#the only person who will ever read this will be me in a few years time when I go into a sad rabbit hole

[greentrickster]

You know, of all the insane fandoms we have out there right now, you know which one always shocks me the most?

The Moomin fandom.

Which probably sounds like fighting words, but hear me out.

I'm thirty-six, and I did grow up with the Moomins. Specifically, I grew up with two of the novels - A Comet in Moominland (got when I was six or seven) and Finn Family Moomin (got when I was about ten). And I loved them. I still love them. I still have both books, and I know which bookshelf they're on in my room.

But, y'all.

That was my entire experience with the Moomins.

For around twenty. Years.

And when I say entire, I mean entire, the only other person I knew who had any idea what a 'Moomin' was was my sister, and that's because Mom read the books out loud to both of us. I thought that was it. I vaguely knew there were some more novels, because they were listed on one of the inside pages, but I genuinely thought it was just an old, obscure series of kids' novels.

Then, a few years back? I discover that

No.

That is Not The Case Even A Little Bit. The Moomin fandom is here and wholesome and HUGE. And there is so much media with it. And it has apparently Always Been Like this, I just wasn't ever in an area or era where I could encounter it when I was young.

And now I'm over here going, "What do you mean Snufkin's brunette? What do you mean he has hair? What do you mean he's human???" Because, to me, this is the first image I think of when I think of him:

That's Snufkin to me. And, given the context that he's surrounded by a bunch of critters, I just assumed that he was a fellow critter. His more detailed, coloured design is great, not gonna argue, but, even having known about it for years, seeing it is always very jarring to me.

And it's weird to realize that this is probably a pretty unique experience, not (just) because looking things up on the internet wasn't really an option at the time, not because I was in the wrong place, but because I just genuinely came to these stories and characters in an extremely strange way. Meaning every time I encounter the Moomin fandom, I get a small shock of, "Oh, right, this was not, in fact, an extremely niche series after all."

And no drama or toxicity or ground-breaking moment is ever gonna top that for me.

[spirits-n-giggles]

Must.... conclude.... Beetlejuice story.... after.... 2nd.... movie....

Go on this journey with me

(slightly edited for a better flow.)

Picture it:

A few years goes by....

Astrid and Lydia had become inceperable after their Halloween from hell and live together, but she eventually talks about wanting to experience dorm life for her first year of college. Lydia is happy for her daughter but is now afraid of being alone, not entirely sure what might happen with so many dreams that always plagued her sleep since the resurgence of ☆he who shall not be named☆ - and I want them to use that line as much as they used "keepin' it real."

The house on the hill will become internationally known as the notorious "Lydia Deets' Haunted Arthouse", she didn't have a show anymore, but that didn't stop her reputation from growing exponentially after the Halloween fiasco. People wanna buy this property for millions of dollars, but Lydia will be too afraid of whatever might happen to anyone, should they ever meet the demon from her nightmares, so she keeps the house by using some of Delia's fame funds to keep the home in their name - something Delia would HATE lol - but Lydia doesn't wanna actually be in the house.

Betelgeuse is stuck in the underworld, trying to hide from a revived Delores that continues to terrorize the afterlife, only now she is destroying the place. If the Sandworm can't kill Betelgeuse, how tf is it gonna kill Delores? Wolf Jackson is of course on the case, but things are getting out of hand. This makes Betlegeuse a prime target for anyone with a soul that might wanna rat him out. And there are PLENTY who wanna rat him out. Trying to find a way out or a way to kill the broad, he has to get creative as he stays in hiding. And where is the perfect place to hide? In a certain model town in a certain model home.

Rory will be undead and use his winning personality to act like he worships the ground Delores walks on so she doesn't suck out his soul. She will say she wants Betelgeuse and wants to kill Lydia. He is cool with that and says he will help her achive that goal. He will then become her lacky and tell her how pretty and perfect she is to keep the target off his back. He will be terrified of her but this will gradually make her love Rory and this can cause some potential fun for future scenes.

Lydia has nightmares that always involve Betlegeuse, even some can involve them going on wacky cartoon adventures from the show, but they'll be creepy and dark and stop-motion because Burton. She tries therapy, but it will end up being a bust. It's hard finding the right therapist with someone as much truama as her. OH MY GOD HAVE MICHAEL KEATON PLAY THIS CHARACTER!!!!! (Nice little nod to movie 2) It will freak her tf out thinking she's seeing Betlegeuse everywhere!

This will cause her to become a shut-in after getting rich off the royalties of selling her personal story - a melodrama of love and the loss of two parents after a lifetime of hauntings from their psychic daughter. She sells this story to various people who want to write it into something. She will end up reading raving reviews about a live theater production of her story called "Ghost House" or "Scared Sheetless" after a graphic novel that was released or some shit. Supernatural levels of meta. Might as well! :D

After a particular dream that ruffles Lydia awake in her own apartment, (the dream at the end of movie 2 maybe?) something strange will happen to the house on the hill, causing Lydia to go back and figure it out. Astrid will hear of this and not want her mom to be there alone and goes with her to help solve the mystery. Lydia thinks she knows what (or who) it is and doesn't want Astrid to come along, but she does anyway.

Hiding there in the model, Betelgeuse will see that she and her daughter have returned, thinking she's finally come to her senses and come back to him lol. Betelgeuse gets desperate for Lydia's attention in the best way he knows how - dreams. They've got a psychic connection, and he's done it plenty of times, but now it's for business as well as pleasure.

It would be some kind of earthquake that shakes the hill. Being careful and walking around whatever damage was mysteriously done, some locals say its another haunting and they want to tear the large house down and make something new. Aatrid can hear these comments and relay them to her mom. This will start making Lydia curious about the history of the hill this house was built on, especially since it's so close to the graveyard (the same place Betlegeuse was buried in the model in movie 1)

So she goes on a hunt in the small town, expands it a little, maybe even find the Mainlands old shop? This can parallel with expanding the afterlife while Betlegeuse is trying to find allies. Betelgeuse tries to round up anyone he knows that he can trust - literally anyone from the past - gotta bring Catherine O'Hara and Gena Davis back, right? Stop motion her in as a ripple in dimensional shifts or something and just use her voice. Richard would help as a thanks for helping his kid in the past, and I KNOW we can get Bob back if we tried.

Lydia can end up learning about some of Betlegeuse's history - finds a picture of an eerily familiar couple - but all this place knows is that they were just two of the MANY that were tossed in mass graves on this land centuries back but they don't know details other than they came from Italy. She will make it a mission to go to their original resting place to try to get more info. She's rich. She can do that. (Their love story was in Italy, right?)

Getting to Italy, Lydia learns the urban legend of a murder suicide of some nutorious bad couple who was known for terrorizing the nights in their hellrsising escepades, but after they were dead and buried, the two lovers corpses, along with many other discarded corpses of dead evil people, were moved out of their original land and brought to a new land to be buried there - getting rid of unwanted individuals so they could bring in the industrial revolution. There will be several names, but two will stand out along with a picture -- Delores and another name that's crossed out. Make it Lawrence, lol. Isn't that Betlegeuse's name in the cartoon?

"Betlegeuse?" Lydia whispers.

“Mom!”

“S-sorry."

Astrid tags along with her mother, happy to travel and hunt creepy shit again. Her dad would be proud. This time she won't meet a boy but maybe a girl who was also doing her own research for school. Jeremy was technically her first experience with a boy, and it's possible to stray away from reminders of bad experiences and kids experiment at this age anyway. It will be a cute goth girl who is a fan of Lydia's old show and is one of the first girls Astrid's age to ever actually be nice to her. A nice connection. This could also be a ploy to pull Lydia back into BJs world again, too - yay twists! She can maybe be an illegal ghost girl looking for help from Lydia because she thinks the paranormal human can help everyone in the afterlife.

Underworld is in chaos, and here is a rift between worlds after so many souls had been taken from the afterlife. There's no more order, reality is breaking, and the only way to get everything back in order is to destroy the soul sucker and release the souls she has absorbed. The more she absorbs, the more power she gets.

They get home, and another shift happens between worlds, and with so much death in the afterlife, it's causing serious problems in the real world and Astrid has an idea to maybe call someone for help. Lydia shuts it down, but more rifts and earthquakes happen. She will have another dream of him trying to get her to call his name. And maybe she can awaken in a living nightmare caused by the rift between worlds, and they are both almost killed (by a sandworm, why tf not!!!) before calling Betlegeuse for help.

Get real 'out there' and put those practical affects to good use and let the shenegins begin! As much as I love watching Betelgeuse try to marry Lydia, there is no attempt at marriage this time. There's too much to do. "I just saved your life, now you can help me save mine and finally kill that soul sucking witch for good.”

“No games. No tricks.” Lydia warns.

“I'm not the trickster in this relationship babe,” he wickedly grins, “but we can get back to that after we save our asses. You're coming with me.” Have him turn into a tour guide as he shows off different aspects of the afterlife thays falling apart before the three of them eventually have to run from people who have allied themselves with Delores to find Betelgeuse.

Imagine the reunion of seeing Rory with Delores. Imagine crazy shit that can magically appear to help end the story. Hell, have the goth girl Astrid meets to come back and redeem herself at the end. I dunno. She can appear and admit to being Delores daughter (before meeting Betelgeuse) and thats why she was at the same place Lydia and Astrid went in Italy to find answers- she was too.

This relationship can parallel Lydia and Astrid's positive one- have Delores sacrifice her daughter to start her sacrificial rite for power, and her daughter never forgive her (I swear I am just pulling this out of my ass) have the girl hold vengence for her mom and she can give Lydia the dagger that her mother Delores killed her with that still has the young girl's cursed blood on it. She says to use it to kill Delores, but Betelgeuse is the only one strong enough who can get close enough to do it.

With so much chaos and so many souls taken, anything can happen in the underworld, and chaos ensues. Maybe even break in to see glimpses of the afterlife, perhaps they see a glimpse of hell and see how Jeremy is being tortured (it will be a silly Tim Burton way). They can see part of the great beyond maybe wave at Delia (and the back of Charls’ head) too?

They finally meet Delores and she will say she is over Betelgeuse, happy with her new pet Rory. It's a shock for Lydia to see Rory there but isn't surprised to see him so desperate to fawn after Delores. Satisfied with the new power she’s gained, Delores prefers to keep Betelgeuse alive to torture him.

Lydia will give Betelgeuse the dagger so he can pop her like a bubble and all the souls she's consumed will escape and go back to their soul holders. But why waste energy killing Betelgeuse when Delores can just use him? She is able to levitate him up but Lydia, Astrid, and the goth girl work together to pull him back down. - this is where the goth girl can suddenly enter for the final fight!

Seeing her daughter makes her angry, and seeing her help her foes pisses her off. Delores grows in size to show her strength, and ordering Rory to take care of those little girls. Little goth girl and Astrid go after Rory and Lydia will get a plan -

"Oh... you're not into him anymore, huh? So... you wouldn't care if I did this?" And Lydia pulls that fucker in to kiss him. (This feels very Phantom of the Opera coded.....) Just a peck is enough for Delores to RAGE and she goes full attack mode. She goes after Lydia and Beletgeuse steps in front of her and kills Delores with whatever magical shit her dead vengeful goth daughter supplied, lol. (And I'm talking full jack sparrow stabbing the kraken slow mode scene) Epic as shit!!! Delores daughter will then rest in peace.

Astrid will then ask herself, “Now why the hell can't I connect with humans like I can with ghosts?”

“Family trait, unfortunately.” Lydia says feeling Beletgeuse's breath literally go down her neck with his close proximity. "At least they didn't try to suck you into marrying them."

End it with Lydia being recruited by Wolf Jackson to find those who have been lost in the real world or something. Make it to where she and Betelgeuse have to work together to keep the plane between the living and the dead closed with her as the keeper of the house.

Have the house be the main character in the end!!!!

Betelgeuse will turn to Lydia and say, "So, you're not the marrying type, eh? I'm fine with that-" He'll try to pull her in for another kiss, but she'll push him away.

"Nooo! No-" He lets her shove him to the floor, "I just knew something like that would save your ass. That's what you asked for right? Now we’re even." He quickly jumps back up. "I know jealousy when I see it.”

"You sure do." he inches closer to her, but she crosses her arms looking away, seemingly uninterested.

"Betelgeuse...”

"I can wait, honey. I know you want me." He flexes as he slowly walks away with pride. "No one can resist ‘the juice’ once they've had a taste." He winks.

Astrid groans for her mother, but Lydia just looks to him like she always does.

"Betelgeuse..."

"You will be the one to kiss me again, babes." He holds his arms out in his iconic way. "I got all the time in the world." He thinks this is the end.

"Betelgeuse."

Hmmm.... he doesn't disappear?

But he does give a wicked smile.

Turns out when killing the spirit of the soul sucking witch, the souls did escape, but her power had to be absorbed by someone, and Betelgeuse didn't... really... need.... help with obtaining more power, did he?

Would he be like demi-god state now? Why the hell not? Give me an Astarion evil ending kind of transformation. Give me love and deepspace realness. (google those). Go the whole nine and make him HOT AND SCARY in the end. Michael Keaton is attractive. It's doable! Antihero status! Make it wild! Demigod!!!!

Imagine THAT being interested in you, Lydia. I don't think you'd say no.

End it with his new form levitating and him saying that that iconic voice and green glowing eyes. "It's Showtime."

Throw in a musical number somewhere, a little justice for Bob and you have a lovely story.

There. Done.

I don't think a 3rd will be made, and if there is one, I don't think it would be this ^ stupid! Lol

[gor3sigil]

What being trans means to me

I love being trans. I love transitioning. The thing is, most of the time, I read about other trans people experiences. And I just can’t relate.

I have plenty of tattoos and piercings, and if I have to be 100% honest with y’all, I see transitioning like a bodmod. To me, getting top surgery was one, as I wanted to at least get my nipples removed before I even knew top surgery was an option.

I see HRT as much as a bodmod. A few years back, I wasn’t so sure I even wanted HRT, but after thinking it through and doing a lot of research, I decided to do it. And I never looked back. I’m close to 2 years on T, which isn’t a lot, and I don’t even know if I plan to stay on T for very long, maybe I’ll stop at some point. Who knows.

It goes hand in hand with the everlasting identity crisis I’ve been having since I was born, basically. I was a different person before, and she was so tired, so she left the body to some dude, and he got tired, and they fused, and it was me, and I’m in a trans body, I’m trans, I take T like I paint my nails, I take T like a cigarette, I take T like a hot bath. It’s comforting, it makes me feel good, it makes me feel at home in this body.

I got surgery because I wanted my silhouette to be mine. I changed my name because since I was little, and that’s the only point for which I can say confidently I knew since I was a kid, I never understood why we couldn’t name ourselves. To me, a name was so intimate, so personal, that I couldn’t understand why it had to be someone else’s choice. So I took a new one and changed it.

And now I look at myself in the miror and I’m Cyan, and I got a flat chest, and I have a deep voice, and I’ll do my T shot on friday just like I do every 14 days since almost 2 years, with the same pleasure, with the same smile on my face, the same rush I ever have when I’m excited for my shot.

Close to the feeling I get when I get a new piercing, when I up the size of my lobes, when I feel the first tingles of the needles that tattoo me.

I didn’t “always knew” I was trans. I remember being a kid with a shit ton of OCs, and names for myself that I couldn’t choose, and whose dream was to live a thousand lives before I died. I don’t know who I will be in 3 years. Or in 6 months.

It says on a letter that I suffer from gender dysphoria, and by all means it was true before top surgery. Not so much now. I still am insecure about my body a lot of times because there’s some things missing to my chara design and I am fatter IRL lmao, but with this body I cum, I eat good food, I get drunk, I smoke, I feel hot and fresh water, I swim, I sing, I write this. Even when it’s half broken and it’s raining and my joints ache and I feel like I’m already old, I love this body. I’m not the type of people who will be like “your body is a temple, you HAVE to exercise and eat only fresh veggies” because if I have to be here let me at least have fun. I take care of myself though, maybe not as much as I should, but the best I can.

If I hadn’t overcome everything I did in my life, maybe I wouldn’t have transitioned. Or maybe I would. I don’t care. I don’t need a reason, and neither do you.

This is what I mean when I say that everyone should do whatever the fuck they want because, I wasn’t born trans, or at least I don’t think so. But does it make my transition less valid ? No. I’m better in my skin that ever, even when the low self esteem hits, and I know I would feel way less good if I hadn’t transition. That’s all that matters.

[kimberleyjean]

What did Adam change? (Part 1)

To follow up on my recent reblog about the baby swap, I'm going to take a closer look at Adam where we leave him at the end of S1. Because, by the end of S1, Adam had changed quite a few things... and I'm going to use both the TV show and the book to provide evidence.

To become the Young's real son, I don't think Adam really needed to change all that much. He just says the words to Satan, Satan disappears, and that should be it, right? But no, because Adam goes much further, and I think he does it because he can.

Because Adam has opinions, you see. Opinions on how the world should be and what he wants to happen. Except, unlike Agnes, who needs to write a prophecy and then wait 300 years for her descendant to enact it, Adam can just make it so.

The Other Two Babies

I originally thought about putting all the things Adam changes into a single post, but instead I'm going to make this a short series of posts, because he changes a fair bit. Let's start with where we left off with the baby swap, crack open a copy of the book and discuss the changes for Warlock and Greasy first.

Warlock

Here's some excerpts of Warlock flying home from Megiddo to America (my bolds for emphasis):

It was Sunday afternoon. High over England a 747 droned westwards. In the first-class cabin a boy called Warlock put down his comic and stared out of the window.

...

And now he was going back to the States. There had been some sort of problem with tickets or flights or airport destination-boards or something. It was weird; he was pretty sure his father had meant to go back to England. Warlock liked England. It was a nice country to be an American in.

