#featuring my boy Kin

[skycowboys]

Hey!!! You made a "how to draw wings" sheet, but— how on Earth do you draw horse!?!? The bane of every artists existence

Yeahhh horses are hard. They have lots of little nuances on top of complex anatomy and weird ass shapes (literally and figuratively). Drawing them requires lots and lots of practice. And this is like...entire art book levels of subject matter but here are a few tricks that I've picked up over time -

Key body shapes - shoulder, barrel, hip

I won't go too far into this one because Ken Hultgren does a much better job in his book The Art of Animal Drawing. But TL;DR - a horse's body has three main masses - the shoulder, the barrel, and the hip. Each one is tricky to draw on it's own since they're all weird shapes, but it's helpful to me to break a horse body down into simpler terms.

Key muscle masses

When I draw horses, I like to emphasis curves vs straights. Horses have that built in naturally as their body is often either "pure muscle" or "pure bone". There's some really nice details at the intersections of body parts, like at the front elbow and behind the ears along the neck (aka the "poll") where there's highly definable muscle groups that can help with visual clarity.

Fun fact, young horses grow hip-first. The horse in the photo above is 8 years old. That same horse at 4 years is below. Cracks me up how much taller his hip was at the time.

Ok so the muscles on the front legs combined with the shoulder mass is a fave combo of mine. The shoulder mass itself is something that I've found that is particularly horse-ish. For me, it's a pretty big visual signifier - almost more important than the neck. You can show a lot of tension/action in the body with the shoulder depending how you simplify it. Horses use their shoulders A LOT (too much if you ask any dressage rider or reiner), so emphasizing the shoulder can make a horse more expressive.

Legs. Oh heavens, the legs.

Yeah ok so again, Hultgren goes into fantastic detail on legs and hooves (I still follow how he simplifies hooves to this day my gosh that guy is a genius), but I often break them down like this for quick sketching. Are horse's legs realistically this emphasized? No, but I like the visual language; believable but expressive. This can apply to any size/shape from arabians to drafts.

And finally...

A few head details -

Overall horses have SO many variables. The fun part about that is that they're highly customizable and able to be endlessly stylized. The tough part is that they're hard to draw strictly because of all of the little things to keep track of to make sure the horse reads as "horse".

And so because third time's the charm, Ken Hultgren's Art of Animal Drawing really is one of the best I've seen for breaking down, simplifying, and applying horse anatomy to active drawings.

But most of all, the more you draw horses the easier they'll be.

–

Discord | Patreon | Art Prints

[attyattlaw]

cross posting yesterday's rambling thread for posterity and because tumblr lets me edit things. anyway this is a sorta long thing and i might add things i forgot to mention in the twt thread

i tend to draw on-model canon because im a coward + just personal preferences. but the way i convert the canon designs into my artstyle is that i take the distinct features oda gives them and then combine it with personal headcanons to complete what should look like a unique human. Starting with Trafalgar Law, who is unfortunately a bland-ass conventionally pretty boy

someone commented a while ago the law hat drawing tutorial i made a while ago didn't make much sense and i realize its bc of the specific way i draw law's face: heart shaped (ba-dum-tss). That meaning, a narrow chin widening into a mild defined jaw, wide cheekbones, and up to his know-it-all brain dome.

given that, the pudgy guitar pick shape of his head i mentioned here should make a lot more sense.

i don't think this design point is unique to me, as most conventional pretty anime boy gets given jaws like this. a lot of law artists tend to veer into this head shape. just how life be sometimes. other points: flat, thick eyebrows is bc im a hairy gal and i need to feel better about myself.

Killer gets to be more interesting, because he shouldn't be considered conventionally attractive. my idea behind killer's is that those individual features is smth he would be insecure with enough to hide himself in a helmet but i draw him with all the love in the world actually. i'd like to think its how kid sees him or yknow, law, bc he's my kin assigned blorbo and maybe you ship lawkill as a guilty pleasure too i mentioned before (and ruined people's days) when i said whenever i draw killer he looks like griffith before i put on his goatee. the upper half of his face is distinctly feminine, with the lower half kinda over compensating. other than that uhh...idk. stan killer

Kidd is the bane of my existence, i feel like i can never draw his face consistently. yet at the same time he's so damn fun to draw everyone gotta try it.

my problem with kidd is that this mf does have eyelids. most kidd painters out there interpret this as him having deep set eyes (think Matt Smith or jeffrey star) . and yeh skill issue on me i should practice that. other notes, i try to make him younger than canon makes him look. he is my babygirl and he deserves to look cuddly. my band au kidd version has the honor of being allowed some chubs. he's just tries to look older and more menacing with edgy makeup. also i try to give him dimples when i can because, well i can.

Rosinante last bc i lost steam after kidd. the thing abt cora is that aside from not having eyebrows, everything is structured with the generic one piece man template. which means i gotta do everything myself doffy is there bc the way to figure out how to draw these two is to give them minor differences from each other, that being doffy gets slightly sharper features. in canon, these two are also rly wide boys (more of an oda style feat tbh) but i make them long. though bigger brained donquixote artists know that of these two brothers, doffy should be the wiry-er built. anyway that's it. in conclusion, i need to draw more girls actually i feel like im becoming misogynistic by osmosis from oda's style and now i draw girls all looking the same too.

[bucknastysbabe]

✾ Happy Bday To A Sweet Lil Kit Named Liv ✾

Therefore I present to you:

♕ The Brother F**king Incest Spectacular ♕

For u bb @fairysluna

Rating: Explicit

Tags: TW: incest, non/con|||dub/con, degrading language, bastard hating, DAERON IS AGED UP!!!!Greens won AU, Jace’s sister reader, gang bang, so much Incest, cunnilingus, sloppy seconds, double penetration, oral sex, pnv!sex, erotic crying, humiliation, Daeron is actually scared but likes her so they run off and be happy duh, Aemond and Aegon are Insane, multiple orgasms, rough sex, m/m/m/f, Jace is broken, why is there kinda angst? Idk

A/N: I don’t tend to lean toward non-con but the brother fucking incest spectacular had been brewed so read the warnings!

“Little Lord Strong,” Aemond sneered from the lofty bed, looking down with a haughty look on his sharp features. Jace squirmed and hissed at the one-eyed prick. His dear sister was pinned between Aemond’s lean legs, face red and teary.

Daeron was quiet, a terrified look on his face as he watched the scene.

Aegon, ever the deviant, palmed himself through his breeches, other hand petting Jace’s poor sister’s hair. He was grinning wildly, violet eyes fervent with glee. He giggled as his younger brother prattled on. Aemond cocked his head towards his siblings and said, “Well. You know what they say about bastards. Lustful, devious sort. I bet she’ll open up like a Lyseni pillow girl.”

Jace barked, “Fuck you! All of you are the deviants! Defiling my maiden sister for what?”

Aegon snorted, “She’s a lovely vixen, we won and you didn’t. Therefore we get our war prizes. Wanted to see what your cunt of a mother was so infatuated by a house as shite as the Strongs.” Jace grimaced and squirmed under his bindings, chest aching at the mention of his true father. The one who had taught him to be a man. He didn’t feel much like one.

Aegon yanked back her hair and got a good look at doe brown eyes, watery with tears, lips swollen more-so than usual. She pled, “Please, please, I cannot help being o-of this nature. Have mercy my king, have mercy!” The giddiness of Aegon’s face morphed into anger.

He hissed in her face, spittle flying, “Did your lovely mother and the rogue cunt give my children mercy?”

She wailed in sorrow, apologizing for something she had nothing to do with. Aemond was wielding the Valyrian ceremonial knife, pointing it towards Jacaerys. He sniffed, “Yes, Lord Strong, was there mercy when your dead brother took my eye, slaughtered my kin, set the kingdom aflame for a seat that belonged to us trueborn?”

Jacaerys remained silent, fidgeting in his bonds, trying to find a way out. There was murder and kinslaying on both sides. The bastard thought he was justified for little Luke. Jace was angry and humiliated. Tears fell down his darkened cheeks. Daeron spoke up, a soft lilt to the youngest brother’s tone.

“You won’t get out of those. Learned the best knots down on the docks of Oldtown. Best if you just sat back and let it get on with. Customary,” he nervously looked to the elder blondes, “Customary right?”

Aegon popped up from his spewing of vitriol, laughing as he reached for more Arbor Red, “Yes, darling Daeron, customary to make sure any dragon blood gets more seed. We have to repopulate. Sorry you must get the leftover bitch as wife.”

Aemond shrugged, “She’s pretty. Had a Strong bitch in Harrenhal, witchy sort, but couldn’t trust a wench that played with magicks.” He began to take off his loose blouse, exposing pale scarred skin, lean and toned. Daeron was stockier, like Aegon but if the eldest didn’t overindulge. The king was a juxtaposition of tight burns and soft overfed flesh. Never a warrior, Jace knew that much.

Jace watched in agony as the boys divested their clothing. He sister wept and shook on the mattress, begging Daeron now. The youngest looked guilty, mouthing, “I’m sorry.” Aegon smacked the Prince from behind the head and chided, “This is your whore for tonight. Quit being the pansy.”

Daeron grumbled back, staring with flushed cheeks. Aemond pulled her ass up roughly, spreading tanned thighs, shapely from dragon riding. Jacaerys howled, “You accursed demon!” The one-eye hummed, “I’ve heard worse, Strong. Enjoy the show.”

Aegon was at full mast, eagerly stroking his thick cock, “As the king I get to fuck those pretty lips,” he smirked, “Aemond you can get her cunt. Daeron it’s either her ass or wait your turn. Feel her up a little, I don’t know.” Daeron’s lilac eyes bounced around the scene, pupils blowing at her gorgeous body, full breasts hanging below, obscene lips covered in drool.

“Go on Daeron, she’s drier than the Boneway,” Aemond frowned. Jace could hand the bastard that, he couldn’t bear to watch her be torn to shreds. Daeron’s body came closer to hers, a calloused hand tentatively rubbing her soft skin, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. She relaxed a smidgeon, nervous eyes peeking around. The brunette had pretty lashes.

The daring himself murmured, “I shan’t treat you like this my lady, we’ll go back to Old Town. J-just feel me and the sensations. Please. Please.”

She whimpered quietly at Daeron engaged her in a gentle kiss, his hand finally coming to knead and tweak her pretty tits. “This isn’t amateur hour, back off, acting like Florian and Jonquil.” Aeg snatched her jaw and ordered, “Open, bastard whore.” She did so, shaking as Aegon dropped his spit into her mouth, easing his thick cockhead into the warm opening.

“That’s better, fuck,” Aegon moaned, eyes lolled. Aemond waited patiently, while he grinned at Jace. He mused, “So easy, so pliable. That’s why your mother liked it. Wanted to control everything, the bitch.” Jace gritted back, “Your mother was a stone cold bitch and we all knew it!”

The Velaryon fumed with anger, eyes flickering to where Aegon was moaning with delight, Daeron caressing and kissing on her smooth skin. His cheeks reddened at where his thoughts were going. Merely a Targaryen instinct— inclination for the blood.

Daeron’s insistent kissing and licking had the princess biting off whines around Aegon’s cock. The king laughed, “Ah, there she is, little slut loves it after all.” Aemond played with her other entrance, feeling wetness begin to gather and dribble delightfully. He backed up and motioned towards the youngest.

“Actually, I want her wetter. Use your tongue Daeron.” Aegon giggled with glee at the idea, Jace groaned, and Daeron swallowed heavily.

He shuffled to her slit, pale eyes boggled at her most private part. His thumb slid through the moistened entrance, cock jumping in surprise. Daeron held up his thumb and suckled the essence off, eyelashes fluttering as he moaned.

“She taste s-sweet, hm?,” Aegon panted. He wouldn’t last long. Never did by all rumors and accounts. The slick noises of her mouth and Aegon’s lurid chattering was making Daeron grow impossibly hot under his skin. He grabbed handfuls of her pert ass and licked at her pretty petals, grinding into the bed.

“Seven hells— the mouth on this one!,” he giggled, “Lick at that bud Daeron, raa-right at the top, make her squeal and slick up.” The youngest did so, suckling on the hooded bud above her opening, inhaling her perfect natural scent. She squirmed and shook, crying out around Aegon. Daeron didn’t stop, intoxicated by his beautiful niece’s noises. She arched her back helplessly, whining.

Aegon gasped and pulled at her thick brown locks, shoving his cock deep into her throat— met with no resistance. He threw his short curls back, belly bouncing, lips agape. The king cried out, “Fuuuuck yess!” Jace saw his uncle’s balls draw tight and he emptied down her once pristine throat. He closed his eyes and whimpered, willing away the indecent thoughts. He could hear her coughing in the background.

