo was so untrustworthy, he would have betray the Minister without a second thought. Jinhan is going to have to be careful with him though.

So much for Myung Ha being possibly redeemable. I still do think he truly cared for Hee Soo and was not really in favour of his father's plans. But he went about it the wrong way. By forging the confession, all he did was help Jinhan ascend to the crown, get his father killed and was labeled a traitor. He was to blame, at least partially, but at the end of the episode (or the preview, I forget) he is back and has a grudge because of course he does not think it is his fault.

For all her passionate defense of Jinhan and what he had to do to survive in Qing, I don't think Hee Soo actually understood what it really meant. Jinhan is doing exactly the same thing now and is in just a perilous a position. Hee Soo doesn't have all the information, so she doesn't know why he's doing this. She also had a pretty idealized view of him and that has been shattered.

But he does save them even though Hee Soo does not see this. They are not killed. They are exiled for 3 years to do hard labour, plus the lashes. (random, slightly weird but I assume she's going to have a scar from where the sword cut her and I am kinda excited for when Jinhan sees it). Hongjang is not forced to walk but given a cart to travel due to her injuries. If he truly didn't care, she would have been forced to walk and would have died much sooner. Jinhan doesn't kill the Prince Royal, which most people would have - though he also doesn't exactly commit to not killing him. He also let Myung Ha live he probably should have been killed.

It is no mistake that three years have gone by and only now is Jinhan issuing the competition for baduk players. He is waiting for his Mong Woo to return. I am also highly suspicious that he actually drank and womanized for the past 3 years. My guess is that it was an act.

Two completely broken people are about to reunite. On with revenge in mind and one who trusts no one. I am excited.

#captivating the king #kdrama

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devilkittydeckbuilding · 3 months

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hewwo my friends!! i wanted to tell you all about my new 60 card deck i built recently!!

that's right

i said 60 card >;3

im not only a commander player teehee

its also fully modern legal!!

ive actually been grinding a whole lot of 60 card games against my girlfriend/toy/pet/wife @goqmir with a bunch of decks lately and its been a blast :3

so today i want to talk about my deck which i haven't thought of a clever name for yet which is:

EXPEDITED INHERITANCE COMBO

this is a list that i changed up to suit my personal wants and needs and while i couldnt find the original decklist i stole the idea from an mtggoldfish short on youtube and according to seth the first person to build this was a user who goes by SMOMP1 but thats all i know

anyway!! i believe the original decklist was a purely mono red deck but i thought. hey. this is a combo deck, why don't i add tutors? so i went rakdos and am playing 4 tutors and its made the deck feel very consistent :3c

so here's the basic layout of the gameplan: the main combo is playing marauding raptor to cheapen the cost on all our 0 and 1 mana creatures so that they are free, and then playing expedited inheritance which means when you play a 1 drop creature for free marauding raptor deals 2 damage to that creature on etb, which then triggers expedited inheritance to exile 2 cards from the top of your library. the idea of this is to keep hitting more cheap creatures off these exiled cards so that you can play more and more creatures and exile through your whole deck.

the deck is actually rather simple and is a two card combo (if you arent counting all the small creatures that is lol but theres a million of them) and yeah thats the main idea.

now you may be asking,

how do you win??

well theres a really cool answer to that question

the main way to win the game, or really the only feasible way, is to dome your opponent for 50 with aetherflux reservoir

the way to win with aetherflux is to go through your whole deck with the combo loop described above. by doing this you cast so many spells that when you get down the reservoir it only takes a few spells cast and you win the game!!

it may sound like this deck is really slow to win because you have to get down the resevoir and 2 other combo pieces to win but we actually have a plan to get this thing down the turn you combo, which can be as soon as turn 3 >:3c

and its this little guy:

as you go through the whole combo loop you will eventually find and play 4 myr moonvessels which when they all are played and subsequently killed by marauding raptor will net you 4 colorless mana which is just enough to play the reservoir!!

as for the rest of the deck there are some honorable mentions plus the changes i made to the deck

inquisitive puppet is probably the best small creature in the deck that is not combo essential because it scrys on etb which sets you up to either combo more cause it finds you more creatures to play or it can help find combo pieces to set up!! it also can exile itself to make a new creature if you had to play it before the combo which is 2 more free cards!!

theres also stuff like combat courier which can just be sacced to dig deeper for combo pieces and such but most of the other creatures are just cheap with minimal bonus affects. im also playing myr servitor for funsies mostly. the main thought there was that if my combo fizzles i could theoretically combo the next turn since they return themselves to the battlefield on upkeep but thats oddly niche and i think ill swap them out for something else

as for changes i made to the list, i added black for tutors and also better removal.

i added diabolic intent as my only tutor because it isnt too expensive and also is perfect for the deck. since im playing so many dirt cheap and somewhat useless creatures why not play a card thats essentially demonic tutor with the small price of sacrificing a creature!! this card has played really well in my matches and essentially gives me 4 extra copies of my combo pieces!!

im also playing a weird creature choice in hope of ghirapur because i thought it would be interesting to try out.

the idea behind the hope is that it serves as a cheap creature for the combo but also presents a form of protection if i get it down before the combo. if i can get in a hit with it before the combo and sac it then it prevents the opponent from casting noncreature spells for that turn which is theoretically enough to sneak the combo in through removal. its not a perfect plan but it had gotten me a couple wins.

as for the sideboard im kind of new to the concept of sideboarding and i built it to be effective against general decks but also im only playing against my wife rn so it isnt perfect.

anyway yeah thats the deck!! it will continually change as i add new cards cause im still testing it but i hope this was either insightful or entertaining and i suggest giving the deck a try and maybe putting your own spin on it!!

thanks for reading!!

#mtg #magic the gathering

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queer-geordie-nerd · 1 year

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I talk about Mira a lot, and I’m doing so again 🤷🏻‍♀️

She was a beautiful woman, and a powerful and talented actor and writer, no doubt, but much more importantly, I feel, she was also a woman of vast and deep integrity - she fought against injustice and nationalism/racism all of her life and her principled and public stance against the war and ethnic divisions in Yugoslavia cost her dearly and yet, it was a position she never ever moved away from and believed in profoundly. It is very easy to have principles when they are not being tested, and another thing entirely to stake your very life on those principles.

Even when her stance cost her her home, her career, and her friendships, and the enormous amount of threats against her life forced her to leave her country, she never once backed down from her belief in unity and cooperation.

The anti war essay she wrote and published as she fled is still one of the most powerful pieces of writing I’ve ever read and I am going to post it here in its entirety because it is fierce and amazing:

Letter to my co-citizens

I hereby wish to thank my co-citizens who have joined so unreservedly in this small, marginal, and apparently not particularly significant campaign against me. Although marginal, it will change and mark my whole life. Which is, of course, totally irrelevant in the context of the death, destruction, devastation, and blood-chilling crimes within which our life now goes on.

This is happening, however, to the one and only life I have. It seems that I’ve been chosen for some reason to be the filthy rag everyone uses to wipe the mud off their shoes. I am far too desperate to embark on a series of public polemics in the papers. I do, however, feel that I owe myself and my city at least a few words. Like at the end of some clumsy, painful love story, when you keep wanting, wrongly, to explain something more, even though you know at the bottom of your heart that words are wasted; there is no one left to hear them. It is over.

Listening to my answering machine, to the incredible quantities of indescribably disgusting messages from my co-citizens, I longed to hear at least one message from a friend. Or not even a friend, a mere acquaintance, a colleague. But there was none. Not a single familiar voice, not a single friend. Nevertheless, I am grateful to them, to those noble patriots who kindly promise me a “massacre the Serbian way”; and to those colleagues, friends, and acquaintances who, by remaining silent, are letting me know that I cannot count on them any more.

I am grateful also to all my colleagues in the theatre with whom I played Drzic, Moliere, Turgenev, and Shaw, I am grateful to them for their silence, I am grateful to them for not even trying to understand, let alone attempting to vindicate, my statement concerning my appearance at the BITEF Festival in Belgrade, the statement in which I tried to explain that taking part in that production at that moment was for me a defense of our profession which must not and cannot put itself in the service of any political or national ideas, which must not and cannot be bound by political or national limits because it is simply against its nature, which must, even at the worst of times, establish bridges and ties. In its very essence it is a vocation which knows no boundaries.

I know that all this talk about the cosmopolitanism of art seems inappropriate at a moment like this. I know that it may seem out of place to swear to pacifism, to swear to love and to the brotherhood of all peoples while people are dying, while children are dying, while young men are returning home crippled and mangled forever.

How can I say anything which won’t sound like an ill-fitted nonsense at the moment when, for absolutely unfathomable reasons, Dubrovnik is being threatened, the city where I played my favorite role, Gloria?

But I have no other way of thinking. I cannot accept war as the only solution, I cannot force myself to hate, I cannot believe that weapons, killing, revenge, hatred, that such an accumulation of evil will ever solve anything. Each individual who personally accepts the war is in fact an accessory to the crime; must he not then take a part of the guilt for the war, a part of the responsibility?

In any case, I think, I know and I feel that it is my duty, the duty of our profession, to build bridges. To never give up on cooperation and community. Not the national community. The professional community.

The human community. And even when things are at their very worst, as they are now, we must insist to our last breath on building and sustaining bonds between people. This is how we pledge to the future.

And one day it will come. For my part, until recently I was willing to endure all manner of problems in transportation, communication, and finances to trek the 20 hours across Austria and Hungary between Zagreb and Belgrade. I was willing to use risky, even dangerous modes of travel, just to keep holding my performances in the two warring cities, to appear at precisely 7:30 on stage with my Zagreb or Belgrade colleagues and to alternate Corneille and Turgenev for the sake of professional continuity, for the sake of something that would outlive this war and this hatred which is so foreign to me. Time and time again I was willing to make my life a symbol of a pledge to the future which must be waiting for us, until that day when some ardent patriot finally does slaughter me as so many have promised to do.

I was willing and I would still be willing to undertake all and any efforts, if the hatred hadn’t suddenly overwhelmed me with its horrendous ferocity, hatred welling from the city I was born in. I am appalled by the force and magnitude of that hatred, by its perfect unanimity, by the fact that there was absolutely nobody who could see my gesture as my defense of the integrity of the profession, as my attempt to defend at least one excellent theatre performance. I had no intention of acting further in performances outside the BITEF Festival, as I stated in my letter. BITEF as an international theatre event attended by the English, Russians, French, Belgians, and even one Slovene seemed to me worth participating in, especially because any decision not to participate would have meant betraying a performance I had worked on under the most difficult circumstances during the March 9th Belgrade tanks, daily threats of a military coup, etc., etc.