...

And Warlock flew on to America. He deserved something (after all, you never forget the first friends you ever had, even if you were all a few hours old at the time) and the power that was controlling the fate of all mankind at that precise time was thinking: Well, he's going to America, isn't he? Don't see how you could have anythin' better than going to America. They've got thirty-nine flavors of ice cream there. Maybe even more.

So it's Adam who has sent Warlock back to America, despite Warlock wanting (even, expecting) to be on his way to England. And he's controlling the fate of all mankind.

Greasy

Likewise, he has changes for Greasy Johnson too (the discarded baby who grows up to win prizes for his tropical fish).

The plane was at that point passing right above the Lower Tadfield bedroom of Greasy Johnson, who was aimlessly leafing through a photography magazine that he'd bought merely because it had a rather good picture of a tropical fish on the cover. A few pages below Greasy's listless finger was a spread on American football, and how it was really catching on in Europe. Which was odd… because when the magazine had been printed, those pages had been about photography in desert conditions. It was about to change his life.

Adam is deciding here how to alter Warlock and Greasy's paths. Warlock wants to be back in the UK, but Adam thinks America is better, while Greasy's magazine is changed to American football, which I guess is implying he's going to become an American footballer.

Now, not everyone may be aware, but these parts weren't in the first release of the novel. It only came about later, in the American edition. Apparently the changes were in response to prompting from the American editor, but they got "carried away" making those changes (source).

Season 3 (warning: speculation)

So, do you think this could be relevant for S3? For me personally, the fact that these bits were added later makes me wonder if this was helping to set up for a potential sequel. It's certainly poetic - just like the baby swap that originally involved all three, we are now implying a potential adolescent swap of Greasy, who is interested in American football, and Warlock, who is interested to return to the U.K.

If you've read at all about the hypothetical plot of the proposed written sequel, you'll know that it involved a trip to America, ostensibly to look for a lost Jesus. So, if the next book was originally meant to be about going and finding someone (Jesus?) in America, then Greasy or Warlock could make sense. It would be a switcheroo all over again if Warlock had left for the UK and Greasy for America.

Another alternative is that all three could end up converging in America, since Warlock already lives there and both Adam and Greasy have interests in going there. But if that's the intention, why mention that Warlock wants to be back "home" in the U.K.?

So, those are my possible takes on how this passage can be interpreted. I know there are some theories that either Greasy or Warlock may be the Second Coming. I've also seen a theory now that Adam himself could be a contender (both spawn of Satan and spawn of God - it'd certainly be interesting!). I'm not placing bets on any of these outcomes just yet.

In addition to this passage in the book, we also see some interesting changes made by Adam which are featured more prominently in the show - one's that have implications for the ineffable husbands.

Part 2 coming soon!

Thanks as always to everyone at the @ineffable-detective-agency (including @noneorother, @embracing-the-ineffable, @lookingatacupoftea, @251-dmr, @somehow-a-human, @maufungi, @havemyheartaziraphale, @theastrophysicistnextdoor, @dunkthebiscuit, @komorezuki, & @ghstptats).

[autistichalsin]

My chapter-by chapter analysis of The Hunger Games, chapter 1

Disclaimer: this and all future chapter analyses will contain spoilers for all the books.

What really strikes me about this chapter is what a masterpiece it is; a masterpiece of foreshadowing, establishing moments of characterization, worldbuilding and more, all without ever feeling like we're actually getting infodumped on. This is accomplished with Katniss's stream-of-consciousness storytelling. I've heard it criticized so much, but even aside from the very salient point that it fits her characterization as an emotionally stunted, traumatized, poorly-educated teenage girl, it still helps the story in moments like this. We feel Katniss's inner chaos, and it makes the story that much more immersive.

On to the spoilery part of the analysis:

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress.

There was a post, a while ago, that I can't find but wish I could. In it, the OP talks about how Prim is literally doomed by the narrative, not "heavily foreshadowed death," but literally doomed by the narrative, and this paragraph is the first sign, because Katniss reaches for Prim and feels emptiness instead. And re-reading this, I agree. The first thing we see Katniss do is reach for Prim, and find nothing. This time, it's temporary, but by the end of the series, it won't be. We've been warned, even if we don't realize it yet: Prim is doomed.

Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of the vermin and he’s a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.

Katniss loves her sister and will do literally anything for her. Katniss also has no moral qualms about drowning kittens. With just one paragraph, we learn what a simultaneously harshly practical yet beautifully caring, loving person Katniss is. She has no room in her life for useless things like pets, and drowning strays probably helps the people of 12 in the long run by leaving vermin to be eaten by those on the verge of starvation. But her sister wants to keep Buttercup, and so she will. Katniss will sacrifice anything to keep Prim happy.

Foreshadowing. Prim is doomed.

Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.

STILL more foreshadowing, for different themes: both for one of Katniss's biggest complexes (I'll get into details about this later) and for the theme of love. Katniss doesn't truly love anyone but Prim. Her entire world, we know, is going to be shaken when she does finally feel that for someone else again. Once again, we are being introduced to the recurring themes of love vs practicality and the classic question, "how much pain is love worth?"

Katniss is going to answer this question again and again: for Prim, there is no amount of suffering too great. For others... she'll find different answers. Eventually.

My father knew and he taught me some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.

The first hints of Katniss as a deeply traumatized girl emerge. Sometimes, when you're traumatized enough, thoughts can segue into The Event with no warning, just by proximity. And through the combination of blunted language and stream-of-consciousness leaps, we can see just how broken this has left Katniss. Unfortunately, this is only the start of Events for her.

My father could have made good money selling them, but if the officials found out he would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion. Most of the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to the few of us who hunt because they’re as hungry for fresh meat as anybody is. In fact, they’re among our best customers.

A brilliant bit of worldbuilding. The Peacekeepers are working off of deeply corrupt laws, which they ignore because they too are being mistreated and systematically starved, even if they aren't as at risk as the people of 12. The system doesn't care about the very same people it safeguards to enforce its rules. This is the first hint we get that the system isn't sustainable, and it comes before we even fully understand what kind of hell this government is.

The theme of "bread and circuses" is going to be hammered down to us again and again that this is how tyrannical governments, including this one, pacify the masses. But when only the bourgeoisie are being given the bread and circuses, well.... the proletariat aren't going to take it forever.

The book hasn't shown itself to be the anti-capitalist masterpiece it is yet, but this is the first hint that we're reading a tale of class warfare.

“District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety,” I mutter. Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here, even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.

I have seen criticisms that this is an egregious case of showing and not telling, with Katniss constantly talking about the dangers of badmouthing the government while never facing them. But in truth, it's the opposite. Yes, Katniss hasn't been caught despite repeated statements that she could have, but we'll learn, here and in future chapters, that 12 has been receiving a sort of tradeoff with other districts; their more severe poverty places them below notice. No one thinks them capable of causing real trouble, and even their district specialty- coal- is later proven to be basically useless, busy-work. So they get ignored... for now. Until the oligarchs start seeing what the proletariat can actually do and crack down all the harder to ensure they keep their cheap labor.

Are you seeing the resonance with the real world yet?

Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics. Like the reaping, or food shortages, or the Hunger Games. Prim might begin to repeat my words and then where would we be?

Here we see the dual themes of parentification and sacrifice. Katniss will be the adult, even though she ISN'T an adult, for her sister. She will keep quiet on things that hurt her, and upset her, to set a better example for her sister and keep her from getting hurt. Prim gets to have the normal and safe childhood Katniss never had, because Katniss has invested everything into ensuring she does.

We are taking a step up the ladder of self-sacrificial acts, here. In other words: more foreshadowing. Katniss will give everything for Prim. Prim is going to die, because Katniss is going to lose everything she cared about in the process of protecting everything she cared about.

In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be myself.

Katniss can't be a teenage girl. She has to be Prim's mom. She has to be tough. She has to be a provider. She has to be a trader. An advocate. She so rarely complains about it, too. But it shows here just how much she's given up. Only one place, and one person she can be herself with, and yet...

Gale.

Isn't this ironic. Because we are about to see, throughout the entire series, that this day is going to be the last time Gale actually lets Katniss be herself (and even here, there are strong hints that Gale wants Katniss to be something very different).*

*Disclaimer, because it seems important: my opinion on the Katniss/Gale vs Katniss/Peeta ship war is "team nobody." I think both of them were very bad for her in different ways. Any comment I make that seems like it is favoring one ship or the other... isn't.

“Hey, Catnip,” says Gale. My real name is Katniss, but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it. So he thought I’d said Catnip. Then when this crazy lynx started following me around the woods looking for handouts, it became his official nickname for me.

Maybe I'm overanalyzing, but I feel like this sums up the Katniss/Gale relationship so much. Katniss tries to speak, and Gale doesn't hear or understand her. Gale projects something onto her, and Katniss rolls with it. Sure, in this case it's a cute nickname, but it represents so much more to me.

Gale doesn't understand Katniss. Fundamentally. He understands the Katniss he wants to exist. The one who will run off with him and play house in the woods and indulge his little fantasies. He doesn't know very much about the real Katniss, at least as long as he's looking at her through a romantic lens.

“Look what I shot.” Gale holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it, and I laugh.

Despite what I just said, I do love Gale and Katniss's friendship, and it breaks my heart that their friendship was as doomed as Prim. (Hint. Hint.) Katniss needed someone who understood the unique pain of parentification due not to abuse, but poverty- the kind where you aren't 'allowed' to feel angry at anyone within reach. Which is the worst kind of injustice. Getting mad at someone who harmed you is one thing, but getting mad at a system you can never (... yet) hope to change is different.

She must have really loved him to leave her home for the Seam.

It's said in a casual and sort of admiring way here. But Katniss is going to learn firsthand about the intersection between love and sacrifice. With the generational mirroring as a theme, especially between Katniss and Peeta, we're being given more foreshadowing that Katniss has self-sacrifice "in the blood."

I try to remember that when all I can see is the woman who sat by, blank and unreachable, while her children turned to skin and bones. I try to forgive her for my father’s sake. But to be honest, I’m not the forgiving type.

Another little glimpse into Katniss's pain and trauma. Her mom wasn't there when Katniss needed her most, and Katniss and Prim both almost died as a result. It wasn't her fault, and we see later that she regrets it deeply, but this still leaves scars. Your parents, above everyone else, are supposed to protect you. Katniss's mom didn't, Katniss nearly died, and because of that, Katniss had to sacrifice what remained of her childhood to become Prim's mom.

Katniss and Prim's relationship never goes back to just normal sisterhood after this. From the moment Mrs. Everdeen's trauma rendered her catatonic onwards, Katniss and Prim's relationship was infused with a mother-child dynamic that never left, not even when Mrs. Everdeen became well again.

It's so painful, all the more so because it's so real. I lived this with my little brother, albeit with stakes maybe 1% this high, when my mom became an alcoholic and my dad was too busy just trying to survive to really do anything. I was the one to take care of him emotionally, to show someone cared, to provoke my mom's anger so he wouldn't be hit, to make sure homework got done and he didn't skip school (I failed. Badly.) He still considers me more his parent than either of our parents. It never really goes away, even when you're both adults; that overdeveloped feeling of responsibility stays with you. Always.

And the worst part of it is when the parent who made you have to do this decides, on their own, that the time is right for them to come back. Katniss's mom is far more gracious about it than my own. She at least understood Katniss's pain, and didn't try to force the role on her; it happened only when Katniss was ready. But that too, as we'll see in a minute, was painfully real for me.

“I never want to have kids,” I say. “I might. If I didn’t live here,” says Gale. “But you do,” I say, irritated. “Forget it,” he snaps back. The conversation feels all wrong.

Once again, a hint that despite their sweet friendship and similarities, these are two tragically, fundamentally incompatible people. Katniss is in too much pain to think of ever having a family, and Gale is in too much pain to think of not ever having one. Katniss wants to survive the way she always has (which she doesn't realize isn't her destiny yet) and Gale wants to flee and survive literally any other way.

Both change in the end, but the underlying incompatibilities in their life approaches are still there.

And even if we did . . . even if we did . . . where did this stuff about having kids come from? There’s never been anything romantic between Gale and me. [...] Besides, if he wants kids, Gale won’t have any trouble finding a wife. He’s good-looking, he’s strong enough to handle the work in the mines, and he can hunt. You can tell by the way the girls whisper about him when he walks by in school that they want him. It makes me jealous but not for the reason people would think. Good hunting partners are hard to find.

A few very interesting things are happening here. One, we're getting another hint, first dropped during Katniss's thoughts about Buttercup, that Katniss has a pathological inability to believe others actually like her- romantically or otherwise. Part of it is low self-esteem, part of it is putting Prim on such a pedestal that Katniss feels she can never live up (and giving her more self-esteem issues) and feeling like anything she attributes to herself might take away from Prim, and part of it is just raw cynicism. And maybe a dash or two of the feeling of permanent othering trauma gives you. Especially when that trauma involves a realization that you're never going to be able to rely on others to meet your own needs. You're responsible for your needs and your loved ones' too.

(Katniss is one of the most complex and real characters of all time. I relate to Katniss an uncomfortable amount sometimes.)

The other interesting thing is that you're getting a sense, for the first time, of how much trouble Katniss has recognizing and processing her own emotions- a very common trait in neurodivergent people. She can sort-of-understand a feeling of jealousy, but can't quite put her finger on the reason, and fitting with her attitude of relentless practicality, she decides that it's the worry of losing a useful hunting partner. Because, after all, Prim is the only person she loves, she can't care for anyone else, there isn't room for that. To care about anyone else would be to "take away" something from Prim.

Katniss repeatedly raises the question of when self-sacrifice crosses the line into self-harm by proxy. When altruistic love becomes self-negation instead. It's sweet that she loves Prim so much, but the codependence... If this is the benchmark for love for Katniss, it's no wonder that she feels at this point that she can't feel it for anyone else. This isn't sustainable.

(Prim is doomed. We've been warned.)

I found the patch a few years ago, but Gale had the idea to string mesh nets around it to keep out the animals.

This is going to be a recurring theme; Katniss is too impulsive and lacking a sufficient cause-effect pathway to be a planner/strategist. Gale makes the plans now; later it'll be Peeta and Haymitch.

(Also, this is foreshadowing Katniss's lack of agency. She is about to become an audience member in her own life story. She found the strawberries, but she didn't decide what to do about them. Gale did. That's about to become her entire life.)

No one in the Seam would turn up their nose at a good leg of wild dog, but the Peacekeepers who come to the Hob can afford to be a little choosier.

There is a hierarchy still, where the Peacekeepers are starving, but not as starving as the people in the communities they're sent to. Everyone is hungry, but some are hungrier than others.

Hint. Hint.

“That’s not her fault,” I say. “No, it’s no one’s fault. Just the way it is,” says Gale.

"Remember who the real enemy is." Katniss gets told this repeatedly, by Haymitch and others, and eventually she learns the lesson in time to lead a successful revoltuion.

Gale does not learn this lesson. He will end up destroying everything he cares about in his pursuit of revenge against the Capitol and anyone associated with it.

Gale would normally say that there is a huge difference between Madge, the mayor's daughter who is pampered and comparatively privileged, versus the willfully malicious Peacekeepers; the middle class are still part of the proletariat, after all. But Gale, in his pain and fear, loses sight of it and lashes out. This time, it's just words. By the end of the series, when he gets actual power, it will lead to something far more catastrophic.

Prim is doomed to die, Gale and Katniss's friendship is doomed to end in the most bitter way possible, and Gale is doomed to be his own worst enemy.

Gale knows his anger at Madge is misdirected. On other days, deep in the woods, I’ve listened to him rant about how the tesserae are just another tool to cause misery in our district. A way to plant hatred between the starving workers of the Seam and those who can generally count on supper and thereby ensure we will never trust one another. “It’s to the Capitol’s advantage to have us divided among ourselves,” he might say if there were no ears to hear but mine. If it wasn’t reaping day. If a girl with a gold pin and no tesserae had not made what I’m sure she thought was a harmless comment.

Gale knows he's wrong to say things like that. But again, as said above, his pain and fear get the better of him, and cause pain to those around him. His normal philosophy is correct, but he loses sight of and discards it far too easily.

(Gale is going to lose everything because of his scorched-earth approach to anger.)

Also, a note: this is how the real world operates too. Culture wars to distract from class war. For an entire generation of readers, this was their introduction to the basic principles of socialism.

But what good is yelling about the Capitol in the middle of the woods? It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t make things fair. It doesn’t fill our stomachs. In fact, it scares off the nearby game. I let him yell though. Better he does it in the woods than in the district.

Katniss is still hung up on practicality. When she rants about the Capitol, she is, subconsciously, crying for help. But venting for the sake of venting doesn't make so much sense to her, given her stunted emotions.

Another bit of characterization I really enjoy here is the realistic teenage behavior. Yes, they're the oldest in their families, responsible for their entire family and only able to support them by hunting, and they should "know better". But they're teenagers in a fascist government, with an already extreme list of traumas and corresponding problems with emotions. Of course they're going to act irrationally at times and scare off game because they're having a meltdown- even non-traumatized teens would do that sometimes!

They're teenagers. Incredibly well-written, realistic teenagers. They don't have fully developed frontal lobes with the corresponding gifts of planning, impulse control, cause-effect relationships, and other things yet. They're more mature than most, but they're still going to behave foolishly sometimes.

Prim is in my first reaping outfit, a skirt and ruffled blouse. It’s a bit big on her, but my mother has made it stay with pins.

