#tagging primarily for clarity.

[kaibascorpse]

grrr ive really been feeling the urge to write more lately (as in non-fiction, academic and/or personal style writing) but i have so many fucking hangups about it. like what if i get something wrong and people think im stupid? what if i’m onto something but someone smarter and better at writing than me has already said it? what if i accidentally offend someone? what if people take what i say in bad faith? all of which leads to thinking maybe i should start a sideblog for my writing or post off-site so i can maintain some anonymity, except i *do* want people to actually read what i write and share their opinions on it, and as minuscule as my following on here is it’s still more than i have anywhere else, and my only means of exposing my writing to more people would be to share it through this blog thus negating any attempt to maintain anonymity. and it’s not even as if i really *want* to be anonymous or detach myself from my writing, i’m just fucking terrified of the panopticon of the internet. i want this blog to stay a safe space for me to be myself, yet in order to maintain my safety i feel i have to scrub clean any aspect of myself that might potentially invite harassment (such as: Expressing any Thought or Opinion on the Internet).

[prettyboykatsuki]

your kind of like | h. suo

✮ tags ; fem!reader, tomboy / athlete!reader, friends to lovers, third-year suo but its not super important, mutual pining, silly shoujo tropes lol, i headcanon tsubaki using she/they pronouns

✮ wc ; 2k (??????)

✮ a/n ; based on violets request for suo + my tomboy reader delusions. reader is a himbo but a girl and i love her.

also sorry if i completely butchered this guy LOOOL

The first time Suo lays eyes on you, you're half-way up a tree - a few feet from the ground, trying to coax and old lady's cat to jump on you and come down safely.

He remembers it in great detail since it left a lasting impression. How you rolled your skirt up so it wouldn't get in your way, how your face and hands were covered in scratches - and most particularly, how you smiled the entire time. How you were loud as you clicked your tongue but soft to it once it jumped into your arms.

You had jumped onto the soles of your feet with great force but the kitty seemed calm in your arms after a while. Bright as the sun and twice as warm, you returned the cat to it's owner and then, met Suo for the first time.

You give him your name, your age, your birthday - and then ask him for the same. When he gives it to you, you clap a hand on his shoulder and tell him it's so good to meet him.

Suo does not believe in love at first sight. Koi no yokan—love at second sight, or the feeling when you meet someone that loving them is your destiny. If Suo could put a name to that feeling, it was probably that.

He was bound to love you from that very instance.

For the last two years, he's been going straight down that path with no resistance and insurmountable clarity.

It's natural for Suo to make comparatives. It's the type of person he is, the kind of fighter he sets himself up to be. Primarily a martial artists with a preference to keep calm requires strategizing.

Drawing connections comes to him as easy as breathing.

So, if he had to compare him to you, there's no end of things that make you incredibly different. Almost opposite in all ways except your decency. Compared to Suo, you are loud and brutish and strong. You're easy to read in a way that reminds him of Sakura, but denser. Your nature is tough and absurdly honest.

You don't often fight outside of your sport for one reason or another, but when you do - you prefer to tank hits instead of avoid them. Everything you feel always shows on your face.

He's never met a girl so earnest in his entire life.

He's never really met anyone like you in general.

After your first meeting, you began to get friendly with him and Bofurin in general. A student athlete in an all-girls school in the same town, you're often in the area doing odd jobs for money. You live with your brother who works in the city, and you're the youngest of your family. You're incapable of lying, even when it might benefit you and you like sweet things.

You're nice to everyone and like to chat up whoever's around, but you like Suo especially. You often ditch class to go to Furin and hang out with them and you're rarely intimidated by anyone. You're comfortable with his friends, though you seem especially fond of Nirei and Sugashita. Sakura too, though he has yet to know how to act around you even this many years later.

Your relationship is as normal as any other friendship, but maybe that's part of the problem. You treat Suo as thoughtful as you would any other friend - even when he refuses to tell you about himself. You're not hurt by the fact he's got walls up so high, and you don't hound him when he can't be straight with you.

You understand Suo as a friend and don't bother with any other details. You just.. get him. So effortlessly. And even when you don't, nothing changes.

The nature of Bofurin after all, leads Suo to fights that leave him in emotional tatters. Moments where anyone else would ask to open up, you remain steadfast. Your friendship is a lot like you, sturdy beyond his understanding

(Countless times, Suo has shown up at your door unannounced - often covered in bruises and battered. You worry and anger, but you always let him. Take care of his wounds, let him borrow your shower. Even going so far as sneaking him into your room when your brother was home, just so he didn't have to be alone with his thoughts.

He can't count how many times he's slept across from you in your bed. Dense. An honest idiot. A girl with no self-preservation who's letting a guy sleep alongside her with no care.

Suo always feels apologetic the next morning and you smile and go along like nothing happened. It might've been true in your case, but in his - he fell in love a little more each time.)

Because you're that way - Suo finds it hard to deal with his feelings. With the enormity of them, the intensity of them. You're not totally clueless - but when people talk about relationships or dating, it always seems like it has nothing to do with you.

If you were anyone else, he thinks it'd be easy to confess to you. If you had been another girl, or less of a friend.

But it's you. The bright, earnest, tough, you. He can't even bring himself to flirt with you or treat you idly despite how much he likes you. He knows better than anyone how good you are, and can't pretend to be anything less than honest about it. He adores you so utterly that it'd be pointless to even try to pretend to have the advantage.

He can be a tease. A flirt, if he wants to be. With anyone else it'd be easy. But with you, the love is so genuine it's impossible. He just wants to cherish you. Wants to shower you in affection, wants to spoil you and give you all of his time.

Friends is such a hard line in the sand. The minute Suo crosses it, there's never going to be anyway to go back to how you were before. He's been careful in being content with just friends, because he'd rather keep you in his life than not have you at all by scaring you away with his feelings.

He thinks it'll all be fine until Nirei tells him word on the block about a recent confession.

__

"A kouhai from a different team asked you out?"

Suo reaches out to wipe the grain of rice from the corner of your mouth as you eat onigiri. Your carelessness endears him but he's too distracted by the rumor to pay it any mind. You nod, swallowing with a sip of water.

"Uh-huh. Akira-kun. Dun' know his first name, but he's a good kid. Super tall for being younger, though."

Suo was sure he would never have to worry about this since you went to an all-girls school. To think you'd get a confession from a fellow student athlete, a boys member of an opposing team. He tries not to get irritated at the thought.

"Are you interested in him?"

You pause. Suo feels his heart race before you answer with a shrug and continue to eat your bento.

"Dunno the guy enough to like 'im. He seems nice. I told him as much but he said that was fine," You pick at the veggies in your bento, taking a bite out of one. "So he asked me on a date instead so we could get to know each other."

"Oh?" Suo forces himself to smile and keep his voice even. "Are you going to go?"

You nod and Suo feels his heart stop. Shit.

"Really? I'm surprised."

You hum. "Well, you know, I've never been on a date," You say, suddenly smiling. You look so genuinely happy Suo can't bring himself to be totally upset. "But, it sounds super fun! We're gonna go to a batting cage in another prefecture."

He looks at you in surprise. "A batting cage?"

"Well, he thought I'd like that more than other date ideas, but I'm not all that picky since I've never been."

"You already talked about it a lot then."

"Uh-huh. He laughed when I said I wanted to go eat meat after. Said that was just like me... somehow I don't get it, but I'm happy anyway. I hope it'll be fun."

Suo smiles his best business smile and tells himself beating the shit out of his friends kouhai for flirting with her is wrong. "Hm. Are you prepared to go on the date?"

"You sound like Tsubaki-chan," You lament. "She made me go get nice clothes and everything."

....

"She did, huh? That sounds just like her. Did Kotoha-san go too?"

"Mhm. They just picked it out for me since I'm not good with any of that. Tsubaki-chan is so beautiful so I trust her."

"Mm,"

"What's wrong?"

You're looking at him with such clear eyes it makes Suo guilty. He knows if he says nothing now, you'll drop it without question. That's just how you are. But for once he doesn't really want to drop it. It's too impulsive and entirely rash but he really...

"You know, if you wanted go on a date - I could've just taken you."

You pause then grin a little. "Dates are for people in like, you know."

Of course you would assume it was a joke. Suo pauses, suddenly looking serious.

"So, if I told you I liked you - would you consider going on a date with me?"

"Sure," You smile because you definitely still think he's joking. But it's a pretty, honest smile anyway. "But Suo-kun doesn't need to ask me for anything. We can always just go together."

He still himself as he scoots in closer to you where you sit, pushing your lunches out of the way and closing the distance to look at you closer. You blink in surprise but don't back away or flinch.

"I'm being serious you know?" He hums softly. It's less hard to say than he thought, but maybe it's because he's already been willing to put everything on the line for you from the start. "I really like you. In that way."

You blink. "...Huh?"

He can't help himself. He'll apologize later. Your breath is warm and soft when he leans in and presses his lips to yours for too long. You don't push him away, uncannily receptive to the touch. You taste salty. Suo kisses you for as long as you'll let him and pulls away only for breath.

He isn't sure what he's expecting, but the jump from pure shock to pure embarrassment surprises him. You put a hand on your shoulder, jaw open in disbelief.

"....So it was like that," You mumble, in shock. "It was... really like that?"

"For a long time, now"

"I also like Suo-kun, but how shocking."

Suo stares at you. "Are you sure your like and my like are the same? I get the feeling that -"

You press your lips to his as if to prove a point, pulling away and brushing it off just as quickly. He can feel the heat rise to his neck in immediate disbelief. You frown at him "Between us, I'm the one who's good at being honest so don't be like that,"

He just... stares. He's elated but completely confused. "Why didn't you confess earlier?"

You smile sheepishly. "Being your friend is also good, so I was okay with not changing it. It's hard to tell what you're thinking and I didn't think it was important."

He laughs in disbelief, dropping his head down to your shoulder. He didn't think he would be this happy. He didn't even think it was possible. "How could that not be important?"

"You're more important to me than that," You say easily, though he can hear your beating from where his head is. "I'm happy we like each other but I care the most about Suo-kun's feelings and being with you since you're important to me. I want to be with you for a long time."

Ah. In some regards, it seems like Suo is never going to be able to one-up you. He laughs in disbelief as his arms snake around your waist, crushing you more tightly in his arms than he can bear. You giggle so sweetly when he does he thinks he might really be done for. His usual demeanor comes in easy, calm and collected but absolutely estatic.

"It sounds like a proposal." He mumbles, almost lovesick.

"We could get married but you have to ask my brother first."

Suo laughs brightly against your neck. "Be less casual about something like that," And then a little softer. "But yes, we'll stay together as long as you want."

He holds you like that a little bit longer.

[fandom-data-scientist]

poll on chatfics

for the sake of clarity, allow me to first define chatfics as "fanfics which are told primarily in the format of chatlogs or text messages between characters (either in a group setting or between individuals)."

they may be of any genre (although they are commonly classified as "comedy" or "crack") and branch out into prose at points in the story, but most of the story or plot should be in chatfic format.

chatfics do not include fanfics that have brief passages of chatlogs or text messages between characters as, like, flavor enhancers to the story, which would otherwise be told using more conventional prose.

without further ado:

if you would like, you may also elaborate on when you started reading fic, what site(s) you use(d), and which fandom(s) you read for, but mostly i am just curious.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 80

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 80: The Bloody Hand of Dread

AO3 - Masterlist

TW: Self-harming tendencies/suicidal ideation.

The day was bathed in a pleasant warmth, sunlight filtering through the occasional small clouds drifting lazily across the sky. Daenera had finally managed to convince the old hag that a small stroll in the gardens would do her some good, primarily to escape the tedious needlepoint that Mertha had insisted was ‘a way to calm the mind.’ It was far from calming, the monotonous activity only heightened the agitation simmering beneath her skin, leaving her tense and ill-tempered, resulting only in a persistent headache drumming at the back of her skull. Her restlessness had only intensified since Aemond’s departure for Storm’s End the previous morning–leaving her to wait anxiously for his return. 

She estimated that he would have arrived at Storm’s End by the previous evening, a thought that further tightened the anxious knot already formed in her stomach. She wondered how he might have been received and how long he would stay in the Stormlands to secure the alliance. It would likely span several days–days filled with feasting and strategic discussions for him, while she endured the monotony of waiting, her days marked by dull tasks alongside Mertha.

That morning she had bolted upright in bed, her heart racing and a prickling sensation of dread lingering at the nape of her neck. Her pillow had been damp with tears that clung to her eyelashes, a testament to the terror that had gripped her in her sleep. The only fragments she could recall from the nightmare were the deafening roar of thunder that seemed to reverberate within her chest and the sinister glint of teeth. The dream had left her disoriented and confused, its clarity slipping between her fingers like wisps of smoke. 

A nagging sensation had tugged at her consciousness ever since–a feeling akin to having misplaced a vital memory, the frustrating, elusive brush with something important she couldn’t quite grasp. The intangible loss gnawed at her, leaving her with a residual sense of unease. 