It is terribly sad when one is forced to justification without having done anything wrong. There is nothing but despair, nausea, and horror.

I no longer have any decisions to make. Others have decided for me.

They have decided I must shut up, give up, vanish; they have abolished my right to do my job the way I feel it should be done, they have abolished my right to come home to my own city, they have abolished my right to return to my theatre and act in my performances. Someone decided that I should be fired from my job. Thank you, Croatian National Theatre; thank you, my colleague Dragan Milivojevic, who signed my dismissal slip. I know that lots of people are losing jobs, that I am just one of many, simply part of a surplus work force. I constantly ask myself whether I have any right, at this moment of communal horror, to make any demands of my own. One thing seems certain: I plan for quite some time (how long?) not to perform on any stage in this crumbling, mangled land. Perhaps they needn’t have hurried so in firing me. Perhaps this would have simply taken care of itself. With more decency. And dignity. Not so crudely. Of course, this is not a moment for tenderness. But won’t someone out there have to be ashamed of this? And will this someone necessarily be me, as my fellow actors try to convince me in their orthodox interviews? Can the horror of war be used as a justification for every single nasty bit of filth we commit against our fellow man? Are we allowed to remain silent in the face of injustice done to a friend or a colleague and justify our silence by the importance of the great bright national objective? I ask my friends in Zagreb, who are now silent, while at the same time they condemn Belgrade for its silence.

It is hard to write without bitterness. I would like to be able to do that, because we should “Love Our Enemy.” I wish we all could. Herein perhaps lies the solution for all of us. But I fear that we are very far from the ways of the Lord. His is the way of love. Not hatred.

To whom am I addressing this letter? Who will read it? Who will even care to read it? Everyone is so caught up by the great cause that small personal fates are not important any more. How many friends do you have to betray to keep from committing the only socially acknowledged betrayal, the betrayal of the nation? How many petty treacheries, how many pathetic little dirty tricks must one do to remain “clean in the eyes of the nation?”

I am sorry, my system of values is different. For me there have always existed, and always will exist, only human beings, individual people, and those human beings (God, how few of them there are !) will always be excepted from generalizations of any kind, regardless of events, however catastrophic. I, unfortunately, shall never be able to “hate all Serbs,” nor even understand what that really means. I shall always, perhaps until the moment the kind threats on the phone are finally carried out, hold my hand out to an anonymous person on the “other side,” a person who is as desperate and lost as I am, who is as sad, bewildered, and frightened. There are such people in this city where I write my letter, the city my love took me to, a feeling it seems almost indecent to mention these days. Nothing can provide an excuse any more, everything that does not directly serve the great objective has been trampled upon and appears despicable, and with it what love, what marriage, what friendship, what theatre performances!

I reject, I refuse to accept such a crippling of myself and my own life. I played those last performances in Belgrade for those anguished people who were not “Serbs”; but human beings, human beings like me, human beings who recoil before this monstrous Grand Guignol farce in which dead heads are flying. It is to these people, both here and there, that I am addressing my words. Perhaps someone will hear me.

The punishment meted me by my city, my only city and my theatre, my only theatre, the only theatre I felt was mine, is a punishment I feel I do not deserve. I was working in the way I have always felt I had to work, believing in people and our vocation which is supposed to bring people together, not tear them apart. I will never “give up my Belgrade friends”; as some of my colleagues have, because I do not feel that these friends have in any way brought about this catastrophe which has afflicted us, just as I will not turn my back on my Zagreb friends, not even those who have turned their backs on me. I will try in every way possible to understand their panic, their fear, their bitterness, even their hatred, but I plead for the same dose of understanding for me, that is, for a story which is different than many others, for a life which has deviated, due to the so-called destiny, from the expected and customary. Why must everything be the same, so frighteningly uniform, leveled, standardized? Haven’t we had enough of that? I know this is the time of uniforms and they are all the same, but I am no soldier and cannot be one. I haven’t got it in me to be a soldier, soldiering just isn’t my calling.

Regardless of whether we will be living in one, or five, or fifty states, let us not forget the people, each individual, regardless of which side of this Wall of ours the person happens to be on. We were born here by accident, we are this or that by accident, so there must be more than that, mustn’t there?

I am sending this letter into a void, into darkness, without an inkling of who will read it and how, or in how many different ways it will be misused or abused. Chances are it will serve as food for the eternally hungry propaganda beast. Perhaps someone with a pure heart will read it after all.

I will be grateful to that someone.

Mira Furlan,

From Belgrade and Zagreb, November 1, 1991.

#mira furlan #anti war #this woman was fucking incredible #babylon 5

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faith-forgxtten-land · 5 months

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idek what you'd do with this but you're a Taylor fan so peaky blinders characters and their corresponding Taylor song/s

ooooh this is a good one. and surprisingly difficult. and i'm trying not to repeat songs which is hard when all of these people are so desperately mentally ill...

Peaky Blinders Characters + their Taylor Swift songs

warnings: needlessly long

Tommy Shelby

mr perfectly fine - does this need explaining? he is mr casually cruel, mr everything revolves around you

so dignified in your well-pressed suit / so strategised, all the eyes on you / sashay your way to your seat / it's the best seat, in the best room / oh, he's so smug, mr always wins / so far above me in every sense / so far above feeling anything

dear reader - burn all the files, desert all your past lives

Alfie Solomons

london boy - i laughed with this but i will stand by it for obvious reasons

getaway car - i will take no comments on this

i knew you were trouble - he is trouble

beautiful ghosts - it mentions london and that’s good enough for me

i know this life isn’t safe / but it’s wild and it’s free

style - we never go out of style (alfie to tommy probably)

look what you made me do - honey, i rose up from the dead, i do it all the time

Arthur Shelby

this is me trying - i’m not sure i can find a song more fitting

they told me all of my cages were mental / so i got wasted like all my potential

renegade - is it insensitive for me to say “get your shit together so i can love you”?

you fire off missiles ‘cause you hate yourself / but do you know you’re demolishing me?

forever winter - he’s up, 5am, wasted / long gone, not even listening

in short, poor arthur

Polly Gray

sad beautiful tragic - it just feels right

mad woman - i’m struggling to explain these choices but they’re correct

castles crumbling - yes

my tears ricochet - also yes

Ada Shelby

dorothea - i thought hard about this one so you better agree

you got shiny friends since you left town

it’s never too late to come back to my side

fearless - she is

a place in this world - i'm just a girl / trying to find a place in this world

ours - communism

John Shelby

i forgot that you existed - i am sorry john

the way i loved you - he and esme are crazy

but i miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain / it’s 2am and i’m cursing your name

can you tell i struggled

girl at home - you’re married john

Michael Gray

foolish one - he’s dumb as hell

never grow up - just is, could be him or polly

the lucky one - you wonder if you’ll make it out alive

bad blood - well

Grace Burgess

when emma falls in love - when emma falls in love, she paces the floor / closes the blinds and locks the door

she won’t walk away, unless she knows she absolutely has to leave

and all the bad boys would be good boys / if they only had a chance to love her

Lizzie Stark

don’t you - this fits her so well and i will not entertain any arguments about it

i heard she’s nothing like me / i’m sure she’ll make you happy

sometimes, i really wish that i could hate you / i’ve tried, but that’s just something i can’t do

you’re losing me - we thought a cure would come through in time, now i fear it won’t

now i just sit in the dark and wonder if it’s time / do i throw out everything we built or keep it

May Carleton

august - you weren’t mine to lose

Finn Shelby

exile - i’m hilarious

you’re on your own, kid - see above

Esme Lee

crazier - yes

#peaky blinders #Taylor swift #the crossover the world needed #I'm both proud and highly ashamed of this #tommy shelby #alfie solomons #arthur shelby #polly gray #michael gray #I can't think of any more tags #grace shelby #lizzie stark #finn shelby #john shelby #ada shelby #grace burgess #esme shelby #esme lee #lizzie shelby

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fatuismooches · 1 year

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hiii lovely!!

I am absolutely in love with your fragile! reader content, especially dottore and fragile reader it's just so hhdnsjsfhs anyways I noticed on the fragile reader but they died post that the reader is mentioned to have only met dottore after he became a harbinger so it made me wonder whether dottore would have a slightly different reaction to akademiya! reader, how the letter would be etc like imagine reader talking abt the akademiya days and whatnot </3

anw!! I just wanted to say I adore ur works and they hit home cus I'm rather sickly lol

mwah mwah byeee

- 🌕

Yea, when I wrote that I didn't think of how good a fragile Akademiya reader would be unfortunately, but I wish I did cuz it would have been so much better-😭 AND YES HE DEFINITELY WOULD ILL WRITE A LIL SOMETHING HERE

To Zandik,

As I write this, it is late at night. One of your clones put me to bed a while ago, yet for some reason, I cannot sleep. I keep tossing and turning and so I decided to do something to occupy my mind. It has been rather restless lately, I admit. I... don't know how to tell you this in person, so I'll just write down whatever comes to mind right now. You'll probably end up finding this eventually, so I might as well just let everything out.

I have been thinking a lot about the past lately. Our Akademiya days, to be specific. I have secretly been wishing to go back to those days, even if just for a bit. To go back to the first moment I met you. (How handsome you were.) To go back to those painful study sessions. To go back to those picnics under the stars. To go back to the time I was not sick, and I could spend life with you to the fullest.

Really, those were some of the best moments of my life. I have been thinking about this because... I have not been feeling well lately. I mean, I don't feel well most of the time but nowadays I feel as though the illness is creeping more and more in me. It might just be a temporary thing, I don't really know. I know you are working as best you can, I know you better than anyone. So... don't blame yourself.

Hah, it's too bad. Admittedly I have also found myself daydreaming about the future, although it seems rather dim. I want to see a lot of the world. Did you know that? Well, I should correct myself. I want to follow you wherever you go and see the world that way. You've gone to Sumeru recently, yes? I know you've told me about how much it's changed, but I hope to see it myself one day. And I want to befriend some of your Harbingers friends. What is their opinion of me, by the way? Ah, and I want to take on that Traveler, too. They seem rather pesky.

Well, if I do get better, I will burn this letter and apologize to you with everything I have. But for now, I'll stash it somewhere just in case. And I'll say this now - I love you, Zandik. I love you so much that if I were to be away from you for too long I'd go mad. This love has burned inside of me since the Akademiya, and it still rages within me. I hope you know that.