This is probably a "the curtains are blue because they're blue!" moment, but this is another bit of symbolism I enjoy. Katniss, at Prim's age, was hunting and entering the Hob. Prim is being kept alive by both Katniss and Mrs. Everdeen. She has a dress that mostly fits. She has good meals now. She is protected where Katniss wasn't. The dress represents both the sacrifices Katniss made for her and the fact that now, Prim has the adoring mother Katniss didn't have. She has two loving people looking out for her, willing to do anything to keep her safe, healthy, and happy.

(Prim is doomed.)

To my surprise, my mother has laid out one of her own lovely dresses for me. A soft blue thing with matching shoes. “Are you sure?” I ask.

Katniss can't comprehend her mom doing motherly things for her. Both because of the parentification, and because Katniss still fundamentally can't believe that anyone, even her own mother, actually cares for her enough to want to do anything for her. Not after four years of Katniss carrying the entire family on her back. It's incompatible with the world she's lived in for the last four years.

Katniss is painfully relatable.

I’m trying to get past rejecting offers of help from her. For a while, I was so angry, I wouldn’t allow her to do anything for me.

Painfully. Relatable.

What Katniss is feeling in this scene, I don't think I can describe to anyone who hasn't been there. It's relief-bitterness-anger-hope-longing-mistrust.

"Oh great, look who's finally here to help now that things are okay again and I figured everything out on my own! I want you back. I want a parent back. I don't want to do this anymore. I can't stop it. I can't trust you not to make me do it again. I'd better keep doing it so I don't get my hopes up. How do I even live without doing this? How do I live as a person and not a caretaking robot for my family? Am I allowed to do that? What kind of selfish person would I be if I did, especially now that I've seen what will happen if you fail again? No, I'm not letting you do this. I'll let you pretend to the little one because they need a parent figure and they deserve to feel normal, but me? Hell no, do you think I'm stupid? I am taking care of myself, I already learned what it costs to trust other people to see to my needs and that is not a price I'll pay a second time, thankyouverymuch. Yeah, mom I love you. I'm glad you're okay now. And thanks for doing this for me, I guess."

It goes something like that.

But I digress.

In just this paragraph Katniss expresses so much of the pain of parentification, so succinctly yet vividly that it makes my chest hurt.

I just really, really love Katniss, okay?

“You look beautiful,” says Prim in a hushed voice. “And nothing like myself,” I say.

Ow. Just... ow. She says it so matter-of-factly. Like she's just accepted it into her worldview; Prim, the embodiment of everything good in the world, is beautiful. Katniss, the leftover, the thing that exists just to take care of Prim, is ugly. That simple.

I wish we could have seen Prim respond here; surely she doesn't like anyone, even her sister herself, talking about Katniss this way? Or maybe Prim is so used to these kinds of casual self-put-downs that she's stopped trying to talk Katniss out of it.

Again: painfully relatable.

I protect Prim in every way I can, but I’m powerless against the reaping. The anguish I always feel when she’s in pain wells up in my chest and threatens to register on my face.

Once more: Painfully. Relatable. You put so much into protecting 'your kiddo'. And then something comes along and reminds you that you're even more powerless than the useless adults in your life. It hurts. It feels like you failed. It's one thing for you to get hurt, you already know how to deal with it, but them?

Ugh. Dystopian fiction isn't usually where my inner abused and parentified child gets validated, but this series unlocked some things in my neural pathways.

Thank you, Suzanne Collins, for Katniss. I feel so seen in so many ways through her and her story.

Sorry. I know this is supposed to be an analysis, not a love letter, but damn if Katniss doesn't play my heartstrings like a fiddle.

“Tuck your tail in, little duck,” I say, smoothing the blouse back in place. Prim giggles and gives me a small “Quack.” “Quack yourself,” I say with a light laugh. The kind only Prim can draw out of me.

Sorry, I am going to try to not repeat myself so much, but once again it just... Prim gets to be a child, because of Katniss. She gets to be a normal-ish 12 year old who makes silly animal noises and can't tuck her dress in. Katniss was fighting for her life and trying to find food. And of course it's not Prim's fault- I love Prim. But there's something just so painful about this contrast. Katniss had her childhood stolen from her, first by the tyrannical government she lived in, then her father's death, then her mother's mental illness, and finally the needs of a child she never should have been responsible for.

It's no wonder Katniss spends so much of the series in that emotional state abused, neglected, and traumatized children know all too well. You're simultaneously precocious and childish. Too grown-up one minute and acting like a child the next. Katniss never got to experience linear growth, and her psychology sure as hell shows it.

Painfully. Relatable.

Also, yet again: Prim. Is. Doomed. She's the most important thing in Katniss's life, the rationale for every decision Katniss makes, the reason she gets out of bed in the morning. The one person who makes Katniss's life worth living. Precious, sweet Prim, who retains her innocence and kindness in a world that aggressively stomps out both, is doomed by the narrative in every possible way.

Anyway, Gale and I agree that if we have to choose between dying of hunger and a bullet in the head, the bullet would be much quicker. The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrive. [...] I stare at the paper slips in the girls’ ball. Twenty of them have Katniss Everdeen written on them in careful handwriting.

When you're a child, you can't comprehend something awful happening to your parents, because your life experience just hasn't shaped yet to show you that it's even possible. You don't understand that it can happen.

When you're an adult, you can't comprehend something awful happening to your child, because your life experience has shaped to show you exactly how it's possible. You know exactly how it can happen, so you can't believe that it can actually happen.

Katniss is at a stage of her life that would already be transitional in normal circumstances, where she'd start contemplating mortality- but she's already dealt with it for years.

Her own death doesn't scare her anymore. Her sister's scares her so much that she doesn't even think it's a possibility. After all, everything she's done for the last four years of her life has been for Prim. To keep her alive and give her the childhood Katniss lost suddenly and traumatically.

Prim is doomed.

Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch — this is the Capitol’s way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy.

We got hints of apathy and cruelty before, but now the curtain is, for the first time, being peeled back. This isn't a system built on simple oppression. It's a system built on raw sadism.

It's another sign that Panem isn't sustainable. People can endure a lot of cruelty when their loved ones are hostages, but there are limits. When those limits get pushed (hint), something will have to give.

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every district against the others.

Bread and circuses. The poor give labor (food) and entertainment, and the rich receive them. The rich live sequestered lives full of privilege, yet ultimately just as much under the thumb as the tyrant as anyone else. But still supporting the system because they lack the empathy to want change when they benefit from the status quo more than they would from a new system, so they think. They are simultaneously disgusting and pitiful.

Like the comfortably wealthy Trump-supporting boomers we all know and loathe.

The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food.

Our very first, incredibly subtle hint, that winning the games might be even worse than losing them. The first time reading, of course, you'll take this at face value. Later, though, you'll think of this and realize it was all only mockery and isolationism, a way of guaranteeing that the victors would be scapegoated by their District, ensuring they would never find companionship again even if their trauma didn't prevent it. And they can't complain, because, after all, they now have a life of comfort.

So many things are intersecting here; class warfare (Victors being an allegory for "temporarily embarrassed millionaires" and the American Dream) and the isolation of trauma and mental illness and more.

But suddenly I am thinking of Gale and his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how the odds are not in his favor. Not compared to a lot of the boys. And maybe he’s thinking the same thing about me because his face darkens and he turns away. “But there are still thousands of slips,” I wish I could whisper to him.

Katniss so rarely worries about herself, only those she cares for. Again; her own mortality is okay to her. It's those she protects she can't let this happen to. But since she can't even bear to face the possibility of Prim being chosen (Prim is doomed) yet, she focuses her feelings on Gale, not only worrying that he'll be picked, but worrying that he will be upset that she might be. She only spares thoughts for herself for a few brief seconds, in the next paragraph.

Katniss gets accused of being selfish so many times, but it's notable that those moments only happen once she volunteers to go into the arena, once her survival depends on a bit of selfishness. Before then, she's one of the least selfish people in the entire series, and I'd argue that even at her worst she doesn't count as truly selfish. She's a teenager trying to survive and return home to her family, not a toddler who won't share toys.

I’m feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it’s not me, that it’s not me, that it’s not me.

But, of course, even when you are theoretically okay with dying, being faced with the actual thing will still inspire terror. So for just a moment, Katniss lets herself lapse into worry about herself.

For just a moment, she thinks about herself- and just that fast, Prim is placed in danger.

(This is how Prim will die too, by the way; being put in danger the one time Katniss is focused on something other than her. Prim is doomed.)

Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it’s not me. It’s Primrose Everdeen.

The unthinkable has happened, and Katniss's life has been changed forever.

And even though she can save Prim this time, it's only temporary.

Prim is doomed. Nothing in the world can prevent it now. Prim would die in the arena, but by going instead, Katniss has put herself in a position where any and all actions she does will spark a revolution that gives her a Pyrrhic victory.

There is no version of events where Prim lives.

Prim is doomed.

[sentience-if]

as a thought experiment, may i ask how the other ROs would have reacted if they had found the MC instead of Val??

like, we see the MC visits Val a lot, and we see a dependency there that is semi-financial (in addition to other things) and how Val has impacted the MC somewhat (although a major part of that depends on the player's decisions about the MC's personality, there is still a foundation that orbits Val, at least i think so). im just curious both what fundamental changes would have happened to the MC had someone else "been their Val", as well as if these other ROs would have even... "been a Val", so to speak? or would they have turned the MC over to someone else (idk, jailers? scientists?? a convent???) only to never see them again-- or, perhaps, meant to do that but then kept seeing the MC anyway due to a "weird" urge to check in or maybe due to coincidence...????

idk, just sounded like a fun thought experiment of a scenario lol

sorry this took me like 2 business months. spoiler-free edition because I have in fact already written the scene where io and Val meet

Klaus: if they'd met when Klaus was acting under an official context, he'd have ignored Io entirely, as focusing on the well being of anyone who isn't the High Priest is extremely not his job. If it was just Klaus out on his own, he'd probably have enlisted the help of one of his personal (non-religious) friends, paying them to keep an eye on this weird stranger until they're recovered. Idk how well this would go as I haven't put a single thought towards what kind of people Klaus' city friends are, but he would only maintain a mild, passing interest. Io would have little to no idea he was ever involved.

Kat: Io would be a lot less naive, for sure. they're not spending any time wondering if they're different because they already know they are. kat's entire mission shifts to figuring Io out and she's totally open with them the entire time. This would be... a very different game lol

Connie: torn between taking Io to Klaus and taking them to their family. the latter wins out since Con knows Klaus doesn't have time for this. Io becomes the weird family friend that lives in the guest room for a few months until they finally move out, a house just down the street. depending on Io's personality, I could even see Connie letting them move in to their own house. This version of Io is the best at passing at a normal citizen, but maybe in the end has the biggest crisis about Not Being Like Other Girls, since they have such a good "normal" to compare themself to

Ira: current-day Ira would be pretty similar to Val- fully taking Io in, supporting them and being a friend they can't live without; though of course, with far less illegal activities lol. I imagine Io would have read every book Ira owns five times over by now. Ira five years ago, however, was in no place to take care of someone else. they would have done their best, but it would not have gone well. I'll stop there bc honestly. spoilers.

[cheekblush]

took myself on a little shopping trip yesterday in the city where i used to study in hopes of lifting my spirits but by the end of the day i felt so disheartened. wandering the same streets 10 years later and not much has changed. i’m still the same lonely unlovable girl.

[cuteniaarts]

Completely outside of my usual drawing niche, but yesterday I was talking to my sister and she showed me an old drawing I made for her in 2021 that I had deleted and completely forgot about. There was a period of time when my sister was absolutely OBSESSED with Wings of Fire, so I drew a humanisation (I can barely draw humans, man, I would actually combust if asked to draw a dragon) of a pre-canon younger version of one of her favourite characters, Peril, who I also have a soft spot for because, you guessed it, I found a way to link her to my main obsession :’) And when I saw that old piece, I just knew I had to redraw it

+ The original, low quality bc I screenshotted my sister filming her tablet screen over video call, under the cut to save myself some embarrassment 😅

[angeltism]

out of the shower , feeling slightly less shit about myself (and way less like saying uncalled for immature mean things) however still dealing with the realization that I am possibly the most replaceable person in the world

[moinsbienquekaworu]

I thought about working a 9-5 for the next 45 years of my life and all of my love for life has evaporated

[katyspersonal]

Anon from last time here - I am being 100% genuine, from a non-westerner to another non-westerner. Americans who believe they own the internet will be the death of me one of those days, thinking that their country's culture should be the universal standard... Well, i understand why you might think it wasn't genuine given your complicated situation right now. I really do hope that things settle down soon and you'll be left to enjoy things in peace, though, because i did enjoy reading your lore posts and the thought you put behind all of the things you say. I also hope you have a good day today! ❤️

Awwwwh, I can't help but to use this image again:

Yeah, it is.... Absurd, how MANY people without basic comprehension of how humans work and having cultish level of purism towards whatever person they decided to dehumanise just happen to be Americans. I want to find a better name for this phenomenon than "SJW wokeness" because this term is ruined by people that throw it at literally anyone who is as much as not strictly conservative, but whatever this mentality is sure it comes from USA.

On the OTHER hand, I am not doing good by generalising, especially as someone who should be well familiar with my entire nation seen as evil because of...... well, SOME things outside of control of the normal ones of us, let's call it that ok? I don't really want to automatically shun Americans who are normal and have second-hand shame for what they're associated with in worldwide internet, like... sure there must be a nicer way to communicate this anger and frustration than attributing it to nation, it is a dangerous path you know? Some people from other countries pick that mentality too, like, what about them then? sighhhh,,,.

_____________________

I side-tracked, but thank you very much nice anon, you are so cool 🥺 My trust issues increased, mostly thanks to A. who faked forgiving and chillness for 40 days and then just could not resist the temptation to participate in cancelling, but it comes down to the 'do I suffer betrayals in search for genuinety or lose both forever'? Even if things never calm down, 1) I am obnoxious canon purist ( /j) and my love for these videogames lays within source material first and fandom second, so I am past the stage of letting bad fandom experience ruin my passion and 2) They're self-isolating from the sane people within crazy witch-hunters like themselves by compiling every single time I was angry (or my friend on my behalf) through years to paint me as a monster that should be cut off from society; the problem with sanitized groups like this is that their bonds are based on hatred for external enemies and fear, they eat their own, so they won't see a happy future anyway. If one of them happens to develop mental problems that are not something tame like social anxiety and defensive self-loathing... I dread to think what happens, really. Their """allies""" will whisper and mock behind their back and plot against them.

Okay, I side-tracked AGAIN, but there are just so many things to cover @_@" No matter how clear I make myself, there is always something else I want to add! But there will be more lore posts, that's sure!

And I hope you have a good day too!

[eraenaa]

Silent Passions

Aemond Targaryen x Tyrell Reader Tag List

Synopsis: You and Aemond had been promised to one another before you were even born. And when the time came for you to meet, all were curious to see what was to come when soon to be spouses only shared one thing in common: your want of silence. 

Warnings: Unwanted sexual advances from Daemon Targaryen, ¿Softer Aemond?, Jealousy, Mature, 18+, P in V Sex, Not Proof Read

Word Count: 8,678 (bear with me pls)

A/N: Based on a request where they wanted "Aemond x Tyrell Reader (which has the personality of Francesca Bridgerton), and when they are about to get married, Daemon tries to seduce her, making Aemond distrust her."

A flower promised to a dragon. Long before you were born, you, a daughter of House Tyrell, had been the intended to be wed to the second son of the King, Prince Aemond Targaryen. Your mother was one of the scarce friends the Queen had made in the court after her estrangement with Princess Rhaenyra. You were born in the walls of the keep, the queen in attendance of your birth, smiling widely as the nurse announced that you were a girl— she was the first person to hold you after your mother and the wet nurse who handed you to her. “Oh, such a beauty she is…” The Queen cooed as she held you in her arms. Your mother smiled through her tiredness at how quickly the queen had taken to you. 

“She would make the most wonderful princess,” The queen sighed and returned you to your mother, turning her head towards the door where your promised groom already stood. Prince Aemond waddled to his mother. The boy was only two years old but was already meeting his intended. The queen took her son into her arms, lifting him up to see his future bride, who whined in her mother’s arms. Aemond furrowed his brows, stuck out his tongue, and made a noise of disapproval when he saw the pink-faced babe. “That’s not quite nice… show respect for your future wife,” The queen smiled and brushed the silvery locks of her son. 

That was the first and last time you and the prince met. Your mother and father returned to Highgarden as their stay in court was cut short with your father needing to return to his seat. For the first six and ten years of your life, you were promised to a man you have never met. Bearing the plight of women before you, promised to a man, not because of your will or your love for him but merely for status and to appease those who stood on high stature. You were defenseless as they paved your life before you, forcing you down a road that was often traveled by but many did not wish to cross. 

“We are to return to Kingslanding.” Your father suddenly announced. The dinner table went silent. The boisterous laughs and jests of your three older brothers and the babbles of your younger twin brother and sister growing hushed. “Why?” You asked quietly, breaking the silence. You pet the fur of your beloved feline, trying to calm your nerves as your mind brought forth a reason. “The queen requested our presence, dearest… it is time to meet your betrothed.” Your mother smiled and took hold of your hand, lightly squeezing it in comfort, thought you felt none. You lowered your gaze and tried to shut out the return of loud voices around the table. 

It was not that it was unexpected… it was just… wholly overwhelming. You took a few moments and a few more bites of your supper before excusing yourself from the loud table, needing peace and quiet. “Are you well, sister?” Your oldest brother, Edward, asked in concern, pausing his conversation with your other brothers, Edgar and Edmund. “Yes, I’m just tired.” You said with a small smile and left the dinner table with your pet. 