Aegon, fuck dumb and lazy, pillowed himself back. He halfassedly gestured for Aemond to have her mouth. The lean man smirked as having her from this angle meant he could torture Jacaerys more. Daeron was busy exploring her, sticking fingers in and lapping excitedly.

“Slow down, you’ll blow before you get your cock in her cunny,” Aegon snorted.

Aemond easily got access, the Princess obediently opening her mouth, eyes far away and hazy. Cum was still wetting her chin, mixed with drool. Aemond wiped it away with the nearest cloth, finding a distaste to be so close to Aegon’s glob of spend. He tilted her head up so the taller Targaryen could ease his long cock down her throat.

“Stick your dick in already, she’s wetter than the Greenblood,” Aegon snapped, greedily gulping wine. He shouted, “Isn’t this just wonderful Jace! Maybe we’ll cut your cock off and make you a handmaiden to this lovely girl.” Jace whimpered, utterly broken and confused. He was so hard it hurt, yet everything disgusted him.

Daeron held his cock, lilac eyes focused on her hole, dipping the tip in, before getting shoved further by one of her frantic hands. Aemond laughed, “Mm! She likes you. We’ll all have to take a test filling her cunt up. Make sure the seed takes.”

The youngest brother’s vision grew blurry as he registered the delicious feeling surrounding his cock. It was better than anything he had tried on himself. She was warm, tight, and pulsing around Daeron’s member. He gripped her hips and fucked wildly, groaning and panting her name.

“Should have taken his virgin ass to the brothels in Old Town when we visited.”

“All the more fun, two little virgins, isn’t that right Lord Strong?,” Aemond jabbed in glee. Jace let out an agonized moan, his balls aching and full. His sister’s gorgeous cries and debauched frame was making him feel insane. Aegon’s nonsensical laugh broke through the haze, making Jace more ashamed…more aroused.

Daeron panted and laid kisses up her back, breathlessly praising, “Oh you feel so good, tell me what to do, please?” Aemond, snapping his hips into the Velaryon’s mouth jeered, “Listen to what the wretch had to say, touch her button.”

Aegon slurred, already stroking his cock again, “When she comes, s’like heaven, milking ya’ cock.”

Daeron reached around to settle between them, circling around her swollen nub, feeling her cunt pulse and hearing excited keening. He pinched and pulled harder, the cries turning into little whimpers as she drew tighter and tighter around him. Daeron felt his eyes crossing at the pressure, fucking harder in a last effort.

Aemond pinched a bouncing teat of hers and ordered, “Come now, Strong slut. Serve your superiors.” He pulled out and watched the scene, on his haunches. The brunette was wailing and crying Daeron’s name. “Oh Gods please, don’t stop, f-fa-feels s’good! What’s- oh my- happening?”

Jace never wished he could be freed more than now, eyes glued to her twitching body, plump lips shining in the dull light. His cock was leaking profusely, needing an outlet for his swollen sac. Daeron gasped as she gushed all over his cock, sniveling and sucking in breath. Tears leaked down her gorgeous face.

The youngest Targaryen just sat in a daze, her throbbing pussy hitting him with wave of wave of ecstasy, his cock unloading all he could have carried into her womb. He selfishly hoped his seed would take, so that his wife’s child was truly his. He kissed and rubbed on her until Aegon cast him aside, laughing, “My turn, lover boy.”

Daeron’s eyes flickered to Jace, whining softly with a red face. His cock had soaked the front of his small clothes, huge member swollen and needy. Gods, the depravity. He absently wondered if the girl was supposed to be Jace’s if it weren’t for the twins.

Aegon was a lazy fuck, making the girl get on top of him and ride and ride until her shaky legs gave out. The king smacked her ass roughly, barking, “You can do better than that with all that dragon riding. Lazy whore.” She whimpered and bounced harder, squeezing Aegon’s soft midsection tight. He moaned, “Soooo much better. Good little bitch.”

He filled her up next with a sloppy finish, leaving some on her belly and legs, proposing, “Since Jace is so needy, we should make him clean her up.” Aemond seemed to love that idea, eagerly fucking her into the soft bed, her legs thrown high up his long body.

He bit and sucked a collar of markings around her neck, snarling, “You belong to us now, no black, no-ngh, fucking greens, just the Targaryens.” She whimpered, “Yes, yes, I belong to you, the rightful family.” Aemond smacked her around some more, around the ass and thighs. He pumped with long strokes, powerful and measured.

Daeron was taking notes. Because she was heaving and clawing his shoulders, mewling when he’d plunge into her ruined cunt. Blood had already dried on the bed. Aegon crawled over and pointed her wet eyes to Jace.

“You want brother dearest to clean you up after? Lick your sore cunny up, coddle you? Or Daeron?”

She scrunched her face up, obviously distressed. Jace whined pathetically, “Sister, sister please, let me, let me?” He was humping the air now, utterly broken and debauched. Aemond smacked her cheek none-to-hard and smarted, “Your king asked you a question!”

She wailed out, “Both! Need both! Gods please! Mmmm!” Aemond’s one eye rolled up at her releasing yet again. She still had some in her, coating his long cock with the gorgeous essence. The long haired prince pumped her for the final time full of his cum, slapping her ass another time for good measure. She shivered and cried, Daeron already to the rescue.

Who knew such a powerful fighter had such a weak heart. Aegon laid back like a cat who got the cream, watching Jacaerys sob and shiver. He’d cum. The evidence was sticky and soaking his small clothes. The princess took one look and begged, “C-can he join? Lick me up like you said my liege?”

Aegon shrugged, “Aemond and I will watch for safety. Can’t believe Lord Strong came in his small clothes watching his sister get fucked by the enemies. I thought we were fucked up.”

“Like you’ll do shite you oaf,” Aemond muttered as he slit the ropes binding Jace. The brunette stumbled to his sister, squatting between her soaked cunt. It was still a bit stretched, puffy and oozing copious amounts of ‘dragonseed’. He began to cry in shame as he cleaned her up.

Daeron softly murmured, “I’ll take good care of her, you’ve been good. So good.” Jace blushed and kept licking, eating up his sister’s sighs of pleasure, Daeron’s long fingers in his dark hair. What a fucking mess this was.

Aegon and Aemond merely laughed like devilish imps. Sadists. “Oh she’ll take the seed alright, she better or we do this again,” he tapped his chin, “We can’t taint her bastardized blood further, so just licking cunny for you dear nephew.”

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 3: We Drown Traitors In Shallow Water]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, people being aware of Daeron's existence, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, Aemond having feelings (not good ones), references to sexual content (18+), an unexpected field trip.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Champagne for My Real Friends, Real Pain for My Sham Friends" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

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Aemond never tells you where you’re going.

You follow him—ivy-green velvet tunic, silver flood of hair like moonlight—to Grand Maester Orwyle’s chambers and up a narrow spiral staircase to the rookery of the Red Keep. Windows open out into all four cardinal directions: wests towards the Reach, south towards the Stormlands, north towards the Riverlands, east towards the Narrow Sea. Late-afternoon sunlight like the pulsing glow of embers paints you both in gold, in rust. As Aemond goes to the writing desk and begins drafting a letter—his penmanship is always slow and precise, painstakingly neat—you look at the ravens that tiptoe on talons like a dragon’s through the straw beds of their cages. Each enclosure is labeled with the castles that particular raven is trained to fly to. One raven knows the way to Lannisport, another to Riverrun, a third to Winterfell where Cregan Stark is gathering far-flung Northerner soldiers to help him march south and leave his mark on the world, something like a brand or a bloodstain or a bruise. You notice that a particularly clever raven—old, greying, fast asleep with his beak tucked into scruffy feathers—is assigned three separate strongholds, all in the Crownlands: Dragonstone, Driftmark, Claw Isle. It is not often that you see all the Valyrian houses of Westeros listed together; it is not often that House Celtigar is properly acknowledged. Generations of intermarrying with Westerosi bloodlines has camouflaged your Valyrian features, but still, the truth is inescapable. The fates of the Targaryens, Velaryons, and Celtigars are hopelessly intertwined. They always have been. You survived the Doom together; you are meant to prosper or burn together.

“Who are you writing to?” you ask Aemond.

He speaks without looking up from his letter, straight regimented lines and meticulous dots. “Eastbriar.”

The seat of House Thorne, your supposed kin. You choke down a dismayed mewing—it rises in your throat like stream from a kettle—and imagine the tone of your voice to be like a ship: vital to keep level and upright, even in the roughest of waves. “A summons for our soldiers?”

Aemond nods, his eye still on the parchment. “They have had ample time to mop up after Rook’s Rest. Those who have survived and are capable of battle will meet me and Criston as we lead our army north to the Riverlands.”

This is a compromise, you know. Aemond wanted to depart from the capital on Vhagar and pursue Daemon and Caraxes alone. Everyone was against it—Criston, Otto, Alicent, Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong, the entire Kingsguard, Aegon when he was roused enough to pry an answer out of—and so Aemond relented. But there is still a restlessness that lives in the icy blue cave of his remaining eye like a caged animal. “You’re doing the right thing.”

“This brings me great confidence, the endorsement of a woman with no tactical proficiency whatsoever.” And you think: I might know more of wartime strategy than your own advisors. I have heard what the Black Council discusses. I have stayed up with my father and brothers until the dark, lonely hours of the early morning as they plotted, Clement rabid to see combat, Everett assisting Father with calculations of cost and gain. Aemond smirks and beckons you closer to the desk. “I’ve finished. Go on, leave a note at the bottom.”

“What?” You stare at him, then down at the parchment. “Me?”

“I thought you might like to include a brief postscript for your family. I assume you have told them that you are here and safe. They would appreciate further report on occasion, I’m sure. To read that you are perfectly well in your own words.”

“Right,” you agree uncertainly.

Aemond crosses the rookery and turns his back to you. His hand slips into a pocket of his tunic and reemerges with small pieces of crumbly bread; he feeds them to the ravens, voracious black beaks jabbing out from between metal bars. “I will give you privacy to disparage me as much as you wish to,” he says, and you can hear the teasing smile in his voice.

He’s not suspicious, you realize. He means this as an act of kindness, of esteem. He trusts me.

And you have grown to understand Aemond well enough to know that this will only make things worse for you if your treason is discovered. It is not just the Greens’ security or strategy that is implicated here. It is Aemond’s pride. Sometimes, you think, it is his grudging affection as well.

 You pick up the quill and contemplate the letter to House Thorne. What do I write? What the hell do I write?

Then an idea occurs to you. You add to the bottom of the parchment, just below Aemond’s signature:

P.S. Please send any livestock that you can spare to help sustain Sunfyre at Rook’s Rest. His alertness and strength improve each day. The Greens cannot spare any of our dragons…and Sunfyre is beloved for his ferocity by all the loyal subjects of the realm.

You hesitate, then sign in a looping scrawl:

Aegon II, King of the Seven Kingdoms

This comes so easily, like breathing, like healing, a treachery as smooth and painless as milk of the poppy.

“Done?” Aemond asks.

“Yes.” You roll up the parchment and give it to Aemond. Without looking at what you’ve written—he trusts me, he trusts me, a chant that is in equal parts honored and horrified—he ties it with a green ribbon, attaches it to a twiglike ink-colored leg of the raven trained to fly to Eastbriar, and looses the bird out into the troubled world through the open window that faces Blackwater Bay.

The sunlight catches on something: gold wings, jade eyes. Aemond is wearing Aegon’s ring, the one you stripped him of at Rook’s Rest as he lingered at the gate between our world and the one beyond, above or below or wherever you believe it to be, ice or fire or clouds or void.

“You should give that back to Aegon,” you say. “His hands are no longer too swollen to wear it. And I think he has noticed it’s missing.”

Aemond watches you, twisting the ring where it remains on his finger. He is thoughtful in a way that you cannot decipher. “You have done your king a great service. I know you will be generously rewarded.”

“That’s not why I’m helping him.”

“Yes, I know that part too.”

A silence, deep and laden and uncomfortable. Then Aemond winces—a tiny gesture he is used to hiding—and touches his fingertips to his forehead just above the black leather of his eyepatch. You have never seen him without it. “Headache?” you say.

“Having pieces of your eye scooped out of its socket comes at a price. I’m still paying it, I’ll never stop.”

You see it clearly, the story you were told: Aemond climbing up the rope ladder into Vhagar’s saddle, his skull rattling with vengeful maroon glee, slate-grey storm winds in his rain-soaked hair. “Is that why you killed Luke?”

Aemond gazes out the open window over the frothing waves speckled with sunbeams, and there is something strange in his face: not gloating but a pensiveness that grows almost despondent. At last, he speaks. “Now he has his brother to keep him company in the afterlife.”

“Jace?” you say, shocked. “Jace is dead?”

“Larys just informed me. The rest of the city will know by nightfall.”