Dottore would be much more affected although he doesn't really show it. Hell, even the clones are affected, from how they linger by your door a second too long, remembering that there is no you any more to wake up. He puts a mask on his emotions to pretty much everyone. You have been a familiar face for countless years of his life. In the Akademiya, after pulling another all-nighter, the first thing he'd be greeted with was your sleepy embrace around him. He'd roll his eyes at your nagging, and the two of you would get ready for classes. During his expulsion and exile, even though you were ill, you still stuck by his side. And even during the Fatui, you still sent him that tired but lovely smile. Every day, without fail, you could be seen with him at least for a bit. Yet he failed. For the first time in a long time, he failed.

#smooches talks #🌕 anon #fragile reader <3 #dottore love notes <3 #ALSO HIII UR NEW WELCOME!!! <333 #AND THANK U FOR THE COMPLIMENTS 🌕 ANON IM SO SO HAPPY U ENJOY MY WORKS💕💕💕#dot and fragile reader deserves a whole fanfic atp

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willowbilly · 3 days

Note

Your post on Silna’s ethnicity was very interesting! After the end of the show, could Silna have been able to join another group or find the Utkuhikšaliŋmiut? If she wasn’t in exile for the death of the Tuunbaq.

And some more questions (if you don’t mind!) - in a modern AU, what ethnicity do you think Silna would identify as? If she could speak an Inuit language/dialect, which one? Most of the people I know who live around Franklin Expedition related places speak Inuinnaqtun or Natsilingmiutut (which I believe is Utkuhikhalik, from Gjoa Haven) but I know next to nothing about linguistics.

Prefacing this with the caveat that these are all merely the opinions and cultural understandings of a white non-Native person from Alaska. Much of this more specific ethnographic and linguistic info is from Knud Rasmussen, Jean Briggs, Alana Johns, Joke Schuit, the Interviewing Inuit Elders series from Nunavut Arctic College, the Ikajuqtigiit Society's Natchilingmiut Uqauhingit, tusaalanga.ca, and the few years I've had of Iñupiatun lessons. I am by no means an expert!

If Silna were to reconcile with Tuunbaq's spirit after its death, then her exile might be lifted because her shamanism would no longer be an uncontrolled threat to those around her. But that's just me desperately postulating; perhaps Tuunbaq's death itself imposes a lifelong spiritual quarantine upon any person in its proximity. I don't know the precise taboos at work, but the application of traditional taboos was most strict around occasions of birth and death. Adhering to spiritual prohibitions, such as observing a set period of isolation, was believed to help avert misfortune and illness.

But were she not a danger to people, Silna absolutely could join the Utkuhikšaliŋmiut! Though hostilities with Natchiliŋmiut and Iluilirmiut are said to have contributed to movement of Ugřuliŋmiut southward, and while kin endogamy was preferred, intermarriage between neighboring Inuit groups was relatively commonplace, and migration already obligatory. Inuit in the region were mostly patrilocal nomads: women were more likely to marry out due to typically not needing as intimate a familiarity with their family's hunting grounds as men. Warfare also sometimes involved the abduction of wives; the custom of female infanticide especially during times of extreme hardship resulted in an unequal ratio of men to women. Which is to say that Silna, as a probable Ugřuliŋmiutaq, might join or be joined with any Inuit group in reach.

Ugřuliŋmiut emigrants are known to have become Utkuhikšaliŋmiut, Hanniŋajurmiut, and Ualiakliit, all of whose subdialects are labeled Utkuhikhalik. The Ualiakliit might speak what is a variety of Hanniŋajurmiut subdialect. Speakers were later resettled largely in Uqšuqtuuq (Gjoa Haven), Talurřuaq (Taloyoak), and Qamani’tuaq (Baker Lake), influencing the Natchilik, Arviligřuaq, and other dialects likewise pushed into the same settlements. Out of the Natsilingmiutut varieties, Utkuhikšalik language is most distinct from Natchilik and Arviligřuaq, with some lexical and phonological differences. Inuinnaqtun is very closely related, and is also now spoken in Uqhuqtuuq!

Either Utkuhikšaliŋmiutut, Natchiliŋmiutut proper, or Arviligjuarmiutut would make obvious sense for a modern Silna to speak, and if her family now or then is made of speakers from multiple dialects she'd quite likely be able to codeswitch between those dialects. And nearby or coexisting dialects such as Inuinnaqtun make sense too! The more recent the AU, the more one can probably cast other, farther-away Inuit as Silna's family, given a believable enough backstory (though I do suggest that one keep some direct connection between her and the Qitirmiut region, as for instance still having her father or a direct ancestor be an Inuk from Uqšuqtuuq).

The +miut postbase is also used in more than ethnonyms, because it is tied to dwellership! One may see it lexicalized in other terms as well, such as in aŋutikšat imarmiutat: “sea mammals,” with aŋutikšat “mammals, beasts, wildlife” in apposition with imarmiutat “inhabitants of the water.” The postbase naturally may be attached to the names of modern settlements and other placenames, so nowadays a resident of Gjoa Haven is an Uqšuqtuurmiutaq, a resident of Kugaaruk is a Kuugaarřuŋmiutaq, and so forth.

Were Silna to join the Utkuhikšaliŋmiut, she would both become and would not really be an Utkuhikšaliŋmiutaq; she'd retain her ethnic identity as an Ugřuliŋmiu even while identified with the local community and its country. The context and situation would inform whether she is defined as an Utkuhikšaliŋmiu or not.

Silna would probably identify as Inuk in a modern AU! Although one could very easily conceive of a modern AU wherein she has heritage from any Inuit-Yuit-Unangan language-speaking people (especially what with the book applying the meaning of Iñupiat, Inuinnait, et cetera: “Real People” to the word Inuit: “People;” the show taking inspiration from Yup’ik mask traditions for Aja's mask; Nive Nielsen being Kalaaleq; etc.). In which case, she'd use the most common ethnonym (Kalaaleq, Iñupiaq, Yupiaq, Yup’ik, Cup’ig, Sugpiaq, Unangax̂, etc.), and if she has inherited multiple tribal affiliations she would formally introduce herself with all of them. These are related but very distinct languages and cultures!

“Eskimo-Aleut” is the older academic name for the Inuit-Yuit-Unangan language family, with “Eskimo” encompassing the languages of Inuit and Yuit including Sugpiat, and “Aleut” being the language of Unangan, but “Aleut” is the exonym first applied to Native peoples during Russian colonization and is still preferred by both Unangan and Sugpiat/“Alutiit” over the other later exonym “Eskimo.” Some organizations and people, particularly elders in rural Alaska, might still identify themselves in English as “Iñupiaq Eskimo” or “Yupiaq Eskimo,” with acceptance of the exonym in its function as an umbrella ethnonym, but it is more often a slur in Canada and Greenland, and more neutral, precise endonyms are generally preferred, especially by younger or urban people. “Esquimaux” is the older French spelling that may carry slightly less stigma in English. While “Inuit” is sometimes applied to Inuit, Yuit, and Unangan collectively as a replacement umbrella term, it is not totally interchangeable, for it remains an exonym to Yuit and Unangan etc.; though the words Inuk, Iñuk, Yuk, Cuk, and Suk are all clear cognates. “Kalaallit” is the ethnonym for Inuit of Greenland/Kalaallit Nunaat, probably borrowed from a Norse exonym.

Lowercase “inuit” in Inuit language is the generic noun for all humans (lowercase in Latin orthography, whereas syllabics have no upper/lowercase distinction). An “inuk” is also the yolk of an egg, or the resident spirit of something such as a natural feature, e.g. of siḷa, sila, hila: the air, weather, atmosphere. Iñupiatun for “the resident spirit of the air” is siḷam iñua; the Terror novel appropriates this phrase with unconventional orthography for Silna's group name: “sixam ieua,” but the “spirit-governor-of-the-sky” is literally of the air, its resident spirit. Siḷam is in the singular relative noun case: “of the air” or “the air's.” Iñua is the absolutive noun iñuk with the singular-to-singular possessive noun ending: “its resident spirit.” Hilap inua is the same spirit as the one whose Inuktut proper name is Naarjuk or Naarřuk, who may also be referred to by residence alone: Sila or Hila. These three concepts refer in fact to the same spiritual figure, whereas they are misrepresented in the book as being separate from each other. None are to my knowledge an actual ethnonym, though Naarřuk, Hila, etc. are indeed anthroponyms. Do not listen to Dan Simmons.

“Indian” historically was and is not an English ethnonym usually applied to Inuit, Yupiit, Sugpiat, or Unangan peoples, but is an official legal term that is identified with other Native nations of Alaska. It may also be used as a slur, but many people still self-identify with this word, particularly as its own umbrella. “First Nations” is the main Canadian term, with “Native American” being more U.S. American. The modern ethnonym “Tinaaq” was borrowed into the Iñuit language from the Dené language endonym “Dena,” as the old Iñuit language term means “one that has or has the quality of or association with louse eggs” and is therefore considered offensive.

For those in Alaska the preferred English umbrella ethnonym is “Alaska Native” (applied to all Native peoples of Alaska, listed alongside “American Indian” on the census) as well as simply “Native.” I don't know enough about Russia, Canada, and Greenland to speak on preferred terminology there, other than that “Indigenous” is broadly accepted as a general term. Should Silna in one's modern AU have friends or family who are of another, non-Inuit-Yuit-Unangan Indigenous nation, be sure to do one's research on/take into account the relevant histories, intercultural relationships, attitudes, and experiences of whom one is representing, as one ought to best do anyway. Of course, multiethnic/multiracial people will face specific sets of circumstances.

If one's modern AU does expand or change Silna's ethnicity so that she grows up, say, Yup’ik in Alaska, remember that the language landscape will be different depending on the area and its history, e.g. with Moravian missionaries in much of that area having learned and translated into Yugtun as opposed to having suppressed it, there was a somewhat higher level of postcolonial Native language preservation than elsewhere in the state. The impacts of cultural assimilation and boarding/residential schools were widespread and considerable, vary a bit in different places, and if Silna or her parents were fostered or adopted by non-Native people it is very unlikely she would be a first-language speaker/signer of her heritage language(s). English also now dominates as the lingua franca even when it is not already instilled as a first language for many. Other major colonial languages across the larger region include Russian, French, Danish, and ASL.

I operate on the basis of my headcanon that Silna's father, Aja, and therefore Silna, must have known a local variety of Inuit Sign Language, since it would be indispensable for a person whose tongue is removed, presuming a sign language is still permitted to them. The novel has Silna and her family using a sign language of string figures. This is inconvenient and unrealistic in that using string figures as morphemes ideally requires a string and is more tedious; the spirit of the string games, Tuutaŋŋuarřuk (who makes string figures with his own intestines), is said to attack those who want to play too much; and there is already a preexisting normal sign language. While the language's history is not well-known, it is thought to have developed among Deaf Inuit, from and with the signs that hunters used to coordinate and that facilitated the communication between speakers of different Inuktut dialects as for instance during trade relations; it is signed by both Deaf and hearing Inuit. The absolute certainty of this headcanon of mine decreases for a modern AU, since modern schooling has so stifled Native languages and ensured that most Deaf/HoH Inuit learn American Sign Language (ASL) and Manually Coded English (MCE); ISL or Inuit Uukturausingit (IUR) is thus very endangered today (estimated <40 monolingual signers). IUR is, however, currently attested to be signed in Baker Lake, Rankin Inlet, and Taloyoak, and so Silna's family being signers who are from one of these places is more than plausible!