The matter of your betrothal with the prince was not at all an old matter. Ever since you were a child, they have instilled in your mind that you were Prince Aemond’s intended. That one day, you will be his bride. It was a subject you found troubling— for how can one live at ease, being promised to a man they had never met before? How could one truly live their life if their purpose is only to be married off— treated practically as a broodmare. 

 You were alone with your thoughts until you heard the faint knock on your door and your brother, Edmund, slowly opening it and peeking his head inside your chambers. “Yes?” You asked and sat straighter, removing your eyes from the fire you stared upon. 

“I am just making certain that you’re well.” He said softly and fully opened your chamber door, stepping in and bringing you a piece of cake for you had missed the dessert portion of your dinner. “Thank you,” You say gratefully, but simply place the piece of your favorite dessert on the table beside you, making your brother quickly grow suspicious. “What’s wrong?” Edmund asked in concern, taking his seat beside you. 

You gave him a forced smile and shook your head. “Nothing, I told you, I’m just tired.” You say softly, but your brother’s frown severed. “You’re clearly lying— no matter how tired you are, you always have energy for cake.” Your brother sighed, making you sigh as well. “I’m… I’m scared,” You admitted. Your brother nodded in understanding, “I would be surprised if you weren’t,” 

You twiddled with the ends of your hair as you and your brother were enveloped in a heavy, suffocating silence. “It’s just— I have been prepared for this since I was a babe… It’s all I know, but at the same time, I know nothing. I have no idea about him. What my life would be like after our marriage.” You say, your voice trembling with fear. “And I have been hearing rumors…” you say cautiously, your eyes upon your pet, who slept soundly on your lap.  “Rumors? You are never one to listen to rumors, "Your brother said in surprise; his sister was always indifferent to whispers and gossip. 

“Last summer, our cousin Eliza had gone to court… and there she observed Prince Aemond for me. To report to me what he was like because I had no idea of my future husband,” You began to recount the favor your cousin had done for you to ease your nerves about the marriage. “And?” Your brother leaned closer in curiosity. “She said he was… cold, aloof. Standoffish— ruthless when training with his sword. Indifferent, bordering into insulting to all members of the court.” You say quietly, uttering the harbored fear of your betrothed for almost a year now. Edmund licked his lips; your cousin Eliza was never one to exaggerate. 

“P—Perhaps it was just that summer… mayhap he has changed with the season,” Your brother tried to give a comforting smile, but it turned wary, neither of you believing his comforting but empty words. “I’m sorry, sister,” Your brother said quietly after a moment, looking at you with empathy. He also wondered how you would fare when married to a dragon prince and being a member of the den of vipers that was the court. 

You had always been timid, quiet, demure. He had always been skeptical of this betrothal set between you and the prince. He recalled how your father wanted to contest it, to break off the betrothal in your adolescence, seeing that his daughter was too soft for the harshness of royalty, but your mother did not wish for it, scared that it would offend her friend, the queen. 

“I don’t expect much from the marriage,” You spoke, “I… I only wish for him to be kind and perhaps grant me my solitude from time to time,” You added, and your brother nodded, “We shall see to it that you have it, sister. If we are to prove that the prince is ungallant or disagreeable, we shall convince Mother and Father to free you from him,” Your brother swore, and you gave him a sad smile, unconvinced by his promise but touched by the gesture of it. 

Edmund left his sister to the quiet she reveled and needed; Edmund marched in search of his other brothers. “She’s scared,” He announced as he found them in the drawing room; Edward, the eldest of them, lifted his gaze, “Who wouldn’t be?” He asked rhetorically as he sipped on his wine. “Are we truly that indebted to the crown? That we must oblige them with our dear sister?” Edgar questioned, “We are not indebted; our mother is,” Edgar replied. Your mother is forever grateful for her friend, the queen, who had shown her kindness during her time in court as a girl. She was greatly looked down upon, her father’s house inconsequential to the realm and often seen as a burden— through her friendship with Queen Alicent, she had risen through the ranks and had even secured a match with the heir of Highgarden. 

“Well, surely our sister is too great a price for this… emotional debt, especially when you consider the others who had wished to be her suitor, princes from Dorne and Essos who had sung her praises and showered her gifts for years. Yet they will force her to settle for a second son. She has not even met him! Not a letter or a token to show goodwill to his betrothed,” Edward sighed at his brother’s query. “What would you have us do?” Edgar asked, “I do not know… but if Prince Aemond is truly as harsh and tempestuous as Eliza and the realm says, we must convince them to break the betrothal.” Edmund was contented as his brothers agreed, all concerned for your marriage with a prince you had not even met yet. 

“Is all these frills truly necessary?” Aemond grumbled as he was being fitted for new garments, suffering through the needed preparations to meet his betrothed. “Yes. We cannot have you wear faded attire that reeks of dragon when you meet your betrothed. And I implore you to be kind and good-humored, Aemond. You must not scare off your wife,” Alicent sighed and nodded as the tailor bowed and finished taking the prince’s measurements. “She is not my wife,” Aemond gritted, “She is not your wife yet,” Alicent corrected, and Aemond shook his head. The dread in him was multiplying by the day. He was fortunate enough that his mother had not forced him to meet his betrothed years before, convincing himself that perhaps she had changed her mind and the betrothal could be broken, but alas, the fateful day to meet you has arrived. 

Aemond had not met you nor heard anything from you. He would think it common courtesy for you to send him at least a letter, to know him before this doomed marriage, but you had sent none— no introduction or anything. He did, however, hear talk about you, the bloomed beauty of the reach. A lady who was already betrothed the moment she was born but was still lined up by men who hoped to be her suitor. Aemond scoffed at the thought, perceiving you as promiscuous and maybe even defiled. Aemond met your cousin last summer, the lady Eliza, loud and not at all chaste. A shameless flirt who went around the castle and made a spectacle of herself, she was not you, but Aemond liked to believe that that is how you acted as well. 

Aemond tried to calm himself, to take his thoughts away from your arrival, but it would seem the castle was a growing reminder of you. He walked passed the great hall that was being dressed up for your family’s arrival. He passed the gardens where gardeners had been tending to flowers that were neglected, fretting that your family would take the wilted flowers as an offense. Aemond shook his head and walked through the guest wing, and saw how your chambers were being prepared. Aemond gritted his jaw and decided to retire early that day, but it would seem even the royal wing of the castle was being dressed up for your arrival. He frowned as he passed a once-boarded-up room being cleaned, “Who is to stay here?” Aemond asked a maid, believing his mother would place you in a chamber that was only a few steps from his own, a rather scandalous decision. 

“The prince Daemon, my prince, the hand says he is to stay for the moon,” A maid bowed, and Aemond furrowed his brow before giving a nod to dismiss the maid, and he walked off to his chambers; it would seem that it was not only your arrival he must worry about, he must worry about the arrival of his uncle as well. 

After five days of travel, you and the whole of your family arrived in Kingslanding. You took deep breaths before exiting the carriage, your kin being welcomed by a row of knights along with the Queen and her children. You could not even bear to look at anyone but the queen, scared to let your gaze travel to your betrothed. Your brothers stood by your side, offering support as all three pairs of their eyes assessed the prince, who had a look of disinterest. Edmund turned to his brothers, trying to see if they as well felt the animosity from the one-eyed prince that was easily felt. Through their eyes, they communicated silently and agreed. 

You straightened your back as you felt the Queen’s gaze upon you; only then did you raise your raise your gaze fully and presented her with a pretend smile. “My queen,” You curtsied lowly in respect; Queen Alicent smiled fondly and offered her compliments. The  queen bemused for her son to have such a comely wife. She turned to her side as she felt Aemond had still not stepped forward or had taken the initiative to introduce himself. 

Aemond sighed as he stepped forward and stiffly, almost reluctantly, bowed before you. He was staring at the skirts of your dress, refusing to look upon your face. He watched as the fabric moved as you curtsied before him. When you straightened your stance, you stared at the floor, still not catching a glimpse of your betrothed. 

You feel your brother Edgar’s arm link with yours as your family is escorted inside the walls of the Red Keep. The royal family walked in front of yours, and only then did you dare to look upon your betrothed. Recalling how your cousin had told you that prince Aemond was the taller of the two princes and had a curtain of straight, silver locks. 

Aemond felt your stare, and it took great restraint upon himself not to turn and gaze upon you to see the actuality of his intended. To deduce if the talk of your beauty was true or just another hoax. 

Aemond felt his mother step closer to him, “Invite your betrothed to the gardens— begin to acquaint yourselves with one another.” The queen whispered, and Aemond rolled his eye. “They have been traveling for five days; let them rest first before you force us to these rituals.” Aemond quietly spoke. His words were easily covered by the chatter of your brothers and two younger siblings, but he still had to hear a word to be uttered from your lips. “Very well then, but I expect you to sit and get to know her later during supper,” Alicent warned, and Aemond resisted verbalizing his disapproval, simply nodding along and going about his mother’s orders just as the dutiful son that he was. 

You and Aemond sat quietly in your seats as the table was filled with chatter. Aemond was not accustomed to it; their usual supper was suffocatingly silent; the only thing to be heard was the clatter of silverware upon porcelain and the breathing of his kin. Now, it was filled with varying conversations from your brothers and his, along with the chatter of the queen and her friend. Aemond had still not looked upon your face and nor you him. He stared upon your hand that was gripping your chalice; just from the looks of it, he could attest that it had never known a day’s work. The look of your flesh was soft, supple, unsullied—a stark difference from his own. 

“Do you think they will go on well?” The queen whispered to her friend; your mother eyed you, who sat in her seat, your gaze upon your plate. Her eyes then turned to your future husband, who gazed at the flickering amber light of a candle in between you. “I do not know… my daughter relishes in silence,” Your mother admitted, and the queen hummed. “So does my son,” 

You chewed on your lip as you noticed everyone at the table was chatting with one another, making small talk, except for you and your intended. You sat by his right, and you could make out the outline of him through the side of your eye; your view of him was a bit obstructed, but you could make out the contour of his nose. You battled with yourself if you should speak with him and, if you did, what topic would you bring up to converse with? 

Aemond licked his lips as he caught the eyes of his mother, imploring him to speak with you. He clenched his jaw and took a few calming breaths before parting his lips to speak. “H… How were your travels, my lady?” Aemond asked through gritted teeth, his head slightly turned in your direction. You blinked, trying to deduce if you had actually heard him speak. You turned to face the prince, finally seeing your betrothed eye to eye. “It was fine, my prince,” You answered quietly with a small smile before you and Aemond were enveloped in silence once more. 

Aemond did not know what overcame him when you spoke, and your eyes met his. He was expecting your voice to be shrill and loud— grating, even. He did not expect to hear such a soft, almost melodious tone when you spoke— a deep contrast from the voices of your kin. 

You bit your lip as you saw your mother from across the table imploring you to keep up with your conversation with the prince. “I— I heard you are quite fond of the histories, your highness,” You inquired quietly, holding your breath as your eyes locked with the unique gaze of old Valyria once more. “I am,” he replied curtly, and you nodded, uncertain if you should speak further or let his answer be, sensing he did not wish for small talk, a sentiment you, too, shared. 

You went quiet once more, and in other circumstances, Aemond would find relief in that, letting himself ease into the quiet, but there was an odd sensation in him that was pushing him to continue the unconventional conversation you two shared. Aemond, however, bit his tongue and let you two be enveloped in silence as you waited for supper to end. 

Aemond returned to his chambers, mind plagued by how to perceive his first encounters with you. He had prepared himself for the possibility of him growing annoyed and aggravated by your presence, but he was surprised in himself as he felt no such emotions rising within him. In truth, he felt somewhat serene that night, a feeling he had not felt in a long time. However, instead of enjoying the calm in his raging being, he ignored it, untrusting of it. Convincing himself that that night was luring him into a trap, one you had devised, acting ever so demure and coy, not presenting your true nature and only deceiving the prince. He will not fall for it. He fortified himself to not lay prey to this calming allure you offered. 

When the next morning came, Aemond was implored with the rest of his siblings to break their fast with yours. Your mothers forcing a bond between their children. Aemond expected his brother Aegon to complain and not abide by their mother’s wishes which is why he was caught off guard as his brother agreed, him being the first one to go to the gardens. “Your Highnesses,” Aemond heard your brothers greet in unison as you four stood and curtsied and bowed before the three of them. 

Aemond first assisted his sister to a chair before finding one for himself, and by fate, the only seat left was the one next to yours. Aemond sat quietly and tried to finish his meal as fast as he could without appearing crude. He listened in to the chatter across the table, surprised that you and his sister struck up a conversation as well. Aemond listened intently to your voice, trying to see if the volume of your speech was forced to lower or if that was just actually the way you spoke, soft— calming. 

He did not pay mind to the subject you and his sister discussed, but he supposed he should have as he suddenly heard quiet laughs emitting from the both of you. Aemond felt an odd warming in his chest as he heard you laugh; it was almost… surreal to hear it. Your laugh was what he imagined nymphs’ laughs would sound like as he read about them in his books. He was in a trance; it was… out worldly that even he, the well-spoken and silver-tongued prince of the realm, was speechless on how to describe it. 

He was proven wholly wrong as he based your manners to be alike your cousin. You were a stark difference from the lady Eliza, and a part of Aemond had hoped you were like her because then, he could justify the prejudice against you that settled and bloomed in his heart. Now, he must come to terms with shedding his cruel perception of you and might actually make an effort to know his betrothed better. Aemond stayed in the gardens that morning a while longer than he had anticipated, trying to deduce your character as you spoke with his sister and interacted with your brothers. A part of him still believes that what you presented was an act, that you were not as demure and chaste as you lead them to believe. But as he saw your small smiles, timid eyes, and flushed cheeks when Aegon would speak of such inappropriate topics, he started to feel as if you were being genuine. 

As the sun began to descend higher into the skies, the children of the queen and her friend decided to depart from the gardens, the heat proving to be too great for comfort. “My lady, would you perhaps like a tour of the keep?” Aemond boldly but quietly asked, he felt the eyes of your brothers turn to him, but he was trying to capture your gaze. A gaze that he had trouble locking upon his, your eyes always darting around the room, difficulty in holding prolonged eye contact. “I would very much like that, my prince,” You smiled, and Aemond stood straighter, feeling his knees give out under him just because of your smile. 

Your brother’s eyes followed you as you and the prince detached yourselves from the group. “Should we not follow them?” Edmund questioned, “Are they allowed to go about without an escort?” Edgar then asked, their queries pointed towards their eldest brother. “I— I do not know… perhaps we should just let them get to know each other, and if sister has any concerns, that is when we shall intervene.” Edward decided, his eyes following your departing figure that was next to a silver prince. 

Aemond was not entirely certain as to how he would go about touring you along the Red Keep; the castle was dreary and had nothing of note to look upon, so he took you to the gallery. It was a less frequented room in the castle filled with portraits of his family’s history as well as some of Westeros. You and Aemond stood before a portrait of the conqueror and his wives, him retelling the histories that you already knew of, but you still listened intently because there was just something in his voice that entranced you. It was deep, velvety, and quiet— holding a sense of calm that enveloped you with every word he uttered. 

Aemond guided you towards another portrait, but he noticed your gaze had shifted to the side of the room, your gentle gaze upon a harp. “Do you play, my prince?” You questioned, unable to resist the instrument that sat lonesome to the side, dusted and neglected. Aemond followed you, “No, I do not,” he answered, his eye going to your fingers, which seemed to itch to touch the strings of the unused harp. “Do you?” He asked, already guessing the answer. Aemond held his breath as your eyes finally locked with his, “I do,” you said, voice holding a pitch of excitement about the subject. There was a beat of silence, neither of you knowing what to do or say. 

“Would you like to play it?” Aemond questioned and he felt his stomach grow warm as a smile appeared on your lips when you nodded. You ventured closer to the dusted seat, but Aemond was quicker to reach it and wipe away the remnants of lapsed time. “Thank you,” You say quietly as the prince stands by your side and observes you play. 

Aemond was never one to enjoy music or songs, but he must admit, there was something captivating about how you played the harp. The tune you played was one he had not heard before, something bright and lively yet still soothing. Aemond stood in quiet awe, watching as your fingers danced along the strings and how your eyes closed, and there was a tranquil smile on your lips as you played the tune. Aemond tried to resist it, but he could not help but help himself as a smile twitched on his lips as he listened to your melody, which, unfortunately, quickly came to a halt. 

“It’s not finished yet,” You say in slight embarrassment, daring to turn to the prince, who you were surprised to see have a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You wrote that?” He questioned, and you nodded, “Well, I try. I don’t think I'm quite good at it, if I am being honest— but my father did say that this piece holds the most promise.” You say sheepishly. “I quite enjoyed it,” Aemond admitted, and that compliment made your heart grow warm. “I’m glad,” You smiled, and another silence took the room, the silence you and he found comfort in. 

With each day spent trying to acquaint with one another, you would like to beleive you and Aemond had reached a deeper understanding. Each of your perceptions made of each other before your meeting shed as you and him began to know each other’s actuality.

There was a secret language between you, a silent one, at that. An agreement that neither of you had to fill up the gaps and lags in your conversations, simply enjoying the quiet, not forcing another topic as a filler. Others around you found it odd that you and your betrothed just walked and sat in silence, occasionally speaking of something that only you and he were privy to, but you and Aemond quite liked your arrangements. 

“They just sit there in silence,” The queen fretted to her friends, finding the design of your accord quite odd. Fretting that the silence was brought by indifference rather than just a mutual and deeper understanding, because how could one get to know the other in silence? “Aye, they do, but they don’t seem… bothered or disinterested by it— I dare say they are fond of it,” Your mother said as the two observed you and Aemond, who walked along the gardens in silence, relishing in the sounds of nature. 