You remember Jace, self-assured and ambitious and looking nothing like a Velaryon. You’ve met him. You’ve met all of the Blacks, even if only fleetingly or from a distance. “How?”

“Corlys’ navy attacked the Triarchy’s fleet in the Gullet.” The Triarchy are Essosi allies of the Greens, won over by Otto’s diplomacy, notes and promises that Aegon was too impatient to wait for. At last, they have arrived. “Jace and Vermax were torching our ships. Vermax was struck by a crossbow bolt and crashed into the burning wreckage of a galley. He struggled for a while and then disappeared into the waves. Jace clung to a piece of debris but was shot by arrows until dead. His body could not be recovered before it sank.”

You don’t know what to say; it is a defeat for the Celtigars, it is a victory for Aegon, it is a tragedy for all humankind. Are we any closer to peace? Or is this a wound that rips apart its stitching again and again until infection turns all our blood to poison? “So Rhaenyra has two sons buried in the sea.”

“There is something else that Larys told me,” Aemond says. And he does not seem like a man just handed news of a triumph. “Vermax was not the only dragon at the Battle of the Gullet.”

Caraxes is with Daemon at Harrenhal, last you heard. “Syrax?”

“No. The bitch won’t fight.” He means Rhaenyra, not her dragon. Aemond looks at you with fear swimming in his river-blue eye, something he rarely lets others see. “Silverwing, Seasmoke, Vermithor, and one that was never ridden before. The Blacks call him Sheepstealer.”

“Four more dragons,” you exhale with terror. “Four battle-ready, full-grown dragons.”

“They can’t use them here,” Aemond says, like he’s comforting you. “Rhaenyra cannot sanction the burning of King’s Landing and keep the love of the people. The people’s fondness for her is halfhearted at best already.”

“But the Blacks can use their dragons against you and Criston when you march north.”

Aemond smirks, half-taunting and half-warm. “It almost sounds like you’re worried about me.”

You ignore this. You don’t know how to respond. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon. A week or two.” He swipes for your wrist. You pull it away just as his fingertips graze your skin. Aemond smiles. “I’ll leave it to you to inform Aegon of Jace’s demise. I’m sure it will cheer him.” Then he descends the narrow spiral staircase and abandons you in the rookery, surrounded by squawking, pacing ravens that claw at the walls of their cages.

You stop at Helaena’s bedchamber before going to Aegon’s; he drained his goblet of milk of the poppy an hour ago and is almost certainly still unconscious. He is trapped in a cycle of bitter disappointment. He has a day when he feels better, overexerts himself, and then spends the next three or four sleeping to escape the pain. It doesn’t matter how many times you tell him to be cautious, to be patient. You walk into his room and find him polishing his sword, trying to pull on his boots, crawling out onto the balcony after nightfall when the sun cannot burn his fragile skin.

The queen is sitting in a chair and staring at the wall. She is watching the shadows of birds flit across tapestries depicting the night sky, a flurry of butterflies, unicorns, ladybugs, Dreamfyre. Each day you bring her flowers from the gardens; they sit in vases all over the room gathering dust, lilies and irises and tulips and daisies, roses red like the crabs that scuttle across your true house’s sigil. “Your Grace? Are you alright?”

Helaena says nothing. When you move closer, you see that her ghost-pale eyes are wide and vacant.

“Helaena, come walk in the gardens with me.”

Her voice is quiet, as if from a great distance away. “Is Jaehaerys playing there?”

It takes you a moment to decide how to answer. There is no sense in upsetting Helaena; she has suffered so much already. You will not remind her that her firstborn son was beheaded in front of her. “We’ve sent him away to keep him safe. You will see him again when the war is over.”

“I’ll see many people again when the war is over. But not you.”

You hold out your hand to her. “Helaena, please. Let’s walk in the gardens before the sun sets.” Before the world ends, you think randomly, unwelcomely.

You do not expect Helaena to take your hand. She never has before, though you offer it frequently. But this time her delicate, feather-light palm finds yours. One of her children is dead, and she cannot bring herself to act as a mother to the two that remain. Her marriage never brought her happiness, her father never cherished her. You cannot change any of this. But you can remind her that she is not alone. When you have spent an hour strolling through lush greenery and past ponds that ripple with the splashing of fish, you bring Helaena to Otto—he has supper with her most nights—and then continue on alone to Aegon’s bedchamber.

You stand in the doorway watching him as he sleeps, this man that you as a Celtigar have no business touching, this man you cannot bring yourself to leave.

He is mending. He is past the worst of the danger. If I disappeared now, Grand Maester Orwyle would be more than capable of tending to him. And every second I spend in King’s Landing is another opportunity to be discovered, imprisoned, interrogated, punished, ransomed, killed.

So when will you go?

Today seems impossible. Tomorrow isn’t any better. A few days, a week, a month?

Never, you think, so abruptly and forcefully that it stuns you. I never want to be away from him.

Aegon stirs, his eyes opening in bleary slits. His mess of silvery hair cascades over his face; the scar on his right cheek spills across his skin like blood in snow. He spots you from across the room, smiles, reaches out to you with one seeking, unburned hand.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Aegon, you have to set it free.” It’s morning, days later. Outside the sun is bright and forbidden; in his bed across the room, draped in cool shadows, Aegon follows your eyeline to the glass jar on his bedside table, to the tiny creature Helaena gifted him. The once-caterpillar is now a captive butterfly with shimmering gold wings.

Aegon looks at it without much interest. “I’m terribly sorry. I was distracted by my many deformities.”

“Stop trying to lure me into complimenting you.” You remove the lid from the jar. The butterfly ascends through the opening, meanders around the room, and eventually finds its way through the window. “Besides, lots of women appreciate scars on a man.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Women in general, or one in particular…?”

“Quiet, miscreant.” You unwrap Aegon’s bandages and inspect the places you are most concerned with: the crooks of his elbows, the backs of his shoulders, his waist where the scar tissue strains when he moves. You begin massaging rose oil onto his arms, starting at his wrists. He is lucky the flames did not claim his hands; from what you have learned from books and maesters, keeping fingers nimble and stopping them from fusing together as they heal is nearly impossible.

“You’re always undressing me,” Aegon muses, gazing at you with hazy, murky blue eyes and a playful smile. “Maybe one day I’ll have the opportunity to return the favor.”

You won’t. But Cregan Stark will. And for the first time you are vividly aware that the thought of Aegon touching you—anywhere, everywhere—does not fill you with fear or dread but rather a sort of curiosity, maybe even willingness, maybe even the first pangs of a craving like hunger.

Aegon’s smile dies as you knead rose oil into his right forearm. He will require the use of it if he is to ever wield a sword properly again. “I did not mean to offend you. Allow me to apologize. I am thoroughly medicated, my judgment is impaired. And I confess that it was not so good to begin with.”

“I’m not offended. I’m…distracted.”

Distracted by the promise-prison of your betrothal, Aegon knows. “Angel,” he says firmly, and waits until you meet his eyes. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, Aegon. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. You have enough worries already.”

“You’ve helped me,” Aegon insists. “Now let me help you. I may be weak and hideous now, but I’m still the king. Whoever he is, I can have him married off to someone else. I can have him sent to the Night’s Watch. I can fix this.”

Your words spill out in a mournful whisper. “You can’t touch him.”

Aegon shakes his head, stretches out his hand, skims his thumbprint across your cheekbone like shadows dance over walls. “Who the hell is he?”

There is a noise outside, a shrill reverberating shriek that grows louder as it nears the Red Keep. You and Aegon share a startled, knowing glance. It is the cry of a dragon, and not one already housed here in the Dragonpit. You do not recognize this voice: a high whistling, a tinny quality like a small bell being rung. Not Vhagar or Dreamfyre, not the reptilian infants Shrykos or Morghul…

Then Aegon begins to laugh. “Oh, Aemond is going to murder him.”

You jolt up off the bed and race to the open window. Down on the beach, it is landing: a shining lapis-colored beast about the same size as Sunfyre, lean, regal, sprightly, swanlike. A white-haired boy, perhaps fifteen, is climbing down out of the saddle as waves bubble up around his mount’s claws. “Tessarion,” you breathe, awed despite yourself. You have no fondness for dragons—you are too closely acquainted with their singular capacity for destruction—but her beauty is striking. You understand now why she is called the Blue Queen.

“And Daeron too, I assume,” Aegon quips. “Or has she eaten him?”

“No, he is presently uneaten. His hair is already longer than yours.”

“Yes, everyone’s is.”

You turn back to Aegon, sitting up in bed and wearing only his loose cotton trousers. “Why is yours so short and…” What is a polite way to put it? Haphazard? Irregular? Uneven? “Choppy?”

“Do not bully me, angel. I may perish and you will regret your harsh words.” He smiles drowsily. “I used to cut it myself. I have since I was eight or nine years old.”

He has servants for that. “Why?”

“I didn’t want to look like a Targaryen. I didn’t want to be one at all. But this inheritance cannot be refused, it seems. It’s written into parts of me that can’t be burned away. The whites of the bones, the chambers of the heart.”

It occurs to you as you say it: “Had you not been born a Targaryen, I never would have met you.”

He studies you thoughtfully. “Then perhaps it was not all a curse.”

There are robust, hurried footsteps, and then Aegon’s bedchamber door is thrown open. Daeron stands there. He is already as tall as Aegon. He is athletic, fussily dressed in seafoam green, more conventionally handsome than either of his brothers. He lacks something…an edge, a cynicism. He has a cape that flutters around him as ocean wind pours in through the open windows.

“Seven hells,” Daeron gasps as he approaches Aegon’s bedside, large blue eyes—a clear, shallow blue like Aemond’s—sweeping over Aegon’s wounds: gnarled thickets of angry red scar tissue, raw spots that are still weeping, a scorched landscape like the ruins of Valyria. “You look awful.”

Aegon chuckles. “I know. I’m a roasted pig.”

“A burnt-to-a-crisp pig, rather. A dragon might eat you, but no human would.”

Aemond and Sir Criston stampede into the room, blinking at Daeron as if he is a mirage that may vanish at any moment. Aegon tells Daeron: “Now we must stop discussing pigs.”

Aemond ignores this and addresses Daeron. “You’re supposed to be with Lord Ormund Hightower’s army.”

“That’s where I was. Until the Battle of the Honeywine.”

Aemond exchanges a puzzled glance with Criston. “The what?”

“Well I won it, you see.” Daeron grins, and you suddenly glimpse so much of Aegon in him it hurts, it feels like someone is digging around in the marrow of your bones with a rusty blade. “The nobles of the Reach who have sworn loyalty to Rhaenyra descended upon Lord Ormund’s forces and all hope was lost. Until Tessarion and I arrived. Our enemies look worse than Aegon now, if you can believe it. They are puffs of ash and memory.”

“We haven’t heard anything,” Aemond says.

“News never travels faster than by dragon.”

“But you’re too young to fight,” Criston says dully, his mind struggling to catch up.

“Am I?” Daeron replies with mock scandal. “Thank you for making me aware. I will free Tessarion immediately and take myself back to the nursery. Is there a wetnurse available for suckling? I’ve flown a long way, and I’m very hungry.”

“I’ll tell Mother that you’re here,” Aemond says flatly. “She’ll want to have a feast.” Then he strides out of the bedchamber, long hair streaming and aisles of daylight cutting stripes across his back. After a moment, Criston trots after him.

Daeron says to Aegon: “I heard he stole your crown.”

“No,” Aegon replies, as if he can’t quite believe it himself. “For some reason, he’s only borrowing it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A banquet in the Great Hall would be ostentatious during wartime when others are expected to ration their bread and send their sons to slaughter. Instead, Alicent settles for a private early supper with the royal family and only their most essential guests, of which there are three: Hand of the King Sir Criston Cole, Master of Whisperers Larys Strong, and you.

Daeron is regaling the table with the dramatic tale of his victory at the Battle of the Honeywine. He is using the chunks of carrots and squash on his plate to demonstrate military formations. Otto is beaming at Daeron with bright, probing eyes, suddenly aware of his worth. Alicent touches her youngest son constantly, his hands and his hair and his face. He allows this; perhaps he even enjoys it. He is the only child who does not make her feel like a failure of a mother; he is the only one she can love in a way that is uncomplicated. Helaena stares down at a tiny figurine in her hands, a bear carved out of wood. Aegon made that for her years ago. Aemond says little and frowns often.

Aegon was determined to attend. He wears an emerald green tunic over his bandages, his burns hidden except for the scarlet plume on his right cheek. He sits beside you taking frequent gulps from his wine cup, dripping sweat from his temples, glazed-eyed and exhausted by even the smallest motions: the tearing of a hunk of bread, the slicing of a slab of beef wet with gravy. As he saws with his knife, his movements grow slow and feeble and labored.