It is valuable that one decide Silna's specific heritage and community for one's AU, because this will inform what she speaks and/or signs. In introducing herself to someone nowadays she may say who her parents are and where she's from, or this would simply be integral to the grounded establishment of her character. I don't know if she would use the “Natsilik Inuk” umbrella term for herself in a modern AU; please defer to the opinions that Inuit from the region have about its usage for themselves! But if in use as an umbrella term, it would be in addition to the particular ethnonym(s) inherited from her family.

Silna in a modern AU being among the many who are struggling against Indigenous language loss would make for one of several meaningful, tragic, yet more prosaic analogs to her canonical speechlessness. She could have Inuktut, IUR, and English as her first languages, and, frustrated to see the loss underway, partakes in revitalization work, or perhaps she is monolingual in a colonial language and is only just beginning to learn her heritage Native language(s) after a difficult, discouraging history. Either way, it depends on how she was raised, on what her community, family, and father passed on to her, and that depends on communal and personal reactions to the traumatic impact of forced cultural assimilation.

#long post #the terror amc #silna #meta #asks #thank you for the ask! apologies for the length!!#i have rambled #lady silence #language #ethnonyms #links not exhaustive #please do chime in with opinions or corrections!

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lime1991 · 5 months

Text

My dsmp Tubbo and Tommy canons (I can do whatever I want and these are canon facts to me)

Tubbo:

-smoked cigarettes a lot during the Schlatt administration to get away from all of the… everything. Fundy was the one who started this for him.

-hates alcohol because of Schlatt and Wilbur. Before being part of Schlatt’s cabinet he had to deal with Wilbur being drunk and mentally ill too.

-is Wilbur’s adopted brother, calls Phil by his name instead of “dad” even though he was literally raised by him. Also doesn’t call Wilbur his brother unless it’s brought up in some way.

-Tommy is his best friend. He is Tommy’s favorite person. Their conversations are very monotone.

-has breathing problems due to smoking. Has tried to quit, but can’t. Instead smokes weed every so often because it’s better than nicotine.

-has bipolar disorder, when he’s manic he wakes up at 5 am and does yard work. When he’s depressed, he can’t get out of bed for days. He knows he’s bipolar, many people do, but it still was a reason his marriage fell apart (not his fault)

-he did not get custody of Michael when he and Ranboo divorced, because he didn’t fight for it because doesn’t think he can really raise a child with all his personal issues (in a “I would never have kids because I’m too mentally ill and traumatized” way)

-bonded with Quackity during the Schlatt administration, is maybe the only one who knows to what extent Quackity was fucked up by Schlatt. They have a weird relationship that’s similar to a mother and son. Don’t question it.

-I’m a fan of dadschlatt so in my brain Tubbo is Schlatt’s biological son, and they only find this out when they’re working together and Schlatt grills him on his family history and it strangely matches up with that one time Schlatt decided to leave the girl he accidentally impregnated and fully skip town. So when Schlatt and Quackity get married Quackity is basically Tubbo’s stepmom.

-he and Wilbur are like 12 years apart, when Fundy is born, Wilbur is 20. When Fundy and Tubbo meet for the first time, Fundy is 8 and Tubbo is 16. And, yes, Tubbo went to live with Wilbur when he turned 16 for reasons and was like “Wil who the fuck is this child” and Wilbur is like “oh that’s my daughter” ???

Tommy:

-trans girl.

-met Wilbur before she met Tubbo. They lived in the same place. When Tubbo went to live with Wilbur he was immediately bombarded by a strange hyperactive fifteen year old.

-Tommy’s parents left her. She didn’t believe that they did at first, but they did. (By the way I’ve decided L’Manburg was a commune) Because her parents have left her alone on the commune, she’s sort of raised by all of the adults and herself. This is how she knows Wilbur.

-has bpd and severe abandonment issues. Originally attached herself to Wilbur before meeting Tubbo and becoming close with him. During the Pogtopia era, Tommy goes insane and completely attaches herself to Wilbur again.

-When Wilbur dies during war, Tommy’s whole personality switches and instead of being majorly depressed she pretends that it didn’t happen and stays completely delusional for like a month.

-during Exile, she had time to think about herself and her identity and it’s when she comes out to herself as trans. Dream is also the first person she actually comes out to. And I can’t decide if Ghostbur is a hallucination or not, but Tommy doesn’t know either it’s ok.

-very delusional. Like, schizophrenic. Genuinely believed during Exile that Dream was her best friend and wasn’t like beating her and destroying her stuff every single day. Dream doesn’t understand if she’s being serious when she’s like “hi bestie” so he keeps doing worse and worse wondering how much it’ll take to break her.

-gets therapy and takes antipsychotics now. Always brings up the stories of the wildest delusional episodes she’s ever experienced. During exile she was certain she had like 5 girlfriends at once.

-when she ends up trapped in jail with Dream she almost kills herself before Dream does it for her. The pain of being trapped with him again was worse than emotional. Worse than ptsd.

-has complicated feelings towards Quackity, will never forget the time she watched him and Schlatt argue. She’d never heard a “loving couple” sound that angry before. Though she doesn’t know every little detail about the relationship.

#dream smp #dsmp #clingyduo #cclingyduo #tommyinnit #Tubbo #there are definitely more but I was just throwing out ten for both of them

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wc-confessions · 5 months

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TPB is my favorite series like the basic ass mf I am but. BUT. It also contains one of my biggest personal pet peeves in all of Warrior Cats. Which is saying A Lot with how botched this series’s writing is is in places.

Nightpelt not getting his nine lives while Tigerstar does??? Make it make sense. Genuinely what the fuck Starclan. We know they knew exactly how Tiger would turn out but somehow decided that poor Nightpelt, who was just trying to guide his fractured and weak clan through Brokenstar’s wake, and through even more tragedy and misfortune afterwards, wasn’t worthy enough Apparently. What did Night even do for them to hold him in such contempt? Besides *checks notes* being middle-aged and having a chronic illness?

There’s the fact that Brokenstar was still alive and on his last life yeah, but so was Pinestar when he left Thunderclan and that didn’t seem to be an issue other than Sunstar only getting eight lives (which is still way better than no extra lives). Brokenstar also broke the Warrior Code seven ways to Sunday before being exiled so it feels weird for them to still have recognized his authority.

For a long time my headcanon was that Starclan didn’t *actually* give Tiger his nine lives, he lied about it when he became Shadowclan’s leader, and when Scourge killed him, it was his one single life ending in such a jarring and gory way that it just *looked like* he died nine times in a row. Even if it was kind of flimsy, it was still more acceptable than what canon said.

With what has been written since though, this headcanon falls apart pretty badly. First, Tiger’s destiny to be evil - even if there’s a strong argument to be made that it was a self-fulfilling prophecy by how adults like Pinestar, Goosefeather, Thistleclaw, etc acted around him or directly treated him as he came of age - has been known about from his birth to the point where they tried to get his own father to commit infanticide! Starclan has had plenty of time to communicate amongst themselves about it, let alone watch over what has been happening to all the living and recently-deceased cats.

Second, we see Tiger’s nine lives ceremony. While we only know the backstories and full motivations of a couple of these characters, there are at least nine named cats who support him being leader enough to grant him a life. Even though these lives are meant to symbolically help in areas he’s lacking, and could be read as just acting in the best interest of the living cats within the leadership decision already being made as opposed to meddling in it… why didn’t they offer Nightpelt the same chance? Why weren’t they like “here’s the areas you need to work on and the life lessons you need to learn, and we’ll respect the circumstances created by the living” to him, too?

The only answer that feels somewhat satisfactory to me is that Starclan isn’t a hivemind and that while many of the cats were cheering during Tiger’s ceremony, cats like Redtail and Goosefeather were in a corner somewhere bashing their heads against a metaphorical wall.

Content warning for US politics ahead.

This also relies on Starclan Tiger supporters to be the Warrior Cats equivalent of Trump voters. Maybe not all of them are bad people but they are at least very easily manipulated into the ideal image of making their nation “strong again,” and are emotionally pulled in by the idea of someone who isn’t going to take shit standing up for “normal people” who they perceive to be like themselves, and are willing to put a vocal bully with a history of opportunistic, shady, and malicious behavior in a seat of power to make that happen. I could see Badgerfang falling into this camp. We know he’s just a kid who was forced into combat too young and that he isn’t a dick but is a victim of circumstance and had his worldview colored by the adults around him. He could have a more optimistic view of Tiger as someone who isn’t going to take shit from another Brokenstar, while simultaneously having a blind patriotic streak because again he was just a child and doesn’t know better than to question the system even if it failed him (based on how he describes his own death as giving his life up for his clan). Someone like this could easily be sucked into wanting the “strong” leader over the one they perceive as “weak” even if the “weak” candidate is more qualified and responsible, or has a more appropriate personality for leadership. (Side tangent I wonder how much Starclan foresaw about how Tiger would die. “Beware small cats” is so… specific.)

Starclan isn’t just a handful of jingoistic Shadowclan cats (+ Pinestar), though. There still should have been enough vocal outcry to make it not seem so cut and dry with Nightstar/Tigerstar, with the information in canon that the reader does get.

I know I’m reading way too far into this silly series with its million plotholes and inconsistencies and retcons, but I just want some answers. Thank you if you endured my pet peeve Night/Tiger rant.

#text #anonymous #confession #warrior cats

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throwawaydracula · 2 years

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Some Thoughts on Mrs. Westenra

So, she's dead now. And let's be frank, from a purely functional literary standpoint, her main purpose was to serve as an obstacle for the protagonists to overcome. The fact that everybody-- including poor Lucy-- had to walk on eggshells lest they tax too much Mrs. Westenra's heart was a pretty handy setup to maintain a sense of drama and to oblige our heroes not to face problems head-on. Her removal of the garlic caused a reversal of fortune that imperiled Lucy once, and now twice. In some ways she’s just short of being a Diabolus ex Machina.