As she wandered through the garden, her thoughts repeatedly drifted back to that nagging irritation, to Borros Baratheon, and her certainty that he would accept the betrothal. How could he refuse? The alliance would infuse House Baratheon with more royal blood, significantly increasing their influence and power, and crucially, it would bring a dragon to their House–an offer Borros Baratheon could hardly dismiss.

Daenera considered the implications further: had she fallen pregnant with Boris’s child and provided House Baratheon with a male heir, perhaps Borros might have hesitated. Yet, even then, he would likely have consented. A marriage between one of his daughters and a prince held a far greater advantage than one between his brother and a princess. If his daughter were to bear a son, Borros would alter the line of succession to favor this child, effectively pushing aside his brother and any potential offspring of theirs. It would establish a more direct line of succession, an heir with Borros’s own blood. 

It was perhaps for the best, Daenera mused, that she had not become pregnant with Boris’s child. Not only because such a child would inherit nothing, but because she was certain the childbirth would have killed her. Her death would have been for nothing. 

Despite the fragility of her alliance with House Baratheon, Daenera found herself without regret over her decision to have Boris killed. After all, she knew Borros Baratheon would have preferred an alliance through marriage between his daughter and a prince, rather than maintaining the existing alliance made through his brother and a princess–who lacked the advantage of a dragon. 

“Did you hear what I just said?” Lady Mertha demanded pointedly, her voice shrill and biting, which only served to grate on Daenera’s already thinning patience. 

“Something riveting, I’m sure,” Daenera replied, casting a glance towards the terse woman whose face was set in a perpetual sour expression, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. She briefly wondered whether the older woman’s perpetual uptight demeanor was a result of the tight bun at the back of her head, which flattened her hair and seemed to pull at her scalp. This hairstyle only accentuated her age, hardening her features and deepening the frown lines that etched her face. 

“Don’t be obtuse.”

“Why not?” Daenera challenged flatly, fully aware that her response would only further irritate the old hag. 

“Because it’s not proper,” Lady Mertha retorted scornfully. “You’re a princess, and I am aware that your mother has allowed you some liberties, but she should have taught you to behave like a proper princess.”

Daenera rolled her eyes in exasperation. 

“It is why the Queen Mother deemed it appropriate to assign me to you,” Lady Mertha stated, her hands folded neatly before her, her spine as straight as a wooden plank, her head held high with pride. “So that I might teach you how to behave properly.”

“Your husband must be thrilled that you’ve been assigned to me,” Daenera drawled snidely. “It frees him from your company, and more importantly, from the marriage bed. That is, assuming you are married. Have you been a lady-in-waiting all these years?”

“Now you’re being rude,” Lady Mertha snapped. “I am married if you must know.”

“Hmm, I pity your husband, having such a dusty old shrew for a wife–”

Before she could finish, Mertha’s hand clamped around the flesh of Daenera’s arm. Her gnarled, bony fingers dug into her skin with bruising, punitive force. She gripped her like one might an ill-tempered child throwing a tantrum, stopping her in her tracks and forcing her to face the consequences of her impertinence. “I will have you dragged back to your chambers if you continue this insolence.”

Daenera stared at her blankly, head tilting in challenge. “And cause a scene right here in the gardens?”

The gardens were alive with others enjoying the sunny day as well. Ladies sipped iced tea under the shade of the pavilions, while others strolled leisurely along the garden paths. Mertha glanced around warily before prying her fingers from Daenera’s arm, her eyes burning with reproach. 

A petty smile curled at the corners of Daenera’s lips in response. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Daenera caught a glimpse of pale silver that instinctively drew her gaze. Helaena was sitting beneath the shadow of a tall tree, leaning against its trunk. Her pale blue eyes were fixed intently on her hands, an absorbed expression on her face as her fingers danced through the air, seemingly lost in a world of her own.  

Ignoring Mertha, Daenera charged forward, gathering up her skirts and stepping briskly over the flowerbed onto the grass. She had only managed a few steps before Mertha’s shrill voice rose again, filled with reproach. 

“Where are you going?” Mertha chirped sharply. “Get back here! This is improper! You cannot just wander off; there’s a path!”

Daenera turned to see Mertha towing the edge of the flowerbed, her hands clutching her skirts tightly, her face contorted with a deep scowl. Nearby, the guard who had followed them stood awkwardly half-way between the gravel path and the grass, one foot planted on each side of the flowerbed. He shifted uneasily under Mertha’s scolding glare, seemingly unsure how to respond to Daenera’s blatant disregard for taking the conventional path and Mertha’s insistence on it. 

“You may take the path laid before you, Lady Mertha,” Daenera retorted with a notable edge of insolence in her voice. “I will make my own.”

Turning her back on Mertha, Daenera walked determinedly towards Helaena. Behind her, she heard Mertha grumble to the guard,” Get back here Oliver. We’ll take the path.”

With a long, almost theatrical sigh, Daenera gracefully sank to her knees and then let herself flop onto the grass, resting her head in Helaena’s lap as they had done countless times before. Helaena offered only a small smile in response, her attention hardly shifting from her hands as the small ladybug crawled over her fingers. The moment held a gentle  intimacy, marked by their comfortable silence, and Daenera inhaled deeply, her eyes fluttering open to gaze up at the canopy above. The green leaves swayed gently in the breeze, filtering streaks and rays of golden sunlight that danced with the soft shadows they cast. 

The grass tickled against her palm as she swept her hand over its surface, finding solace in the light touch. 

“Your Grace,” Mertha greeted Helaena with a nod, her tone courteous yet unable to mask the tightness of reproach as her eyes drifted towards Daenera. “Get up, Princess, we’re returning to your chambers.”

“No. I wish to stay,” Daenera replied, her eyes closing in defiance. 

“No?” Mertha repeated, her voice rising in disbelief. “This is not–”

“Lower your voice,” Daenera interjected, her eyes snapping open to give the older woman a scornful glare. She gestured towards the lightly babbling Maelor, who was preoccupied with sucking on a silver rattle, his little feet kicking while he rested in his basket. “With your shrill voice, you’ll leave the baby in tears.”

“Princess…” Mertha began again, her voice low and warning. 

“I wish to stay here. It’s such a nice day after all, why not enjoy it?” Daenera stated, fixing Mertha with a steady, calm gaze that met the older woman’s muddled gray eyes. “Give us some privacy, will you?”

Mertha gritted her teeth, her grip on her own hands tightening with anger. She took a step back, then another, as if that small distance was enough to offer them semblance of privacy. Yet her shadow still touched Daenera, she was still too close for comfort. 

“You’re still too close, move further back,” Daenera commanded firmly. When Mertha stubbornly refused to move an inch, Daenera decided to invoke higher authority. “The Queen will agree with me that there's no need for you to be so close.”

The subtle smile on Helaena’s face widened just a touch, a small change meant only for Daenera to notice–and notice she did. She seemed to find a quiet amusement in Daenera’s defiance. The tightness in Mertha’s face intensified, her lips pursing as if she had tasted something incredibly sour. 

“You may step away, Lady Mertha. Thank you,” Helaena added softly, her voice gentle yet dismissive, effectively releasing the older woman from her duties for the moment. 

“Perhaps you can wait for me down by the path. I believe there are benches for your to sit on–for your knees, of course,” Daenera called out as Mertha turned and began to head towards the path she had come from. At Daenera’s words, Mertha paused and turned back to glare at her, her jaw clenched tightly, before continuing on, finally giving them some space. 

“Must you provoke her ire?” Helaena inquired, her head tilting slightly as her eyes followed the bug darting over her finger, letting it pass from one hand to another. 

“Yes,” Daenera responded petulantly, closing her eyes against the rays of sunlight piercing through the canopy of the tree. “If I am to endure her company, I will ensure she suffers mine in return, and it’s the only entertainment I am allowed. I am sick and tired of needlepoint. If I see another stitch, I might just sew my eyes shut.” 

Daenera rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palms, letting out a frustrated exclamation, “She won’t even let me touch a flower! Every time I reach for one, she slaps my hand away. They keep me from the gardens, confining me to the path. If Mertha had her way, I’d be confined to only visit the Sept.”

“They fear you’ll poison someone.”

“How much harm could I possibly do with a single flower?” Daenera retorted, her voice thing with exasperation. 

“I imagine a lot,” Helaena murmured as she watched the small, red bug crawl across her skin, seemingly amused by Daenera’s misery. 

“Do you have any idea how many flowers I’d need to gather to concoct something that causes more than just a stomach ache? Sure, I could pick a bunch of hydrangea, but poisoning someone isn’t as simple as just mixing flowers into someone’s meal–and with those, you’d only get very familiar with the chamber pot,” Daenera continued on, rambling as Helaena chuckled. 

“Like you did with Aegon?” 

Offering a wide grin, Daenera hummed with feigned innocence. “I have no idea what you’re insinuating. Your brother must’ve caught something in Flea Bottom.”

“Mhmm…” Helaena responded, her tone rich with amusement.

“Most flowers aren’t potent enough to be deadly–and those that are, you can’t very well hide away into someone’s food…” Daenera continued musing, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the ruffles of her dress. “But to truly kill someone, I’d need access to the herbal garden at the very least. Which, of course, I don’t have.” She let out a weary breath, then continued, “I could theoretically use apple seeds to make poison, but do you realize how many apples I’d have to consume just to gather enough seeds? If an apple has five to ten seeds, I’d need about two hundred apples to collect a lethal dose. Then I’d need to crush the seeds into a fine powder, and imagine the volume of that–it would hardly be inconspicuous. If I had my tools, I could refine it into a more potent form, just a few drops would suffice.” Daenera turned her head to look up at Helaena, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Of course, there are other seeds that are poisonous as well…”

Daenera knew that even cherry seeds or peach pits contained a certain amount of poison, yet the task of gathering and crushing enough of them posed its own challenges. If she were inclined to poison someone, she would prefer a quicker and less laborious method–perhaps using a few berries from one of the bushes in the herbal garden or the root of some of the flowers. However, such options were beyond her reach, as she was kept under strict observation at all times. Even now, Mertha sat at the edge of the clearing, her gaze fixed pointedly on Daenera, and the guard, Olliver, stood just behind a nearby tree, ever watchful. Helaena, now that she was Queen, also had her own entourage keeping close watch. Two ladies-in-waiting were positioned at a nearby table, attentive yet discreet, and a member of the Kingsguard stood steadfast by their side, ensuring the queen’s safety with vigilant eyes. 

Daenera thought he must’ve been cooking inside his armor. 

“Sounds like you’ve given this some thought,” Helaena chuckled softly. “This is why they keep you away from the gardens.”

“Well, they give me plenty of time to think about it when they have me stuck doing needlepoint all day,” Daenera grumbled, releasing an indignant huff and scowling even with her eyes closed. “I have never encountered anyone as infuriating as that old hag.”

“Not even Aegon?” Helaena challenged lightly, her tone playful as if she were teasing a child. 

Daenera opened her mouth, poised with a sharp retort, but paused, her words catching as she actually considered the comparison. She drew in a deep breath, pondering, then replied, “No, not even Aegon. At least Aegon isn’t as dull as her. He’s a drunken fool, but at least he isn’t dull.”

The amused smile on Helaena’s face widened slightly, adding a mildly wry expression to her features. Helaena let her vent. 

“I mean, truly, I pity her husband. He’s married to a right old cunt–dry, I’m sure, and filled with dust,” Daenera continued with a sharp edge to her voice. “I would rather sit silently in a room with your grandfather than be forced to endure more needlepoint in her company. If this continues, I will surely go mad and pull all my hair out!”

“Don’t pull your hair out,” Helaena advised with a chuckle. “You wouldn’t look good with tufts of hair missing. You’d just look…well… insane…”

Daenera laughed in response, a genuine, light sound that felt almost foreign to her ears. It had been days since she had truly laughed–days since he had found anything to genuinely laugh about. She blinked against the sunlight to look up at Helaena, noticing how the fine strands of her silver hair gleamed in the light, the faint blush of amusement coloring her cheeks, her pale blue eyes bright and present, even as they remained fixed on the bug. 

Helaena drew in a measured breath, her head tilting slightly. “Mmm, I don’t think you’ll go mad yet…”

“Yet,” Daenera repeated, a bemused smile tugging at her lips. 

“Do you think you know when you’ve gone mad?” Helaena asked, her tone light yet tight, as though it were a genuine concern for her. 

Blinking up at Helaena, Daenera looked at her in puzzlement. “I think it depends on what kind of madness you have.”

“Is it madness, or is it grief?” Helaena mused, her voice humming with curiosity. “Could madness be just another form of grief?”

Concern nibbled at Daenera’s fingertips, but she remained silent, allowing Helaena to ponder as her eyes tracked the tiny creature scampering from one palm to the other. Just then, Maelor emitted an unsatisfied grunt, the chime of his rattle hanging precariously in the air as he kicked and twisted, his face reddening with discontent. Daenera sat up, gently lifting the baby from the basket and cradling him against her chest before lying back down again. Maelor’s head rested against her sternum, his chubby little fingers clutching the fabric of her bodice as he nestled into her, visibly soothed by the contact. Her head then fell back into Helaena’s lap, finding comfort in the familiar and reassuring presence. 