“Aegon, please, let me cut that for you.” You reach for his plate; he slides it away.

“I can do it,” he pants.

“Aegon—”

“Dignity,” he says. He wants to keep what little of it he has left. “But if your fingers are too idle, I have another task for you.”

You do not need to ask what he means. Smiling, you begin weaving a fresh braid into his hair; his most recent one was washed out last night. Criston observes this with awkward fascination. Aemond twists off the ring—Aegon’s ring, the golden dragon with jade eyes—and tosses it over. It lands on the tabletop, bounces twice, and comes to rest by Aegon’s wine cup. He picks the ring up and examines it.

“I was wondering where that went.” He slips it onto a finger and grins at Aemond crookedly, mischieviously. “You’re always developing attachments to things that are mine.”

Aemond tells you as you braid Aegon’s hair: “He can do that himself, you know. I’ve seen him. He just pretends he can’t when you’re around.”

“Do we know who the new riders are yet?” Otto asks Larys, and now the conversation has been monopolized by the machinations of war. Everyone—with the exception of Helaena, who is walking her wooden bear across the table like a child would—is listening to Larys.

“Vermithor is ridden by a Dragonstone bastard, the son of a blacksmith,” Larys says. He is eating red grapes with his pink, rodent-like hands; he peels each one completely with his fingernails before popping it into his mouth. “He calls himself Hugh Hammer. Seasmoke was claimed by a boy rumored to be the bastard of Corlys Velaryon.”

Daeron mutters to Aegon: “Goddamn, it’s bastards all the way down over on their side.”

“Silverwing is ridden by a man known as Ulf the White,” Larys continues. “He has the Targaryen coloring. And is supposedly a drunk and an unreliable character all-around.”

Otto casts a glance at Aegon, long and unsubtle. Aegon pretends not to see it.

“And the last one?” Aemond says. “Sheepstealer? Ridden by yet another undesirable dredged up from the slums of Dragonstone, I assume.”

“Interestingly, no,” Larys replies. “She is a girl from Driftmark called Nettles. Fierce, rugged.” He pauses meaningfully, reeling his audience in like fish on hooks. “She is now at Harrenhal with Daemon.”

“With Daemon?” Alicent echoes. “As an…understudy? Strategist? Accomplice?”

“As far more than that, if the rumors are to be believed.”

“Oh, may the Mother have mercy,” Alicent murmurs, gripping her gold necklace in the shape of the seven-pointed star.

“Daemon? With a teenager?!” Criston says. “He’s repulsive. He’s ancient.”

Otto laughs, a wicked low rumble. “Rhaenyra must be mortified! She must think of little else.”

Larys nods, smirking, conniving. “My point is, my lords…and ladies…these lowborn new riders—Dragonseeds, as they are being called—possess unsound loyalties. They risked their lives to claim the beasts for the promise of land and riches, not to help any particular faction win the Iron Throne. They do not love Rhaenyra or her cause. Already they are causing discord within the Blacks’ ranks. In time, they may prove to be liabilities more than assets, and if we could win even only Vermithor or Silverwing to our side…”

You peer over at Aegon as plots sail across the table. He is swaying in his seat, hands trembling, agonized and empty like a dry well. His eyes are dark and glassy; he gazes inanely straight ahead. He needs to leave soon, and you will go with him. But you have one question to ask first.

You say to Larys: “Do you think the Pact of Ice and Fire might be dissolved? Now that Jace is dead?”

Everyone looks at you; everyone, that is, except Aegon and Helaena. They are well-matched for once, equally present in body but not in soul. Too late, you realize that perhaps this was an unwise inquiry. You should not be attracting attention to yourself. You should not be expressing anxiety about Cregan Stark’s allegiances.

Fortunately, Larys does not seem to be wary. He titters, peeling a grape with those rat-like little fingers. “I don’t think we’ll get that lucky, Lady Thorne. Cregan fancies himself to be an honorable man, and he believes Rhaenyra—as Viserys’ allegedly chosen heir—to be the honorable choice. And I’m sure she will offer him some redress for his lost future daughter-in-law, perhaps a daughter of Joffrey.”

“Or Daemon and Nettles,” Daeron adds, snickering.

“In any case, there is another matter keeping Cregan on the Blacks’ side,” Larys says. “I heard months ago that he is apparently smitten with some Celtigar girl, and she’s been promised to him—”

Aegon groans and nearly tumbles out of his chair; you leap up to steady him. “The king must be taken back to bed immediately.”

Alicent stands and throws down her green cloth napkin onto the table. She’s wrung it with nervous hands into a tight little twist. “I’ll go with you.”

You and Alicent trail after the guards as they carry Aegon to his bedchamber. Grand Maester Orwyle meets you there and helps you undress Aegon, drug him, clean him, inspect his wounds for any new abrasions or signs of festering, apply honey to raw patches, work warm rose oil into the scar tissue around his joints, rebandage him with fresh strips of linen. Alicent watches all of this with tears brimming in her eyes, those vast shadowy pools of memories, so few of them good.

When Orwyle is gone and Aegon drifts in bottomless psychic darkness that he will likely not surface from for days, you ask Alicent: “Would you like to touch him? You can. On his hands, his face. It’s alright. You won’t harm him.”

Her own hands are clasped together so tightly her knuckles are a bloodless shade of white. “I won’t?”

“No. Come and see.”

She steps closer tentatively. She ghosts her fingertips across his limp left hand, where his dragon ring glints and his flesh is unscarred. Then she threads his braid through her hand. Her voice is so soft you can barely hear her, though she stands right beside you. “If he died, it would kill me.”

I understand. I’m afraid that’s becoming true for me too. It’s spreading like infection, like plague. “He’s not going to die. He is mending.”

Alicent nods, sniffling, swiping tears from her flushed, puffy face. “What can I do? Anything?”

“Tell him you love him. And that you’re proud of him. That he is a true Targaryen and a worthy king.”

“Yes,” she agrees; but she looks as if you have given her instructions in a language she does not speak. She flees from the room in a daze, in a nightmare she cannot wake up from.

An hour later, you are sitting on Aegon’s floor in an corridor of late-afternoon sunlight and reading a book on herbology when Aemond comes to collect you. He never tells you where you’re going, and now is no exception. You follow him down hallways and staircases, through throngs of courtiers who wear green and toast to the deaths of Jace Velaryon and those traitors at the Battle of the Honeywine. Contrary to your best guesses, Aemond does not lead you to the council chamber or the rookery or the library.

“I have a surprise for you,” he says as he beckons you out into the gardens. There are a group of nobles clustered by a trickling fountain and chatting merrily. One of them is Sir Rickard Thorne. “Your family is here.”

Cold blood in your veins, a terror like a prey animal’s, legs that threaten to buckle. Your shoes halt mid-step. “Family…?”

“Some of Sir Rickard’s relatives came to visit him before we march north. I thought you might appreciate the opportunity to see your aunt and cousins—”

A woman screams, a sound like glass breaking. She drops the cup she was holding and wine floods across the cobblestones like blood. Her hands fly up to her face. You know her: Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother, a name like Clara or Cora or Camila. Her daughters yelp and gape alongside her. Aemond is baffled but not alarmed. The truth is too unthinkable for him to consider.

“Why is she here?!” Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother hisses through bared teeth.

Aemond looks at you, then to the woman. “She is not your kin…?”

“She’s not ours.” Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother points at you, a finger like a knife, stabbing, lethal. “She’s one of Bartimos Celtigar’s daughters!”

Someone is yelling, not you, but someone. People are making accusations and demands. Aemond is not listening to any of them. He is staring at you with his remaining eye wide and filling up with blade-sharp realization, shock, betrayal, hatred. You have no good options. You choose a not-good one. You bolt away from him and through the gardens, trampling flowers and ricocheting off marble statues. You can hear Aemond behind you, swift and deft like a falcon. You crash through a wall of scrubs and tumble blindly into a fishpond. You gasp for air as you burst up out of the water, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on rocks slick with algae. Panicked fish zoom by you, their fins leaving paper-thin gashes in your skin. Aemond is at the water’s edge, his hand closing around your wrist to drag you from the pond. And now there is nothing funny about it; now Aemond isn’t smiling.

You’re on the cobblestones and coughing water from your lungs, you’re being yanked upright, you’re being hauled through the gardens. You claw and shove, you fight him viciously. It’s just like when you first met. Except that now Aemond knows exactly who you are.

“Aemond, stop, stop, please listen to me—”

“You fucking liar,” he seethes. He is towing you out into the streets of King’s Landing. Where? Where? “In our bedrooms. In our council meetings. While your father bankrolls Rhaenyra’s treason.”

“I meant no harm to you—”

“House Thorne!” Aemond roars into your face. “I asked you which family was yours and you said House Thorne, you masqueraded as a Green, you deceived us, you lied to me—”

“So you would let me help him!” you shout back. “You asked me to save Aegon’s life and I did, I did and I was the only one who could, and you never would have let me near him if you knew who my family was!”

“A Celtigar.” He snarls it like a curse that can kill. “You never cared about any of us.”

“That’s not true.”

“A traitor, a spy.”

“I never spied—”

“Sending letters home to your avaricious demon of a father.”

You strike at Aemond’s chest as hard as you can, hard enough to try to get him to listen. “I never wrote letters! Not one! They don’t know I’m here, they don’t know anything, all I’ve done since the second I met you was serve your house, your king!”

“Keep moving,” Aemond snaps. Smallfolk and mule carts jostle by you. Street venders and shopkeepers bellow out the attributes of their merchandise. You are accustomed to the aftermath of battles, but not filthy and bustling city streets. You are overwhelmed by foreign sights, sounds, scents. People gawk and bow when they spot Aemond, perhaps genuinely, perhaps because they know he commands the largest dragon in the world and does not shy away from murder. Where is he taking me? Where?

There are women wandering in the streets now, their faces smeared with sweated-through makeup, their sleeves hanging off their shoulders. They simper at the prince regent, they reach out to comb their long painted fingernails through his hair. They are prostitutes.

No, you think. No no no.

“Aemond, where are we going?”

“Exactly where you belong. You sell lies. There are lots of women who make a living that way.”

“You can’t do this,” you say with horror.

“I assure you, I can do just about anything.”

“You found me!” you scream at Aemond. “You dragged me off the battlefield at Rook’s Rest and into that tent, you brought me to King’s Landing, every step I made was orchestrated by you, you found me, so don’t you act like I gained anything from this except the satisfaction of saving your brother’s life when you were incapable of it!”

“Your father funds Rhaenyra’s war effort,” Aemond says with chilling matter-of-factness. “Now you can help fund ours.”

“No!” You struggle against his grip, scratch at his face. Your fingers catch on the strap of his eyepatch and tear it away. Beneath is a sapphire that glitters cruelly in a nest of the frayed remnants of his eyelids. You shriek, but there is no one to help you, nowhere to run.

“Are you finished now?” Aemond demands, glaring ferociously: one eye of flesh, the other of cold earth-mined fire. He draws his dagger from his belt and lays the blade against your jugular. “Yes, you are. You’d better be.”

He brings you to a doorway. There is a woman standing in it: voluptuous, beautiful, middle-aged, hair long and braided and the warm brown color of a stag’s coat. She summons a practiced, enticing smile. She knows about things you do not want to imagine. “Hello again, my prince.”

They are already acquainted. Aemond does not seem pleased that she is being so forthright about it. “She will stay here,” he says, meaning you, this terrified woman with a dagger to the pulsing arteries of her throat.

“Yes,” the brothel madam agrees immediately.

“She will be put to work. Each week, someone will come to collect her wages.”

“Very good, my prince.”

“She must be watched closely.”

“All the girls are.”

“Especially closely. If she tries to escape, kill her.”

“Yes, my prince,” the madam says as you breathe in the sweat, salt, cries, moans, feigned pleasure, real pain of this place.

“Aemond, please don’t do this, please don’t leave me here, not here, anywhere but here—”

He flings you into the arms of the madam, tucking his dagger away. He gives you one last glance—dismissive, hateful, soulless—and then disappears into the swarming, anonymous streets.

Who will save me?

“You poor thing, you’ve had the fright of your life, haven’t you?” the brothel madam says, stroking your hair tenderly.

Clement? Father? Alicent? Aegon?

“Don’t worry, love. You can help in the kitchen tonight. We’ll get you situated tomorrow. I can’t have you running off clients with this hysteria anyway.”

No one knows I’m here.

“It isn’t so bad. You’ll see. We’ll take good care of you.”

How will they save me if no one knows I’m here?

[two-white-butterflies]

THE ALCOTT - a. targaryen

You tell me your problems (Have I become one of your problems?)

Description: As Rhaenyra's oldest daughter — you were expected to marry for the gain of your mother's fraction. Aemond Targaryen sees you in Winterfell, your heart feels like jumping out of your chest.