Lots of people hate her. This includes my own septuagenarian mum, who I called up specially in preparation for writing this post, because I wanted her opinion particularly given who Mrs. Westenra was. Mrs. Westenra could be taken as another stock character—The Stupid (or more gently but no less contemptuously) Silly Old Woman. It’s an archetype that shows up with odd regularity; it’s especially common in the Regency and Victorian and Edwardian stuff I’ve read, but she shows up today, too. Oftentimes she ends up being a repository for all those qualities that have been deemed ‘feminine weaknesses’, even in works that are otherwise female-friendly or actively feminist. Something I thought about mentioning in an earlier post, but cut because it seemed too much a digression, is that for some reason misogyny seems to become more palatable to a lot of people when it’s combined with ageism.

It would be easy to assume Stoker was in that camp, too. Make no mistake, the man was not what we would call a progressive today, nor even what we’d call a progressive in the 1890s—but he doesn’t seem to have been a diehard reactionary, either. Believe me, you’d be able to tell. Add to this the fact that the Whitman letter and his visit to a post-Exile Oscar Wilde confirm that his private opinions didn’t always match up with what he said publicly, either, and you end up with… well, a lot of possibilities for interpreting what Stoker might have meant at any given point. Of course, what an author “means” is not the be-all and end-all—no-one is perfectly awake to their own presuppositions and unconscious biases, no-one can be aware of all the possible implications of anything they communicate. But I am going to be working under the assumption that Stoker felt a little of Van Helsing’s sympathy for Mrs. Westenra, or that he could at least comprehend such sympathy as legitimate rather than simply the result of extreme softheartedness.

First, consider that Mrs. Westenra did not have any of the information we have, or that the other characters have. She knew her daughter is ill, but she had no idea how ill. Lucy is apparently very good at acting even when she feels absolutely terrible. As far as Mrs. Westenra knew, Lucy’s chronic illness was more of an inconvenience than anything. Yes, she knew a foreign expert was getting involved, but for all she knew that was just a personal favor—Jack being extra nice and considerate, and his mentor being very gracious. Nobody told her otherwise. She did realize Lucy was sick enough to warrant a doctor, but not that she had—before the flower episode—needed two freaking blood transfusions. So she was not on high alert, because everyone was afraid putting her on high alert would kill her.

Secondly: Mrs. Westenra was herself dying. She was given mere months to live. I can imagine that being, to put it lightly, somewhat distracting. Seward at least seems to agree with me on that point, because here’s his interpretation of Mrs. Westenra’s mental state:

She was alarmed, but not nearly so much as I expected to find her. Nature in one of her beneficent moods has ordained that even death has some antidote to its own terrors. Here, in a case where any shock may prove fatal, matters are so ordered that, from some cause or other, the things not personal—even the terrible change in her daughter to whom she is so attached—do not seem to reach her. It is something like the way Dame Nature gathers round a foreign body an envelope of some insensitive tissue which can protect from evil that which it would otherwise harm by contact. If this be an ordered selfishness, then we should pause before we condemn any one for the vice of egoism, for there may be deeper root for its causes than we have knowledge of.

Note, please, the lack of judgement here. This is important because the Victorians were very judgey people (about as judgey as we Tumblrians). Basically Mrs. Westenra was so caught up with the whole “you’re not going to live to see next year” thing that most of her thoughts were turning inward. And as Seward muses, that’s not only understandable, it’s kind of beneficial—she’s less susceptible to shock because of it. He directly compared the psychological state to a biological process, seeing it as natural and purposeful. Unfortunately, although it kept her alive longer than it might have, it also kept her from being as observant or reflective as she otherwise might have been.

Removing the garlic flowers from Lucy’s room could be seen as a sort of side effect of this. Mrs. Westenra wanted to be able to do something for Lucy before she died. She wasn't even sure she'd see her only child marry. She wanted to be part of her daughter’s life in a positive way while she could, but wasn't really in a frame of mind conducive to thinking beyond the immediate. Yes, she didn’t want to let Lucy sleep in her room, earlier, but as Lucy surmises that might have been because she didn’t want Lucy worrying about her. Or—even more tragically given current circumstances—she might have been afraid that when Lucy woke up, it would be to Mrs. Westenra’s corpse. Note that this last time, she still didn’t intend to stay the full night.

All that said: I do not think removing the garlic was excusable. Yes, I am aware of miasma theory and that Mrs. Westenra’s concerns about the smell were understandable in that light. However, by this point Mrs. Westenra was aware that two doctors, one of them a foreign expert, was seeing Lucy. It would have behooved Mrs. Westenra to at least wait to ask the doctor if the removing the plants was all right, even if she had not assumed that the doctor had placed them there. The very fact that someone had apparently gone to a lot of trouble putting all the garlic flowers there should have given her pause. It’s really not a good idea to remove something apparently deliberately constructed if you don’t know why it’s there. It was really quite officious of her to do that without asking, especially knowing both Seward and Van Helsing could be consulted.

At the same time, Van Helsing’s neglectfulness in telling Mrs. Westenra what the flowers were for is also not excusable. No, ‘not wanting to worry Mrs. Westenra because of her heart condition’ is not sufficient. Seward and Van Helsing still could have downplayed the seriousness of Lucy’s condition while explaining the garlic flowers did have medicinal value. Van Helsing himself is the only one at this point who understands what the garlic is really for; he has Seward’s trust, but Seward is his student. Seward has had a long time to develop implicit trust in Van Helsing, but Mrs. Westenra has not. It was really quite officious of him to assume he didn't need to give even a token explanation to Lucy’s own mother. He managed to explain things to her in the wake of the disaster just fine.

Note, please, I’m not looking for someone to pillory here. We don’t need to single someone out for fault, we don’t have to point out the guilty party and chant ‘shame, shame, shame’. People make mistakes with tragic results all the time, and I personally think a need to assign blame is counterproductive in many instances. Sometimes it's better to just try to fix things. Van Helsing certainly thought the same.

How much sympathy Stoker intended Mrs. Westenra to be read with is ambiguous to me. Having both Seward and Van Helsing interpret her sympathetically doesn’t necessarily mean Stoker did. That said, Victorian writers generally weren’t subtle when it came to pointing out who their audience ought to be seeing in a positive or negative light, and using characters as mouthpieces for that. Stoker might have been using Mrs. Westenra as a device to cause problems for the heroes, but I’m not sure he conceived of her as someone his audience should outright hate. She may well have been someone he pitied as much as anyone in the novel despite mostly using her to cause problems. But again, who knows, really. Plenty of books are written with an intent to ridicule, while the object of that ridicule comes across more sympathetically than the characters we’re supposed to root for.

I have come to the point where I feel more sorry for Mrs. Westenra than anything. She was a dying woman who loved her daughter and tried to help her, even if she didn’t make the best decisions. That said? Even I admitted I would have found it kind of cathartic if Van Helsing privately started cussing her out a bit. Never said it was rational or justified, just that it would be cathartic. My mum absolutely hates Mrs. Westenra because of what they have in common—she told me she hated her when she first read the book, and only dislikes her more now that she’s raised children to adulthood herself, and also taken care of her own mother in her old age. On that note, my sister also hates Mrs. Westenra. Haven’t talked to my dad about it but I reckon he’d probably hate her too.

And you know what? It's OK that they hate her. It’s also OK that some people aren’t even slightly upset with her, it’s OK that they feel unmixed sympathy for her and disagree with me about the decisions she made. It’s OK that people react differently to the same character. There is no ‘correct’ emotional response. If there’s anything I genuinely hate to see in some forms of literary criticism (or anywhere else) it’s the idea that there is one correct reaction to a complicated situation, especially in fiction. Dictating other peoples' feelings never ends well. It is a good thing that we have so many different perspectives on all this, and I'm glad to see people aren't afraid to disagree with each other.

#dracula daily #dracula daily meta #dracula spoilers #long post #cut for length

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proudfreakmetarusonniku · 1 year

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8, 18, 25

common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

c!tommy's flaws! everyone gives him a completely inaccurate set of flaws for some reason! he's not a selfish, malicious person who cares only about items and deliberately seeks to cause chaos and hurt people. he's a deeply insecure and self loathing young man who trusts way too easily and sacrifices himself for everyone he trusts, even if they’re not good for him or anyone. he uses objects as a physical manifestation of his care for very immaterial things, and his attachment to them comes from mental illness leading him to believe they literally are those things to a degree. he's paranoid but not intentionally violent- his true flaws are his impulsivity and tactlessness, and him being unable to be honest about himself to himself leading to him being rude and thoughtless when he really does care. and this hurts people! it hurts him! these are not lesser flaws because they’re not intentional maliciousness! he is not flawless, he is a deeply flawed human being who’s done many things wrong, but I can’t blame people for thinking he is because the flaws everyone brings up are the exact opposite of his real flaws!

it’s absolutely criminal that the fandom has been sleeping on…

c!prime. y'all shy away from making it properly fucked up when it’s one of the most fascinating dynamics in fiction. whatever love it gets isn’t enough, and it’s skewed by weird misconceptions about c!tommy, c!dream, or both!

common fandom complaint that you’re sick of hearing

it’s pro-police brutality and punitive justice to want c!dream in jail. in a modern society maybe but the dsmp has 30 people! the dsmp has no licensed therapists or doctors, only amateurs who want to help and often don’t! the dsmp is not equipped for modern systems of justice, even. it’s more equivalent to historic societies, and on that basis it’s doing a lot better than many of them! thinking realistically, with the tools they have available, prison is the only option other than killing c!dream, since they don’t have anyone trained to help rehabilitate him, and he's not willing to cooperate with an exile or anything similar. in an ideal world, yeah, c!dream would be receiving therapy and help. he's a deeply troubled person, and he could be better if he got the help he needed. but there is no one equipped to do that, and with the resources they have, unfortunately, imprisoning him (without the human rights violations of Pandora’s vault, obviously) was the kindest option. i fucking hate the justice system and prison system, but i am being realistic, and a society of less than a hundred people who still uses bows and swords and has no one trained in criminal psychology doesn’t have the options we have available to be more humane. they basically have the option to let someone they walked in on trying to kill a child and kidnap another go free when he was actively continuing to try that until physically forced not to, kill an unarmed man who was trying to plead for his life, or imprison him. it was not a good solution. but there were no good solutions. and what c!sam and c!quackity would do was awful, but imprisonment doesn’t necessarily equal torture and starvation. c!dream could have been imprisoned without that, and i don’t think it’s apologising for harmful systems in the real world to acknowledge a society in a very different situation to any modern country might have only had bad options.

#Dream smp #imprisonment tw

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promptsinpanem · 2 years

Text

Longing

Summary: Peeta Mellark realizes he isn't happy giving up his dreams of having his own family. He is at odds with himself, longing to have a child with the love of his life, Katniss Everdeen. Rating: T Prompt: R6D4 Green (Life)

At Odds

(Peeta’s POV)

I would never pressure Katniss. I love her, and she is more than enough.