“He misses you,” Helaena murmured softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Daenera’s gaze instinctively drifted down to Maelor’s head, observing his pale wisps and delicate curls. He nuzzled against her, his chubby little hands playing with the soft fabric of her dress. She could feel his weight against her and found an unexpected comfort in it. 

“I don’t think he’s capable of missing anyone yet,” Daenera responded, her palm resting on his back, her thumb gently soothing him. 

Helaena hummed lightly in response, a knowing tone in her voice. “You miss him too…”

Daenera looked up at Helaena, confusion furrowing her brow. “The baby?”

Helaena’s lips quirked at the misinterpretation. “No, Aemond.”

“Ah,” Daenera exhaled, her voice trailing off as she fell into a pensive silence, a new weight settling in her heart. Around them, the garden continued its gentle melody; leaves rustled softly above, the warm breeze caressed her skin, carrying with it the sweet fragrance of flowers and a hint of salt from the sea. Bees buzzed busily among the blooms, and butterflies languished in the warm sunlight. 

Daenera’s voice emerged again, small and almost fraile, “It’s not as easy as that… Missing him, I mean. I should hate him…”

She wished she could muster hatred for him. Hatred would simplify everything, an easy path to clarity, she thought. If he were merely her enemy, all would be straightforward. But emotions were tangled, and her heart seemed to rebel against such simplicity. 

Helaena’s gentle smile faded, her expression becoming distant as the ladybug spread its wings and flew away. “You will…” Her hands remained in the air, fingers twitching a little as though prickling to catch some invisible string in the air. “There’s two kinds of hatred, I think. One, a frigid flame, pure and desolate, offering nothing but cold…” Her hands fell to her lap. “The other, a fierce counterpart to love, both seated as equals, dining at the same table of passion. A hatred that burns with fiery intensity may blaze bright, but like most wildfires, it too will eventually burn out… And what is left when hatred has turned to ash, is the nature of love and its ability to grow. Love is such a strange thing, isn’t it?”

Daenera could feel her heartbeat, hard and quick, like the wings of a bird caught in flight, and she lifted her eyes to meet Helaena’s, asking tentatively, “Is it love?”

“Is it?” Helaena echoed, leaving the question to hang between them, light and gentle. Her hand brushed through Daenera’s hair, eyes reflecting a soft blue challenge. 

Shifting uncomfortably, she wrestled with the truth that clawed at her heart, demanding to be acknowledged. Suppressing the rising emotions and locking them away deep inside, refusing to acknowledge them, she murmured softly in an attempt to change the subject, “I had a nightmare.”

“Tell me about it,” Helaena responded, her voice humming with a gentle curiosity. Her hand found its way into Daenera’s hair, brushing it back and twirling strands around her fingers–a restless motion, as if she sought comfort or needed something to occupy her hands while anticipating the depths of the conversation.

“I only remember the crack of thunder and the gleam of teeth,” Daenera replied, her thoughts drifting back to the dream. She could still sense the persistent itch in the back of her mind, the nagging feeling of something forgotten, something pivotal that had yet to fall into place–the itch of having lost something. “And a cruel laugh.”

“He fed it, and now it will feed upon him…” Helaena mused, her gaze turning distant, as if lost in a mist that Daenera couldn’t quite perceive–adrift in what seemed to be the haze of dreams. “It shall feed upon you too, vengeance hungers… A curse is a beast with no master, it will heed its calling, once unleashed upon the wind and it will see the task for which it’s pinned. None may hope to bind it twice, without yielding something in sacrifice.” Her voice trailed off into silence, her mind seemingly enveloped in a fog, her eyes distant and tinged with sadness. 

Drawing a deep breath, Daenera chose to set aside her questions for the moment. Instead, she decided to draw Helaena back from her distant thoughts. “We’d travel along the channels of Braavos and visit every single one of the Hundred Isles. Then we’ll meet with the Sealord of Braavos, and he will grant us a palace. Within the palace courtyard, we’ll eat supper there and watch the stars and have music played at all times. 

Helaena blinked, her focus returning to Daenera, a soft smile slowly spreading across her lips. I thought we’d go to Lys.”

“We could go anywhere,” Daenera responded, her voice filled with the gentleness of a dream. 

They fell into a shared silence, warding off the intrusive thoughts and unspoken concerns that threatened to invade their peace. They created a sanctuary in their secluded corner of the garden, deliberately ignoring the looming red walls of the Red Keep and the scheming minds within. In this quiet sanctuary, they allowed no shadows to darken the clear patch of grass around them. 

Maelor, resting peacefully on Daenera’s chest, brought her a tranquility that the restless nights had denied her. She surrendered to the warmth of the afternoon sun, letting it lull her into a brief respite. It was only as the sunlight began to wane, casting long shadows across the garden, that she stirred from her repose. Her eyes fluttered open just as a shadow swept overhead–a tangible reminder of the larger world beyond the seclusion of their garden sanctuary–as Vhagar returned, its massive wings beating a steady rhythm, bringing them back from their journey to Storm’s End. 

Daenera sat up, carefully transferring little Maelor into Helaena’s waiting arms. Helaena stood, wrapping the child snugly in a soft blanket, and tenderly kissed his cheek. A damp patch marked Daenera’s bodice, a testament to Maelor’s peaceful slumber and occasional drooling. Maelor, his chubby fingers waving, gurgled happily as Helaena carried him back towards the Keep. 

Following closely beside Helaena, Daenera walked shoulder to shoulder with her, with Mertha and Oliver trailing along. Mertha muttered under her breath, a continuous stream of terse grumbles filling the air. As they walked back, the towering shadow of the Red Keep loomed ahead. 

As they made their way into the courtyard, the walls appeared to close in around Daenera, and the familiar weight of unease settled back into her stomach. The restlessness returned, creeping under her skin, intensifying as she bid farewell to Helaena and Maelor with a kiss to their cheeks. The two headed back towards Maegor’s Holdfast, Helaena musing lowly to her son as they went. Daenera then climbed the steps to the Keep, positioning herself on the landing that overlooked the courtyard and the gates. 

“We should get back to your chambers, Princess,” Mertha said tersely. “Edelin will have prepared supper by now.”

“I will have supper later. I wish to see Aemond,” Daenera responded firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument as she remained steadfast on the landing. 

Her gaze settled on the Bronze Gate, her heart pounding anxiously as she twisted the rings on her fingers–a mix of anticipation and dread churning within her. A nagging sensation clawed at the back of her mind, persistent yet intangible, deepening her unease into a palpable dread that settled heavily in her stomach. 

“Princess,” a voice called out, snapping her from her troubled reverie. 

Clenching her jaw tightly, Daenera reluctantly shifted her focus away from the gates, turning to face Ser Criston Cole as he ascended the steps towards the Keep. His armor caught the golden rays of the setting son, casting a harsh gleam that seemed almost foreboding, while his dark eyes fixed on her with a chilling, steely gaze. 

“Ser Criston,” Daenera acknowledged the greeting with a dry tone, taking a deep breath before fixing her gaze fully on the knight. “I suppose congratulations are in order on your rise to becoming the new Lord Commander. Though…” Her head tilted slightly as she scrutinized him. “It begs me to wonder what happened to Lord Commander Westerling. Did the same ill luck befall him as it did Lord Lyman?”

Ser Criston’s smile was cold as he reached the top of the landing, his dark eyes locking with hers. “Lord Commander Westerling was relieved of his duties due to his uncertain stance on who the true successor to the crown really is.”

“Is that so?” Daenera responded, her voice dripping with skepticism. “It seems to me that the Lord Commander’s honor is the only one that remains incorrupt.”

“And what do you know of honor, Princess?” Ser Criston challenged, his tone sharp and laden with disdain. The veiled insult hung heavily in the air between them, each word a barb. 

“I know that you lack it. If you possessed any, you wouldn’t have killed a woman who had already surrendered,” Daenera retorted, her words edged with her own scorn. It was one thing to kill in battle, another entirely to kill someone who had laid down their weapon. It had been murder in cold blood–dishonorable and contemptible, and she would not forget it, could not forget it. 

Daenera vividly remembered the widening of Joyce’s eyes, the shock and pain etched onto her face as the blade sank deep into her flesh, emerging bloodied and cruel on the other side. She recalled precisely where it had struck–directly in the stomach, a deliberately painful and slow way to die. The warmth of her blood that had touched her skin was unforgettable, as were Joyce’s quick, shallow breaths. She had watched as Joyce paled, her life ebbing away while the pool of blood around her expanded. Later, her body had hung beside Lord Caswell’s, limp and heavy, dark blood-stained dress, her eyes half-lidded, empty of life. Daenera remembered it–saw it each night as she closed her eyes. 

Ser Criston’s dark eyes narrowed, his gaze as sharp as the blade he had used to end Joyce’s life–a life taken not in fair combat but in a cruel bid to wound Daenera. It had been an act of sheer cruelty. Now, as she confronted him, she noted a slight shift in his posture, a sheepish, defensive tightness that spoke of a man uncomfortable being forced to face his own dishonorable actions. 

“I killed her in self-defense–” 

“She had dropped the blade–”

“She had not,” Ser Criston countered firmly, his voice unwavering as he attempted to rewrite history. “Your servant woman–”

“Her name was Joyce,” Daenera interjected sharply, her voice edged with a cold precision. “You should remember the name of the woman you killed in cold blood.”

Ser Criston stepped closer, his voice lowered to a menacing whisper. “Your serving woman wouldn’t have met her end had you simply compiled and surrendered from the start. Her death is on your hands, not mine.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Daenera asked, feeling a surge of rage burning within her, the injustice festering like a bitter wound in her gut. 

“It is the truth,” Ser Criston replied flatly, his expression unyielding. 

“Is that what it is?” Daenera challenged him again, her voice raw and quivering slightly with emotion–with rage and grief. “It seems to me that you tell yourself that to believe you possess some semblance of honor. But we both know that’s a lie.”

“And what lie do you tell yourself, Princess?” Ser Criston retorted, his eyes scanning her face with a cool detachment. The way he emphasized ‘princess’ carried an insult that stung like the crack of a whip. “That you are free of dishonor?” His voice dropped to a dark timber, meant only for her ears. “That it doesn’t run through your veins? That your marriage was free of it? Do you understand what duty and sacrifice it requires?” His gaze bore into her, placing himself above her. “Honor is not innate. It’s something you earn, it is something you uphold.”

Daenera’s scowl deepened, her eyes narrowed as she responded with biting callousness, “You seem to mistake your ambition for honor.”

“I have no ambition beyond serving the King,” Ser Criston declared, holding his head high. “Something we should all strive to do.”

“Is that who you serve?” Daenera shot back, questioning his allegiance and the true nature of his so-called honor. It wasn’t truly the King that Ser Criston served, though he might believe so. In truth, it was the Queen Mother to whom his loyalty lay–and he served her not out of genuine allegiance but to cling to some semblance of honor, to uphold his own idea of what honor should be. Ser Criston’s allegiance to the Queen Mother stemmed not solely from duty but from what she represented to him and what she offered; she was a mirror, reflecting back at him the values he believed was to be right and pure. Moreover, his deep-seated hatred for her mother found a resonant echo in the Queen Mother, making her not just a ruler to serve but a companion in his disdain. 

“I serve the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms,” Ser Criston reiterated firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt in his declaration. 

“A dog cannot serve two masters,” Daenera asserted sharply, her voice laced with contempt. “And a dog as dishonorable as you should not have been made Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. It seems to be your luck that you continue to rise despite your failures.”

The Bronze Gate opened with a resounding thump, instantly capturing Daenera’s attention, even as Ser Criston fumed beside her. He sifted on his feet, leaning in close to whisper harshly, “Was it honor that had you abandon your men to be killed? Will honor be enough to save those you have left?”

His words struck her like a slap in the face, a sting she hardly had time to process before he brushed past her, his cloak sweeping against her skirts as he strode into the Keep. Daenera swallowed thickly, her gaze shifting to Aemond as he dismounted his horse and handed the reins to a stable boy. With determined strides, he approached the Keep, taking the stairs two at a time. 

“Aemond…” Daenera called out, her voice faltering as he brushed past her without a glance, his expression set in a hard, unreadable mask–cold as ice and seemingly carved from it. His hair, though dry, had the slight curl characteristic of his mother’s, a departure from the usual straightness of it, which spoke of him having met rain on his journey. She frowned at his blatant disregard, a growing sense of dread tightening in the pit of her stomach, unease crawling under her skin. 

Daenera turned on her heels and followed him inside, despite Mertha letting out a sharp exclamation of displeasure, urging her to stop. “What happened? Who does Storm’s End stand with?”