When the snow falls and the white wind blows. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Winterfell was colder than you expected, as a lady far used to the warmth of a dragon — it blew your mind how northerners lived in never-ending snow. The guards were cautious of your dragon. He was known as the Cannibal, who preyed on every animal — even those of its own kin. At the same time, you couldn't help but notice their lack of fear, like they were used to seeing dragons this big. "My princess!" Cregan came quick to your side.

The sides of your lips turned upwards, heart heaving with joy at the sight of the man you trusted like a brother. The sight of him made you less worried about war. "My lord," you smiled while wrapping your arms around him, aware of the fact that you stink of dragon and ash. "My mother, the Queen Rhaenyra, extends her gratitude for offering Winterfell as a safe haven." you breathed a sigh of relief, as the dragonkeepers began to usher your dragon away to safety.

Losing the war was your biggest fear. There was no doubt in your mind that your uncle, Aegon the Usurper, will execute you if you ever decide to surrender. He takes a deep breath, carrying a heavy burden on his back. "It is not much of a safe haven as you believe." he stares at you from the side, his hand was placed upon the small of your back — leading you inside of his warm castle.

"What do you mean?" you asked, eyebrows bumping into each other. Winterfell and Kingslanding were your second home, the thought of either betraying you was stupid, yet the latter managed to do so. "Fellow northerns lords have spoken about your house falling from grace. The house of the dragon does not know who rules it —" he explains but you interrupt him in annoyance.

"My mother is the Queen, my uncles are mere usurpers who stand against the throne." you correct, nose scrunching in disbelief. Shame flooded your features. The house of the dragon does now know who rules it, but you do it was fire and blood — the same two that will consume the Hightowers with avarice. "Not everyone believes that." he retorts, you take your gloves off — freezing at the sight of ... Aemond Targaryen. Your uncle, whose aided your sorrows for seventeen years in Kingslanding. Has he come to murder you now?

"My lord, if you wish to offer your loyalties to the Usurper. You are free to do so — but attempting to ambush me?" you accuse, he places a hand on your shoulder, Cregan's eyes staring deep into your own. Your mother called him 'sweet-summer boy' for he was born in the longest summer. He was sweet and kind, but also cold and dangerous. There was no doubt in your mind that he would execute you in the name of the greater good.

"I am not here to hurt you, sister. He arrived here a fortnight ago, offering his hand for one of my cousins to marry but I declined him, because I know that his brother is an usurper who does not deserve the throne. Gods be good, if I allowed a drunken charlatan to ever become king." Cregan's eyes pierced into Aemond's soft skull. He takes a deep breath, eyes trailing away from the Prince he welcomed into his home. "But my council does not offer the same sentiments." he scratches his nose, eyes pulsing with rage. Cregan Stark was loyal to your mother.

"And you thought that it was appropriate to welcome him here? When I am set for a visit?" you questioned, playing with the dagger inside your pocket. You couldn't trust anyone, not the lord beside you nor the uncle who has been with you for seventeen years.

"I am not here for him, my niece. I am here for you?" he admits, breaking the thick wall of ice. His good eye stared at you, lips puckered and pink from the cold. The man that you loved was gone, there were only mere traces of him left. "Are you still mad because of your eye?" you question, taking on a stance for fight. You were well trained in warfare, equipped enough to take his only eye.

"I've long forgiven you, but my sister?" he chuckles for a few seconds, lips smirking at the thought of Rhaenyra. "But still, we are merciful — return home. We'll imprison your mother in Dragonstone, your brothers will be cupbearers and squires for the King. And you, my lovely niece, we'll find a match worthy." he offers, laying out the terms in a way that seemed appetizing.

You stared at him. Blinking, but not thinking.

"Which side are you on?" he finishes, taking a step forward. He was a few feet away, but you could see him perfectly. He had a neat stubble, his left-eyebrow had a thin horizontal line on the center. He has aged more in three-months than he has ever had in his entire life. "The last thing I want is to be on your side." you insult through gritted teeth, Cregan stares at the both of you back and forth.

"No harm will come to the both of you under my roof. My princess, I'm sure that you are tired of all the traveling, it is best to retire. And my prince, the finest wines need your tasting down the Great Hall." Cregan tilts his head to the other door, pulling you away before you could ever start a fight.

----

The owls were chirping outside of your window, nocturnal animals prowling at night for their next prey. He knocks on your door, body standing rigid in front of your window. "My princess," he whispers, trying his best not to awake Cregan whose room was parallel yours.

Your hands reach the door, hands twisting to open the door-knob. You trusted Cregan's promise of no harm coming to you. It was favorable, for you wouldn't be hurt but the same thing couldn't be promised to your uncle.You meet his eye.

A Lavender Lazuli eye that showed you spectrums of different colors. "Aemond," you answered with no respect. No respect is given to rebels. "Go home with me." he offered and you leaned on the door-frame. His voice was low, breath stinking of ale — his eye was downcast and filled with melancholia. He missed you, but you weren't sure of feeling the same with him.

"My home is in Dragonstone. It is where I was born." you replied curtly, lips pressing into a thin line. He placed a hand on the doorframe, stopping you from shutting the door on his face. "Your mother is not the rightful heir. A woman can't hold into power, not in our times." he rasped, earning an eye-roll from you.

You are Rhaenyra's heir. The Queen after her.

"Not in this world yes, but we have always been queer with our customs. In Valyria, women can rule without fight — are you not Valryian, dear uncle?" you taunt, playing at the thought of his Hightower blood. You were not the daughter of Harwin Strong. You were either of Laenor or Daemon's. But one thing was certain, Valyria flooded your veins more than it did to him.

"That is not what I mean." he breaths.

"We waste too much time in fighting this damn war! I'm losing you, qogralbar ziry" he cursed, fist bumping into the wall beside him. Fuck it. He thought about taking you, and marrying you. "You are losing me because of your pride. Your belief of women being incapable of ruling." you rolled your eyes, walking away from him — but he takes ahold of your forearm, pulling you back in front of him.

"I do not think that you are incapable of ruling, I merely believe that your mother should lay down her arms and accept my brother as king." he asserted, keeping his hands on you. "The first thing you desire, is the last thing I could ever dream of." you scoff, pushing him away from you.

By this point, you were both outside of your room — feet barely stepping over the line that divided your room and the hallway. "That is our problem!" he raised his voice slowly. You bite the inner corner of your lips, imagining his murder. "I am one of your problems, uncle." you reply taking a step backward, returning inside your room.

You were just about to close the door, but he collapses unto you — knocked out by the strong northern ale. "I want to forget you." he mumbles before closing his eyes.

taglist: @scarwicht@nyctophilic0vitnir@witch-of-letters

[literallyjusttoa]

If y'all are ever feeling down and sad, you should try this quick and easy solution:

Make Lester You!!!

And I don't mean regular old kinning and projection. No, I'm talking just inserting a whole bunch of your features onto Lester for fun. I know we have a description of him from the books but Lester is our fav king of delusion so we can just pretend he made it up idk. Here let me give you an example. Today I did a quick semi-realistic study to pin down the facial features of my God-type Apollo:

Here's all the reasoning I had behind his design

Long straight nose is common for Greeks + it's meant to make the face have a bit of a bird-ish shape. This is a trait he shares with Athena.

Hooded eyes double for intimidation factor and pretty boy status, plus sunbeam eyelashes for extra flair.

A bit of a more pronounced bottom lip (for dramatic pouting)

Softer curl pattern, similar to clouds (A bit straighter than his dad’s, Cumulonimbus vs. Stratus)

NOSE RING! Cannot believe I hadn't added this before it's perfect.

Mid-range face shape, not round but not too long either. Again, going for a pretty and masculine look. I don't want to make him too angular, so I tried to round out his face to contrast the sharper lines of his eyes and nose.

Now, here's the study I did for normal-type Apollo

(It's a bit messier I had to do it quick sry)

And what's the reasoning behind this one?

...

IT'S ME I TOOK A WHOLE BUNCH OF MY FACIAL FEATURES AND I SAID THESE ARE LESTER'S NOW THIS IS CANON AND RICK AGREED AND SO I AM RIGHT

Anyways try out this fun hack it'll change your life I swear.

[yawarakaizai]

pmzai with an equally miserable s/o fem reader

ⵌ IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT

SENDER Reader (Fem) RECIPITENT PM Dazai Osamu (BSD) CONTENTS You sit and stare and wait for him to return to you. You've been bad and you've been good. There's nothing and no one that gives you purpose like he. NOTE reader+dazai are 17/18, implications of s/h, slight misogyny, death of parent, it's kind of angsty.. , soft couple, miserable couple, sui/cide mention+ideation COMPANY I'm Not Human At All

A/N ʚ₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ɞ th is wa s har d to make b ecause i h ad sOOO OO m any ide as an d my playli st wa s feelin g good an d kept pla y ing song s th at g ave me diff fic ide as ;; th is is sad ,,, i do nt like sa d fics bu t ,,, this is kin d of a ven t? hehe FEE L FREE TO REQ UEST MOR E!

Your tender heart would care for an injured bunny rescued from a bear trap.

You'd nurse the animal as best you could yet it would always die.

Your father was a hunter. He earned your living costs by selling animal hide and what meat he'd have spare after covering what you'll need. Your mother died when you were a little girl.

You were as sweet as your mother.

Your father would tell stories of how She would gaze out on the winter sky and say to Herself, "My daughter will be as snow. Gentle and graceful, yet freezing to those who demand more of what perfect she is already."

When your Mother died, they put Her in a box full of pink carnations and orchids. Surely to counteract the smell of Her decaying corpse, to display Her flesh as something beautiful before her descent under soil to where Her bones will return and fertilise what surrounds.

Rural life in Japan was not for the weak. Which you were.

You picked up what your Mother left behind.

Tending to the chickens in their coops and shearing the sheep, you'd milk the cows and free the rabbits when Father wasn't looking.

Your hands plush with baby fat would clench around your rosary every night and pray like a good girl.

By the time you reached puberty, your features resembled your Mother more than ever before. Your figure changed and as did your father.

He'd sneer at the dress that fit you perfectly just two years ago. You'd become defiant and bold, a rebellious child.

" Father, but why? "

Your protests and argumentative nature would anger him. And now, you weren't a good girl.

Shouting battles always left you sobbing into thick pillows until your throat hurt.

It was at the age of fifteen did you find out what lies beneath your thin flesh and blue pulse.

You are made of bright crimson and spite.

At sixteen, you ran away.

It was impulsive. You forgot how and what happened. You don't want to remember.

Your calves ached and your feet blistered with pain from trudging up and down hills and farms.

You are a mixture of love and loss.

Everything is a blur, and sometimes you question whether running away was the wisest thing to do.

You had collapsed the moment you stepped foot into the city.

A sad, lost soul who ran away from her father.

You had been a..

" Very bad girl. "

The voice startled you enough for you to spill the batter all over your clean white apron.

" Osamu! " You cried out in disbelief, the boy laughing hysterically. " That isn't funny, knock it off. "

In a way, Dazai reminded you of those bunnies you'd rescue in your youth. He was caught and wounded by the claws of Life. And although you may cup his cheeks into your hands and tell him 'You're alive', he had already died before you were able to cradle him to your chest.

" I told you not to wake up early, Y/N! I should have known to not mention my fondness of crêpes to you. "

You felt untamed, wild hair brush against the bare of your neck before soft lips made contact with your jawline. A soft kiss pressing into what was cold. He was grateful to have you in his sad miserable life.

And even if you two were not perfect for each other, you'd both die to watch the world burn.

" I did it on my own accord. " You lied. " You did not. " He calls your bluff like air. You huff in surrender.

Setting down the metal bowl of paste, you turn to face him. You think of the horrors that his empty, black eye must have seen. His other eye, obscured by bandages, was a mystery to you. You respected him enough to not budge him about it.

" I wished to make you something special. "

You confess, certain he already knew your intention. Your boyfriend was simply smarter than many.

" I don't need anything. Coming home to you is enough, bella. '' His hand stretches to you like death.

Your eyes were not as bright as they were when you were little. They reflected the bad girl that you've become. The one that left her sickly impoverished father in treacherous conditions alone because her feelings were hurt.

" Belladonna. "

He'd pull you back into reality when he'd notice you slipping.

" 'samu. You've barely been coming home anymore, okay? Let me do this, just this once for you. " You snaked your arms around his waist and he mirrored your action, twirling you both out of the kitchen.

Dazai was inexplicable to you. He was a man your father wouldn't like. A man your Mother would hate. A man your younger self would despise.

You willingly moved into a shared apartment with the mafia executive after a few months of living in Yokohama. It was him to have picked you up from the streets. Sensing you were worth more than the muddied appearance you showed at that time.