“My uncle shall arrive today,” Aemond broke the silence, assisting you to a seat for the two of you to have refreshments, “Oh, Prince Daemon?” You asked, wanting to make certain of who he spoke of. Aemond gave a nod and watched as your delicate fingers poured him a cup of tea. “Are you close with him, my prince?” You wondered. “No, not at all. I’ve only met him once,” He answered as he placed two cubes of sugar upon your cup, noting that is how you took your tea. 

“However, I must admit that I am intrigued by him.” You nodded, “I always hear talk in this court as to how the lords and ladies compared me to him in his youth,” Aemond confessed, “And does that please you?” Aemond thought about your question for a moment, staring into your gaze that has grown accustomed to looking upon his. “No,” he answered, watching as you nodded. “I would understand; it wouldn’t fare well if we are always compared to another’s likeness,” You mused before you and the prince were enveloped in the inevitable silence once more. 

When supper was nearing, Aemond felt excitement in seeing you once more. He had come far from the prince who dreaded your company; now, he sought it—altering his usual routine in order to spend more time with you. 

Aemond was the last one to enter the dining hall, his eye searching your frame, feeling a smirk twitch on his lips, but it quickly disappeared as he realized his uncle had taken his place. “Prince Daemon, we have saved you a seat next to the king,” Alicent spoke as she noticed Aemond’s arrival, noting how Prince Daemon was quick to spot you when he entered the hall and made a beeline towards you— chatting with you who had no interest in small talk but still participated out of respect.

“I am quite comfortable here, next to Lady Tyrell,” Daemon refused the seat, only settling further into his chair as he turned to the girl next to him, but her gaze was turned to one of his nephews, the one who had a resemblance of him in his youth. You hear the quiet yet disapproving hum of your betrothed as he orders a squire to place a chair by your right, just enough space for him to sit next to you. The new place on your right offered closer proximity between you and Aemond as you had scooted away from his uncle, but he did not like that you were on the side of a damaged eye, unable to see your outline. 

Supper was tenser than the ones shared before; the chatter had died, and the table was enveloped in silence, but not the kind you and Aemond found comfort in. It was the silence that everyone feared and tried earnestly to alter, but no matter the attempts, it seemed futile. 

Aemond clenched his fists around his utensils, hearing as his uncle tried to chat you up and you entertaining his queries. “So, what brings you and your family here, Lady Tyrell? Highgarden is quite a journey.” Daemon questioned. “They came for my betrothed and I to be acquainted,” Aemond suddenly interjected, turning his body to face you and his uncle, who he had noticed threaded closer to your side. Daemon hummed, quick to sense jealousy from his nephew. He knew he should be somewhat mature, but his mind could not help but conjure up possibilities to torment his brother’s second son. “Hm, you are quite fortunate to have such a lovely betrothed; it would seem the crown has favored you… I remember my first wife, Lady Royce, the bronze bitch whose sheep seemed to prove more comely than her,”

Your eyes widened at the elder prince’s words, disparaging his first wife so openly and offensively. “If my brother had provided me with a bride whose beauty was comparable to Lady Tyrell’s, perhaps there would be no need for me to leave my first wife… you are lucky, nephew,” Aemond clenched his jaw as he noticed Daemon’s eyes trail downward to your bosom that heaved ever so lightly as you were rendered uncomfortable by their topic.

You turned to your brothers, a plea in your eyes to save you from the princes you sat in between. Edward was quick to stand, “Come, sister, I shall escort you to your chambers,” He announced, and you let out a breath, Aemond standing as well to make way for you to exit, “Good night, my lady,” He bowed and boldly took your hand placed a kiss on your knuckles. A blush over, taking your cheeks as you curtsied before him, your mothers thrilled as they saw affection blooming between the two of you. 

“You looked quite uncomfortable,” Your eldest brother noted. “Is your betrothed proving to be ungallant? Must we intervene now and convince mo—“ You quickly shook our head, “No! Prince Aemond has been quite… lovely; cousin Eliza was somewhat wrong in her judgment,” You say quickly in defense of Aemond, who you had grown to deeply like the past few days. “I was just not prepared to meet a character such as the Prince Daemon,” You added, and your brother nodded in understanding; he, too, was scandalized as he heard the words uttered by the elderly prince. 

“So, you have grown to be quite… fond of your betrothed,” You bit your lip as you hear a teasing tone in his voice. You sighed and felt a smile coming to your lips. Whatever fear you had for the marriage subsided with every silent and serene moment with Aemond. “I have.” You confirmed, and your brother nodded. Placing a kiss on your temple before you enter your chambers and get ready for the night.

It has been three days since Prince Daemon’s arrival, and Aemond has been growing peeved at how his uncle would always trail you. Aemond’s new routine of spending the quiet hours of his days with you that was quick to feel like second nature, abrupted by the arrival of his uncle. There were now only scarce moments where you and Aemond were left in each other’s company and quiet, his uncle always trying to speak with you, and you could not deny him conversation, for it would be impertinent. 

It was past high noon when Aemond concluded his training with Ser Criston, his feet hastily carrying him away from the tiltyard to find you, who had frequented the gallery to play the old harp that found new life from your touch. He stood by the threshold and was quick to grow annoyed as he noticed his uncle was in your presence once more. 

“You do not speak much, do you?” He heard Daemon question, your fingers ceasing to play the instrument. “I take it upon myself to not speak unless spoken to, my prince. I do not wish to bother anyone. I know how… annoying it can be when one just simply wishes for peace and quiet, but there is an insistent noise you must attend to.” You say, and Aemond was quite surprised as he heard a slight in your comment, but his uncle did not seem to catch it. 

Aemond observed as you returned to play the harp, the melody easing whatever tension he harbored, but it was quick to return as his uncle wandered closer to you. Aemond stood rigid by the door; your back was face to him and he saw his uncle turn his head towards the door, a smirk on his lips as he stepped further into your space. Daring to take a lock of your hair in his fingers, twirling the lock. 

You tensed in your seat as you felt Prince Daemon’s finger twirl your hair. You looked at the strings of the harp wide-eyed, uncertain of what to do. 

When Aemond noticed your unmoving frame that did nothing to hinder his uncle’s actions, he removed himself from the door frame and marched back to his chambers. Whatever understanding made between the two of the past days was quickly forgotten as his cruel perceptions of your nature, he mustered before meeting you returned. 

You sat tensely at dinner that night once more, waiting for the presence of your betrothed to somewhat comfort as his uncle sat next to you again. When Aemond entered the hall, you placed your hopeful gaze upon him, but he did not turn to you, ignoring the empty seat next to you and instead to a seat in what was supposed to be the place of his uncle. 

Throughout dinner, you would peek a look at Aemond, who refused to meet your gaze. There was a prominent scowl on his face, and his demeanor held an air of indifference that strayed dangerously close to animosity. You started to wonder if the Aemond you stared upon right now was the Prince your cousin had warned you about. And perhaps the past few days spent with him was an act, a fictitiousness in him to appease his mother so the marriage would proceed. You were disheartened by the thought. 

When the following morning came, Aemond’s eye followed as you roamed the halls alone, following behind you but not close enough for you to notice your presence. You led him back to the gallery, where both of you were caught in surprise when his uncle stood in the room, waiting for you. Aemond clenched his fists, believing he was a witness in your clandestine meetings. The scandal of it! Here you are, an engaged woman meeting with a man who was old enough to be your father and was married to the King’s chosen heir!

“My prince,” you curtsied as you spotted him near the harp, having the urge to turn back around and exit the room. Uncomfortable to be alone in the Rogue Prince’s presence. “All alone? Where is your betrothed?” Daemon mused, stepping closer to you. “I— I do not know,” You said and backed away from the prince who was threading closer to your space once more. “Hm, it’s quite foolish of him to leave his lovely bride to be all alone… especially in this keep where danger always lurks,” Your lips parted at his words. Was that a threat? You thought. 

You swallowed thickly and turned to the door, wanting to make an escape but not one so obvious that it would make suspicion rise. Daemon smirked as he saw fear in your eyes; it was so easy. You were such an innocent and sheltered thing. He could smell you from leagues away, a lovely and tempting prey that a dragon could never resist. It was a shame that you were betrothed to his nephew, but perhaps that could still change. 

You gasped as you felt Prince Daemon flush your bodies; you stared at him wide-eyed as he took hold of your cheek. 

Aemond watched the scene; rage within burned bright and carelessly. He wanted to put a stop to whatever he witnessed, but he stood in wait, wanting to find evidence if this was truly how you were— promiscuous and would settle to be a whore of his uncle.

“My prince, wh—“ You panicked, trying to back away, but he held you still. “Such a pretty young thing you are… a shame that you’ll be wasted on my disfigured nephew,” You drew out all of your might and pushed away Prince Daemon, him stumbling only a few paces. You see a sinister smirk rise to his lips as he tries to close the gap between you once more, but you are quick to strike his cheek, rendering him in shock, and you take that opportunity to run out of the room and into safety. 

Aemond was hidden behind a pillar, and as you passed, he saw clearly the distress on your face and how you were on the verge of tears, rendering him guilty for not coming to your aid as he had thought you were in want of his uncle. 

Aemond saw as Daemon furiously marched out of the gallery in pursuit of you, but he was quick to step away from his hiding and face his uncle. “You dare try to sully her? Was my half-sister and your whores not enough? Must, in your old age, still prey on young innocent girls?” Aemond spat, ready to challenge his uncle in your honor. Daemon chuckled as the young prince stared at him wide-eyed. “You get ahead of yourself— they might compare you to me in my youth, but you are completely lacking of what it means to be a true Targaryen prince… you’d have to thank your cunt of a mother for that.” Daemon chuckled, and Aemond no longer hesitated to draw out his sword. 

A battle between nephew and uncle commenced in the halls; both men wielded their weapons with such authority that neither one could draw blood. Daemon was somewhat impressed by his nephew. He thought the talk he heard of Aemond was just propaganda spread by his grandsire, but it would seem that his nephew knew his way with the steel. That, however, did not deter the prince, for Aemond was still completely inexperienced when compared to him. 

One of the princes was near drawing blood when a band of Kingsguards appeared in the halls and were quick to separate the dueling princes. Daemon laughed as he was held back by the knights, his nephew still seething across from him, still ready to attack. The elderly prince brushed off the hold on his arms and laughed once more before walking away from his nephew, leaving their state as it was. 

Aemond brushed off the guards and hastily marched in search of you, wanting to make certain you were well— wanting to offer his apologies for his judgments and lack of protection over you. 

He knocked on your door, waiting on bated breath as he heard you shuffling inside. When you slowly revealed yourself, Aemond felt his stomach pit at the sight of your teary eyes that you tried to hide. “I’m sorry,” He was quick to breathe out, unable to stomach you in such a state of distress. Your brows knit together at his words, “What? My pri—“ Aemond shook his head and forced himself into your chambers. 

“I’m so sorry, my lady… I—“ Aemond repeated but you still had no clue as to what he refers to. “My uncle, he is a depraved man; I should have protected you from him.” He explained as he saw confusion in your face. Your eyes widened at his statement, “You saw us?” You asked in fear that he would think you were tarnished. “I have, and I… I should have come to your aid, but instead, my mind cruelly thought you were in want of him; I apologize, my lady.” It felt foreign for Aemond to apologize, but it seemed to roll off his tongue effortlessly for you. He would never have fathom to encounter someone or the day that he would apologize earnestly, ready to beg for forgiveness. 

“No… my prince, you need not apologize; it was not your doing,” you said, but Prince Aemond stubbornly shook his head. “It is my duty to protect you— to defend my lady wife.” You bit your tongue as he referred to you with such a title. It felt surreal… and you must admit it brought a stir in you that you quite liked. 

You and Aemond were in silence once more, the silence both of you had gotten used to, the silence within each other that you both craved. The serene silence that could only be provided by each other. “Will you still… still have me? Even after my transgression?” Aemond dared ask, not wanting to live in the hope that there would still be a way that you would be his. Surely, you would be deterred to take him as your husband, for he could not even defend you with such a threat. Aemond studied your face, his knees growing weak as a smile spread across your lips. “I still want you, my prince,” You admitted, heat blooming in your cheeks as you said the words. Aemond could not help but cup your cheek, wanting to feel the warmth of them as they flushed with color before him. 

“I must admit… I was dreading to meet you,” He said quietly, and he felt you nod. “I, as well… I was greatly warned that we might not see eye to eye.” You admitted. Aemond hummed and brushed his thumb across your soft skin, your bodies threading closer and closer. “I do not believe I would ever want someone as much as I want you,” Aemond confessed, his voice so low that if you had not felt his breath fanning your skin, you would think you had imagined his words. “I never thought anyone would understand me in the way that you do, my prince,” You breathed out as his face threaded closer to yours, his eye on your lips as you spoke. 

“You’re mine… say it, my darling.” Your eyes fluttered closed at his words. “I’m all yours,” Quickly after you uttered the words, you feel his lips upon yours. A kiss filled with longing— impatience. A kiss that was long overdue, for how could either of you live for years without knowing each other? How could Aemond try to ignore your existence, and how could you try to deny this marriage? It was set the day you were born. You two were simply destined for one another. 

As your lips parted, you smiled before your soon-to-be-husband. Aemond hummed in contentment and tucked a lock of your hair behind your ear, inhaling your intoxicating scent deeply. “Shall we tell our mothers that they shall prepare for our wedding, then?” Aemond smiled, and you let out a quiet laugh as you nodded, letting him hold you. “And urge them to make haste,” Aemond’s eye twinkled with amusement as he dipped down to capture your lips once more. 

A fortnight had barely passed before you and Aemond uttered your vows before the gods—an intimate wedding commenced, as you both requested. And it was followed by a family dinner after. Aemond was impatient, as were you, but you and he waited for the meal to end; for the past days, there was a need greatly bubbling inside him, having trouble finding restrtaint and contentment with just stolen kisses and touches. 

When it was finally night, Aemond led you to his chambers, you already flushing in anticipation of what was to come. When he led you to your shared chambers, you were met by something covered in a white cloth. You frowned and turned to your husband, who simply smiled and closed the door behind you. “It’s a gift for you.” He said and stood before it. You stepped closer as he urged you to uncover what he had given, though you already had a sneaking feeling as to what it was. 

Aemond watched with his heart in his eye as you beamed before him as you uncovered what he had given— a harp. Newer and grander than the one in the gallery, the body was plated with gold, and delicate carvings of flowers scattered its body. You bit your lip and step towards your husband, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your lips agaisnt his. “Thank you… I love it,” you said gratefully as your lips parted. Aemond simply hummed, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know we were to exchange gifts… I could’ve gotten something,” You then say, fretting he would take offense. 

Aemond shook his head. “You already have given me your hand; you are my wife. What more could I want?” Those words uttered, and the certainty in Aemond only made you melt further. He intertwined your lips once more, but the kiss shared held something wholly different from the ones shared before; it was urgent, filled with longing and desires that were greatly suppressed. 

You feel breathless, but at the same time, you make no move to part your lips. You feel him lead you to the feathered bed, his hands on your waist as he sits you gently upon the cushion. You blushed as you felt his fingers hover at the bodice of your dress, itching to undo the laces, but there was trepidation in him. You bit the insides of your cheeks and took the initiative to do it yourself. Aemond sucked in a deep breath as your dress fell before him, revealing yourself only dressed in your shift. 

Aemond fell on his knees before you, moving his hand to cup your cheek and the other to undress you further. He heard a moan escape your lips as he nipped your bottom lip. His cold hand cupped your breast that pebbled before his touch. You mewled his name as he parted your lips, your hands finding the buttons of his leather tunic. 

You ran your hands through his smooth, chiseled chest and Aemond felt chills running down his spine at the feel of your hands on his skin. You let out a breath as you feel your husband lay you down, his weight atop you, his weeping length aligned with your glistening entrance. You sighed as you felt his finger tease your folds, Aemond resting his forehead up your shoulder as he felt your arousal. “You’re all mine, my darling,” Aemond breathed out against your lips and swallowed your whines as his length penetrated you.

Aemond groaned at the sheer feel of you clenching around him. Pleasure and guilt swirled within him as he saw your face contorted in pain, kissing away your tears as you acclimatized yourself with his length. He truly thought himself indifferent in the ways of pleasure, only succumbing to it occasionally when even he could not suffice his lust— but now, he was certain he knew what the fuss was all about when it came to fucking. He had only a taste of you, but he was certain he was addicted. It took a moment before your whines of pain turned into whimpers of pleasure, your husband breathing heavily as you urged him to speed up his pace, but Aemond was conscious not to break and hurt you further. 

“Aemond, please… I wa— need more,” You breathed as Aemond’s thrusts were cautious. He bit his lip and sped up his pace ever so lightly, but that was not enough for you. With your legs circling his waist, you shifted your weight and placed yourself atop your husband. Aemond was rendered stunned by your actions, only watching in awe as you bounced upon his cock whilst you straddled his waist. He never thought you’d have it in you, but he supposed it was always the quiet ones who would be capable of the unexpected. 

“You were so quiet the days before, little wife… but look at you now— your moans could be heard throughout the castle.” Aemond hummed, and his hands found home on your waist, assisting you as you writhed against his length. Your hands were planted on his chest as your hips worked against his in search of friction. “Husband, please,” you pleaded, knowing you would not come to what you searched for without his assistance. Aemond smirked and moved his hands to cup your behind and lifted his hips to thrust deeper and harsher into you. 

“Yes… yes, gods, Aemond!” You cried as you heard him groan at how you scratched his chest, leaving imprints of your hands upon his skin. “Are you to come, my darling? Is my little wife to come at my cock?” He hissed as he felt his own release coming. His hands traveled your frame, cupping your tits and moving his head to take one into the cavern of his mouth. You nodded, your head that was tilted to the heavens, your back arched, and your husband’s name slipping your lips as you came undone. You hear him call out your name as he spills his seed deep in your cunt, your heavy breathings mixed as you collapse atop him, his lips finding yours once more. 