Her skirts whispered across the floor as she hurried after him, his pace fast and unwavering even as he began to ascend the stairs. Daenera pressed on, demanding answers to her questions, her growing anxiety fueled by his silence. Had Lord Borros Baratheon defied expectations and chosen to align himself with her mother? Had he rejected the proposed marriage alliance? Or had his demands exceeded what Aemond had to offer? Did he seek additional alliances through not only one marriage but two? Or, more grimly, had he demanded Daenera’s head? 

These questions swirled within her mind, growing in the absence of his answers. The tension seemed to thicken with every step they took, and amidst her spiraling thoughts, Daenera could almost hear the ominous crack of thunder resonating in the back of her mind, mirroring her growing unease. 

“Where does Storm’s End stand?” She repeated, needing to know the position her mother was in. 

When he refused to answer again, Daenera reached out, her hand brushing against the leather of his sleeve as she grasped the crook of his arm, trying to halt his progress. He pulled his arm free and continued up the stairs without a backwards glance. The sting of his rejection was palpable, and Daenera’s frown deepened as she followed him. 

“Stop, Aemond,” she called after him, feeling the slight strain in her lungs as she attempted to keep up with him, reaching the top of the stairs. 

When he showed no signs of slowing down, she positioned herself directly in his path, effectively blocking him and forcing him to confront her. She looked up at him, noting how his jaw clenched tightly, his teeth gritted, his gaze fixed stubbornly on a point just above her head, refusing to meet her eyes or acknowledge her presence. 

Something had clearly gone wrong at Storm’s End–something that rendered him either unable or unwilling to meet her gaze. 

“Tell me, Aemond,” she implored, her voice soft yet insistent, almost pleading as she attempted to coax an answer from him. His jaw tensed further, muscles flexing visibly as he continued to bite down, refusing to meet her eyes. His expression was hard and cold as the steel at his hip, seemingly carved from the same iron resolve. His complexion was pale, showing no signs of the flush that might have lingered from his flight, suggesting the gravity of whatever news he carried. 

There, at the collar of his leather coat, on the pale column of his neck, was a smear of dreadful red–a detail she hardly noticed at first, barely processing it as her heart thundered within her chest. Daenera’s gaze was fixed intently on his face, searching desperately for answers he was unwilling to provide. 

“Please,” Daenera murmured, her voice barely audible as he brushed past her, slipping through her fingers like smoke as he made his way towards the council chambers. Her eyes tracked his every movement, watching helplessly as he opened the doors and disappeared inside, sealing away all the answers she desperately sought. Her heart throbbed painfully within her chest, a sense of dread tightening around her as she stared at the unyielding doors. 

Mertha abruptly stepped into her line of sight, her face set in a perennial scowl. “Come, let’s get you back to your chambers.”

“I don’t want to go back,” Daenera protested, grimacing as Mertha’s fingers dug into her arm with the same harsh grip she had used in the gardens. She was determined to remain stationed outside the council doors, to wait for him to emerge so she could demand the answers she needed–so that she could force him to look at her. 

“You’ve been quite unruly today, and I will not have you loitering outside the council chambers demanding answers for matters that are not your place to inquire about,” Mertha grumbled, shaking Daenera slightly as if she were a misbehaving child who had just thrown a tantrum. “I’ve allowed you more than enough liberties for today. Now, come.”

Daenera forcefully wrenched her arm free from Mertha’s grip. “You’ve missed your calling, Lady Mertha. You should have been a septa. You certainly have the countenance for it.”

Despite her reluctance, Daenera allowed herself to be guided back to her chambers, where she ate her supper in dreadful silence. It wasn’t long after that she sent Edelin with a message to Aemond, requesting his presence. She then spent the evening pretending to read a book by the hearth, her thoughts adrift and her patience thinning as she waited anxiously for the door to open and reveal Aemond. Mertha sat beside her, diligently mending one of Daenera’s skirts, lips pursed in concentration. 

“You’ve been reading that page for a long time,” Mertha observed, her voice carrying over the rhythmic creaking of her rocking chair–a sound that only heightened Daenera’s irritation. “If you’re not going to read, you might as well work on your needlepoint. The gods know you needed the practice, and it helps keep the mind from wandering too far into restless pondering…”

Daenera glared up at Mertha, poised to retort sharply, when the doorknob turned, the door creaking open. She stood abruptly, dropping the book as she turned expectantly towards the door, only to feel a wave of disappointment wash over her when she saw that it was just Edelin. The girl’s expression was sheepish and apologetic. 

“Aemond?” Daenera asked hopefully, clinging to a sliver of hope that Edelin would convey some promising news. 

“I’m sorry, Princess,” Edelin replied gently. “He’s not coming tonight… I believe it’s been a long journey and he may need the rest. 

Daenera nodded, managing to mask her disappointment with a soft smile for the girl. “It has been a long day for me as well. Best I get some sleep too…”

As soon as the gates creaked open, Aemond’s gaze was mercilessly captured by her presence–her figure sharply silhouetted against the bleak setting of the landing, her features twisted into a scowl. Her eyes locked in a fiery exchange with Ser Criston Cole, her cheeks flushed with a hue that spoke more of irritation than warmth. A cruel ache wedged itself between Aemond’s ribs, his heart contorting at the sight of her waiting for him. 

The painful stirrings of longing mingled with a gnawing sense of foreboding as he urged his horse forward, forcefully tearing his gaze from her as he dismounted with a swift motion. He handed the reins to one of the stableboys, his movements brisk and impatient. Turning to another, he issued a sharp command, “Inform the Hand and my mother that they are to meet me in the council chambers.”

“Yes, my prince!” The younger stableboy replied eagerly, dashing off to carry out the order without delay. 

Aemond steeled his expression into an impassive facade, like ice over stone, effectively masking the inner chaos churning beneath his calm exterior. He marched toward the Keep, his stride purposeful and heavy, each forceful step on the gravel propelling him up the steps two at a time, narrowing the distance between him and Daenera–and the impending confrontation her presence promised. 

“Aemond…” Her voice faltered as he brushed past her without pause, his gaze fixed determinedly ahead, refusing to meet her eyes. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to stop, not to falter, and especially not to look back at her. 

“What happened?” She asked pointedly, seeking clarification. “Who does Storm’s End stand with?”

He clenched his jaw tighter, feeling the muscles work under the strain as his hands curled into tight fists. With a relentless place, he stormed up the remaining steps and pushed into the Keep, the sound of rustling skirts and quick footsteps echoing behind him. Despite his resolve, he was acutely aware of her following him, her presence as palpable as the tumultuous emotions he struggled to suppress. 

Aemond pressed forward, the clatter of his boots resonating along the staircase, determined not to stop or show any signs of what had transpired at Storm’s End. Despite her persistent inquiries, he kept moving, almost reaching the top of the stairs when he felt her hand slip into the crook of his arm, an unexpected touch that sent a jolt through him. Instinctively, he wrenched his arm away, unable to allow even a moment’s pause. 

“Stop, Aemond,” Daenera’s voice echoed up the stairwell, tinged with urgency and a hint of desperation. Her plea hung in the air, but Aemond hardened his resolve and continued his ascent. 

Aemond felt her presence block his way as she positioned herself squarely before him, her hand firmly grasping his arm. He could feel the intensity of her gaze, probing his expression for clues, her eyes imploring him to meet hers. He maintained his focus just over her head, fearing that any direct eye contact would betray the inner turmoil he harbored–feared that she would shee the culpability that stained him, fear that she would recognize the monster he felt he had become. 

He stood frozen, his heart pounding against the rigid armor of his chest, as Daenera’s voice softened to a whisper that carried a dangerous appeal. “Tell me, Aemond.”

Aemond clenched his jaw tighter, the muscles in his face straining as he fought against the urge to succumb to her plea–her tone had weaved a threat of desperation around Aemond’s heart, tugging at him, threatening to pull his gaze down towards hers. If he spoke now, if he allowed himself even a glance towards her, he feared that the truth would spill forth unbidden. He couldn’t afford to reveal everything, not here, amidst the prying eyes and ears that haunted the corridors of the Red Keep–news would reach them soon enough anyway. 

“Please,” Daenera’s voice was a whisper, yet it struck him with the force of a gale, chilling his heart with its desperation. 

Yet, despite the monster he had become, he wasn’t completely devoid of compassion–he would find a moment to tell her, in privacy, away from the walls that seemed to listen. With a painful effort, he swallowed the burgeoning confession, feeling it burn like acid in his gut. He moved past her with a brisk, determined stride, his path unyielding as he made his way to the sanctuary of the council chambers. 

Aemond let out a deep sigh as he shut the council chamber doors behind him, the solid wood providing a temporary shield from Daenera’s probing gaze. He was almost relieved. Almost. Leaning back against the sturdy barrier, he allowed his head to rest against it briefly, thumbing it softly in a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. With his eye closed, he took a deep breath, regaining the icy composure he had meticulously pieced together on his long journey from Storm’s End. 

Straightening up, he pushed away from the door, stepping deeper into the council chambers. The room was draped in shadows that stretched long and eerie as the sun sank below the horizon, casting the chamber into a dramatic scene painted with strokes of orange and red across the sky, almost mirroring the tumultuous thoughts swirling within him. The setting sun seemed to bleed forebodingly into the horizon.

Aemond’s heart thrummed uneasily against his ribs, a rhythm too forceful, too revealing of the turmoil within him. He despised the sensation–it laid bare his vulnerabilities. Tightening his hands into fists, he tried to quell the tremor that threatened to unmask his inner conflict, but the effort proved futile. The golden band encircling his finger felt constricting, a metallic grip that seemed to tighten with each beat of his heart. 

Lifting his hand to catch the dwindling light of the sin, he uncurled his fingers and ran a thumb over the ring’s lever. With a soft click, a needle-like blade sprung forth, its surface catching the last rays of the setting sun, transforming into a lethal sliver of light. The ring was diminutive, almost innocuous, yet deadly–a fitting emblem of their union as much as the scar that slashed across his palm. She had trusted him with its secret–a trust that now felt both precarious and perilous as he contemplated the path that lay ahead. 

The ring had become a dark emblem of her influence–a potent reminder of the poison that had, in a way, seeped into his own life. 

Her poison had seeped into his being, becoming something beyond its initial form–a torment on which he became dependent, both lethal and intoxicating. It was inherently a poison, yet it had evolved into something far more consuming and intricate. It was love–a force as perilous and all-encompassing as any poison, weaving through his very essence with devastating potency, reshaping everything in its wake. 

Now, Aemond grappled with the ruinous loss of that love–a love he had decimated with his own hands in the pursuit of vengeance. Part of him yearned to erase the memory of having ever known her intoxicating affection, to forget the sweetness of her poison, the comfort of her touch, and the profound connection of being truly seen. 

Aemond traced the needle’s sharp point with his fingertip, careful not to press too hard. His thoughts flittered to whether any of her deadly poison lingered on its edge, even after all these months, and if, by pressing harder, he might release it into his own blood. Could such a trace be lethal, even now?

He applied more pressure, the delicate skin of his finger bowing under the strain, nearly punctureing. The needle’s tip hovered menacingly close, threatening to break the surface, and as he pondered the grim possibility, the doors of the council chambers swung open, abruptly pulling his attention from the lethal contemplation. Swiftly, he clicked the needle back into its hidden sheath within the ring and clasped his hands behind his back to compose himself. 

The Hand of the King entered first, setting the pace for the others who followed closely behind. His mother, always dignified, made her way inside, accompanied by Aegon who made his way directly to the side table. The King poured himself a cup of wine with a casual indifference before taking his seat at the head of the table. 

“We didn’t expect you back so soon,” Otto commented, his gaze narrowed as he took his place with a practiced grace, settling into the chair. Alicent settled beside the King, at his left, turning to look expectantly upon Aemond.

The chamber filled quickly, the air thick with tension of the impending deliberations as Aemond readied himself to reveal what had transpired at Storm’s End, his heart still beating an uneasy rhythm.

“What did the fat stag say?” Aegon asked and reclined in his chair, his gaze shifting from his brother to a marble ball he spun idly in its holder, the grating noise of it echoing slightly in the chamber–a display of restless impatience, or even childish impertinence, that grated on Aemond’s nerves. 

Aemond moved closer to the table, his hand finding the back of a chair for support as he declared, “Storm’s End stands with us.”

Otto Hightower leaned back, a cautious approval evident in his posture, though his expression remained shrewd and calculating. His gaze lingered on Aemond, expectant. 

Aemond continued, his fingers fidgeting nervously, betraying his otherwise composed demeanor. “House Baratheon has pledged its swords and banners to us, sealed by a marriage alliance. Daeron’s bride has been chosen, one suitable and to his liking, I should think… And the dowry is agreed upon; we merely need to finalize the remaining terms.”

Otto Hightower’s voice cut sharply through the room, “You should have stayed at Storm’s End to secure the agreement. Why return prematurely?”

Maintaining his posture, Aemond faced his grandfather’s stern gaze, “As we neared finalizing the agreement, an envoy from our sweet half-sister arrived. She sent one of her bastards. Lord Borros did not take kindly to being reminded of his father’s oath and sent the bastard back to his mother.”