Your one-time use turned into a second-time use, and your second-time use blossomed like a flower in Spring. You interested him.

You both intoxicated each other. Dazai was able to make you feel light. You felt weightless and as fragile as a butterfly. Weak, small and at his mercy.

" Then don't hide yourself away from the kitchen when I'm right here, love. "

By the time your spinning head focused on what was around you again, he had toppled you both onto the living room couch. He loomed over you, fully dressed in his mafia uniform, his stupid tie obscuring your vision until he tucked it between the buttons of his revere blouse.

" What would you do if I were to die? "

" Osamu. Stop that. "

You muttered.

You feel his life. The warmth of his body, the tender flow of blood heating his body as his finger traced patterns into your cheek. Your heart keeps beating.

" Answer me, Y/N. "

You didn't enjoy thinking of your partners demise. You wouldn't mind if you were to die.

The problem was, you didn't want to be alive for your boyfriends funeral, yet you didn't wish for your boyfriend to be alive for yours.

You loved each other to the point it became hate. Hate for how the other made living seem worth it.

Dazai had an eventful life. You did not.

You had no education whatsoever. According to the government, you did not exist. You had no birth certificate. You were no one. You lived hidden in this cramped apartment.

When Dazai was away, it was only you and your thoughts. Your thoughts were a dangerous thing.

" I think I would kill myself too. "

Your voice caught up on an unexpected crack. You were puzzled until your vision became glassy.

" Pretty baby. I'm sorry. " His apology was belated as you'd already begun to sniffle, he lowered his weight on you, turning to lay on his side as he pulled you in close, coaxing you into silence.

" Don't die, 'samu. Not here, not now. " Your sad little beg mused him.

Dazai was all you had left. You were most certain that if you were to part, you would die.

With Dazai, you were still inadequate. Without Dazai, you truly were nothing but a walking corpse.

He thinks that you are something weak and soft, with a fire raging in you that cried to be extinguished before it could spread.

You hush yourself to enjoy the feeling surrounding you. You feel Dazai's ribcage rise with each steady breath he takes. The beating of a heart is somewhere far deep in, and yours is jumping in your throat.

" Not now. " He repeated after you, and part of you wished to believe it.

There was something mystical about Osamu.

Something that warned you to not feed coal to the flame.

And that if you reached your hand in, you'd burn yourself on what was forbidden.

©yawarakaizai 2023 ﹒﹒ reblogs appreciated! requests open :3

[aotearoa20]

correspondence and revelations shortly after Dagor Bragollach for @silmarillionepistolary

To, Caranthir Morifinwë Fëanorian Lord of the East

Dear cousin, it is with great sorrow which I greet you. The attacks of the Enemy took us all by surprise and I mourn the blow the loss of Thargelion will surely have on us all. Though I had never the chance to visit I had heard many great things of the eastern mountains, they were fair to behold, I am told, and I know that you loved it there. Still it gladdens me to hear that you and yours escaped for the most part unscathed. Know whatever aid and support we can spare is already on its way to you as you receive this letter.

I'm sure you know already that Celegorm and Curufin have taken up refuge among my people. You should know you they are well and whole. They, along with I, have sent letters detailing their arrival and stay. I have also sent some papers detailing preliminary adjustments to traderoutes and logistics for delivering aid among our people and allies. I am sure you have more than enough plans of your own and as always i defer to you judgement on such matters.

But all this aside I had another matter I wished to inform you of concerning one of the people of Haleth in Brethil. I have kept it to myself for some time but if anything has come from these last days is that none of us knows when doom will rear its head.

The Lady Haleth herself I met only a few times, when negotiating the terms of her people’s dwelling, and found her to be a woman of brusque and bright countenance. Indeed, when I learnt of her dealings with you I thought that the pair of you must have gotten on like a house on fire, else hated each other entirely. But I digress.

It was upon one of those meetings when I saw a child, I reckoned at the time, perhaps five by the count of Men often about her dwelling. No husband she ever spoke of nor did I ask. The child had her likeness and hearing of the tradgey that claimed the rest of her family, I thought perhaps his father had perished with her kin.

In truth, I thought little of it at all until some years ago, on a visit to the city of Menegroth, when I found a youth milling about the edges of the Girdle. It must have been two hundred years since I’d last seen him, the Haladin had since had two chieftains but the boy looked no older than twenty. He named himself a changeling in his own tongue and told me his father was one of the Eldar.

Erestor he called himself in Sindarin for though he’d lived among his people, at on the request of his mother had not taken her title. Instead he stayed as a counseler for his cousin and later his children and grandchildren. (The translation is a bit off I deem but he having learned more seems loath to correct it and resistant to advice) Either way, wishing to learn more of his father’s people and had come to Doriath to see if he may by his blood be permitted. I spoke with him a while and finding him genuine in his desire, brought him with me and vouched for him before Elu Thingol, the King.

Since then he visits the city every few summers and then returns to his people before the snows set in. He has had little trouble of it, for his mother’s features hide much of his fathers heritage and he is wont to pass through, drawing as little attention to himself as he can. But I found him curious and upon further investigation and despite his protests to the contrary, I am certain his father is Noldorin. In fact, on those rare occasions he does smiles without restrain cousin - were it not for his quiet temperament I know he did not inherit from his mother - I would have wondered if he was your own.

At any rate, considering the time and circumstances I first found him, it's likely it is that his father is among your people. I can think of any number of reasons such a thing would have been hidden from offical records but I truly doubt it could have happened without your knowledge. To the point, I thought, especially in the chaos of these days, you might pass on some news of the boy’s well being. I have had news from Brethil, written in the the his hand, they are well, if overwhelmed with refugees from Dor Lomin. But he is safe. Perhaps that might comfort his kin in Amon Ereb. And perhaps you could tell him that his child is a scholar in training. That he is happy, as much as any of us can be, and untouched by doom or darkness. May he remain so.

I hope I have not overstepped in my assumptions. Always I have hesitated in speaking on this subject. I just have with the loss of don't want to leave anything unsaid that ought to be.

That is all.

As I detailed before, i have sent ahead letters pertaining to more practical means. I have no doubt in your prompt reply. I wish you well, cousin. May Tilion watch your steps before the Dawn breaks.

Finrod Felagund King of Nargothrond

[dearshelby]

hi! i saw your writings and theyre sooo good i love them! i was wondering if u could write about protective tommy please? idk how it would b, mayb him fighting w someone who flirted or take things to anotehr level w reader? sorry if i spell bad english its noty native too 😭

thank u! 🩷🐇

Hello, thank you so much! I'm gonna offer you a jealous!Tommy drabble and I hope it fits your taste bc is the first one I ever wrote hehe

Definitely not jealous | T.S

The party carried on loudly as the hours went by, both the Shelby and Lee kin were relieved a marriage was settled to end the war. Ironically, John, who had nearly ran away, was in a dark corner with Esme on his lap. Peace it was.

Ada's laugh was muffled by the concertinas, fireworks and gunshots, the families and guests celebrated united in a happy crowd and the bonfire burned warm so no one felt the cold nightly breeze of the last days of winter. Tommy and Zilpha sat together at a certain distance, watching the party like their own personal kingdom.

The smoke of his third cigarette filled his lungs as his icy eyes wandered through the crowd, whiskey wetted his lips and his mind worked fast, putting the momentary happiness aside to plan his next move on the chess table Small Heath had become since the end of the great war.

However, an unexpected sight stopped the gears of his head in an abrupt move, his jaw clenched, eyes squinted and hands closed in a fist. His wife danced with a Lee boy, a beautiful smile decorated her face as she swayed in his arms.

Tommy's breath got heavier while he tried to rationalize his feelings. It was a wedding, people normally dance, the boy looked drunk, he mustn't know who she was to boldly ask for a dance like that.

But also, Y/N hated to dance, it took months of bargain to allow him to teach her when they were younger, she never smiled like that except when she was extremely happy and she wore her best dress for the occasion. Did she know the boy before? Did she doll up for him? Why didn't she ask her husband to dance before going to some random boy?

Before Tommy could stop himself, his feet took him to them, pushing the other dancing couples in his way.

"Lee boy," he spat out.

"Tommy Shelby I assume," the boy offered his hand, "I'm Gilbert,"

Tommy sized him up, only looking away when his wife whispered his name, she arched her eyebrows in a silent warning. Usually Tommy dealt with his jealousy silently, but his posture told her he could put up a fight at any moment.

"... can you excuse us, Gilbert?"

"Alright, nice to meet you, Y/N,"

His icy eyes didn't leave the Lee boy until his wife's hands rested on his shoulders. A cocky smile decorated her face as she asked, "May I ask what was that about?"

No explanation was needed as his jaw clenched and a deep breath left his lungs, before her humorous eyes he couldn't put up a scene, he needed an explanation though.

"Do you know that bastard?" Tommy asked.

"Not at all,"

"You looked so fucking happy-"

"What are you implying?" she quickly interrupted, "John just got married, your plan worked right, why shouldn't I be?"

Tommy's hands met her waist bringing her closer, he was never the one to display affection in public, but that situation demanded it.

"Are you jealous?" she continued.

"No,"

"Good, I'll find another lad to dance with then,"

"Oh no, you're not," he forbid, "you'll take a break for now,"

"Are you sure you're not jealous?"

"I just want to sit down with my wife, is that a crime?"

"No, it's not, it's flattering even," she pecked his lips, "but y'know, if you were to be jealous I'd say you don't have to, you're the only man I want,"

"Good thing that I'm not then, eh?" he insisted, his features softing up.

"Yeah, it's great," she giggled, allowing him to guide her to their seat.

[simoneslibrarys]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒓’𝒔 𝒅𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓

𝘄𝗶𝗳𝗲!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝘅 𝗯𝗶-𝗵𝗮𝗻

𝘤𝘸：𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵！𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳，𝘢 𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘗𝘖𝘊 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦，𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘤 𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵，𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘺， 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺，𝘱𝘳𝘦－𝘮𝘬1 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦， 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨！𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳，𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨！𝘣𝘪－𝘩𝘢𝘯

𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵

𝙉𝙊𝙏 𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙊𝙁𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿

𝘼/𝙉: 𝙤𝙠𝙖𝙮 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙪𝙢𝙗𝙡𝙧 𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙖 𝙨𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙬𝙖𝙝𝙝𝙝!!𝙞’𝙫𝙚 𝙪𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙖𝙥𝙥 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙤3, 𝙢𝙮 𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙜𝙤𝙩 𝙢𝙚 𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙙. 𝙗𝙩𝙬 𝙞 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣𝙩 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙤 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙛𝙪𝙣 𝙡𝙢𝙖𝙤

𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙚𝙣𝙟𝙤𝙮!

－★

when you and bi-han first met, is when you both were just young teenagers. around 14-15. your father was a meer baker and you helped him with whole-heart.

－★

the only reason you and bi-han met was because his mother had pushed her sons out of the temple and into the near by village to get out of the temple and experience life from the outside. tomas and kuai liang were having the time of their lives, enjoying the common enjoyments and its people.

－★

tomas and kuai liang begged their older brother for a treat, and he brugudingly did so with the last of their savings.

－★

in came you, covered in dought and flour. you heard the bell ring as you saw the Liu Kuei Brothers came in. you emerged from the back when you saw the famous colors of the grandmaster’s kins. you immedately bowed, showing your respect honor. Bi-Han looked down at you as his brothers smushed their faces against the glass.

－★

"young master.." you whimpered. Bi-Han dismissed you as you came back up from the ground. "What can I get for you and your brothers , young master?" You whimpered.

－★

Bi-Han took in your beauty. he was amused by your features. almost..attracted. he had never seen a girl as pretty as you. even the prettiest of the girl from other clans could not best you. "evening, ma'am my brothers are here for a treat-" "OOOH! BI-HAN! I WANNA A COOKIE!" Tomas blurted out.

－★

as you giggled and moved behind the counter, you grabbed a cookie and handed it to the small boy. Tomas' face lit up as he took a bite out the cookie with pure joy. "Hey! I want one too!" Kuai Liang pouted. "Of course young master!" You also handed the boy a cookie as they ate with a smile.

－★

meanwhile the older was leaning against the counter, groaning as he watched his younger brothers embarass him in front of a pretty girl.

－★

"ma'am?" he arupted. you looked up with worry, hesitanting if you had upset the next to kin of the near by clan. "yes, young master?" you mumbled.

－★

"please, meet me at the gates of my temple. midnight. do not keep me waiting.." he gruffed out. you batted your lashes as you saw the young master blush and turn his head away from you.

－★

"of course, young master-"

"call me by my given name, bi-han.." he grunted out with a smirk.

＠𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘺𝘴

[silverbirching]

Hestia, Hera and Our Boy Apollo

So three of the Olympians didn't appear in Hades, and boy do I have some opinions about it!