“You truly are made for me,” he whispered against your lips. Feeling a surge of new and overwhelming emotions that you could not yet utter, all you could do was kiss his lips once more and bask in the presence of the man who had been bound to you the moment you were born. 

[autistichalsin]

In retrospect, four years later, I feel like the Isabel Fall incident was just the biggest ignored cautionary tale modern fandom spaces have ever had. Yes, it wasn't limited to fandom, it was also a professional author/booktok type argument, but it had a lot of crossover.

Stop me if you've heard this one before: a writer, whether fan or pro, publishes a work. If one were to judge a book by its cover, something we are all taught in Kindergarten shouldn't happen but has a way of occurring regardless, one might find that there was something that seemed deeply problematic about this work. Maybe the title or summary alluded to something Wrong happening, or maybe the tags indicated there was problematic kinks or relationships. And that meant the story was Bad. So, a group of people takes to the Twittersphere to inform everyone who will listen why the work, and therefore the author, are Bad. The author, receiving an avalanche of abuse and harassment, deactivates their account, and checks into a mental health facility for monitoring for suicidal ideation. They never return to their writing space, and the harassers get a slap on the wrist (if that- usually they get praise and high-fives all around) and start waiting for their next victim to transgress.

Sounds awful familiar, doesn't it?

Isabel Fall's case, though, was even more extreme for many reasons. See, she made the terrible mistake of using a transphobic meme as the genesis to actually explore issues of gender identity.

More specifically, she used the phrase "I sexually identify as an attack helicopter" to examine how marginalized identities, when they become more accepted, become nothing more than a tool for the military-industrial complex to rebrand itself as a more personable and inclusive atrocity; a chance to pursue praise for bombing brown children while being progressive, because queer people, too, can help blow up brown children now! It also contained an examination of identity and how queerness is intrinsic to a person, etc.

But... well, if harassers ever bothered to read the things they critique, we wouldn't be here, would we? So instead, they called Isabel a transphobic monster for the title alone, even starting a misinformation campaign to claim she was, in fact, a cis male nazi using a fake identity to psyop the queer community.

A few days later, after days of horrific abuse and harassment, Isabel requested that Clarkesworld magazine pull the story. She checked in to a psych ward with suicidal thoughts. That wasn't all, though; the harassment was so bad that she was forced to out herself as trans to defend against the claims.

Only... we know this type of person, the fandom harassers, don't we? You know where this is going. Outing herself did nothing to stop the harassment. No one was willing to read the book, much less examine how her sexuality and gender might have influenced her when writing it.

So some time later, Isabel deleted her social media. She is still alive, but "Isabel Fall" is not- because the harassment was so bad that Isabel detransitioned/closeted herself, too traumatized to continue living her authentic life.

Supposed trans allies were so outraged at a fictional portrayal of transness, written by a trans woman, that they harassed a real life trans woman into detransitioning.

It's heartbreakingly familiar, isn't it? Many of us in fandom communities have been in Isabel's shoes, even if the outcome wasn't so extreme (or in some cases, when it truly was). Most especially, many of us, as marginalized writers speaking from our own experiences in some way, have found that others did not enjoy our framework for examining these things, and hurt us, members of those identities, in defense of "the community" as a nebulous undefined entity.

There's a quote that was posted in a news writeup about the whole saga that was published a year after the fact. The quote is:

The delineation between paranoid and reparative readings originated in 1995, with influential critic Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick. A paranoid reading focuses on what’s wrong or problematic about a work of art. A reparative reading seeks out what might be nourishing or healing in a work of art, even if the work is flawed. Importantly, a reparative reading also tends to consider what might be nourishing or healing in a work of art for someone who isn’t the reader. This kind of nuance gets completely worn away on Twitter, home of paranoid readings. “[You might tweet], ‘Well, they didn’t discuss X, Y, or Z, so that’s bad!’ Or, ‘They didn’t’ — in this case — ‘discuss transness in a way that felt like what I feel about transness, therefore it is bad.’ That flattens everything into this very individual, very hostile way of reading,” Mandelo says. “Part of reparative reading is trying to think about how a story cannot do everything. Nothing can do everything. If you’re reading every text, fiction, or criticism looking for it to tick a bunch of boxes — like if it represents X, Y, and Z appropriately to my definitions of appropriate, and if it’s missing any of those things, it’s not good — you’re not really seeing the close focus that it has on something else.”

A paranoid reading describes perfectly what fandom culture has become in the modern times. It is why "proship", once simply a word for common sense "don't engage with what you don't like, and don't harass people who create it either" philosophies, has become the boogeyman of fandom, a bad and dangerous word. The days of reparative readings, where you would look for things you enjoyed, are all but dead. Fiction is rarely a chance to feel joy; it's an excuse to get angry, to vitriolically attack those different from oneself while surrounded with those who are the same as oneself. It's an excuse to form in-groups and out-groups that must necessarily be in a constant state of conflict, lest it come across like This side is accepting That side's faults. In other words, fandom has become the exact sort of space as the nonfandom spaces it used to seek to define itself against.

It's not about joy. It's not about resonance with plot or characters. It's about hate. It's about finding fault. If they can't find any in the story, they will, rest assured, create it by instigating fan wars- dividing fandom into factions and mercilessly attacking the other.

And that's if they even went so far as to read the work they're critiquing. The ones they don't bother to read, as you saw above, fare even worse. If an AO3 writer tagged an abuser/victim ship, it's bad, it's fetishism, even if the story is about how the victim escapes. If a trans writer uses the title "I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter" to find a framework to dissect rainbow-washing the military-industrial complex, it's unforgivable. It's a cesspool of kneejerk reactions, moralizing discomfort, treating good/evil as dichotomous categories that can never be escaped, and using that complex as an excuse to heap harassment on people who "deserve it." Because once you are Bad, there is no action against you that is too Bad for you to deserve.

Isabel Fall's story follows this so step-by-step that it's like a textbook case study on modern fandom behavior.

Isabel Fall wrote a short story with an inflammatory title, with a genesis in transphobic mockery, in the hopes of turning it into a genuine treatise on the intersection of gender and sexuality and the military-industrial complex. But because audiences are unprepared for the idea of inflammatory rhetoric as a tool to force discomfort to then force deeper introspection... they zeroed in on the discomfort. "I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter"- the title phrase, not the work- made them uncomfortable. We no longer teach people how to handle discomfort; we live in a world of euphemism and glossing over, a world where people can't even type out the words "kill" and rape", instead substituting "unalive" and "grape." We don't deal with uncomfortable feelings anymore; we censor them, we transform them, we sanitize them. When you are unable to process discomfort, when you are never given self-soothing tools, your only possible conclusion is that anything Uncomfortable must be Bad, and the creator must either be censored too, or attacked into conformity so that you never again experience the horrors of being Uncomfortable.

So the masses took to Twitter, outraged. They were Uncomfortable, and that de facto meant that they had been Wronged. Because the content was related to trans identity issues, that became the accusation; it was transphobic, inherently. It couldn't be a critique of bigger and more fluid systems than gender identity alone; it was a slight against trans people. And no amount of explanations would change their minds now, because they had already been aggrieved and made to feel Uncomfortable.

Isabel Fall was now a Bad Person, and we all know what fandom spaces do to Bad People. Bad People, because they are Bad, will always be deserving of suicide bait and namecalling and threatening. Once a person is Bad, there is no way to ever become Good again. Not by refuting the accusations (because the accusations are now self-evident facts; "there is a callout thread against them" is its own tautological proof that wrongdoing has happened regardless of the veracity of the claims in the callout) and not by apologizing and changing, because if you apologize and admit you did the Bad thing, you are still Bad, and no matter what you do in future, you were once Bad and that needs to be brought up every time you are mentioned. If you are bad, you can NEVER be more than what you were at your worst (in their definition) moment. Your are now ontologically evil, and there is no action taken against you that can be immoral.

So Isabel was doomed, naturally. It didn't matter that she outed herself to explain that she personally had lived the experience of a trans woman and could speak with authority on the atrocity of rainbow-washing the military industrial complex as a proaganda tool to capture progressives. None of it mattered. She had written a work with an Uncomfortable phrase for a title, the readers were Uncomfortable, and someone had to pay for it.

And that's the key; pay for it. Punishment. Revenge. It's never about correcting behavior. Restorative justice is not in this group's vocabulary. You will, incidentally, never find one of these folks have a stance against the death penalty; if you did Bad as a verb, you are Bad as an intrinsic, inescapable adjective, and what can you do to incorrigible people but kill them to save the Normal people? This is the same principle, on a smaller scale, that underscores their fandom activities; if a Bad fan writes Bad fiction, they are a Bad person, and their fandom persona needs to die to save Normal fans the pain of feeling Uncomfortable.

And that's what happened to Isabel Fall. The person who wrote the short story is very much alive, but the pseudonym of Isabel Fall, the identity, the lived experiences coming together in concert with imagination to form a speculative work to critique deeply problematic sociopolitical structures? That is dead. Isabel Fall will never write again, even if by some miracle the person who once used the name does. Even if she ever decides to restart her transition, she will be permanently scarred by this experience, and will never again be able to share her experience with us as a way to grow our own empathy and challenge our understanding of the world. In spirit, but not body, fandom spaces murdered Isabel Fall.

And that's... fandom, anymore. That's just what is done, routinely and without question, to Bad people. Good people are Good, so they don't make mistakes, and they never go too far when dealing with Bad people. And Bad people, well, they should have thought before they did something Bad which made them Bad people.

Isabel Fall's harassment happened in early 2020, before quarantine started, but it was in so many ways a final chance for fandom to hit the breaks. A chance for fandom to think collectively about what it wanted to be, who it wanted to be for and how it wanted to do it. And fandom looked at this and said, "more, please." It continues to harass marginalized people, especially fans of color and queen fans, into suffering mental breakdowns. With gusto.

Any ideas of reparative reading is dead. Fandom runs solely on paranoid readings. And so too is restorative justice gone for fandom transgressions, real or imagined. It is now solely about punitive, vigilante justice. It's a concerted campaign to make sure oddballs conform or die (in spirit, but sometimes even physically given how often mentally ill individuals are pushed into committing suicide).

It's a deeply toxic environment and I'm sad to say that Isabel Fall's story was, in retrospect, a sort of event horizon for the fandom. The gravitational pull of these harassment campaigns is entirely too strong now and there is no escaping it. I'm sorry, I hate to say something so bleak, but thinking the last few days about the state of fandom (not just my current one but also others I watch from the outside), I just don't think we can ever go back to peaceful "for joy" engagement, not when so many people are determined to use it as an outlet for lateral aggression against other people.

[suguann]

tags. fem!reader, boss/employee relationship, stupidly domestic, little wife kink in there somewhere, nanny reader, single dad gojo, breeding kink [18+ only]

You sometimes find yourself wistfully imagining having a family of your own—a soft and sweet little bundle to cuddle and someone strong and capable (competent) at your side. But you can’t think of the last time you’ve been on a date where that person had the same interest in something more serious than casually sleeping around. 

Nannying seemed like the natural conclusion, especially when you’re still settling in a new city and barely scraping by for rent and student loans for a degree you don’t use. 

You pick up a few jobs just to get a feel for it: parents going away for a honeymoon, a last-minute call-in, a weekend business trip. Then a friend of a friend says she makes enough to afford one of those picturesque apartments that overlook tall high-rises and iridescent lights, the very ones you’ve dog-eared in real-estate magazines.

All it takes are a few phone calls and an interview until you’re packing up your apartment and taking the freeway outside of the city to somewhere remote and expensive, your car looking almost out of place parked beside the shiny new one in the long driveway.

You rap on the front door before you lose your nerve, and a few moments later, it opens, and you’re unsure who looks more out of place: this man with a smile too big, dressed for work, immaculate suit dampened by the baby rag slung over his shoulder and what looks like drool on his crisp collar, or you in your scuffed shoes and second-hand store clothes, standing in front of the nicest house you’ve ever seen.

“The nanny?”

“Yes,” you mutter, licking your lips. “That’s me.”

“Good, Ren just woke up from his nap,” he says, opening the door a little wider with a creak. The darkness behind him is almost comforting.

You take a deep breath and pass over the threshold into his home.

The entire time, his hand stays on the small of your back to steer you toward the nursery, and a shiver threatens up the length of your spine.

Three months. That’s how long it takes before your employer poses a problem.

It’s not that he’s a terrible boss; in fact, he’s quite the opposite. He lets you take over one of the many spare rooms in his massive house, pays you double the regular rate, and gives you time off when you ask for it.

It also helps that Ren is cute, only a year old, and still so sweet and tiny. 

Perfect.

The problem lies in that you know what he sounds like first thing in the morning, that he knows how you like your coffee, that he helps you fold laundry in the living room while the baby naps, how you catch him staring anytime you hold his son—his expression shuttered, a foreign thing that you can’t read. It’s all so terribly domestic. 

Terrible in that you think it’s a horrible idea to develop a crush on your boss, that you can’t help but get flustered anytime he so much as looks your way, even if it’s fleeting. How a sleepy smile before he retires to his room for the night can turn your thoughts into a scattered, ill-defined mess of what they used to be until all that’s left are words like spun sugar melting on your tongue.

But also, it’s not normal, at least not from your experience. 

You were lucky in the past if your employer even wanted to know about their kid’s day. Barely saying hello once they walk through the front door before sending money to your bank account.

Satoru—because that’s what he asked you to call him one afternoon while you were in the middle of feeding Ren mashed banana, a lazy smile curling the edges of his lips after you say it for the first time—wants to know everything: what Ren ate, if he laughed, how your day was, if you finally got your hands on that book you’ve been meaning to buy. 

“You don’t have to ask about my day,” you tell him shyly, accepting the glass of wine he proffers you after spending the past hour trying to put a teething baby to bed. “To make me feel better, that is.”

“Would it be so bad if I said I want to? You live here, too.”

You try to separate the two: that he cares as your employer and not for any other reason, and how you sometimes catch the soft look in his eye whenever he looks at you could make you believe otherwise.

Cool fingers cup your chin gently, thumb caressing the top of your cheek, now close enough that you catch a few of the warm notes of his cologne, a move that’s probably very inappropriate between a boss and an employee.

“I never say anything I don’t mean.”

You swallow, nodding, slightly shaky, breath caught in your chest. “Okay.”

“Good girl.” He retreats to his office before witnessing how those two words knock the wind out of you.

He starts saying things like our shopping list, our car—because he gave you the keys to the SUV parked beside his car and hasn’t touched it since; for you and the baby, he said, plus it’s terrible on gas when I drive it to work—our house, our baby. You don’t think he means to do it; it's more of an easy slip in conversation.

But then, one morning, he’s rushing around the kitchen, hair still damp and smelling like his shampoo, as he grabs his coffee and briefcase from the counter, kissing Ren’s forehead first…and then yours.

You’re half convinced that you imagined it—that his lips hadn’t stayed there for a second longer than necessary—until he straightens his tie and heads out for the day with a ‘be good’ tossed over his shoulder, and you’re left wondering if he meant to say that to you or Ren.

It sets off a chain reaction of thoughts whirling away in your head, leaves you wanting and wondering—only ever allowing yourself to fantasize a little when the house is quiet and dark, the baby monitor humming on your nightstand, and images of your boss flit behind closed eyelids as you fit your hand underneath your soft sleep shorts.

In the morning, you worry he can tell what you did, his smile almost too sharp, too something—more teasing than what you’re used to—his hand resting on your lower back as he leans down to kiss Ren’s chubby cheek while you make breakfast.

“I have a meeting this afternoon, so I’ll be late. Want me to pick up some food on the way home?”

No, you think, there’s no way he knows.

You spend most of the morning cleaning and folding the array of graphic onesies Satoru has a penchant for dressing Ren in, and the later half walking around the pool because it’s warm and Ren enjoys splashing around in the water. It’s enough to tucker him out for bed early, unable to keep his eyes open while eating a plate of mashed potatoes.

It’s also the first time in weeks that you have the night to yourself, no baby keeping you busy, no Satoru to—well.

After a long shower, you step out of the bathroom, moving into the hallway. And there are many reasons why you felt confident walking the few steps it took to reach your bedroom. Most revolve around what Satoru told you that morning, so you don’t expect him to be standing there, shirtsleeves rolled up, piercing gaze sliding down the length of you wrapped in a towel and little else.

“I brought home those drunken noodles you like,” he says when his eyes focus back on your face, his whole expression softening into a smile.

A beat. “Thank you,” you whisper, unable to look away.

He tucks the wet strands of hair clinging to your cheek behind your ear. “Why don’t you get dressed, and I’ll join you downstairs?”

The noise in your brain goes static.

You’re unsure what causes it, but everything changes when he comes home early one afternoon and finds you and the baby napping in the nursery. He has this soft look on his face and something else you can’t decipher with his piercing blue eyes settled firmly on you.

Ren coos softly into your shoulder. 

When Satoru picks him up and settles him in the crib, then walks you to your room—here, let me help you—and when he hovers in your doorway, you let him in without question.

He doesn’t waste any time peeling off your clothes, eager to have you naked and splayed out underneath him. You cum on his tongue more times than you can count until you’re silently begging him to fuck you.

He laughs, large hands spread over your tummy. 

“Use your words, baby. I’m not a mind reader.”

You feel like you’re someone else watching you from somewhere else, another body rocking against the length of your boss’s cock, back arching every time you manage to find the friction you need. He’s hard against your back, thick in a way that makes you wonder if he did enough to stretch you out. 

“I-I want—”

All other thoughts are obliterated by the stretch and press of him against your cunt. 