Or is she?

I don't know. Why am I having these thoughts? I know I love her, and she IS my life. My whole life. But lately, the tug in my heart for a baby has been too much. It's like a physical ache that pierces me every time I think about it. When I walk to town and see children playing, my usual response of being happy to see them becomes sadness. I would never get to experience having a child of my own.

I don't know what changed, because I used to be fine about it. For years, I had accepted that Katniss did not want to have a child, but these past few months, I doubted my decision. Was I really okay with it? Will I ever really be happy just having Katniss as my only family?

These thoughts make me feel like I'm betraying her. By even entertaining the idea that Katniss is not enough for me. Why wouldn't she be? Katniss loves me. In the arena, she gave up everything for me. When I returned to Twelve, she helped me get better despite her own struggles.

When I was released from the Capitol, I was half-mad. They didn't know what to do with me, so they exiled me to District 12 before I was even fully healed. Saving me became Katniss’ priority. After I planted primroses in her yard, she came to my house to see me. Her eyes were filled with fear at the sight of me, but she did try to check up on me, even from afar. In Thirteen, I traumatized her when I strangled her. Touching her neck whenever I was in her presence became an unconscious habit of hers. Even though I was holed up in the basement, trying to get away from her, Katniss brought me game every day and stayed in my living room just to keep me company. So many times, I pushed her away -- so many times -- yet she always came back. Katniss loved me. Still loves me after all these years. So why am I asking for more? Why am I so baby-crazy that I would even consider Katniss not enough for me? I love her. I love her. I love her. I love her. There is no doubt about it, so why is my heart double-crossing me?

I try to brush away these feelings to the back of my mind as I work in the bakery. Things have been looking up, and we're expanding to the next lot beside us. It will be a cafe of some sort where people can dine and enjoy freshly baked bread and pastries. My right-hand man, Lenny, is doing all the work in the drink section, and our taste tests have been more than promising. Many of our customers who tried our free samples can't wait until we finally start our cafe. Katniss has been nothing else but supportive of me, coaxing me to keep going and trusting in myself. She always tells me how proud she is of me and I feel so loved by her. I wish I could brush away my other feelings because, damn, I sound so ungrateful and disloyal at the moment.

I guessed it all started when Thom and Delly had Katniss and me babysit little Timothy. He was two years old, a chubby and fudgy little thing with blonde hair and gray eyes. His cheeks were rosy even with his fair skin, and with his teeth coming along, it made him so ridiculously cute. It was just for one day as Delly and Thom needed to visit an ill friend in District 11. I have held so many babies before; mothers just seem to toss them into my arms at the bakery, but there was something about little Timothy that day that snared my heart. We were just playing in the living room with the wooden blocks Katniss gave him for his birthday. She took the time to cut branches and carve out different natural shapes for little Timothy, then she sealed the wood with sweet-smelling beeswax. Timothy loved it, and he couldn't stop playing with the blocks. We were stacking the blocks together and laughing out loud when they fell.

His squeaks were so endearing they made our big house vibrant with life. We chuckled and laughed, and I made funny faces at him to make him giggle all the more. I was always good at making babies happy, and I pulled all the stops for little Timothy. He was so jolly and so giggly, clapping his hands while saliva drooled out from his mouth. His head would jerk back when he started to smile, and we both lost it in happiness. Then, he just suddenly hugged me and called me "Papa." I didn't think he meant that I was his father. It was just how kids were. They used the words they knew when they spoke, and at that time, he called me "Papa" and embraced me. He rested his round head on my shoulders, seeming to want to sleep, and I just held him. He was tired from all our playing and laughing, I guess. I still remembered his sweet baby smell. The faint scent of vanilla shampoo that Delly used on his hair. The slightly sour smell of milk clinging to his skin. His delicate and tiny baby clothes. And the soft mewls that he made when he fell asleep. I fell asleep on the floor with him, leaning my back on the couch while little Timothy rested on my chest. When I woke up, Katniss lay sideways on the couch behind us, one of her hands resting on little Timothy's back and the other on my shoulders. After that, I couldn't shake the feeling of hoping for our own child.

I brushed the feelings away days later because I felt like I was a hypocrite to Katniss. I've been reassuring her that she was enough for me all these years, and here I am harboring feelings for another dream. I threw myself at bakery work with a vengeance, focusing all my attention on the cafe, sketching various layouts, and designing menus. I baked like crazy, inventing recipes we didn't need at the moment. I tried as much as possible not to think of vanilla shampoos, tiny baby clothes, and tender little breaths. When mothers with babies came to the bakery, I made an excuse to get something at the back. When I saw kids playing on the street, I walked on the other side, so I only needed to give them a wave and not stay awhile for chit-chat or arm swings.

It was working, and I finally felt like my old self, but then I had a dream of Katniss in the meadows holding our child. It was like my mind retaliated against shoving the thoughts aside. If I couldn't bring the contemplations to my conscious life, then they would come out in my unconscious life -- a.k.a. my sleep. I wish I could say it was a nightmare, but it wasn't. I woke up with warm, fuzzy feelings that morning. And even the mornings after. I was happy, but I was also heartbroken and mad at myself. The more I tried not to think about it during the day, the more vivid and blissful my dreams were at night. Nothing was as captivating and soothing as seeing Katniss in the meadows, breastfeeding our baby. In my dreams, she would look at me with her stormy gray eyes and a peaceful smile as she nourished our child. The picture was so beautiful, Katniss was so beautiful, and our baby was so beautiful. I wanted to go back to sleep the very moment I woke up just to relish the feelings longer. I felt awful, though. So freaking horrible because Katniss was asleep beside me in bed every time I woke up. She would give me a good morning kiss and look at me with so much affection, but all I wanted was to go back to my dream where another Katniss was waiting for me. Katniss, the mother of my child. I was so fucked up. I hated myself.

I know Katniss noticed the changes in me. She would ask me what was wrong or give me this concerned look when I would zone out. If we were walking together in town and there were kids or a couple with a child between them along our path, I would involuntarily squeeze Katniss' hand. My heart simply ached when I saw children. I had these questions about how it would feel if I was in their parent's shoes. How would it feel like walking hand in hand with my son, swaying him between Katniss and me? How would it be like taking my daughter to school or braiding her hair because fathers could do that too, right? How would it be during birthdays? What cake would my son request when he turns seven? What questions would they ask? Will they be as stubborn and resilient as their mother? Will they be interested in the bakery? How would our lives change the first moment we would lay our eyes on our child? With every question, my insides clenched and ached, and I swear I wanted to cry sometimes. I did once in my painting room when it was too much. It just hurts. I scolded myself for being so uncontrolled after. The emotions of just wanting something so much but not seeing how it could work out or worse, agreeing that it was best to not have it in the first place was agonizing. Every time Katniss smiled at me or hugged me or kissed me, I felt like a fake. I felt like I was lying to her. And I was. I was even so ludicrous that when we were in bed and making love, I had momentarily wished that maybe a slip would happen and we would be pregnant. I was so fucking selfish in those times, and I hated myself even more. It was unfair. It was wrong.

How could I have those thoughts about Katniss? She needs to be on board with this decision -- which we already agreed on years ago. My skin crawls at my hypocrisy. I have to talk to Katniss about this. She's the only person in the world that I want to talk to about my feelings about bringing a baby into our lives. I know that she would understand me and set me right.

….……………..

Lies and Realizations

(Katniss’ POV)

Peeta's been hiding something from me. I know I'm not the perceptive one between the two of us, but the changes in him are just too evident to hide. Try as he might, Peeta is such a poor liar and is innately good that when something is wrong with him it just spills out.

While asleep, he would have this contented expression -- peaceful and quiet like our afternoons in the meadow. It was like all his worries were resolved. I loved watching him like that when he slept. He was just so beautiful. He carried a soft smile, and his breathing was calm. Sometimes I even see him have an eager smile, and then he would say my name. I would press a kiss on his forehead on those nights, sometimes even a kiss on his lips, because I couldn't resist. But when he wakes up, something shifts. Happiness would shine when he opened his eyes, but after I kissed him, his lips would grow cold, or there would be a momentary freeze as if he realized something terrible. Then he would try to hide it by burying his forehead on my neck and kissing me there. But his kisses felt different. One time he even said the word "Sorry" after a kiss. It was so faint, and he thought I didn't hear him, but I did. What was Peeta apologizing for so early in the morning? What is happening to my husband?

I tried to cast aside the feelings first because I trusted Peeta. If something was wrong, I knew he would tell me. Our vow spans fifteen years now. Sure, our toasting was impulsive, and we didn't plan to have it in the middle of the night on some random day, but we both knew we wanted to do it. It was like what he said in the interview during the Quarter Quell, we wanted to make our love eternal, so we did. We vowed to love each other, honor each other, make each other happy, and provide for each other's needs. His hijacking, my depression, and all our fears were things we fought fiercely so that they won't come between us. None of them was above our love. Together, we would forge a strong marriage. Always.

But something is gnawing on Peeta now, and he is not telling. I have to find out and help him.

I have an inkling of what it might be, but I have to be sure before talking to him. Knowing him, I don't want to scare him or make him push his feelings aside because I know he will prioritize me above everything else. That's just so Peeta. Putting himself last so he could make everyone happy. Make me happy. He loves me so much, and he tells me so every single day and opportunity he gets. I can only wish he knows how much I love him back. He is my life. My love. My everything.

I started noticing the changes a few months ago. Peeta would vary his path going to work or squeeze my hand at random times of the day when we were together. We would walk in town eating ice cream, then suddenly, I would feel him stiffen for a split second as if something ached inside him. I would look at him and ask him what was wrong, but he would just brush it away and give me some small reason. Reasons like the hot weather, which he never complained about before ever. Or that his prosthetic leg had buckled, which he never said anything about, even when we would take the long hike to the lake. We would trek for four hours straight every Sunday, and never once did he say that his prosthesis would "buckle." What did "buckle" even mean? To give him the benefit of the doubt, I would give his leg a massage when we got home to make sure he was all right. He would be very thankful after, and then he would retreat to his painting room. He would go there to sketch or draw up ideas. Doing art relaxed him, and he would show me his paintings or sketches after. It has been a long time since he has shown me any of his works. I'm welcome to come to his painting room, but I never did unless he asked me to. I do it out of respect for him. Peeta needed his own space, just like I needed my woods every day.