Hestia not appearing--except as one of the aspects of the Adamant Rail--makes sense for a couple of reasons. For one, tallies of the Olympians generally feature her OR Dionysus, but not both. It's one of those 'common knowledge' things that she stepped down to allow for Dionysus' ascension but that's not reflected anywhere in the mythology, to my knowledge. Plus, as Goddess of the Hearthfire, she might be a little ambivalent about helping someone specifically abandon their home and their responsibilities to their kin. Even if their home is actual, literal Hell and their kin kind of suck.

Hera also makes sense based on her characterization; I can imagine her being far too busy to devote any energy to some cthonic welp and his daddy issues. What I wanted (maybe a message from Hermes) is a throwaway line about how Hera would love to help you out, boss, but she's got a really full schedule tormenting this cow her husband had sex with and really can't find the time.

Zag: Er. Hermes: Look boss in his defense it was a very sexy cow. Zag: ... what's a cow?

Apollo, though? Look up at the top of this post. Look at the stories about him in the mythos. You wanna tell me that twinky trash heap of omnisexual drama-farming wouldn't be ALL OVER THIS!? The literal GOD of not ever knowing when he's not welcome?

Imagine the sniping, when he and Artemis have a double boon. Imagine the flirtation. Imagine Hades' reaction when you use a fully charged Apollo Call during the final boss fight.

Zag: APOLLO! Apollo: HERE COMES THE SUN! Hades: ... Hades: ... Hades: ...THIS BITCH?!

But REALLY, seriously, what I'd want most of all is: one, Apollo hardcore flirts with Zagreus, and two, literally everyone in the game roasts him about it.

Thanatos: Zagreus I don't want to tell you how to live your life but I've escorted four of his lovers to the underworld. Zag: That's-- Thanatos: So far. Zag: ... Thanatos: This month.

Hermes: I dunno boss I think you should tell him you don't fancy him and then turn into a tree LAWL Artemis: NO NO NO Ask him if he wants to play Frisbee :D! [Artemis and Hermes exchange windmill high-fives]

So long story short, I'm very excited to see what this absolute garbage deity gets up to in Hades 2, and I hope Zag's little sister brings some idiot repellent (it may also function as pepper spray).

[onmyyan]

Manny Delmont HC's

A/N: The last of the boys is here but he certainly ain't the least ;) EDITED

TW'S: YANDERE, MURDER, NEEDLE MENTION(TATTOO),

By far the most unhinged member of the family and thats saying A LOT lmao

Platonic yandere for his kin, he has killed in their name and will do it again.

One of if not the most loyal person you'd ever meet.

Once he decides he likes you he turns into your own personal puppy.

If the puppy was a man who enjoyed showing his love through the most violent means at hand that is.

Smells like honey and lavender and when he can't be bothered to hide it, blood.

Shares a lot of features with his twin, except his eyes, he has the brightest in his family, and they are often clouded with mischief.

Marcos uses him as a test dummy for outfits since they look nearly identical, if looks good on Manny he can go from there.

He's been offered to model before.

Best begging face in the business, he rarely has to ask for something twice.

Has a few tattoos, there's a blank cartoon heart over his real one, plans on getting his beloveds name inked there once he finds em.

And he knows he will!

Hopeless romantic, he loves romcoms!

Especially You on Netflix(👁👄👁)

Thinks Christine should have chosen to be with the Phantom of the Opera.

Also thinks Victor should have been with Emily from A Corpse Bride.

Mask kink but we'll circle back later ;)

It stems from his love of all things Horror something be shared with his twin, if he's watching something where he picks up even a hint of romance between the Slasher and the final girl he starts kicking his feet.

Thinks the bad guys deserve love to!

Gave himself his first tattoo, a stick n poke he made himself after watching 1 YouTube video.

Yeah that got infected, but he thought scars were sick as hell plus it was a great party story.

People fall over their feet for him on the daily.

Has gotten in the most fights out of all the brothers.

He may takes some licks during them but he was scary in the way that he never stayed down, and you could tell from the blank look in his eye and the twisted grin, if he got the chance he'd put you in the ground.

Terrible singer but that doesn't stop him from belting out his favorites in the shower

He loves pop music because there are a surprising amount of songs that remind him of his specific brand of love.

He really likes reading, especially when it teaches him something new, always learning this one.

He could be at the top of his class if he put in a smidge more of effort but he likes his life, as long as he's not actively causing chaos which lets be honest is very easy for him, the teachers often turn a blind eye to his goofing off.

Had several fake Id's before he was legal just to get into clubs to see bands preform.

Has a snake named noodle.

Shes a Python. He talks to her like a person

"You would not believe my day girl."

He's lean but strong, way stronger than he looks which always catches people by surprise.

If he doesn't have something occupying his hands he will start tapping on whatever available surface and if left unattended that will turn into beatboxing.

Funny even when he isn't trying

He once kidnapped a guy who was giving his twin grief and sent a picture of his upside down body in the group chat

"Felt kinda silly idk :) "

Manny's got high expectations for anyone dating his family, he's the real reason they have the rule about vetting people with each other.

When Ricky and Gabe were fighting over that girl way back when, a much younger Manny, hating the way his usually loving siblings were at each others throats, took it upon himself to rid them of the problem.

Knowing he only meant well Ricky and Gabe concocted the system the use today, but don't tell that to Manny.

His fits always come with a body count.

Oral fixation, he's constantly chewing on something.

His only source for relationships are his insane ass family so as the baby, it's natural he'd absorb all that crazy.

His laugh is more of a cackle.

He picks stuff up super easily but also gets bored just as fast so he has this random ass assortment of skills and neat party tricks.

Like one summer he got super into gymnastics so for fun he liked to twist into a backbend and speed crawl towards his brothers in the pitch black of the night.(Ricky has passed out from this)

Adrenalin junkie, he'd gotten his first motorbike at 15 and had been chasing the high he got from that first ride since.

Gabe taught him how to fight, not because he wanted to but because Manny had a tendency to mouth off to the wrong people and Gabe couldn't always be there to defend him.

Loves playing soccer, his father wanted him to have a much more legal way of releasing that devil in him, after nailing the goalie with a ball so hard he passed out, he fell in love with the sport.

He has a mean kick, if someone pissed him off enough he'd always manage to 'accidentally' kick the ball at their softest parts.

Has a new group of friends every week, he can't help it if everyone wants a piece of him.

He meets you at a bookstore, and he seen you long before he walked over to ask for help.

He watched the gentle way you handled the books, the care you showed them as you sorted, he could see you bobbing your head to the song softly playing from some speaker, the beams of light pouring in from the window cast you in a light that was damn near angelic.

He gaped at you silently for a bit before coming up with some obscure book title im his mind, if his assumptions about you were correct, you'd offer to help.

"Hi? Sorry to bug you." He put on his most charming smile and he could see it's effects instantly, the warm look in your eye gave him butterflies in his stomach.

"You're fine, how can I help you hun?" God even the way you spoke had goosebumps trailing down his back, your tone was like velvet.

"O-oh well I have this report due tomorrow that I completely spaced about- any chance you have this one?" He made sure to flash his watch, peacocking in every way he knew how, the rolex a gift from his Father, but you focused intently on the screen.

"Hmm this is an old one, I've definitely seen it, wanna follow me?"

"Absolutely." The response was innocent in nature but you had no idea just how much he meant that.

"So, you like to read or just a job thing?" He said gesturing to the rest of the store. To his delight you gave him another heart stopping smile, "I love books. How they can take you away from all the bullshit- oops sorry-" he laughed loud enough to hear it echo causing her to grin, "No don't be sorry, I wholeheartedly agree."

Ironically as picky as he was with his family's partners, he was yours the second you called him Hun, he got flashes of your life together the longer you two spoke, in reality the conversation was maybe ten minutes but that was all he needed.

Charms his way into your number, starts bringing you lunch and offering to pick you up, then he's offering to take you to work, no matter how early you started.

"I don't wanna mess with your sleep hun, plus you'd have to drive all the way across town and then to my job-"

He'd squish your cheeks together to steal a kiss, "Nonsense Darling, you could just spend the night if you're so worried about me." And would you look at that you're spending the night like every other night.

He's dummy smooth, he has you practically moved in before you're one month anniversary, if anyone were to try and plant some poison in your head like "You guys are moving kinda fast" or "shouldn't you get to know him better?" They are quickly put on his shit list.

As quick to cut a bitch as our boy is, he's also smart, and knows if everyone in your family and immediate circle started dropping dead he'd have a problem, so instead he gaslight gatekeeps and girlbosses his way to victory.

It be almost like love bombing, except it never goes away, he only ever falls deeper in love with you as time goes on.

Walk him like a dog he needs it.

Wants to take you all over the world, loves the idea of boneing in every continent.

He's soo cuddly the type to text you when you're in the bathroom cuz he miss you :(

The kinda guy where if you send him a cute picture he responds with a video of him falling to his knees wherever he's at.

Loves being the little spoon, but when he's wasted he has a tendency to flop on top of you like a starfish before curling around you like a koala.

Mean mugs the shit outta any girl who looks at him bec tf I'm for MY babys eyes only >:(

Promise rings for your one month anniversary that have both your guy's blood in them. How he got it you'll never know but you're a weirdo just like him and instead of questioning it you bear hug him.

Fantastic kisser, knocks the breath outta you each time, please touch him while you make out, pull his hair he promises not to moan that loudly again. Scouts honor.

He's lying btw

He is the opposite of afraid to moan in your ear, they almost sound exaggerated but no he's really that loud.

[glitch-karma]

Chuuya Birthday Oneshot

Happy (Late..) birthday to the best boy, and my highest kin <333

The day was cold and rainy in Yokohama as you sat there in your small shared apartment. Your boyfriend, Chuuya Nakahara, Executive of the Port Mafia, had been gone for weeks on some mission. Today was his birthday. And it was the first that you two weren't together for.

You sighed as you set the wrapped presents you had for him on your table, along with a handwritten poem that you'd made for him. Birthdays were always hard for Chuuya. He'd always put up a big fuss every time you talked about it. You had a nagging feeling it was because of the incident with Paul Verlaine a few years back. Chuuya was never quite the same since then.

You wanted to be with him so bad. Just to feel his soft lips pamper your face with kisses as you run your hand through his messy orange hair. The feeling of his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, as if he never wants to let go. The way he'd whisper in your ear that you two would stay home instead of going out to celebrate. You craved his touch.

You stood up sadly, making your way to your room to grab your phone. You and Chuuya were originally off today, but since he wasn't here you figured you may as well stop by Mori's office to see if there was any work to be done.

As you walk back into the kitchen you sense something, or rather someone, was watching you. You stop walking for the door for a second. Looking at your surroundings. You very slowly reach for your back pocket, pulling out a small semiautomatic hand gun and pointing to the celling above you.

"Jesus Doll!!"

You immediately recognized the voice as you stared up at the celling. The man you missed the most.. And you were pointing a gun at him.

"Oh my god Chuuya!" You yell, dropping the gun as he deactivated his ability, getting down on the floor. You immediately jumped into his arms as he laughed, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you in tight. "that's not the reaction I was expecting from that, but it sure was a good one," Chuuya joked as he kissed your forehead lightly. "I missed the hell out of you, y'know?"

His grip on you was just as expected, like he wanted to hold you and keep you safe in his arms forever. You two stood there in silence for a few moments before you lightly pulled back, taking his hat off of his head and tossing it on the table beside you.

"Happy birthday. I'm so glad your home for it." You said, placing a hand on his cheek, observing all his facial features. His beautiful blue eyes, his almost feminine eyelashes, the small amounts of freckles that dusted his face, and of course his smile that never left his mouth.

He chuckled, kissing you again. "I couldn't stand being away from you today. All the men on the mission kept singing happy birthday and doing all this extra shit"

You laughed as you imagined how annoyed Chuuya must've been. He's never been one for big parties. He's not really one for any big celebration unless there's wine involved. Speaking of wine.

As Chuuya pulled you back into his grip, he noticed a pretty bottle of wine with a red ribbon wrapped around it sitting on the counter. His eyes lit up as he grabbed it, still keeping his grip on your waist nice and tight. ""Brunello di Montalcino Collosorbo".. You really went all out." Chuuya read the name of the wine out loud, putting his head into your collarbone, his breath lightly tickling your neck.

You chuckled, fluffing his hair. "And after we're done with that, I may draw us a nice bath.. Maybe open up that nice 87' bottle?" You said lowly, making Chuuya shudder lightly. "I am so lucky I have you." He said, standing up and pulling you into a passionate kiss. Everything was just, Perfect.