As Aemond fretted with the skin beside his thumbnail, a tangible sense of unease churned within him, intensifying as they edged closer to the disclosures of what had occurred at Storm’s End. He tried to suppress the growing anxiety, swallowing it down hard, allowing it to fester into a more familiar sensation–resentment and bitterness that simmered beneath his calm exterior. This nervous habit of his, often unnoticed, became a visible testament to the turmoil brooding inside as they awaited his next words. 

“Lucerys Velaryon is dead,” Aemond stated, his voice cutting clearly, his tone void of emotion. The impact was immediate–his mother’s face blanched, her eyes widening in shock, her lips parting as if to protest, but no words came. Even Aegon, usually indifferent, halted his fidgeting with the marble ball, his features tightening into a grimace that quickly twisted into a smirk of dark amusement. 

“I offered him a chance to settle his debt, to choose an eye, which was more than he ever afforded me,” Aemond continued, his gaze icy as he recounted the encounter. “But he fled, proving himself the coward I knew him to be, unable to face his fate.”

“What did you do?” Alicent muttered, hand fluttering to her mouth as her eyes widened in horror. “What did you do, Aemond?”

“I chased after him…” He began, feeling that thing with teeth and claws within him stir, felt the bitterness coil in the festering pit of his stomach. 

Aemond had only meant to instill fear, nothing beyond that–a mere echo of the terror he had endured when his eye was taken. He suppressed the admission, burying it deep within the recesses of his mind where it churned silently beneath the surface. 

His glance shifted towards Aegon, whose expression mixed surprise with dark delight, the kind of amusement that comes in witnessing another's misfortune, relieved to be free from the weight of judgment for once. 

Aemond endured their scrutinizing gazes, the weight of their judgment pressing heavily upon his shoulders. As he faced them, a cruel and calculating resolve crystallized within him. He refused to confess to any loss of control, to any unintended consequences to his folly. He had wanted Lucerys dead, and now he was. He forced any conflict–any hesitancy and emotion–out of his voice as he spoke, “I killed Lucerys.”

Alicent’s response was a whisper, a prayer of disbelief and dread mingling in the air. 

“Mother have mercy on us all,” she murmured, her hands rising to cover her face, fingers threading through her hair in a gesture of despair. Her body seemed to fold inward, embodying the shock and grief that Aemond’s actions had wrought upon them. 

“You only lost one eye,” Otto muttered, his voice laced with exasperation and his gaze sharp and unforgiving. “How could you be so blind?”

The accusation cut deep, sending a sharp pang through Aemond’s head. He clenched his jaw, forcefully swallowing the sharp bite of his pain as it ebbed away almost as swiftly as it had surged. 

“Do you grasp the magnitude of your actions?” Alicent’s voice trembled as she lifted her head, her expression etched with despair. She shook her head slowly, her eyes locked onto her son with a mixture of disbelief and sorrow–a dejected look that almost seemed as though she didn’t recognize him. “There will be no negotiations now–no surrender. This means war.”

“War was inevitable,” Aemond stated, repeating the words that had become all too familiar, as if using it as a shield against his mother’s reproach. He was convinced of it, certain that conflict would have erupted whether Lucerys had lived or died. In his view, his actions had merely accelerated the inevitable. 

“We may have been able to avoid war had you not–” Alicent interjected, her words trailing off as she shook her head more vigorously, her lips pressed tightly together in frustration. She glanced upward, as if seeking guidance from the gods, her expression one of exasperation.

Aegon reclined in his chair, absently swirling his goblet of wine. He watched the liquid dance within the glass before speaking nonchalantly, “I fail to see the cause for such uproar. The best kind of bastard is a dead one–and now we have one fewer to worry about.” 

Alicent turned sharply towards him, her voice sharp with urgency, “Rhaenyra will not be swayed by reason now; she will seek vengeance for the son he slew. And she will seek your crown with the same kind of fervor. There will be no peace now, Aegon, no compromise.”

Dragging his gaze from the crimson swirls in his goblet, Aegon lifted his eyes to meet his mothers, musing, “Good. I want them attained, I want them arrested and I want them dead.”

Alicent sighed deeply, her gaze flickering back to Aemond with a mixture of frustration and concern. “No sin weighs more heavily than that of kinslaying. And no man is so accused as the kinslayer.”

He watched his mother’s hands twist together in an agonized plea, her knuckles white as she seemed to silently implore the gods for clemency on his behalf. Yet, in his heart, Aemond felt a disconnect; he was convinced that any divine favor had long since abandoned him–years ago, when they seemed to have punished him for claiming what was his to claim. 

Alicent’s voice quivered with a mix of desperation and realization as she broached the potential escape from the damning truth. “If we claim it was an accident, a mere folly gone awry–” Her tone betrayed her as she spoke, conceding that no such admission could soften the grim reality of his actions. 

The mere suggestion irritated Aemond, even if it was the truth. His response was sharp, his voice slicing through the tension, “I pursued him. I killed him. To claim otherwise would be a falsehood.”

“It would brand you a kinslayer!” 

“He would be a kinslayer no matter the circumstances,” Otto said, his voice cutting through the tense air as he fixed his cold gaze on Aemond. “It is better to be a kinslayer than a boy who cannot control his dragon.” 

Alicent’s eyes snapped up, gaze narrowing at her father, “You cannot mean that.”

He returned her gaze, exhaling slowly, “Soon, the realm will hear of Lucerys’ death,” he turned his eyes to Aemond, “And your role in it. Whether it was your intention or a mishap, you will bear the title of kinslayer.”

Aemond bit the inside of his cheek to the point that the metallic taste of copper spilled onto his tongue, the new epithet searing into his identity as fiercely as ‘Aemond One-Eye’ once had. Now, he would also be known as ‘Aemond the Kinslayer.’ In the eyes of the realm, he was now marked as a kinslayer, reduced to a single, damning term that would overshadow all else. The intricacies of his motives, whether his encounter had been seeking justice for what had been done to him or a lapse into vengeance, were immaterial to those who would judge him–and all would judge him.

“We must prevent any rumors that we cannot manage our dragons,” Otto continued, his words almost an indictment against Aemond–as though he could see the lie hidden beneath his mask. “How can the people trust us to protect them if we appear unable to control our own beasts? This would only lend credibility to Rhaenyra and her bastards should it get out, and it would cast a pall over our legitimacy to rule.”

His gaze was icy as it locked onto Aemond’s. “You made a choice, Aemond. You killed Lucerys Velaryon, and your actions have reshaped the very nature of this conflict. This is no longer a mere war of ravens; it will be fought by dragons now.”

Silence engulfed the room as the full weight of the situation descended upon them, the sky outside transitioning into a deep twilight, the fiery hues of sunset extinguished. The chamber was shrouded in a gathering gloom, each figure lost in contemplation. 

Otto leaned back, his demeanor outwardly calm but a finger rhythmically tapping the armrest betraying his inner turmoil–or perhaps it was the restlessness of a mind at work. Alicent, overwhelmed, buried her face in her hands, elbows propped on the table, her posture one of defeat. Aegon, on the other hand, grimaced as he peered into his empty wine goblet, his brows arched in a mixture of frustration and resignation, tipping the goblet to watch the last few drops swirl, evidently displeased it offered no more solace. 

Aemond maintained his composure, suppressing any internal chaos beneath an impenetrable facade of stoicism, like entombing turmoil deep within a crypt, sealed in a casket of stone. He pushed down his emotions, ignoring their desperate clawing from within their confinement, threatening to break free.

If judgment was to be passed for the blood on his hands, Aemond resolved to wield it like armor–a shield, a mask, a sword if he had to. Throughout the long ride back to King’s Landing, he had felt the mask he so meticulously crafted mold into his features, its edges and contours fitting to his face with an icy steeliness. It seemed to cool his expression, hardening something deep within his core. 

He would grow to fit the mask, he thought, and at some point, perhaps, it wouldn’t chafe as it did. 

“Daenera will seek vengeance for this.” Alicent raised her head, her hands falling heavily onto the table with a thud that echoed her resignation. Her eyes, weary and filled with a somber realization, met Aemond’s as she spoke, “The marriage cannot go through now–”

“Who else would have him? No respectable lord would marry his daughter to a kinslayer.” He paused, his gaze piercing as he continued, “The marriage must proceed as arranged for now.”

Aemond traced the rough texture of his cheek with his tongue, feeling the sting where his teeth had bitten into the flesh, the copper taste of blood mingling with his bitterness. His hand slipped from the chair’s back to rest at his side, toying discreetly with the hidden lever of his ring’s needle. A painful twist clenched at his heart, and he pressed down harder, forcing the lid of the coffin of his emotions to remain shut–pressed down on the lever, letting the needle spring forth.

“But she will kill him!” Alicent exclaimed, her voice sharp with frustration, almost bordering on desperation. “Once she learns he’s responsible for her brother’s death, there’s no doubt she’ll seek vengeance. She will kill him.”

Aemond barely registered his mother’s voice echoing through the chamber, lost as he was in the sharp, oddly comforting sensation of the needle puncturing his skin. He gently pressed the pad of his finger against the fine point, increasing the pressure gradually. His skin yielded to the sharpness, and as the needle sunk deeper, he noted the sting, familiar and curiously distant. The pain was not immediate, rather it crept slowly, a nagging throb that was almost soothing in its presence. As the needle embedded itself further, a fleeting thought crossed his mind–how potent would any remaining poison be, and how quickly might it act, if at all?

Otto remained undisturbed by his daughter’s concerns, and remarked coolly, “We still hold her men in our dungeons.”

“Daenera won’t be swayed by threats against her men or even herself; she will stop at nothing to avenge her brother’s death,” Alicent said, her voice trembling with urgency. 

Returning his focus to Aemond, Otto spoke with calculated firmness, “This is your responsibility. You will tell her of her brother’s demise, and you will make it clear that the marriage is still set to proceed. Make sure she understands the full implications of any rash actions against you.”

Aemond responded with a terse nod, withdrawing his fingers from the needle’s sharp embrace. A bead of blood welled up at the puncture site, staining his skin as he clenched his fist tightly, the crimson trace marring his pale flesh. 

“Come morning, the realm will have been altered to the vents at Storm’s End,” Otto continued with a grave, weary tone. “Lucerys Velaryon’s demise will create a divide. Your longstanding animosity with the boy will frame this as an act of vengeance. However, we must assert it as a legitimate conflict, one in which you emerged victorious. The name ‘kinslayer’ will be attached to your name, regardless. We must brace ourselves for the backlash, and prepare for Rhaenyra and Daemon’s retaliation.”

Aegon expelled a theatrical sigh, heaving himself from his seat. “All this talk of kinslaying and marriage is moot! We should be celebrating, brother. I shall host a grand feast in honor of your victory!”

“You will do no such thing,” Alicent countered, her voice laden with sharp disapproval. “Celebrating your brother with a feast for the demise of your nephew would be seen as a grave insult. It would be viewed as callus and vile, an act of sheer cruelty. Rhaenyra will perceive it as nothing less than further provocation!”

Otto added his own thoughts on the matter, “I would strongly advise against such an action–”

“My brother won a great victory, did he not?” Aegon interjected, his voice rising in challenge against his grandfather and mother. “I desire to honor my brother for slaying the bastard who maimed him. Aemond faced our enemy and triumphed; he is as much a hero as he is a kinslayer. It’s one less bastard to worry about.”

Aemond was torn between gratitude and dread at his brother’s show of support. Aegon approached him, clapping a hand on his shoulder with a firm squeeze. 

“Well done, brother,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of pride and challenge. Aemond felt the weight of the gesture, knowing it tied him even closer to the actions that had transpired at Storm’s End. 

Otto rose from his chair, his voice carrying an authoritative undertone as he announced, “I will notify the council and summon them for a meeting at dawn.”

The council chamber began to empty, with Otto exiting first, his steps resolute. Alicent followed, her face etched with weariness and concern, casting a lingering glance back at her sons. 

Aegon lingered beside Aemond, pausing until the heavy doors clanged shut behind their mother. He leaned in slightly, his voice a low rumble. 

“The bastard had it coming,” he offered. “It was justice.”

Aemond remained silent, his eye searching his brother’s face for his intent. 

“It was bound to lead to war soon or late,” Aegon added with a shrug, his tone pragmatic. “We struck first blood, and we’ll be the ones to strike the last.” 

With another pat on his shoulders, Aegon turned and strode out of the room, leaving Aemond alone with his thoughts. He stood motionless, his gaze fixed through the window overlooking the sprawling cityscape with Blackwater Bay shimmering along one edge. Below, the city lay in innocent ignorance of the grim shadow cast by his actions. They were still on the precipice, the full reality of war not yet upon them. To them, he was still Aemond ‘One-Eye,’ the moniker of ‘Kinslayer’ not yet whispered through the corridors or shouted in the streets. Yet, the damning title was already branded deep within him, scorched into the very essence of who he was as indelibly as the scar that marred his face. 