“Think I’m going to keep you,” he rasps, lips dragging over your throat. “Keep this drippy little cunt spread open on my desk whenever I want while the baby naps. Would you like that? For me to fuck you full until you give me a baby.”

You clench, nerves shot.

“Gonna get all round with my baby, stay here forever,” he mumbles when he draws away, and you can’t tell if the words are meant for you to hear or slip out without him realizing. “Fuck—breed my little wife until it takes—”

Your eyes roll up, lost in the little promises he paints across your skin, body shivering over and over until you’re sobbing from it until he has to clamp a hand down over your mouth—shh, you’re going to wake the baby—going limp when he finally cums, pressing as deep as your body will allow, as if he can somehow imprint himself there. 

Wonders if maybe he’s been building up to this moment all along. 

It’s so easy to lay there after, blissed out while he litters kisses across your face and collarbones, letting him lift your hips up to slide a pillow underneath, even though the position is awkward when he tries to cuddle you afterward.

His fingers draw shapes on your stomach, giving you a wistful look, like he can’t believe he’s laying here with his cum still dripping between your thighs—no matter how many times he scoops it up and pushes it back inside you. “Do you think it’ll take?”

And you don’t have the heart to tell him about the little foil packet of pills tucked away in your nightstand.

[hoshigray]

𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇[𝐞𝐫]!! | t. fushiguro + s. ryōmen

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Next time, look around the area before you say you find a serial killer attractive. Because you’re about to see what mess your words will have you end up in — and your clothes all torn up.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: serial killers! Toji + Sukuna x fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - modern au! - age gap (the reader is in their early 20s) - porn with plot - oral (f! + m! receiving) - threesome - double penetration; anal (first time) & vaginal - restricted movement (hands tied up) - face-sitting - cowgirl dp positions - gun + knife play - choking - spanking - unprotected sex - overstimulation - degradation (brat, broad, slut, whore) - pet names (baby, dollface, good girl, pet, princess) - blackmail/threats - the reader is in an established relationship w/ Nanami - mentions of blood, tears, spit, and drool.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6.6k (told you, porn with plot, lol)

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: uhhhh happy Friday the 13th, everybody???? blame @ramonathinks for this idea (jk, don't, she's so amazing, ty for pushing me into this, mona bear ♡ and tysm for beta reading; your thoughts mean the world). Haven't done a fic in two months sooooo go easy on me!! Not proofread, so I'll fix stuff l8rrrr

“No.”

“Oh, come on, Y/n! Just answer the question!”

“You’re so fucking sick, you know that!?” You glare at your friend, who slumps on the booth chair with a heavy sigh. 

A slight breeze tickles your skin through your comfortable sweatshirts as the leaves on the trees slowly change to autumnal colors, and Halloween decor is already adorning every house and every yard. It was a warm and sunny afternoon on this pleasant Friday. Usually, you’d be cozied up in your apartment enjoying yourself, probably catching up on some horror flicks you missed last year. 

But alas, that was not the case. Because you’re a college student. As October has finally rolled around, only one thing prevents you from enjoying this beautiful season — midterms. The thought of it is enough to pull you into a pool of dread. Every day has been one whirlwind after another. Yet, on the bright side, all you have now is one last exam to worry about, and you’ll finally be able to rest this weekend. So here you are, at the diner with your best friend, Shoko Ieiri, completing your papers while eating off your plates to satiate the stress. For the most part, things were going smoothly.

Until the news anchor on the television at the bar relays an announcement… 

“…Once again, everyone, please be on the lookout for these two killers on the loose. Three weeks ago, the two recently escaped from their cells, killed three guards, and are still at large. There have been accounts around the state that reported recent sightings of either or both criminals, the recent one being in this county 27 hours ago. So, please, stay safe. The killers are identified to be…”

And Shoko, being the curious person she is, asks you a question that stops your fingers from typing on your laptop: “Do you find those killers hot?” 

That’s how you two end up where you are now, groaning at the brunette’s persistence in getting your approval to find two criminals — murderers, even! — attractive. 

“Hey, Y/n, I know you hear me.” Shoko snaps their fingers at you while you try to get the assignment done. “Just answer the question: don’t you think those guys are hot.”

“We didn’t come all this way for you to talk about your hybristophilia fantasies.” Facing the Word document, you remind your friend why you’re here in the first place. “Just get back to writing; I wanna finish this and get home.” There’s nothing said afterward for a few seconds, thinking she has finally given up.

However, “First of all,” your eyes close to conceal them rolling behind the lids. “I’m not into hybristophilia; I just know a hot guy when I see one. Second, look at their mugshots. Like, damn, you’ve ever seen anyone so intimidatingly good-looking before? Come on, have a look!”

“You’re such a weirdo,” the click-clacking of your fingertips tapping your keyboard fills the rest of your answer. 

Still, she persists. “Y/n, look at the phoooone~”

No words, only tapping keys.

“Y/n?”

The keys become louder. 

“Pretty, pretty, pleaseeeee~?” 

Louder.

“Y/n!!”

A fist bangs on the booth table as the other closes the laptop shut, sending another glare to the person across from you who holds the phone up. You’ve had it at this point, so you say with a steady breath, “If I look at the dumb mugshots and answer your dumb question, will your dumbass leave me alone and finish your work?” The brunette only puts the phone on the table and slides it your way, giving you big doe eyes and whimpers like a hurt puppy. You sigh with your nostrils as you snatch the phone up, your gaze stationed on the images presented.

The image displayed two mugshots: on the left was a man with raven hair and a scar on the left of his lip. Intense, forest-green orbs contrast the black strands that cover his forehead. The mugshot letter board below him is labeled as "Toji Fushiguro." The one on the right is another man with spiky salmon-colored hair pushed upfront with prominent black tattoos decorating his nose, cheeks, and forehead. The board named him as “Sukuna Ryōmen.”

You look at the pictures intently, examining the men’s features at your discretion. It didn’t occur to you how long you were gawking at the mugshots until you peered from the phone to see Shoko give you the biggest shit-eating grin. Shaking your head, you chew the inside of your cheek before responding.

“….Well,” you cough. “…they’re not terrible looking at all. They are…..hot.”

“Told you!” Shoko slams the table with high enthusiasm, earning another sigh from you as she snatches the phone back. “Would you fuck them?”

You almost popped a vein. What the fuck—“is wrong with you!?” 

“It’s just a question, geez.” She holds her hands up defensively. “Or is that too lewd and raunchy to ask the partner of the trusting, charismatic “Golden Boy” SGA president, Kento Nanami?”

You choke on your spit before you can say anything, and your cheeks dial in warmth. “S-Shut up! Don’t bring my love life into whatever deviant horny thoughts you’re thinking!”

“I’m sorry, I’m boreeeeeeed. I don’t wanna do this paper, ugh.” The brunette whines and bangs their forehead on the table surface; your eyes roll for the fifteenth time in the past three hours. “…Maybe I should get some dick after this.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m going to use the restroom.” 

You exit the dining booth when they give you a muffled response of anguish, straightening yourself and heading for the back of the diner. As you walked away, you noticed a pair of hooded figures sitting at the booth behind you. Realization kicks in, and you groan internally. Oh, God, they probably heard what we were talking about! But what caught your mind next was that one of them had a black mark on the bridge of their nose. Huh, what an odd tattoo…

After using the toilet, you wash your hands at the sink, but your mind is still fixated on that weird tattoo. Who would get such a thing on their face? Wouldn’t that hurt? I wonder if that’s the only tatt— And then It clicked, you quickly turn off the faucet and dry your hands, exit the rest restroom, and run to your booth. Shoko was begrudgingly typing away on their laptop until she saw you return in a hurry. 

“Hey, you okay?” She asks you, but you aren’t looking at them. Your face contoured to a confused expression as you stared at the booth behind the one you were sitting in, now empty. 

“Did…..The two people who sat behind us, did you see them?” 

“Hmm? No, I didn’t. Must’ve left while my head was on the table.”

“Uh huh…” you say nothing more as you slowly sit back in front of your laptop. Your mind is now clouded with confusing thoughts, questioning your experience up until now. It could be a coincidence, quite far out at that. Regardless, you could’ve sworn you saw that tattoo on the Sukuna guy that Shoko showed you. It was such an uncommon decor, especially since you just saw it on the face of a criminal. Not to mention, the news anchor earlier stated that those two killers were in this exact county…

Needless to say, you didn’t touch your keyboard for about twenty minutes. Your mind was too wrapped up elsewhere to think clearly about your school assignment, and your body harbored a disturbing chill worse than the soft autumn winds.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“…So, why are you researching about the loose killers again?”

“Hm? Oh,” you stop typing on the laptop to attend to the phone call you’re on. Exiting your bedroom, you walk to the living room. “No reason, I was just curious. I saw something about them on the news at the diner with Shoko.”

The person on the other side of the line hums. “You should be careful about stuff like that.”

“Yeah, I know, Kenty,” you open the sliding door to your balcony and close it behind you before taking a seat on the cream-colored swing chair.

“I’m very serious, Y/n.” It was none other than Kento Nanami who was speaking with you. The trustworthy “Golden Boy” of your class year, the circumspect president of the Student Government Association… your loving and attentive boyfriend.

"I know you are."

"And those guys aren't just any usual criminals. They're notorious killers who barge into people's homes at night to steal valuable things. Maybe even kill their victims in their sleep if they have the time. So, be very careful, okay? Can’t trust these streets at night, especially now with those guys on the run. So, don’t go anywhere alone, always have your pepper spray on you, and be sure everything is locked — doors, windows, everything.”

A deep sigh leaves your lips. “Yeah, I double-checked all the locks once I got inside.” 

No one says a word; the rustling of the trees and the beeping of cars from the traffic at the light substitute this awkward silence. Until Nanami says, “….You scared?”

You don’t answer immediately, your mind flashing back to the bewildering encounter at the diner earlier today. Those two hooded men, one with a black tattoo on his face. It felt too surreal to feel like a coincidence, yet it wasn’t too far out of your mind to think as such. The timing was strange, with the news reporter and your conversation with Shoko. The thought of two murderers nonchalantly being in the same space as you rub you off in the worst way imaginable. “…Kinda, yeah. A bit spooked.”

“You want me to come up there and spend the night?”

“No, no! You don’t have to do that,” you hurriedly decline his proposal. “I know you’re busy with homework and student government stuff. I wouldn’t want you moving around so much; I’d feel bad.”

You hear him chuckle on the other side of the phone, and your heart swoons at the sound. “Don’t feel bad; you could never be a burden to me, especially when your safety is my top priority.” Another skip of the beat; it’ll never fail to amaze you how sweet he is with his words.

“Thank you, Kenty. But still, I know you’ve got a lot on your hands. You don’t have to see me right this moment. Besides, isn’t Haibara supposedly dragging you to some party at Geto’s?” Nanami is silent for a few seconds before he groans; a smile creeps up on your face at his reaction.

“Unfortunately, yes. I have to leave to pick him up, and then we can go…But I can cancel and come o—“

“Absolutely not.” You’re quick to interject. “You’ve been so high and on edge with your exams. This is the first party after midterm week. And I can bet my left toe that Gojo — cause you know he’ll be there if Geto is — will be upset you couldn’t make it.”

“…….Which one?”

“Excuse me?”

“You have five toes on your left foot, so which one—“

“Kento.” He chuckles once more for your ears to hear at the use of his real name. “Have fun, okay?”

Nanami hums. “I’ll try. I’ll come by your place Sunday. Sounds good?”

“Perfect. Take some pics for me. Love you!”

Your boyfriend bids you farewell before ending the call, already missing his voice. A yawn creeps out from you, a sign that you are indeed fatigued and need rest. Leaving the balcony, you close the door and do a final check at your door. Confirmed that it’s locked and secured, you turn off the living room lights and head back to your bedroom to get some shut-eye. 

You shut off and close your laptop on your desk before turning off the lights. Then, you lift the comforter and finally enter the chilly embrace of your bedsheets.  Usually, you’d scroll on your phone for a little bit until you get drowsy enough to fall asleep. Yet — it could be because of the exam you were doing at the diner — you felt way more exhausted than usual and wanted to sleep right away. And you did just that: closed your eyes, listened to the calming rhythm of your breaths, and soon drifted into an anticipated slumber.

….Three Hours Later….

The next time you open your eyes, you’re not in the room you left yourself in — let alone the bed. 

Instead, you find yourself somewhere cold and dark. Your bed is nowhere in sight, just a lone chair facing you. There are no windows, no desks, just you and this chair with a sole overhead light that almost blinds you when you slowly get up. 

The change of scenery throws you off as one thought after another picks up the pace of confusion. Where am I? What is this place? This has to be a sick dream of mine…Wait a minute. You look down to find your pajamas are shriveled and torn up, pieces of the material scattered all over where you’re lying on the cold floor. Also, what the fuck!? You can’t seem to move your hands and feet, noticing that there’s some rope restricting your limbs from moving freely from one another. No matter how hard you try, squirming does little to no help, yet it confirms that this is not a dream.

What the absolute fuck is going on right now!? It was an appropriate question for this perplexing situation, not knowing where to pick up from to start picking clues as to why you’re here. Better yet, who brought you here?

“Ah, look who’s awake.”

You turn to the sound of a door opening and closing; the direction it came from makes it hard to register the distance of whoever was speaking to you. However, that doesn’t matter because you can hear footsteps approaching you and a figure stepping into the light. And when the face finally comes to your field of vision, your blood shifts into an immediate icy cold.

Standing to you by the chair was a man in a tight black shirt that exhibited his muscular arms and physique way too perfectly, harboring dark and baggy pants. But those weren’t the features that had your breath hitch. No, no. The man before you had raven hair with the length stopped to his ears and strands that covered his brows. They did not even try concealing the striking green eyes that looked straight at you. And the familiar scar at the right of his lip put everything together for you — the mugshot that Shoko showed me, the inmate that escaped prison…!

Toji Fushiguro, in the flesh, takes a seat on the chair with his legs spread while putting on black gloves. He notices your look of realization and smirks; you don’t like how his scar is rooted up with the motion. “Y’re a pretty heavy sleeper, ya know that. But I guess that made bringing you here a lil’ simple.” 

A tiny bit of confidence prompts you to speak with the man. “Whe–Where am I?”

“C’mon now, little girl,” your stomach churns when he scoffs at you. He brings up a hand to help him as he cracks his neck. God, why is he so jacked!!? “Y’re supposed to be smart, right? You know that’s the wrong question to ask me.” 

Okay then, think, Y/n, think… ”…Why did you kidnap me? Is it for money? Because I don’t have much—“ The palm of Toji’s hand faces you to halt you from speaking more, making your nervousness dwell even further. 

“For one, you should really consider locking your balcony door when y’re done using it.” There are not enough words to describe the mental facepalm you gave yourself. “If we wanted to run y’r pockets, we woulda done so earlier.” He casually admits to you. “But that’s not why we brought ya here, so he’ll explain it to ya.”

He? Wait, wait, we??

The other mugshot hits you like a flash before you hear the door open and close again. Of course, Toji isn’t the only one on the run right now. There was another guy with salmon-colored hair and tattoos. The other figure, now wearing a black tank tee and ripped black jeans, came from behind Toji. Your stomach drops to the floor when your eyes land on the prominent black tattoo on his nose — now seeing that he has way more on his face, shoulders, arms, and wrists. The scene from the diner replays until your brain can’t keep up. It was him, no doubt about it.

“Well, well. Did the sleeping beauty finally get their rest?” Sukuna Ryōmen, looks just as [if not more] dangerous as Toji. He stuffs his hand into the back of his jeans pocket. “Listen here, I’ll be asking you some questions, and I expect nothing but honest answers. Got that?” 

You don’t know what possessed you to ask the question. You being scared shitless right now should’ve prevented you from doing so. And yet, you ask, “And if I don’t?”

It happened way too fast; your eyes couldn’t even process it happening. But one moment, the salmon-haired criminal was standing in front of you beside Toji. The next, you feel someone crouched behind you with the cold feeling of something barely piercing your skin. Your eyes widen, and you don’t dare move a single hair. Toji shakes his head at you, the smirk on his face still present. Now you can guess who had fun cutting up your PJs.

“I don’t think you wanna know the answer to that question.” He says it so close to your ear that you could’ve nearly fainted. Sukuna then moves the knife to scrape the side of your neck. “And don’t you ever think you’re in a position to ask me questions. Use that college brain of yours, brat.” 

You gulp — a risky move when you have a sharp object to your neck — and nod. Satisfied, the pink-haired man removes the knife from your proximity and stands right up. “At least you follow things quickly.” He says while walking back to where he stood prior. “Now, question one: do you know a kid named Kento Nanami?” 

The mention of your boyfriend’s name hits you like whiplash. Kento? What do they want with him!?

“…Yes, I do.”

“Good. Next question,” You chew the inside of your lip before he asks you the following. “Where does he live?”

Your body almost shuts down when he says the final word. No. No, no, no! Absolutely not! “I can’t tell you that.”

“Tch, just when you were doin’ so good.” Sukuna sucks his teeth. “And why the hell not?”

“Because I don’t want you hurting him.”

He barks a laugh. “You don’t even know what we’ll do to him! Damn, talk about a loyal dog.” 

The insult sparked a flame in you. It was a small one, but a flame nonetheless. “Why the hell do you want to know anyway? It’s not like he knows you any—Hrckk!”

“What the hell did I say about you asking questions, huh.” A hurried hand meets your throat, black nails digging into your skin as his grip gets unbearably tight. You attempt to keep a stern face despite choking for some air, but you’d be lying that the pain wasn’t getting to your head.

“Alright, Kuna, let ‘em go.” You almost forgot about Toji sitting on the chair until he spoke up. With a displeased click of the tongue, Sukuna releases you and throws you to the cold, hard floor. “For your information, princess, that kid does know us.”