The very clue that convinced me was my visit to the bakery three weeks ago. Mothers love handing Peeta their babies. I guess they figured out years before that between Peeta and me, it was Peeta who would welcome the tiny living creatures with open arms. They would lift their babies over the counter so Peeta could hold the gurgly little things while they filled their baskets with bread and pastries. He would coo and make faces at the baby and everyone in the bakery would smile from hearing the baby giggle so much. It warmed everyone's hearts. It warmed my heart to see him so happy and enjoying himself. But lately, he would go to the back to fiddle with something or make a call when a mother came in with her child. Peeta would never pass up the opportunity to hold a baby before, but now he seemed to be avoiding them entirely. We would still babysit little Timothy when Delly and Thom needed help, but aside from little Timothy, Peeta was staying away from all children, it seemed.

When things become too hard to sort out, I go to the woods. One way or the other, I always get answers in the woods. Sometimes, I go to my father's lake to talk to him and seek his advice. His body may be long gone in the mines, but I know his soul and spirit live in the woods. I knew he met Peeta before he died. My father would trade with Mr. Mellark, and we would get fresh bread every three days. Peeta was always with his dad in the kitchen, kneading dough or just watching him decorate cakes until he was assigned the job himself.

It warms my heart to know Peeta and my father crossed paths. I still wish he is here to see Peeta as my husband. I think he would have liked the boy with the bread and would tell me that I made a rare catch.

While in my father's lake, I ponder everything that has happened to Peeta's life so far. I am not the introspective type between the two of us, but living with Peeta taught me a thing or two about contemplating life. I remember how Peeta acted when he was younger, living in the bakery with his loving father and a witch of a mother. How he had two older brothers he wrestled with. He loved his brothers, and he would tell me this over dinner. Talking about his family helped him heal. Peeta became an orphan when he was just seventeen. He lost his family when the Capitol firebombed Twelve on that horrific day. He didn't know it at the time as he was being tortured by Snow. He came back to me slowly. I could still hear him asking to let him die during our Capitol mission. He pushed me away to protect me because he went mutt on me at the hospital. I'm glad I still had the good sense to not give him the nightlock pill. I was half-mad at that time, but I knew one thing then: Peeta needed to live. He came back to me after the war, albeit still sick from the hijacking. They gave up on him.

How preposterous that they gave up on the kindest, most generous, and self-sacrificing person in all of Panem. They just put him on the train and left him in his house to die from his tortured mind. He couldn't be expected to heal by himself alone. He needed people to help him sort out what was real and what was not real.

I resented the new Panem then; I still resent them to some degree because of it. Slowly and with much resistance from my help, Peeta let me in. He came back to me. I still feel the warmth of his palm on my forearm the first time that he voluntarily touched me. We were sitting on his porch just watching the rain pour on the earth and make puddles, not speaking but just letting the time go by. He just placed his hand on my right forearm as he did before on the train and said nothing. When the rain stopped, he removed his hand and then said the softest thank you before going back inside his house. I considered it a win then and never doubted that Peeta could fully recover his memories.

We grew back together. He started baking again, bringing me cheese buns in the morning. He took care of the primroses in the garden. He held me on the first night he was conscious enough to recognize my screams. After that, he stayed with me every night. There hadn't been one night when we hadn't slept on the same bed (or couch or carpet) for fifteen years. Starting his own bakery again brought so much joy to Peeta. I was so proud of him for keeping the legacy of his family alive. Those were blissful years. It felt like nothing could dampen our day.

Except for one thing -- having a baby. The only thing that brought us real conflict was talking about starting a family. Peeta would reason with me, and I would explain or yell at him. We would go back and forth, tossing the ball to each other without respite. He was kind and calm all the time, and it was me who would lose my composure because my fears were just too great. In the end, it was always Peeta that would concede for my well-being. He was the one who stopped asking five years ago. We talked about it one last time, and he said that he had finally accepted what I wanted. He granted every wish of mine for years except that one. It took him a decade to come to terms with it, and we were both comfortable with our decision. We both agreed that many things in life made us happy and that having each other was the ultimate joy. He loved me, and I loved him. After everything we both went through, that was enough. More than enough. But now, I think Peeta has a change of heart.

I guess I knew that this would have happened anyway. Peeta would be perfect as a father. And Peeta, being an orphan, sure longs to have a family of his own. A family with me.

I sigh deeply at the realization of what I had withheld from him all these years. I'm still afraid, extremely, but I guess I should have realized earlier that Peeta would hold my hand no matter what. He stayed with me all these years and through every situation. Nothing was beneath him when it came to me. He loved me, pure and simple. And now I look at how much I didn't love him back. This was one longing Peeta held on to, and I was too selfish to see it. I let my fear blind me. I didn't factor in the effect Peeta would have on me. We're always better when we faced our demons together.

My Peeta. My poor husband. How incredibly long have I refused him, have crushed his heart out of fear? He must be so miserable denying himself such simple happiness because he put my needs first. I feel terrible overlooking this part of him. How can I call myself his wife? I have to fix this, and I hope it's not yet too late.

….………….

Resolution

(Peeta’s POV)

"Hey," I greet Katniss as she enters the bakery. "How was hunting?"

"Hey," she greets me back lazily with a warm smile. She's always so alluring when she returns from the woods. She carries its calmness and life with her every time. "I went to my father's lake."

“Oh yeah? That’s wonderful.”

"It was. I didn't bring anything back, though. I'm sorry."

"It's okay." I grab a paper bag from the back and give it to Katniss. "Cheese buns?"

"For me?" she flirts. "Why not?"

Katniss eats the cheese buns with gusto. She savors the cheese oozing out of each bun as she bites into them. I've been baking like a madman this afternoon to ease my anxiety. I made her all kinds of cheese buns -- a batch filled in the center with three different kinds of cheese, another bunch with some paprika in it, and the third batch with pesto made from the herbs Katniss gathered yesterday. I have two more stashes for tomorrow which I will bake in the morning at home. Baking really does wonders for my nerves, and I calmed down substantially after doing it.

"Are you closing up soon?" Katniss asks after her third piece of cheese buns. She already guessed about the paprika that I added in the second batch. "I haven't made dinner yet, I'm afraid. I went straight here after the woods."

“It’s okay. I made a lot of cheese buns. Is that acceptable for dinner?”

"You don't even have to ask," she mumbles in between bites, then kisses my cheek with her cheesy lips. "I could eat this all day!"

“Good thing you married a baker, huh?”

“Best decision I made,” she teases. “By the way, we should go to the lake tomorrow. We haven’t gone there in two weeks. How about it?”

"Sure. I'd love that," I say and move in to claim a kiss. "Good thing I married a huntress."

She beams at me and gets another cheese bun. She really loves cheese.

We walk hand-in-hand on our way back to Victor's Village. It's Sunday tomorrow, and the bakery is closed, like every shop in District 12. We pass by some kids playing on the streets, and I try my hardest not to react to them. Instead, I focus on the warm cheese buns in my free hand and on the feeling of a small piece of paper tucked deep in my pants pocket. While waiting for Katniss at the bakery, I started making a list of reasons why Katniss is more than enough for me. I scribbled a couple so far before she arrived and I quickly hid the list in my pocket for later. I'll finish it at home after dinner. Katniss wouldn't suspect a thing as I usually make lists when we're sitting on the couch by the fire.

“I’ll take a shower first, okay?” Katniss tells me after we’ve settled down in the kitchen. I usually do the cooking except for days when there are too many orders at the bakery. Tonight, I don’t mind doing it. It will give me more time to work on my list while she showers.

"Okay. Take your time," I reply, and Katniss gives me a quick kiss and ruffles my hair. She knows that I love it when she does that. That's one more thing I have to add to my list.

When I hear the shower pour upstairs, I bring out the folded paper from my pocket.

'Reasons why Katniss is MORE than enough for me.' The word 'more' is underlined twice and written in bold letters for emphasis.

1. She loves me.

Nothing compares to being loved by Katniss Everdeen. She loves so fiercely and generously. What more can I ask for?

2. She brought me back from my hijacked state.

3. She saved my life so many times and in so many ways.

4. She’s the most patient when I try out new recipes. She doesn’t rush me like Haymitch. She just watches me and writes down the recipe as I go.

5. She kisses me every morning. Even with bad breath because there was a time we both loved having midnight snacks.

6. She brings me game and fruits and herbs and flowers from the woods. She forgot today, but that's nothing compared to fifteen years of gifting me every day.

7. Her voice. Need I say more?

8. She ruffles my hair like I have the most beautiful curls in all of Panem.

9. She lets me braid her hair on Sundays.

10. She encourages me to pursue my dreams — the bakery, the cafe, my art.

I rub my cheek as I remember how I got to exhibit some of my works twice because of her. I never imagined that in my wildest dreams.

11. She tells me she loves me EVERY day.

12. Her body.

13. She holds my father in high regard.

She traded with him, and I'm so thankful they met even briefly.

"Hey, Peeta," Katniss calls from the stairs, and I stash away my list. "I forgot, I brought you some wild apples. It's still in my hunting bag."

I scratch out 'She forgot' on number six of my list. She never forgets.

After dinner, we retreat to the living room to warm ourselves by the fire. It's not really cold today, but we love it nonetheless. Katniss is reading a book sent by Effie. She's been sending us classic books for a few years now, and Katniss is the one burning through them as I've been busy working on the cafe. I bring out my list and tuck it between my usual notebook to disguise it. I glance at Katniss, and she's buried in the old book. Good, I'm safe to write as many things I can on my list.

14. She loves bread and cake.

15. She lets me sketch and paint her.

16. She sings to me when I am sick or just tired.

"So serious." Katniss distracts me after a while and rubs her foot on my outer thigh. She's taking up most of the couch, leaning on the other end while her feet just brush my thigh. "It's Sunday tomorrow, Peeta. Just rest."

I give her a small smile and close my notebook to hide my list. “How about a foot massage?” I offer. I shift on the couch to remove her socks and start rubbing both her feet. I make a note to add this to my list.

17. She lets me massage her feet.

She lets out a deep sigh as I warm up her gorgeous feet with my big hands. I place my palms on either side of her right foot and gently twist it with just the right amount of pressure that she likes. The result is immediate, and she relaxes. She's a little tense from hiking to the lake, so I take my time to warm her feet up. Then I rub her arch, slowly running my thick thumbs along its length. Katniss has such deliciously slender feet that I take my time stroking them. Kneading them and caressing them with my full attention. I continue my smooth motion from the heel to the ball of her foot, shifting from soft to hard presses.

To my luck, I get rewarded with a throaty moan and a deep exhalation from Katniss. "So good," she tells me as her chest dips.