Aemond left the council chambers, the heavy doors closing with a thud that echoed down the deserted corridors. He half expected to find Daenera standing outside, refusing to move before she’d gotten the answers she was looking for. The quiet of the Red Keep enveloped him, a stark contrast to the earlier tension. The evening’s chill seeped through the stonework as he walked towards Maegor’s Holdfast, the twilight shadows casting long, dark figures against the ancient walls.

The silence persisted, heavy and expectant, as if the castle itself held its breath, unaware of the storm brewing in its halls. He ascended the grand staircase of the Holdfast, his footsteps resounding with a solemnity that matched his mood, reaching the corridor leading to his own chambers when a hesitant voice broke through his contemplation. 

“The princess wishes to see you, my prince. She insists,” a young servant girl said, her voice a whisper against the stillness. Aemond paused, turning to face her. Her eyes darted nervously under his gaze, her stance uneasy as she waited for his response. 

Aemond’s gaze wandered down the dimly lit corridor, his heart constricting with the dread of the news he carried to Daenera. The mere thought of the anguish that would cloud her features as he spoke chilled him to the marrow. He swallowed hard, the weight of his steps heavy as he approached her chambers. Pausing just outside her door, his hand lingered over he handle, hesitating. 

Inside, Daenera remained ignorant to his actions–her world was still whole, her brother still alive in her mind. She would greet him with those gentle blue eyes, still untainted by the shadows of grief. The thought of shattering that peace held him frozen at the threshold. Not yet, he thought. He couldn’t bear to tear away her bliss just yet. 

Aemond retreated from Daenera’s door, the act of turning the knob and facing her too daunting. He considered it a small act of kindness–to spare her the crushing weight of the truth for just a little longer. He would grant her one more night of innocence, one final evening of peace before the storm of grief struck–before he would have to confront her inevitable fury, before he would witness the light within her eyes dim with the realization of his cruelty. Aemond knew the time would come when he must face Daenera and see the trust they had nurtured crumble into dust. This dread settled heavily in his chest, a prelude to the storm of accusation and pain that would soon sweep through her, extinguishing whatever warmth had once flickered between them.

With a heavy heart, he turned and made his way back down the corridor towards his own quarters. Behind him, the voice of the servant girl hesitated, her tone tinged with confusion and concern, “My Prince? The–the princess…”

Her voice trailed off as he continued walking, lost in his own tumultuous thoughts, leaving the echoes of what was yet unsaid hanging in the cool air of the hallway. 

Aemond didn’t halt his stride until he was safely inside his own chambers. With a deep sigh, he shut the door behind him, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet of the room. Methodically, he began to shed his attire; first, his coat, then the sword and belt which he laid carefully across a chair. Finally, he removed his leather doublet, letting it fall with a soft thud onto the same chair. Left in only his billowing white tunic, he felt the fabric’s coolness against his skin. 

Aemond poured himself a cup of wine, desperate to wash away the bitter, metallic taste that clung to his tongue. He stared at the cup, the wine swirling within, contemplating the temptation to drown his unease as Aegon often did–finding comfort in the bottom of his cups. His throat tightened, his mouth parched by the thought, yet he forced himself to swallow the wine. It was a vain attempt to wash away the acrid taste that seemed to permeate his senses. The wine almost burned down his throat and settled heavily in his stomach. Setting the cup down with a decisive clunk, he moved towards the water basin. 

He tossed his eyepatch onto the table beside the basin, the leather landing with a soft thud. Leaning over, he scooped up handfuls of cold water and splashed it against his face, trying to cleanse away the day’s grime and the weight of his deeds. 

The water ran in rivulets down his scarred cheek, each droplet stinging his skin like fire. Ever since the moment Vhagar had closed her jaws around Lucerys and Arrax, his scar throbbed incessantly–a relentless reminder of the horror he had wrought. The pain seemed to seep deeper with each heartbeat, as if the dragon’s fire still lingered beneath his flesh, a smoldering ember that refused to be extinguished. 

Exhausted, he leaned heavily against the edge of the table, his gaze lifting to meet his own reflection in the mirror mounted above. He stared into his own eyes, confronting the harsh line of the scar that cruelly slashed across his face–through muscle and bone–a visible mark of brutality. He studied the jagged scarring that framed his sapphire eye, catching the icy gleam within. 

Lucerys had branded him a monster long before; was it any wonder, then, that he acted as one?

Aemond tried to convince himself that it had been justice, what he had done. He had offered Lucerys the opportunity to atone, to rectify the past, to repay the debt of pain. If only the bastard had possessed the courage to accept the consequences of his actions, to suffer as Aemond had, then none of this would have been necessary.

He wouldn’t have had to pursue him, wouldn’t have had to exact the justice that had been denied to him for so long–if only his father had possessed the fortitude to administer justice when it mattered, then perhaps the gnawing sense of injustice wouldn’t have fermented into a dark, vengeful force with claws and teeth, a beast birthed from years of pain and humiliation–a monster with a taste for cruelty. 

Lucerys Velaryon had made him into this. First, with a dagger that left him permanently scarred, and now, with his death. 

Aemond consoled himself with the thought that had Arrax not provoked Vhagar by attacking her, Lucerys would still be alive. In his mind, it was Lucerys’s own actions that had sealed his fate, not Aemond’s. This rationalization served as a cold comfort–not a comfort at all–a way to swift the burden of guilt from his own shoulders.

Vhagar had delivered the justice he had been too restrained to claim for himself. There was no room for regret over the act itself in his mind, yet the repercussions it would have on Daenera haunted him.

His gaze dropped to his hand, noticing the smear of blood, not diluted by water, where the needle had pierced his skin, leaving a mark resembling a bruise. He was still alive–not poisoned then. With deliberate pressure, he pressed his thumb against the small wound, breaking the skin anew. A fresh drop of blood emerged, which he methodically smeared across his finger. 

The inevitability of losing her was almost too much to bear. He dreaded the moment she would look upon him and see the monster he had become. Those beautiful blue eyes that had once gazed at him with warmth, that had seen past the blood on his hands and the scar on his face, would turn cold and dim. These were the eyes that had sparkled with amusement in lighter moments, that had flashed with fiery challenge during their spares. Now, he feared, they would only reflect back his monstrous deeds. 

His heart contorted with pain, as if invisible claws were tearing into the soft tissue, shredding every fiber with ruthless precision. The chilling dread of Daenera turning away from him, seeing him as only a monster, was nearly unbearable. He clung to the slim consolation he could provide–one more night where, in her world, her brother was still alive. 

It was the only mercy he could afford her now, and even that felt like a coward’s gift. 

He was a kinslayer, marked not just by the world, but by his own damning reflection. 

The stone coffin of Aemond’s suppressed emotions cracked, unleashing a tempest of chaos and pain that felt like poison coursing through his veins. Resentment ignited within his chest, and fear and despair coiled tightly around his lungs, constricting his breath. 

Blinding  pain erupted behind the sapphire, beginning as a vicious scratch within his skull before it transformed into an explosive force than nearly crippled him–it reminded him of the pain he felt when they had reopened the wound to remove the festering eyelid and limit the scar tissue, scraping at the inside of his socket to clean it out. 

Overwhelmed by this onslaught of agony and frustration, Aemond lashed out in a fit of fury. His arm swept across the table in a violent arc, colliding with the basin with such force that it crashed to the floor, sending water splashing across the stone. 

Aemond clutched the edges of the table, his knuckles whitening as he resisted the surge of pain that throbbed through his head, vivid enough to make the wine in his stomach churn. With a grunt, he pushed away, staggering towards the cupboard. He fling its doors open, his movements frantic as he searched the shelves. His fingers finally close around the cold glass of a small bottle. 

Returning to the table, Aemond poured another cup of wine, his hands unsteady. He then carefully added a few drops from the green bottle into the dark liquid. The relief he once found in Daenera’s touch was a distant memory, replaced by this bitter necessity. 

He knocked back the wine, wincing at its newly acquired earthy bitterness, reminiscent of wet leaves rotting on the forest floor. Setting the cup down with a clatter, Aemond massaged his brow with the heel of his hand, the other hand bracing against the table. 

He walked slowly back to his bedchamber, each step a battle against the pain. Collapsing onto the mattress, he lay back, eye staring at the canopy above as he willed the pain relief to drag him into a deep, dreamless slumber, far from the reality that awaited him in the morning. 

[sflow-er]

I saw the YR confessions poll, and while I wouldn’t say I ship Walty, I enjoy reading them sometimes. And I particularly like your version of them! Please don’t despair. Your stories are wonderful and your versions of these characters are so compelling 🧡

Thank you anon for your incredibly kind words, and for reading and enjoying my stories about Henry and Walter! Your message made me smile 🧡

I'm sure there are people out there who, like you, enjoy the occasional Walty fic even if they don't ship them! But conversely, I think there are also a lot of people who will vote to ship on these polls (the more ships, the better!) but aren't actually interested in fics or posts about them.

[Putting a cut here because as usual, this turned into a rambling thought piece]

The fact is that most viewers simply don't get attached to minor side characters, and that's particularly understandable when it comes to the Hillerska students in YR. I've noticed that many fans are not only indifferent to these characters, but they actively dislike them. A lot of people never forgave them for shunning Simon in S1, and the glimpses we saw of their elitism in S3 didn't do them any favours either. They represent a world that Simon doesn't fit into and Wille is meant to break loose from.

I regularly see posts questioning how anyone could like these characters, and even the occasional bad faith take on why they are popular. I assume those people are in the minority; the majority just scroll past posts or fics about Walty, Stedrika & co because they simply have no interest in exploring them further. (I keep thinking of how someone once told me directly that they couldn't stand any of the privileged brats, which was why they hadn't read my fics.)

In the immediate aftermath of S3, there was in fact a small surge in enthusiasm for Walty, as the meadow scene moved their relationship from "strictly platonic" to "open to interpretation" in many people's eyes. In my poll on their canon status, the result of 42.9% shippers/fans was probably skewed by my followers being more likely to ship than the average YR fan, but there was also very real excitement on their tumblr and ao3 tags. Many new posts and fics (by non-Wilmon standards), good responses to those, and new kudos/hits on older fics too.

However, that surge was virtually over by May, and since then, interest seems to have plummeted. Walty still appear in some fics as a side ship or as part of an ensemble, and there's one post-S3 WIP focused on them that has 130 kudos, but there have been very few new tumblr posts or fics focused on them since the spring. When people do make posts or publish fics, they don't get much of a response.

Of course, the immediate reasons are many fans moving on from YR as a whole since canon ended, and summer happening in between. But if we disregard those and just look at the fandom at any given time, there is a definite "Wilmon only" trend that I feel has grown stronger as the fandom has grown smaller. (Here's a link to my thoughts on said trend after S2.)

Take, for example, the fic numbers for other ships on ao3 (for the sake of clarity, I'm only including fics tagged with /): 121 Salice, 110 Walty, 86 Stedrika, 28 Vingust, 23 Madirosh, 22 Nilcent, 21 Sigust, 5 Vindie, 2 Madisander, 2 Nilgust. Plus 106 Sircus and 92 Sargust, but few of them are shipfics.

Even if these were all separate fics focused on each ship, they would only make 420 (+198) to Wilmon's 4,799 fics as of this morning. In reality, most of them are either fics primarily focused on Wilmon with other ships on the side or in the background, or multi-ship fics.

To bring this back to Walty, those 110 fics make six pages on ao3. If you sort them by kudos, only five fics on the first page are primarily focused on them, with 1,227 (OPS in which Wilmon are prominent side characters), 561, 517, 469 and 423 kudos. There are way more Walty-focused fics on the second page, but the decline in kudos is pretty steep. The bottom of page two is already down to less than 200, and only the very top of page four is over 100.

As a non-Wilmon author, I do find it sad how often I see people say that they aren't interested in anything else. I don't blame anyone for feeling that way - it was Wilmon's story that hooked us all in the first place! Everyone should get to enjoy fandom in their own way, and there's a strong sense of community in people being obsessed with the same ship and keeping it alive with all their love and creativity.

But for those of us who are also interested in the other aspects, the heavy focus on Wilmon can become a demoralising cycle. New fans coming into the fandom don't see much enthusiasm for other ships or characters, which means they don't get invested in them, which means there's even less incentive to create more fanworks or posts about them. There are no subcommunities for us; just the outer perimeter of the already small YR community.

For me, personally... Let's just say it has been an adjustment to go from OPS, which had 700 to 1,200 hits per update, to TRD where 200 hits per update are a windfall. That's partly my own fault for taking too long between updates (creative burnout is a bitch) and insisting on such a niche angle (ace/allo fics simply aren't as popular as allo/allo). But interest in Walty has also been on a steady downward trend I would say since the long wait for S3, and the brief upturn after S3 was very likely the last one. It's good to set my expectations accordingly the next time I post something.

Which I fully intend to do! I still have one or two new stories to tell and one WIP to rework and finish, and the "write for myself" approach is working for now. The "share for others" part will be harder than ever, but I'm keeping faith in my small group of loyal readers. Some of them may have been swept away by other things, but some have already reassured me they'll be there.