"My partner Nakahara Chuuya, A tempestuous storm, fierce and true, His fiery spirit burns so bright, A force to be reckoned with in every fight. His words cut like a sharpened blade, Yet with me, his kindness is never swayed, A complex man with a heart of gold, In his embrace, I feel safe and bold. We walk the streets of Yokohama, Side by side, no need for drama, Our bond is strong, unbreakable, Together, we are truly formidable. His crimson cloak billows in the wind, A symbol of his power, of the life he's been, But I know the real man beneath, A soul that's suffered, yet still believes. Chuuya, my partner, my love, In your presence, I soar like a dove, I am proud to stand by your side, Forever with you, through every tide. Happy birthday, Chuuya. Y/n."

(I hope it was worth the wait!!! Happy birthday Chuuya <3)

[theretirementhome]

What Child Is This?

2023. WHOSE child is this? GET IT THE EFF OUT OF HERE. Jesus Christ. Consider this your invitation to disassociate for 2 hours with every favorite Christmas song I could coherently stuff into one long megamix. All killer, no filler. Here's to 2024 not being such a little dickhead.

https://www.mixcloud.com/jessprice/what-child-is-this/

Image via @weirdchristmas

Tracklist:

Dorothy Remsen - On An Old Christmas Song (Silent Night)

The Crossing - Prelude: Adam

The Swingle Singers - Medley: Deck the Hall with Boughs of Holly / What Child Is This?

Les Petits Chanteurs De La Renaissance - Le Messie Vient De Naitre

The Annapolis Brass Quintet - O Holy Night

Urbie Green - Ave Maria

Anne Phillips Choir - Touro Louro Louro

Roberto Perera & Juan Areco - Joy

High Spirits, Past And Present-Youth Of Holy Spirit Parish - Virgin Mary Had A Baby Boy

The Dixie Humming Birds - The Holy Baby

The Roy Meriwether Trio - Jingle Bells (Part I)

The Flirtations - Christmas Time is Here Again

The Supremes - Twinkle Twinkle Little Me

The Staples Singers - Who Took The Merry Out Of Christmas

The Jack Brokensha Quartet - Do You Hear What I Hear?

Brook Benton - You're All I Want For Christmas

Joe Tex - I'll Make Everyday Christmas (For My Woman)

Roy Smeck and His Island Quartet - Winter Wonderland Vol. 2

Johnny Selph - All I Want For Christmas Is My Baby

Ed McCurdy And The Harvesters - (Tonight Is Christmas Eve) Get Along Home Cindy

Gene & Jerry - Hootenanny Christmas

Richard Gillis - C.B. Santa Claus

Dave Dudley - Six Tons Of Toys

The Smothers Brothers With Childrens Chorus - The Toy Song

Marc Haney - Christmas Song

Rhys O'Brien - Christmas Morning

Kenny Rogers And The First Edition - Joy (Jeso, Joy Of Man's Desiring)

Chaquito - Carol Of The Bells

Sacha Distel - Ding, Ding, Dong (Jingle Bells)

Cincinnati Symphony Members With Mac Frampton-Soloist - Jingle Bells 

Les Paul and Mary Ford - Jungle Bells (Dingo-Dongo-Day)

Edmundo Ros - My Favorite Things

Walt Harper - Silent Night

The Ramsey Lewis Trio - Mary's Boy Child

Raindolls - Disco Santa Claus

Hot Chocolate - Brand New Christmas

Moonlion - Little Drummer Boy

Geoff Bastow - God Rest Ye

Hot & Sassy - Christmas Strutt

The Next of Kin - Merry Christmas

Freddie Mitchell Orchestra Featuring Rip Harrigan - Auld Lang Syne Boogie

Washington High School Acappella Choir - We Wish You The Merriest

David Axelrod - Hallelujah

Airforce Broadcast Services - Slide Whistle And Pop

Airforce Broadcast Services - Ho, Ho

[princesscolumbia]

Ranma 1/2 Thoughts, Meta Edition

I have consumed...a lot of Ranma 1/2 content.

I mean, this is kinda what happens when you're a repressed transgirl who discovers the manga a year into a marriage that you got into to "fix" being trans and be "a real boy" in a desperate bid to fill the hole that you wouldn't learn for two decades could only be filled by living as your true self.

I've encountered precisely four (4) types of Ranma 1/2 fans in that time:

Transwomen who see Ranma as their idealized expression of the gender experience ("I'm not like this because I want to be, it's a curse. A curse that gives me a smokin' hot body and HUGE tits! But it's tooootally a curse, for realsies! I'll find a cure any day now, see how hard I'm looking? I'm trying sooooo hard to find a cure...")

Transmen who see Ranma as their perfect representation of their gender experience ("I'm a guy, damnit! This body...it's a curse! I hate it and I want nothing better than to be cured, but all sorts of Life Bullshit keeps getting in the way!")

Lesbians who kin either Ranma (butch NB lesbian) or one of their love interests (Akane - comphet closetted butch lesbian, Shampoo - Strong, smokin' hot bad bitch who goes after what she wants, Ukyo - transmasc coded genderfluid NB)

Completely clueless nimrods who miss the FUCKING POINT and are only into the show for the martial arts and think it would be better if Ranma got cured and they stopped having funny stuff happen.

(In case it's not obvious, IMHO the last group are the worst parts of the fandom and need to Go Away. Most of the toxic stuff that exists in R.5 fanspaces is because of this group of assholes which includes the incels that think everything would be better if Ranma just did stuff that's questionable from an ethics and morality perspective and chased after Shampoo because she's the closest thing to a Barbie-doll these closet fascists can allow themselves to fantasize about playing with, completely ignoring that she's a complex character that's a subversive pastiche to the Japanese racist stereotypes of the 1980s.)

I'm not kidding when I say that in the early days of the public Internet (before Facebook and Twitter ruined it for everyone), Ranma 1/2 was the SINGLE largest fandom by a MASSIVE stretch. I once checked my math on this by going to Fanfiction.net (before the massive purges) and brought up the Big List of All Fandoms and right there at the top with a MASSIVE number of fics was Ranma 1/2 by a HUGE margin. It took three fandoms (Star Trek, Doctor Who, and I believe Naruto if I'm recalling correctly) to have their combined total number of fics exceed the number of R.5 fics on FF.net...and that was JUST FF.net. There was an entire separate index (The Penultimate Ranma 1/2 Fanfic Index) that had the single task of listing, not even curating or reading or reviewing, ONLY Ranma 1/2 fanfics. Not fanart, not commentary, no RP blogs or chat transcripts or whatever, JUST fanfics. And only about half of those linked to FF.net, meaning that if you dig up the archives you'll find at least 60% of all fanfics that people had managed to index in the Ranma 1/2 fandom are missing because they were never properly archived and just...faded from the Internet as the public servers and places like Geocities started disappearing. You can find teasing, tantalizing hints of larger works that all we have left, like scraps of ancient papyri revealing a quote from a missing book of the Bible, are single chapters backed up on niche sites that managed to get spider-crawled by Archive.org, but many great works are just...lost. (There's an ero fic called "Playing with Water" that was SUPER hot and featured elements that we have tags for on porn sites but didn't really have proper words for back in the day...but even back when it was first being written finding the thing was hard...and today? Nearly impossible.)

(If you wonder why I'm such an absolute RABID advocate of AO3, this is why)

For me, Ranma will always be the transfemme coded genderfluid hero that we needed in the late 80s and early 90s. We were on the tail end of the AIDS pandemic, and just like COVID-19 there were a bunch of assholes who used it to ride to power and marginalize queer folk. It was easier to do with AIDS, of course, given the absolutely massive numbers of queer cis men and transwomen who contracted it and died. (Sidebar: the reason "L" comes first in "LGBTQIA+" is because it was the Lesbian nurses who were the caretakers of the Gay men who were dying in numbers large enough to be counted as a tragic statistic instead of a mere tragedy) and while the world was starting to acknowledge (again) that gay men was a thing that existed and they weren't actually trying to corrupt the youth, what we now call "transgender" was still listed in the DSM as a mental disorder that required treatment to "cure." According to the cultural majority in damn near every field you can imagine, the Gender Binary was the only way to exist and if you didn't fit neatly into one or the other then you were Damaged™ and had to be Fixed™ for The Good of All People™ (but specifically so cis-het-white folks, usually men, could feel comfy and not be confronted by things that made them feel icky and might have cooties). It's a truism that's treated as a joke that transwomen get into coding and wind up doing IT work in such massive numbers that between us and the furries we ARE the foundation of the modern Internet. And into the fanspaces packed to the brim with closetted AMAB transwomen who hadn't yet had their egg cracked came this plucky martial artist that gets to swap their gender with a splash of water but somehow still winds up the best of the best, the finest martial artist of their generation. (Goku can suck it, Ranma would turn the Kamea-meha right back on the over-muscled, braindead loser with a food fetish and still make it home in time for Kasumi's dinner)

I'm no sociologist, anthropologist, behaviorist, whatever, but I suspect that the reason Ranma Saotome spawned such a large fanbase so early in the modern Internet's history was specifically because the series created a safe space where people could talk about gender issues with a degree of separation that helped strip away the stigma surrounding feeling like you were in the wrong body.

I get why people like the martial arts aspect. I mean, Ranma kills a demigod. This is NOT something to sneeze at. I also understand the transmen who latch onto Ranma as a kin because I get the feeling like you have no control over what your body's doing and you're going through your days in existential dread of what might be dragging you further and further away from what you always knew was right and correct about yourself. It's a terrifying thing and here's someone who (esp. the anime version) IS a guy trapped in a girl's body.

For me, though, and for a LOT of transwomen out there, Ranma is transfemme. And, yes, canonically Ranma states right near the end of the manga that they're both and they kinda forgot about the 'cure' when they had to pick between that and the really important stuff and that they're okay with being fluid ('cause water, gettit?!) about their gender and it's a damn shame this was the 80s 'cause a continuation might wind up showing Ranma embracing being both...

BUT, and this is a transfemme thing, I know, if you continue the parabolic arc of Ranma's character development, the logical conclusion (for us) is that she eventually decides that she's a woman and just lives in her "cursed" form the majority (or all) of the time.

And yes, this is because that's the transfemme story arc. In the manga in some distant part of the multiverse that peers into our universe and for some reason decides to make me the MC (god, that must be a FUCKING BORING manga by our standards, I weep for those fans), my story arc is the gradual progression of uncracked, closetted transgirl to transitioned out and proud transbien mom. At one point I swapped back and forth between gender presentations because it was safer for me to appear in some spaces as the male that they thought I was. Now I would prefer to die before being forced to go back to pretending to be a man again.

Ranma has the choice, and good for them. Until the Kaisufuu is permanently destroyed, even if the "curse" is locked, they have the option of going one way or the other based solely on their own, personal desire. I can't say I'd be comfortable with that option being available. In that theoretical manga where there's a reboot that gives me a condition like Ranma's, I'd probably wind up destroying the equivalent to the Kaisufuu just because of the threat to my mental wellbeing it presents.

So it's not a stretch to imagine Ranma making the same choice. She's a woman now, she has the life she never realized she wanted because she never had the choice so didn't know she was allowed to imagine it, but now she's happier than ever and why would she ever go back to that struggle of being a guy that only ever brought her pain and challenges and heartache?

[astral-actias]

I wanna be clear that if I'm complaining about canine kin/therians/nonhumans/etc I'm not saying you shouldn't be here, shouldn't post, should feel bad for being what you are, or anything like that. It's not a complaint about you; you're good. It's just a general situational kind of, "Boy, I wish there were more like me," not a, "There should be fewer like you."

Like y'all are great, I'm just not one of you and there's not nearly as many like me. It gets lonely. That's all.

Though on that note I would love it if animal kin and therians would kindly remember that there are more kinds of nonhumans than [HUGE LIST OF EXISTING ANIMALS] and maybe elves/angels/dragons if you're lucky. Like, the variety is enormous, here. There's a ton of us that do not vibe with paws/tails/collars/pet toys/etc animal stuff. Positivity posts and resources that literally only list animals, which tend to be mostly mammals to begin with, and then maybe throw on at the end, "Oh yeah and elves and dragons I guess," get extra old and really don't feel inclusive at all sometimes.

Case in point, I'm both a moth-like fairy with humans and insectoid features, and a fictional type of semi-realistic android. Neither of those are gonna be mentioned in the vast majority of posts and that's kinda sad, you know? Like if there's a complaint, it's that I keep getting conflated into "dog" against my will. I get it if you're just speaking from your own experience, that's fair, but it's also good to seek out other experiences, you know?

Anyway it's never because canines bad. Canines good actually. Best good boys/girls/others, generally. I just would respectfully request y'all to remember you aren't the only ones here when you make broad community posts, that's all.

Obviously unless it's a canine ID community post in which case, hey, more power to you. There's literally enough of you that you could make that community, no problem.