I can see that she already stopped reading her book but is still holding it up. The toes of her feet are a little ticklish, so I massage them lightly and slowly. It still tickles, she says, but at least she doesn't kick me or pull away her foot. I love seeing how my touches shoot signals up to her knees and hips, sending them off the cushion as her muscles contract. Sometimes she scrunches her eyes, and her foot curls as she restrains her natural reflexes.

I don't know what it is, but she's so exquisite to watch during these times. She’s seriously so sexy. I can't take my eyes off of her.

I try different massages on her feet, finding delectable pressure points that trigger spots around her body. I squeeze her heels firmly, then use my knuckles or fist to indulgently stroke her arches. I then airily tap my fingers all over her skin like fluttering kisses. She hates it when I grasp her Achilles tendon with my thumb and index finger, but I do it all the time to get a reaction from her. I make it up by sliding her loose sweatpants up and running my hands along her powerful calf. I stroke her firm muscles to build heat on her skin, then apply more and more pressure after, increasing the blood flow there. My blood flow increases somewhere too, just watching her.

The massage would have been better with oil, but the oils are all the way up in our bedroom, and I am in no mood to get them. Katniss closes her book later and lets it drop on the floor with a soft thump. She finds a more comfortable position, laying her back flat on the couch and resting her feet on my lap. She shifts her free foot near my crotch unconsciously before digging her head deeper onto the couch pillow. She takes a deep breath and then puts her right hand over her chest. Her neck is blushing red as she tries to calm her breathing.

"Peetaaa ...," she releases breathily. I take all my cues from Katniss and continue massaging her luscious feet. Most of the time, she likes her massages hard and lingering, her legs and feet needing deep stimulation because of all the walking she does in the woods. Other times, she just likes warming and rhythmic touches. I'm happy to oblige with both anytime.

When I'm done, Katniss is so cozy, that she's ready to go to sleep. "Katniss?" I coo and give the top of her feet delicate kisses. I've been resisting it while giving her the massage.

“Hmmm ….”

When Katniss doesn't move, I gingerly lift her up and carry her to our bedroom. I almost forgot my list and have to double back to get it.

"Peetaaa ..." She drags my name just under my right ear while I go up the stairs. Her voice radiates warmth all over my torso.

"I got you, love. Don't worry." She tightens her arms around my neck and nuzzles the skin there. I only get away with pet names when she's very sleepy. Otherwise, I get a scowl. I guess I have to add her scowl to my list too. As much as she gives it to me out of frustration, I still love it. I love every bit of Katniss. Even the things that annoy me, like unscrewed containers of spices or milk in scrambled eggs or mail half-opened and left on the kitchen table or bath towels left on the bed. I can't count how many times I exited the shower only to find out there were no towels. At first, I thought she did it on purpose. You know, so she can see me wet and naked after a bath, but more often than not, she's not there when I leave the bathroom. I just find two towels on the bed. One mine and one hers. I have to add those things to my list. Not the towel, but how much she drives me crazy and how she scowls at me. It's weird, but I love them.

I make a mental note.

18. Her scowl that I love so much.

19. Her quirks that drive me crazy.

I carefully lay Katniss on her side of the bed, tucking her under the covers, then I make my way to the bathroom for a shower. The list is still in my pant pocket, safe while I wash off the flour from my skin. It's been such a long day, but tomorrow will be longer. I have to be honest with Katniss. She needs to know what's going on with me.

Freshly bathed and loosened up by the warm water, I lift the covers and slide beside Katniss. She lays her head over my shoulder like every night, cupping my bare chest where she can feel my heartbeat. I linger on the lavender smell of her hair and skin.

"I love you, Peeta," she says sleepily before planting a kiss on my collarbone. She then puts one of her legs over mine, hooking her body against mine. She is perfectly melded on my side, and I feel so loved.

"I love you too, Katniss," I whisper back and kiss her dark hair.

"You're my world, Peeta … you make me so happy," she whispers while lightly rubbing her palm over my heart. I feel guilty all over again for all my uncontained thoughts of babies and starting a family.

I silently mouth ‘I’m sorry’ into the air of the room and squeeze her hand over my heart. Katniss is more than enough for me. I don’t need anything else.

Nightmares totally have a different hold on me. Or I should say, my hijacked brain and not my nightmares, have a dubious hold on me. My dream bit me like a venomous snake because I actually touched our baby in my sleep. It was the same picture of Katniss gracefully sitting by the meadow in a flowing green summer dress that conveniently opens in front for breastfeeding. Normally, I would just watch from afar as my dream unfolds, but this time, I was right there beside Katniss, my right arm over her lean shoulders and my left softly on our baby's downy hair. I swear I could feel their weight and warmth on my palms, on my chest, and on my heart. I could unmistakably smell baby shampoo and milk. And I could vividly remember Katniss' expression of joy and peace. She was so radiant, and I felt so complete holding my world in my arms. I woke up with warm, fuzzy feelings all over my body again but quickly brushed them away. I can't indulge in these sensations. I still have an hour before Katniss rouses, so I carefully untangle myself from her body. I need to get this image out of my head and also finish my list.

I put on a worn-out shirt and go to my painting room, dragging my loose pajamas on the floor and clutching my list in my left hand. I turn on the lamp beside my work table. Then I sit in front of my easel that holds a painting I have been working on. I know Katniss doesn't come to this room unless I ask her, but I still cover this painting for fear that she may glance at it while passing by. That would be a disaster when it happens. I reread my list and added a few more things to it.

I must have been so engrossed in my thoughts because when I heard Katniss call my name, she was already in the hallway, only a few feet from the door. I panic and hastily hide the list under the cloth covering my recent painting in front of me. I brush my hair without purpose, trying to search my brain for what to say to Katniss when she comes into the room.

“Peeta?”

"I'm here," I say, failing terribly to sound normal. I turn around on my stool to face the door. "I'll be right out."

"Peeta?" she says again, but this time she's standing at the doorway. "Did you have a nightmare?"

‘No, I had a very pleasant dream, actually, ' I say in my head. "Yeah," I lie instead.

"Did you paint it already?" she asks with her raspy morning voice. She knows me so well. I need to paint my nightmares so they stop.

"Ummm …," I offer, and my lack of a clear answer worries her. She walks towards me, enveloping me in her arms. She feels so soft and comfortingly warm as she embraces me.

"I'm okay now, Katniss," I lie again. "We can go back to bed now." I pull her off of me and cradle her cheeks between my two hands. I offer her a weak smile and kiss her forehead. She nods, then embraces me again. We stay entwined for a few more minutes until I feel her hand move behind me as if reaching for something. I hold my breath.

"What's this, Peeta?" she asks and holds up my list near the light. Shoot. I didn't hide it well enough. The next thing I knew, the cloth behind me fell to the floor, revealing my painting.

"Um ... umm …," I offer feebly.

Katniss rubs my arms and then walks towards the easel. It holds a painting of her by the meadows breastfeeding our baby. It's my favorite dream but one I felt most guilty of. I didn't know why I thought it would work, but I'd been secretly painting them, hoping the dream would stop, just like my nightmares before.

"Are there more?" Katniss asks with a raspy voice. I steal a look at her and catch her soft gray eyes, she's not mad, so I go ahead and show her the rest. In total, I have four paintings done already. They're all from the same dream, but I rendered different parts. One was Katniss' careful arms holding our baby over her chest, another our baby's small pink hands, then just soft, yellow swaddle cloth, and another just the meadow with its golden sunset. I don't offer Katniss any explanation as she thoughtfully observes them. She touches each one, her fingers lingering on the tiny baby hands I painted on a big canvas.

"Katniss?" I ask after a while. I'm so terrified that she would plummet into depression, the paintings triggering her long-time fear. "I wanted to talk to you about it … I was going to tell you later …"

She puts her fingers over my lips, silencing me. “How long?”

I won’t lie to her anymore.

“Four, five months. Since Delly and Thom had us babysit little Timothy.”

Katniss just nods her head once and lets out a shallow breath. She's just standing there in front of me, her eyes softly looking at me, but they are unreadable. My heart is thumping out of my chest, my tears building out of nervousness. I feel hot and cold all at the same time. "I'm sorry, Katniss," I begin and try to hold her gaze, but my eyes betray me with tears. "I'm sorry … I didn't mean to …," I sob.

"Sssshhh … Peeta …," she coos and hugs me tightly. I'm trembling, and I can't help it.

"I'm so sorry, Katniss ... I know … you're scared …" I gulp for air.

"And I understand. You're … " I can't breathe. "You're more than enough for me … You make me so happy," I ramble on in between sobs and hiccups.

Katniss is all I need. I know that now more than ever.

"Peeta …," she begins while running her palms over my back. "That's not true, and we both know it."

"No, it is," I say in earnest and hug her tighter. "You're all that I need. You're my world. Please, you have to know that."

"And you are mine." She pulls back and cups my face with both her hands. "You are my world too, you understand? I want to make you happy," she says, her voice so incredibly tender.

“I am happy … I just need more time … I’m sure I’ll forget …”

"Peeta, you're not, and you shouldn’t." She pulls me back and rests her forehead on my chin. "I want to make you happy. Completely happy."

"Katniss, please …," I plea, pouring all my love into her at this moment.

"I want to try." She exhales to my chest, her warm breath seeping through my cotton shirt. "Let's try starting a family."

"But Katniss … you don't ..."

"No buts, Peeta," she cuts in and bunches my shirt with her right hand and I know she's trying to be strong. I feel her squeeze her eyes shut. "I'm still scared, Peeta. But you will take care of me, right?" she says with a quiver in her voice. I can't believe my ears, and I am shocked into stillness.

"Peeta?" she calls, then looks up to my face. She's peaceful, afraid but with resolve. "I want to try having a baby with you. Build a family. I'm so scared, though, Peeta ... but I know it will make you happy. You will be with me all the way, all right?"

"Always"

My tears continue on, but I feel my body relax with her palms over my chest. I’m crying from happiness.

"I love you. Now come and kiss me." A small smile laces her eyes, and I know this is real. We are going to try having a baby. It will happen. My dream is suddenly happening.

“I love you, Katniss. You make me so happy. You’re my everything,” I say with every ounce of my being.

“Kiss me already, Peeta.”

And I do. I did it in between laughs and sobs and hiccups and with trembling hands on Katniss' jaws. I was giddy with joy and excitement for our future together. Katniss is more than enough for me. So much more than what I deserve in a hundred lifetimes, maybe not even then. I add one more important thing to my list.

20. She wants to start a family with me.

Katniss then picks up a pen and scribbles something on my list.

21. Katniss Everdeen has Peeta Mellark. Her love.

-- Fin --

#promptsinpanem #fivetenfifteen #specialchallenges #dandelionlovesyou

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