So you don't have to worry about me throwing in the towel just yet, dear anon, but thank you again for your supportive message! It really means a lot in light of everything I wrote above 💜

[utilitycaster]

(Long ask warning)

Hello! I'm jumping on the appreciation train to say thank you so much for all of your meta and analysis! I just found your blog today, and you've already given me so much clarity and context for things I've been noticing in the CR fandom lately.

I quite literally spent my summer living under a rock (in the woods leading spelunking for scouts!) and so was completely out of the loop from early June through September. And while I am not yet caught up (I'm about to start ep. 65), I have been going through the tags and ao3, because I primarily engage with fandom through fic and I don't care about spoilers. And I can't help but notice that everything being written for c3 lately is just... monochromatic. The Hells have such interesting characters and premises. One would think they're ripe for creative and interesting fic. And yet even what little gen fic that I have seen since returning to civilization has largely been boiled down to reiterative mush with vaguely shippy overtones. I can totally see this being indicative of the cresting and waning of the Imodna and Callowmore shipping you've been discussing.

I've gotta ask though, is it really just shipping that is causing this problem? Or is there something else in the source material that you think could be affecting fic in particular?

This is the first time I've been in a fandom with ongoing source material in over a decade. I'm used to watching people beat dead horses in their own little corner, safe in the knowledge that I can block them and it isn't going to affect my experience in the slightest. I guess I'm just having a hard time believing/remembering that shipping can be this incidious.

So a couple of things: first, I was not heavily involved in fandom until Critical Role; I have a decent amount of background knowledge from being on Tumblr and because I do tend to look into/research this kind of thing because it's very interesting to me, but you will probably have better snapshot of what fandom looked like 10 years ago than I do. Second, fanfic has always been a tiny aspect of what I've engaged with and I do find the bulk of it to be dull and samey (which is why it is a tiny aspect), so again, you probably are a better judge of the quality of fanfic elsewhere.

With that said, as part of a much larger discussion of which I only have as mentioned pieces of the puzzle, I do think there's been a shift over the past decade or so of like...people expecting the source material to reflect fanfic-y desires, and resenting it when it does not; people not seeing the point in enjoying non-canon ships; and a broader theme of self-infantilization. This has to a small extent spilled over into published fiction, though thankfully there's plenty that isn't that. It's not just shipping (though that absolutely can be insidious to the point that people have been harassed and doxxed over it); I think it's a general taste for pablum that has been growing within fandom spaces.

I'll link a few posts I've made and a source that, while I cannot vouch for it per se I did read and found enlightening at the end but I think a really indicative example as of late was the fandom response to the show Good Omens (spoilers for Good Omens S2 in the next link if you are by any chance avoiding those). Obviously do not do anything obnoxious to the person who wrote this question, but there are a worrying number of people in fandom spaces who believe this unironically and uncritically: fiction exists to "save us from hurtful reality." And I do understand that the tumultuous politics and world events of the past decade are probably a factor; but I mean, have you looked at literature from the first half of the 20th century (or like. the second half, for that matter)? It is, in my opinion, only going to help put our modern world and issues in better context and honestly make you feel better in the long run if you read, say, The Great Gatsby or The Things They Carried instead of burying your head in lower case song lyrics ... (hurt/comfort, fix-it, happy ending, 6k) and like, to be clear, I have written a small portion of lower case song lyric-titled fics myself but most of them aren't terribly happy, and even so, god I'd be horrified if that was all people were reading.

We've seen it across fandom at large with the polls; I have not watched season 2 of Our Flag Means Death in part because I've realized with horror that this mentality has swept, plague-like, through that fandom; people are acting like having a canon queer ship on a small premium cable show in 2022 is world-changing and unprecedented while also kind of ignoring everything that isn't the central ship (including valid criticisms of how this takes a real-world plantation owner and turns him into a goofy fop, how there's precious few female characters and none in the main cast, and how the actually far more groundbreaking nb character is pushed aside in favor of the core M/M ship). Spoilers for Good Omens again (sorry in advance, Good Omens 2 was a realization point for me how deeply and widely this rot has set in in some places and I have a bunch of sources of people being like "guys stories require conflict and tension to be good" in response to the overwrought moaning that the story wasn't unambiguously happy) but this is another author responding to the "the desired endpoint of all fiction is obviously to have your ship living in a small house together in bliss and anything else is torment" mentality.

In addition to shipping another factor is, I think, people overidentifying with characters and as such being reluctant to actually put them through any sort of hardship, however minor. I recently reblogged a post about the origin of the concept "Mary Sue" and it led me to read a bit about its history, because it was in fact created by women. It was a woman in the Star Trek fandom who was sick of spending money to buy fanzines (pre-common home internet, let alone pre-Ao3) only to find the vast majority of the stories to be this "here is my self-insert who is perfect and beautiful and pure and every other character thinks she is the greatest even if that's entire OOC". It was a frustration with the abandonment of the characterizations in the original work. And that's true today - I have read a popular Imogen and Laudna fluff fic to see what the deal was and it stripped out so much of their premises and characterizations it was unrecognizeable as them but for the hair colors and occasional cringeworthy attempts to replicate Southern US dialect - but what was notable is that those people were at least being honest and writing OCs (though to be fair a lot of them were also young white teen girls and the only woman in TOS was black and that was probably also a factor). Now, you get people who cannot tolerate any analysis of characters that is less than flattering because instead of having an OC, they are identifying so strongly with, for example, Imogen or Ashton, that they cannot separate out the real character or understand this is not an attack on them (or, to be blunt, as someone who sees some of my own worse traits in both those characters, a necessary critique). It's not shipping, but it is that same "fiction should only ever be a soft blanket or a flattering mirror, never a dark mirror and certainly never a door" mentality.

I do place a little blame on fanfiction itself; I think having something that is roughly made to order and tells you exactly what it is up front means people start to think that is the only way, and that's why we have people claiming Chipotle is the height of cuisine while making gagging noises at the authentic Mexican restaurant except for fiction. I think fanfiction can be great; it's fun to write and I have read some great pieces. But a lot of it is mush and formulaic and as that Mary Sue history points out, always has been.

So anyway, to Bells Hells: I think past campaigns also had a lot of dull fanfiction; I think the Nein lent themselves more to poorly written angst than poorly written fluff but yeah a lot of that was really samey and bland in its own way. Fanfiction has always been formulaic to a degree but I think we're starting to see the generation of people who really have read more of that than like, books, and sure there are shitty books, but man there's a LOT of shitty fanfiction, and increasingly, I find that shitty published books are bad because they're too much like fanfiction. [If I get the chance today I have a post I want to write about the ignorance of fantasy tropes in the current fandom which I think is also driving some of this and which I alluded to in my post about shipping; like, I feel the almost automatic but oddly thought-free resistance to gods and fate and the 'right' way to respond to a tragic backstory comes from this ignorance; this also is a case in the D20 fandom when they've dipped into sci fi.] Shipping definitely is a factor, and I think again C3 has an influx of fans primarily here to ship in that "my ship must become canon and must 'win' for some arbitrary definition thereof" which is probably why so much of the fanfic sucks, but again, this is a larger self-infantilizing and entitled mentality that goes beyond mere ships.

Further reading (mostly my own posts but not exclusively)

The fandom echo chamber (also Good Omens spoilers in a broad sense), not by me

Some discussion on queerphobia being inserted only as a tool to assist with specific shipping narratives (I think this ties in again to like. people need obstacles to justify why the characters aren't already in their cottage by the sea but once the characters are together they discard these obstacles even if they are systemic and would still exist, which makes for really bad fanfic bc it's clearly poorly plotted and thought out)

Me on why this campaign isn't good for shipping but a lot of the fandom showed up primarily to ship (might be the post that prompted this ask tbf)

Fandom monocropping (not my post)

My treatise on Imogen and Laudna specifically which honestly, even now that they are canon, still largely holds up re: the fandom and a related one about similarly fluff-centric Change is Evil and the highest order of fiction is Two Blorbos In A House With Zero Problems mentality (not by me but I've been part of that discussion)

[bilightningwhumper]

Making a new poll, mostly because everyone who's picked "More than one" on my other poll hasn't actually specified which and that doesn't help me, lol. Also revising the summaries for further clarity.

Need more male whumpees in my New Eden Institution series. Either as Institution "patients" or as "birds" (pretty doll whumpees who are either used as breeders or as decorative for their whumpers)

I've already genderswapped other fairy tales, so these are the female protags to male protags potentials:

Goldilocks- orphan who ends up turned in by one of the families they break into the home of; they're just going after homes where the families are supposed to be on vacation to have a decent place to sleep for the night; turned into the Institution (ends up becoming part of the "underground railroad" to get out)

Bluebeard- "bird" MC ends up contacted by the investigation shutting down the New Eden system as they were bought from the Institution from an aggressive alpha who's psychologically abusive (charming in public and at first to the MC, gaslighting and physically abusive later on) and kills omegas like the MC when he's bored of them

Maid Maleen- similar to the Swan Lake and Rapunzel stories I have, though their 100%* isolation is because their parent is trying to protect them and their sibling (adopted, step, half, or full) from the Institution/"bird" owners; ends up failing and Maleen character in Institution while sibling is bought (ends up being a mix-up; soulmate thought sibling was Maleen because it was a soulmark purchase; whumper thought Maleen was sibling and kept them on purpose)

Thousandfurs/Allerlirauh- whumpee nearly abused by father; runs away and ends up kidnapped from the streets and put into the Institution; either also helps with the "underground railroad" or becomes a "bird"

Sleeping Beauty- "bird" whumpee has Sleeping Beauty syndrome and their whumper takes advantage of that (either through the illness or by being drugged and told by Whumper that it was the illness causing them to sleep again); would most likely be a noncon nsfw story (though primarily from the whumpee's pov, not the whumper's)

-

Again, just potentials. But I'm curious what people think, mostly to gain more ideas if nothing comes of these at all.

A lot of what I'm coming up is very much influenced by BBU stories I've read in the whump community.

Previous poll if you want to vote on that as well

Mangst 2024 masterlist with samples of my current writing for TNEI

Ao3 for the New Eden Institution series

[astralcities]

or like. it always opens itself up to less clarity. "your hair is so cute /gen" makes me think there's a visible reason you might not be being genuine. "hey let's stop talking about this /lh" reads as someone who is upset and masking about it. because tone tags are primarily a method of self defense and assuaging one's own anxiety. not for the comprehension and ease of the other person

[darklylucid]

Where Glamour Fails, Clever Alteration Prevails...

Glamour - that incredibly versatile natural skill all Ghouls use to essentially ‘hide in plain sight’ and appear as nothing more than human. 

Glamour can used to conceal a Ghoul’s glowing eyes, slate-grey skin, pointed teeth, horns and claws, but as useful as it is, it’s effects are purely cosmetic, and there’s one thing all Ghouls have that even those most adept at it can’t hide with a clever illusion - their tail.

It used to be common accepted practice for any Ghoul making a public appearance while fully glamoured to simply stuff their tail down the back of their pants and make a concerted effort to keep it still, and this worked quite well without incident for hundreds of years primarily due to the fact that Ghouls rarely left the safety of the church.

However, with the commencement of the ‘Ghost Project’ and the dramatic increase in worldwide media attention being focused on the band and it’s members during Rituals, there's one very important detail that no one really paid much attention to - the tail of even the most conscientious Ghoul, when overexcited, can be very accurately compared to a strand of overcooked spaghetti caught in a hurricane.

This was never a problem under the previous Papas, as long flowing hooded robes kept everything beneath them well concealed and even tight pants, restricting as they were, helped keep wandering tails in one place, and the inevitable random twitch (or three or four...) was easily dismissed as an unfortunate fault in the material. 

But the new uniforms were another thing entirely...neither too loose nor too tight, and with just enough ‘wiggle room’ in them for tails to move freely...it was only a matter of time, really, before something happened.

Then, something did happen.

All it took was one slip of concentration, a single moment of profound distraction and overstimulation for a few dozen concert-goers to flood the internet with viral videos calamitously entitled, ‘WHAT’S THAT WIGGLING AROUND IN DEWDROP’S PANTS?” to create a veritable PR nightmare for the church.

The tag ‘trouser snake’ was trending, conspiracy theories ran rampant and despite the church's PR team insisting that what everyone was seeing in the infamous video was merely a ‘trick of the light’, it was hard to dismiss that there was, very clearly, *something* thrashing around in the lead guitarist’s trousers. 

It was unanimously agreed that something had to be done to prevent another such ‘mishap’, but since tails can neither be removed nor glamoured away, everyone was at a loss of what to do. That is, until one clever Sibling of Sin, in a glorious moment of clarity, came up with a simple yet ingenious solution.

Belt loops. 

Starting at the waistband and running down along the outside seam of every pair of pants worn in public by the Ghouls are a series of increasingly smaller belt loops into which they thread their tails, with their flared tail spade serving as the ‘anchor’ with which to keep it in place.

With their tails securely fastened to their pants and the snug loops serving as a reminder to keep it still, any unusual movement well and truly can be attributed to either a ‘trick of the light’ or someone’s overactive imagination, and no further incidents have been reported or recorded.  