You’re coughing up a storm, but you still listen. Your eyes are watery, and your throat pulses. “Hic…Ack, what—What are you talking about?”

Toji continues. “That little friend of y’rs is the reason why we were behind bars for three years. Fuckin’ kid saw us break into a house in his neighborhood and called the cops on us. For the longest time, we’ve thought about getting out of those damn cells and coming back to rip that lil’ fucker limb from limb. Maybe ransack his whole home and then some.” 

“And now that we are out here,” Sukuna chimes in. “We plan on doing just that. We were sitting right behind you at the diner and heard the brown-haired chick say his name, meaning he had to be around this county. And when he heard that fucking square had a little girlfriend, who better to introduce ourselves and point us the way than you.” 

So much information hits you all at once that you’re not given enough time to process it properly. Nanami called the cops on these guys? Where was that piece of information on the phone call!!? Three years ago, it must’ve happened before the start of freshman year. And then there’s the matter of these murders trying to kill him — the love of your life! 

You immediately try to weigh your options: you could give them a fake address, but that would lead them back to you and have you killed instead. And Nanami doesn’t live at home right now; he’s on campus with you and everyone else. So, sharing these two his home address will just have his family killed in his place! Oh, you wouldn’t handle that guilt; you just couldn’t!!

“So, what’ll it be, little girl?” Toji’s voice snaps you from your rampant thoughts. “You can be a cute girlfriend and be loyal, and we’ll just kill you right here, right now. Or, you give us an address, we’ll put you back to sleep, and you’ll never see from us ever again.” 

Those two options were far from what you wanted to do. You would never want to jeopardize your poor boyfriend’s life and those around him for being a model citizen, especially for these assholes! There had to be a way, something you could do!

“Please, don’t hurt him!” The ropes on your hands and feet have you shuffle to look at the two men from the dirty ground. “He didn’t do anything wrong. Please just spare him!”

“No-can-do, brat.” Sukuna comes down to your level once more, yanking your shirt — or whatever’s left of it, your bra practically out for the whole world to see — to lift your upper body. “Nothing to ease a vengeful spirit than taking care of the problem, right? So do us a favor, will ya.” 

Tears are fighting your control to fall, your body trembling. You’re scared, so so frightened. But most of all, you’ll do what you can to make sure your “golden boy” stands tall for you. “Please, I’ll do anything! Anything you want, I’ll do it! So, please!!” 

Sukuna opens his mouth to bite back, but no words come out. Actually, his expression resorts back to a neutral tone. He then turns to Toji, who looks at him with a quirked brow. There’s nothing but silence between the two, a silent conversation between the two killers that you have no choice but to stay quiet for. And you jerk when the two focus back on you. Sukuna then finally says something.

“Anything, huh?” It’s the worst when he sneers at you. Such a devious man. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“Tch. Fucking brat.” Sukuna sucks his teeth before he snatches your chin with a rough vigor, forcing your teary eyes to face him. And it doesn’t help that you now have a gun pointed at your temple. “This is your warning. You better do this right, or you’ll be the first to get a gift with your boyfriend’s head all minced up. Now, use that mouth. Properly.”

Never in your wildest dreams did you ever think you’d end up here. You stood on your knees and hands on the concrete floor, your mouth occupied with Sukuna’s cock, propelling your face to and fro to meet the base. Why the handgun to your head? According to the salmon-haired man, he said: “Try to fight, run, or bite our dicks off, then this whole mag is getting emptied.” So, you’re literally giving the fellatio of your life. And judging by the grunts coming from Sukuna, it seems you’re doing a decent job keeping him going. 

As for the other one, Toji, his hands grabbing onto your asscheeks from beneath should answer that. “C’mon, baby, sit on my face. I don’t bite…” you can tell he has the biggest grin on his face saying that, has you hesitant to follow orders. Regardless, you gently sway your ass down to sit on his face. But impatience gets the best of him before he pulls you down himself, his nose abruptly hitting your clitoris. You jolt despite his hands keeping you on him, forced to feel his tongue and mouth indulging on your wet folds.

So there you sit, bare and nude, for the men to use you as they see fit. Whatever piece of your clothes were torn off you to be fully exposed for them. This is what you choose to do for the sake of your boyfriend: giving yourself off for the night. 

Oh, if Shoko could see you now. Sucking off one of the exact murderers you two were talking about at the diner while the other eats you out? You know you’ll never hear the end of it from her if — by some miracle — she finds out! And you’ll hold onto that miracle for as long as you can. 

“…Fuuuck, hnngh! It’s been a minute since I had my dick on something tight,” Sukuna comments while putting his free hand on your head. His thrusts increase to have your tongue bathe the underside of his dick, and he sighs at you choking when the tip suddenly hits your uvula. “Heh, that’s right. Keep those tears coming, pet…You seem to be enjoying yourself there, Fushiguro. This broad taste that fucking good—Ohhh shit, fucking shit…”

You can feel Toji’s lips curve into a smile from down under, he gives your labia and clit a slow and antagonizing lick before responding to his partner in crime. “Mmmm, man. It’s been a while since I had to do this. Crazy how this princess got with a square like that kid. Wonder if he makes ‘em feel good like this.” And then he returns to your clit to give it a harsh suck. 

Your body continues to be used like a toy. Your jaw loosens to oblige Sukuna’s girth that’s currently hitting the back of your throat every time your lips meet the pubes of his pelvis. His ruts dial-up, and you ball your fists with the constant oral abuse on your face. Drool runs down your chin with every shove of his length, practically choking you with his dick. And the commotion between your leaking vulva and Toji doesn’t go unnoticed either; motherfuker’s tongue is relentless, making sure every crevice and part of your pussy is familiar with him. And the sounds of him slurping your essence are so lewd, so erotic for your ears that you think they’re bound to explode on you. 

“—Ahhh, damn, I’m gonna cum,” Oh, God. Your eyes open to look at Sukuna’s expression, nothing but pure enjoyment looking at your pitiful look. “You’re cute looking all pathetic taking my cock like this, whore—Mmmph!! Shiiiit, keep your head like that.” He grabs your head as his thrusts speed up to an irregular pace, your throat and face becoming numb. Your whimpers are muffled, and tears streak down your cheeks. His groans of pleasure fill the room, and before you know it, his load is released down to the depths of your throat. You’re stuck taking it, mewling on the shaft still in your mouth until he’s finished. 

He removes you when he is, his cock slathered in your saliva and still rock hard. You gawk at it, amazed that you could fit it in your mouth. And you hate to admit this, but it has you wondering what Toji’s is like. 

Speaking of, with a foggy mind, you peer down to see Toji finally done eating your cunt out. “Ya taste good, you know that.” He licks his lips provocately with a smile. You open your mouth to say something, but he cuts you off. “You ready fr’ me now?” He cocks his chin up, and you turn to see what he’s talking about, only to be met with the pinkish-red tip of his sprung erect cock. If you didn’t think you’d be able to have Sukuna’s in your mouth, you’re going to need a diety’s grace to see what you can do with Toji’s. “Heh, think I’m too big fr’ you? How the hell is Kento handling a piece like you?”

“S–Shut up, stop bringing him up!” You shout at him, tired of being reminded of the love of your life whom you’re betraying right now. All for his sake, but still…

He chuckles at your reaction. “Little girl got spark, huh. Fine then, be a doll and put it in yourself.” 

Cold sweat slides from your brow. Me? I’ve gotta put that shit in on my own!? But you have to. You know you do. So, with anxiousness pooling in your stomach, you bring your ass up and use your hand to align his cock to your wet cunt. 

It takes a lot of mental motivation for you to continue, but slowly and surely, you push the folds of your cunt onto his glans. The pain you experience makes it excruciating to bear, but with steady breaths, you push the tip in with every exhale. And when it finally enters your vulva, a gasp erupts from your puffy lips and a hiss from the man with the scarred lip. “Mmmm, slow down, baby, slow it down…” That was probably the only words he’s ever said that you could trust, so you anchor your ass down, taking in every inch of his length with his hands guiding your ass down. When you reach the base, you give yourself a few seconds to adjust to his girth within your velvety walls. “Fuck, ya feel so nice and tight, princess.”

“Is that so?” Sukuna walks from behind. “Can’t wait for me to have a go.” You couldn’t even comprehend the meaning of that sentence because the salmon-haired one kicked your back. You are now mounted on Toji completely, the two of you facing each other while Sukuna crouches behind your ass. “Get ready, I’m putting it in.”

“Huh?” Wait, both at the same time!? “Ho–Hold on, I’ve never done it in my ass bef—“

“Doesn’t sound like a problem to me; guess I’ll be the first then,” he shuts down your argument and then bends down to use his fingers and spit to ease your asshole. It feels so gross and repulsive that you could puke right now. Not that it would matter to Sukuna because he’s already set on doing it — his fore and middle finger pushing in and out of your anus. When he feels you’ve loosened up, he’ll remove his digits and substitute them with his cock. 

And he doesn’t warn you either, fucking bastard; he nudges his dick in his own countdown with no regard to how you’re feeling. Gripping onto the raven-haired man’s black shirt, Sukuna’s cock puts you through pain worth traumatizing, evoking screams that scratch your throat until he gets the whole thing in your ass. Nanami would never put you through this much pain. Never!

“Aww, y’re making the pretty girl cry,” Toji teases condescendingly, chuckling at the sight of you burying your head in his chest to shield the embarrassment. 

Sukuna hums while grinding his hips to your ass, a tiny bit of blood painting his shaft. “Hmph, good, makes my enjoyment worthwhile. Now,” you shriek with the sudden snap of his hips to your ass. “Let’s get this show started.”

When Sukuna moves, Toji follows right after, and you’re left to fend for yourself in this unsteady tempo from both your holes. You start seeing stars from the unusual stimulation, and your mind and vision become so blurry that it hurts to think. Hell, it hurts to try and concentrate on one dick at a time! One is currently scraping the wells of your walls in a way that your slit clenches around him, while the other churns your insides from the back that almost takes your breath away. More drool and tears seep into the black shirt you use to disguise yourself from them. This shit is already humiliating as is!

“C’mon now, baby. Show me that pretty face of y’rs.” Of course, Toji uses one hand to nudge your head to look at him. Your face is such a wet and hot mess, the sweat on your body making you sticky. The attempt to make sentences is beyond you, relying on moans and choked sobs to express your disorganized emotions. “There ya are. Good fuckin’ girl.”

Toji then takes your plump lips with his, his hand snaking to the back of your head to deepen the kiss. It was one thing letting them use your cunt and ass as they see fit; now, they dare to kiss you in a time like this. Oh, this is the absolute worst! How can you speak to Nanami ever again after this!? These lips are now sullied by the lips and cock of other men. You can’t ever go back and say that you were his, and it’s because of these assholes!!

…And what’s worse, you were starting to find enjoyment in what you were doing, sinking into Toji’s kiss and moaning into his scarred lips.

“Haahh…Mmmph…Damn, this slut is so fucking tight.” Sukuna watches your back glisten in the light while your ass quaked under his unstable momentum. He sneers before slapping your asscheek, resulting in a rushed moan and a twitch from your pussy. Toji breaks the kiss. “Hey, keep doing that. Think they like it.” 

With devilish glee, the tattooed other doesn’t hold back. He gives you another smack to the ass, and more loud purrs and shrieks fill the space between you three. Fast ruts to your soaping slit and ass coincide with the strikes to your butt, catching you off guard and leaving a stinging sensation every time. 

It’s apparent now that your hips start to move on their own, riding out your own high while preparing for your orgasm that’s climbing up. And the raven-haired man notices as he puts your hand on your aching buttcheeks. “Goin somewhere, dollface?” 

Oh, for fuck’s sake, let me come already!! “—Ahhnn, ooohhhh!! I’m about to cummm—I’m gonna break—Eeyahhh!!!

“That so?” You want to wipe that smirk off his stupid, dumb, handsome face. “Then go ahead and get dirty, princess. Ring us up.”

Your arousal staggers up when both of their thrusts fall into a unity, the tender spots of your gummy walls from your ass and cunt being hit and abused prompt more ecstatic moans and your head pounding with every jab. Almost there, almost! Please, please, I want it!! And you are finally given what you want; your release crashes into you in a hard swoop, the shocks crawling up your body while your holes contract around both men’s cocks. Your brain falls into an erotic trance; you only care about the euphoric sensations tingling around your body. Dizziness overtakes you, and your head descends back on Toji’s chest.

“Hmph, you really a pathetic pet.” Sukuna grinds his pelvis into your sensitive ass. The aftershocks from your release still make your body react to their movements. “Chasing for your own orgasm, huh. We outta fuck that selfishness right out of you, damn brat…”

You don’t say anything — more like you don’t have the energy to. Your ass and chasm are too stuffed to keep your mind active, and your eyelids feel too heavy to keep up. It probably was from all that crying and screaming. All you want to do is go back to sleep in your bed at your cozy apartment. But that must be asking for too much. Just please end this nightmare…

Kenty…Please forgive me, I’m so sorry….

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You can’t remember how sleep found you that night. But your eyes open to the ray of sunshine that peaks through the binds of your bedroom. Wait, my bedroom!?

You shoot up from your bed, the soft comforter and sheets peeling off your skin, and the cool air from the air conditioning welcomes you back to your personal space. Everything untouched, everything where it’s supposed to be — where you’re supposed to be.

A deep breath is the first thing you do when you wake up, following a long exhale. Was I dreaming? You would’ve accepted that delusion had you not looked down to realize that your figure was covered with one of your oversized shirts, remembering that your old pajamas were cut and torn up. Flashes of last night return to haunt you, and shivers travel down your spine from realizing what transpired at those ungodly hours. You quickly check your sheets for any stains — Thank God, none. Funny how a pair of serial killing assholes have the decency to clean up your body. 

And then a sudden feeling of dread crawls up after hearing your phone vibrating on your nightstand. You hurry to check the screen to find out it was a text message from Nanami. It’s a Saturday, 9 a.m. He’d usually be sleeping in until noon. Curious, you unlock your phone to check what your boyfriend is texting you about.

Recent Message from: ♡ my bby nanamiii ♡

Hey, Y/n. Hope you slept well and everything’s okay. I’m coming from Geto’s place after picking up Haibara, who is going through the worst hangover right now. He said he wants to see you and that you make the best meals for his hangovers. I don’t want to intrude if you’re not up for guests, so please tell me so I can take him somewhere else. But otherwise, we’ll be there at around 30-45 mins. Let’s just relax this weekend, okay?

Reading the text as you fall in love with him all over again. After what you’ve gone through, knowing that he’s safe and sound from any trouble, all you want right now is to be around him and hold him close. To be with him and forget about everything that’s happened. 

You send a heartwarming reply saying you’ll be waiting for the two of them. Then, you remove yourself from the bed and stretch out your fatigued muscles. Ugh, I should probably shower before Nananmi gets here…

However, before you lift your shirt and head for the bathroom, you notice a glass of water and a bag full of pills. Huh…I definitely didn’t have that there when I went to sleep before I was taken. And next to the glass was a folded piece of paper. Curiosity got the best of you this morning as you picked up the material to read its contents. 

And this is where you knew your life was changing, for better or worse. Your legs give out, making you fall to your knees with a shaky breath, the hairs of your body standing, and your heart on the verge of leaping out of your mouth. What you read crushed your whole being, leaving you cold in this world — worse than the autumn breeze.

Yo, thanks for the great time last night. Keep that up, and your pretty boytoy will keep standing. Here’s water and birth control, and keep that bag safe. Wouldn’t wanna end up losing it for the next time we fuck you dumb. See ya later, pet.

SR + TF

♱ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2023 – reblogs + comments are appreciated wholeheartedly <3 header art by rororgi mogera + dividers by the amazing @/cafekitsune!!

[pampinto]

I am starting a new job on Wednesday and I am absolutely terrified.

Its my first time working as Pam, and I'm really not sure what to expect (I came out midway through my 4 years at my last job, but kept it to myself due to the culture and some of the comments made by other staff members.

They have asked me to bring a photocard ID, and I applied to have my drivers licence changed to my name, however because my deed poll was signed by someone who lives at my address (not a relative) it was returned rejected. So now I am going to have to bring my deadname passport and a copy of my deed poll. I REALLY don't want to give out my deadname to anyone but now I am going to have to.

I have also only ever worked in uniform, and now I have to buy work clothes. I haven't bought clothes in years, I am physically anxious whenever I go into a clothes shop. Not only do I not know what I am looking for (what the fuck does "You can generally choose between business-formal, business-casual, and smart-casual attire" mean). My friend was supposed to go shopping with me on saturday but they cancelled bc the trains were all rail replacements.

I know I am going to be really clocky and gross (its been super hot recently here and its made me sweat profusely and I am breaking out so much).

I'm also in the process of changing my anti-depressants and currently I am in the process of cutting down what I am currently on. I haven't left my room in several days. I am constantly having suicidal thoughts.

My housemate said she was going to move out at the end of October, which I really need to happen bc living with her is driving me crazy and I only feel safe/ comfortable in rooms other than my own when she is not in. She needs to give 2 months notice and she hasn't and I am worried she is going to continue being here, my new job means I am going to be at home more and working from home which really isn't ideal with her about.

When I left my old job of 4 years, my boss didn't even say goodbye to me. I worked there throughout the entire pandemic when a team, formally of 5 was turned into a team of 1 (me). I worked while recovering from several assaults, the death of both my grandparents (I had to fight to get leave to go to the funeral), homelessness, depression, loosing a vast majority of my friends when I came out, England loosing the euros. and nothing, no thanks for working here, not even a good luck, fuck I would have settled for a "good ridence".