(It must be said that it was rather *unfortunate* that it had been Dewdrop’s momentary lack of focus that had been noticed and not Swiss’, as the Multi-Ghoul’s penchant for seductive gyrations and his trademark 'shimmies’ make even his most *exuberant* tail movements practically unnoticeable...)

[unclewarwick]

about me: 22,000-year-old vampire that has it/its pronouns and is some kinda faggy agender thing. i sometimes take long breaks from drawing because of my disabilities. i like to make mini comics with scant continuity. i'm a big enjoyer of horror. i draw with my fingertip on a decade-old ipad mini. i'd love to make image descriptions for my art, but i do not have the mental clarity or energy for it.

i don't want minors to follow this blog & would prefer no interaction from them.

now, for some hostility: anything to do with "proship" is repulsive nonsense, and i find folks who identify with the term or are sympathetic to what it represents tend to be people with very malicious, manipulative intentions who i do not welcome anywhere on this planet. fiction affects reality. fandom is not activism. you are not oppressed for experiencing what you choose to call "censorship", and teens with puritanical beliefs are not controlling the world.

anyway, onto the stuff that matters - my tags:

#aurt <- all my art

#animation <- posts containing my animations (gif, video)

#attic dweller <- my characters Mick (repressed loser) and Christian (werewolf guy). compilation/intro post

#yzyck and co <- my mad scientist character Yzyck Fournier and his creations and friends. compilation/intro post

#the impossicule <- my character Penn Rosenberg and his two boyfriends. (low priority subject)

#my own little pony <- my MLP art (primarily my ponysona). compilation/intro post

#bruceman <- my own batman character designs/storylines (heavy batjokes focus). compilation/intro post

other art tags: #fnaf, #swart (star wars), #various original, #various fan art (last two are for stuff i don't draw often enough to get its own dedicated tag).

to clarify: this is not a fandom blog, and i like to focus on my original characters a lot. i don't want people to expect to see fan art here all the time, and i don't interact with fan communities very much (for the sake of my sanity). i use this blog mostly to share art with friends and whoever else happens to see it. it was originally used as a general blog for nothing in particular, but other sites became unusable for sharing art and i needed a change. thanks for reading!

[hesbianyaoi]

New pinned for clarity

richie. he/she lesbian. primarily bsd (atsushi) focused currently but i enjoy danmei, dungeon meshi, thanatology, etc. i reblog jokingly nsfw posts

TAGGING GUIDE

#macabre - gore, decomposition, anything medical or morbid (fictional and irl)

#bsd [character name] - bsd posts about individual characters/ships + art reblogs

#richie asks - asks & answers from my inbox

#art tag / #friends art <3 - self-explanatory

(NOTE: any asks that try to bring shipping discourse into my account will be deleted. unless it's funny)

[destisea-a]

      a semi selective , slow activity , canon multimuse blog.  with characters ranging in theme, and media. may include muses from:  𝐎𝐍𝐌𝐘𝐎𝐉𝐈 , 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐑 , 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐊𝐀𝐈 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐋 , 𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 , & 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄.  all characters are crossover friendly, as the majority of my muses are a mixture of headcanon & canon.  may contain disturbing themes, adult content, existentialism, and several more complex or difficult topics. i always try to tag things appropriately-  but if i miss something, feel free to tell me.

𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎: @godfled / @knghted , @paramythas , @dvouer

it goes without saying but, i do not allow minors to follow my blog, or personals. any who do follow, or interact with my posts will be blocked. i also will not tolerate those who write triggering content and media including p*dophilia, or inc*st. ( I.E proshippers do not interact! )

primarily featuring:  𝐐𝐈𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐘 , from the manga 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐑

𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐒 qi/frey ( wha ) , veritas/ratio ( hsr ) , yato/no/kami ( onmyoji ) 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐘 belda/ruit ( wha ) , idia/shroud ( twst ) , suzuhikohime ( onmyoji )

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓 / 𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓

primordial chaos ( hades ) , shieda kayn ( league / friends only ) , yuura ( twst mc ) tang/yun ( dis/lyte ) , poe ( bsd ) , serpico ( ber/serk / friends only )

  𝐌𝐘 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆:

my name is rhys, they/them or she/her.

be patient with me. notifications here are awful, so i don't always see everything or catch things right away. so long as we aren't rude, it's okay to give me a little nudge if i have clearly missed something i've been tagged in.

communication is extremely important to me in roleplay- as most of my interactions are pretty plot dependent. obviously real life comes first and is always first.

if you write or interact with saccharot ( kae ), do not follow me or block me or whatever. likewise, if you write with kiingsroar ( dia ) or any of their other blogs, i ask you do much the same. i'd be more than happy to explain what happened and why i'm uncomfortable with these users. but please, i don't want them on my dash.

if you want to ship? tell me. i will never assume, or default to shipping with people. of course i practice the same, and like to make it very clear i want to explore a particular dynamic. if things wont work then that's fine! but i need clarity when it comes to stuff like that. i really go 0 - 100 on shipping, and LOVE development, and plotting.

at the very most, i will ship romantically with up to two? of the same muse. but i like to keep that to a minimum. as plotting dynamics is something i put a lot of care and thoughts into-- and don't want my ship partners to ever feel like they're part of a collective or not unique / important to me. IF you'd like exclusivity, tell me. i am more than happy to do that if that's what you prefer. of course, i am more than ok with writing with multiple of the same muse. and exploring other kinds of ships and dynamics to see what clicks!

please, i don't obsessively hover on dash or deep dive on people. i roleplay as a hobby, and rarely prioritize being here. if someone i interact with is GENUINELY an issue, or has done something problematic and troubling- chances are i very likely do not know. or haven't heard about it, because i really only come on tumblr to rp and post art. i am okay with being corrected, or told these things. but do not spark drama, accuse me of things im not aware of, or assume i am okay with it.

pleeeeaaaaaaaase. PLEASE... TAG REALISTIC SPIDERS.

[pelicans-we]

For the sake of clarity; posts on this blog will have a single letter tag for their respective authors. This will have all three for navigation purposes. While this is primarily a blog belonging to Maine's Nosferatu Primogen, I will occasionally chime in, and Rat may try to eat the phone again and post something.

Pleasure to meet you.

—Kobo

[colorisbyshe]

hello! I've been scrolling through your blog for a while and idk how to best word this but is it possible to identify as queer, like an umbrella term? I primarily identify as bisexual (and trans) but I used to answer to questions of my sexual orientation or gender identity with "queer/genderqueer" and I would never force someone to call me that if they were uncomfortable with it, I'd like your thoughts on the topic if you have the time.

Oh, and in terms of acronyms, is it better to use lgbt, lgbt+, or lgbtq for tags bc i know elder gay people might not like their posts tagged with the q slur. Thanks!

ps. glad to see a fellow sasuke stan in the wild ^-^

It's possible to identify as whatever you want. If queer feels best for you, fine. Just know that a. even just hearing you use that term at all might trigger some people (which is fine, many people call themselves dyke and fag, just listen when people ask you to stop) and b. it wholly and totally obfuscates what your actual identity is. Genderqueer, less so, because it's specifically about gender and lets people know that ambiguity is the point. But queer... as a blanket term... means there's a whole blanket of terms people can think apply to you.

And I'd just ask... why obscure your identity? You might have valid reasons, I don't know. I can't decide that for you. But like... I personally make sure people know my identities because I love my identities. What about trans and bisexual doesn't do it for you? I would introspect on why you want to move away from more clear labels and move to something with less clarity. Why do you want to use a term that has become so inclusive that in many spces it includes cishets?

And I just use LGBT for the acronym. Every LGBT identity is included in it and adding Q/+ feels like a VERY half assed gesture. Like as a nonbianry person, I am under the T. I am not a "+" that can be used to include any number of other (sometimes non-LGBT) identities. And Q is unnecessary because the only people who can reclaim it are L G B T. LGBTQ is like saying "Girls and women." Like... that's the same thing twice. It's redundant.

I understand the Q can also mean "questioning" (and originally DID) but I would think questioning was already implicitly included. The same way a lot of women only spaces can include people quesitoning if they're women or not. Like, I don't really need to clarify "My feminism is for women and people who are on their way to solidifying their identity as women."

(Also, just a side note, lots of "elder gay" people absolutley do view queer as a slur and it's like... very weird historical revisionism to act like it's just young people who see it as a slur?? IDK who has started this lie but it's getting fucking weird.)

[lovers-teeth]

Obligatory Intro Post

main is @validwofjobs just for clarity, if you see me following/liking your posts ^^

icon by: @canineentity

🌿🍄🌿 Hi !! my name is Herring (or Jester), and this is my personal/kin sideblog.

  🌿🍄🌿 I’m always interested in meeting new people, so don’t be afraid to shoot me an ask or a msg !! My dms are always open to other kinfolk, I am quite busy and easily distracted so I can’t promise quick reply times.

🌿🍄🌿 Please like this post if you read it through !! it just helps me keep track lol.

--------------

🍂ABOUT ME:🍂

My two kintypes are caucasian shepherd dog and polar bear -u-.

part time angel and occasional sea serpent (secondary kintypes)

I’m primarily a psychological therian, I’m still figuring myself out.

I’m 21- I don’t mind minors hanging out here, tread carefully and be safe n all that.

I’m trans and queer, ask me abt the specifics at your own desire. I use whatever pronouns you use/mirror pronouns.

I use therian and otherkin to refer to myself interchangeably. I also use the words kinnie/kinning bc I find them kind of cute, fight me (plus I've been "kinning" since the word was coined by assholes on 4chan, let me be an old man and live)

This is a kin blog, but I have a lot of other interests, mainly writing, tabletop games, and knitting atm.

I’m always here to help with personal writing projects! Send me your games/your fics/your poetry/whatever- I am very fond of editing and beta reading, or just being a pair of eyes on a draft.

All of my posts are good to reblog unless reblogs are literally turned off lmao

🍂OBLIGATORY DNI/BYF:🍂

DNI: LGBT discourse-starters, I consider myself an inclusionist and I’m generally pro-slur reclamation. I want no part of any stupid discourse (this is also your official warning that I use the word queer and don’t tag it, do with that info what you will.)

non-alterhumans and/or kin-for-fun types are cool but on thin ice.

BYF: I talk about addiction/alcohol often, if that type of post is triggering I will always tag it as eyes away/howling but it might be in your best interest not to follow.

honestly as long as you’re not a dick you’re welcome here LMAO

--------------

🍂TAGS:🍂

(X)posting: themed as needed, common ones are dogposting/kinposting

Chuffing: original non-vent posts and personal thoughts.

Howling: vent posts, read at yr own discretion

Eyes away: 18+ stuff, block this if you’re a minor.

Pawprints: original projects, likely writing or knitting FOs.

[sembulapeyalneerpol]

If you had to introduce yourself with 4 books, which ones would they be? tagged by very cool @sivavakkiyar​​ (thanks!!) this sounds so difficult because so many books aaaahhhh but here we go (also i mention suicide briefly in the third item so feel free to skip that)

I’m blanket tagging all my mutuals, and i would love love love to see y’alls answers so please tag me if you do!!!

1. parable of the sower by octavia butler

i generally don’t like to reread fiction but this is one of the ones that i come back to every couple of years. i first read it in high school i think, in the midst of my deep hunger games dystopic teen angst phase but the storytelling, it was one of the few books in sci-fi with a lead who was very explicitly non-white. now probably over 10 years later in the work i do, we have projects named after this work and earthseed. though i don’t believe in god, but my spirituality is rooted in the work of liberation and my community and inspired this work of what it means to understand that change is god.

2. wretched of the earth by Frantz Fanon.

read this in college. it captured my rage fairly well, witnessing what people around me claimed post colonial from a malaysian and south asian context, it just brought clarity and structure to the chaos of what i felt being young, angry, and radical

3. all about love by bell hooks

I got myself this book after the suicide attempt that landed me in a psych ward, and it was what got me through my healing, coming out of a space of deep self loathing and hatred.  it also centers how i view love as central to  liberation. critiquing love as construted by a Imperialist White-Supremacist Capitalist Patriarchy and then reclaiming what love truly can mean and. my mentor had a journey in her spirituality a couple of years ago where she was studying love and gifted all of us a copy, and re-reading it in a different space, it hit me so differently. love not as a noun but a verb, an intention and action.

4. ms. militancy by meena kandasamy

I racked my brain for this last one, since there were so many but i finally landed on this one. primarily because she was the poet that got me to open up to poetry as a whole, i hated reading poetry in school both because it was within the context of grading for comprehension and i just didn’t get it. but i did reading ms. militancy, my dad actually recommended her to me, i think he sent a link of a lecture or a video she made critiquing caste and i ended up looking into her and her writing and after getting a copy of the the book i devoured it, and for the first time i read poetry and it unlocked something for me, that so many emotions and so many feelings can be described in several lines. it doesn’t play nice, and it fully reveled in that and in some of the days where i feel like the rage and anger is all consuming, ill read this.