#( visage. ) AND I'M A BASTARD.

[talentforlying]

this hand — cool, damp, with a nervous pulse. this man's hand. i held it all the while he talked and i'm still holding it now. must be going soft. these days we all need a hand to hold — in the dead of night, when the rain dashes itself in blind waves against the windows. when fear seeps, pooling in every vague depression — diluting and dissolving us, diminishing us — suspending us, drifting, in a submarine world. when you're drowning, any hand will do.

see this is the part that the new 52 writers always miss about constantine's characterization: he doesn't lack compassion or empathy, and he's not innately selfish. he has always cared more than he probably should. the conflict and tragedy at his core comes from being forced to act against his nature, not from being unable to contain some inherent cruelty. by late hellblazer his ability to show how much he cares is all but burnt out of him, but it's still there.

[collectedbooks]

GET BACK 🤺 GET AWAY FROM HIM

[cynicallyscorned]

see, i don't have a crush on him until i open his SL avatar,

[fatechose]

tag dump

[talentforlying]

@asteritm​

Been reading 80s/90s Hellblazer recently and now issue 13 lives in my head rent free

[thcsedorks]

evelyn vc: you are my daad...ur my dad. boogie woogie woogie

🎲 / nick / ic // we are walking through the valley of the shadow of death and kicking ass ! 🎲 / nick / musings // pull yourself together man ; you're fallin' apart 🎲 / nick / about // it's not easy to get blood out of a wedding dress ; don't ask me how i know that 🎲 / nick / likes / aesthetic // take that you mealy mouthed bastards ! 🎲 / nick / music // when i hit this tape it's gonna blare some old people's rock music 🎲 / nick / visage // i'm a handsome man ; what can i tell ya ? 🎲 / nick / starter call // i should probably save this for me but...what the hell

[confessedlyfannish]

DP x DC Writing Prompt #9

"Are you sure about this?" J'onn asks, reading the discontent amongst the Kents. Clark and Lois each have a hand on their teenage son's shoulders, who several weeks prior was aged ten years old.

"We're sure," Clark says. He is not, nor is his wife. But his son is, who lays his hand on his mother's and squeezes. It is that surety that J'onn honors as he delves into the young (but not as young as he should be) man's mind.

The memories are hard to find but not gone, hidden behind what Jon can only see manifested as a glowing green wall. When he raises a tentative hand, the shield sparks green, but does no harm. Pushing through is like wading through the consistency of jello, which he finds an overall unpleasant experience. But he is unharmed as he passes through.

Before J'onn can sort through the memories he is all but sucked into the one at the forefront, where a Jon most similar in visage to the one recently returned perches on the edge of a building. Beside him lies a burger, partially unwrapped though uneaten, and a small soda.

As the memory builds out a sun sets on a small suburban town, and a muscled thigh knocks into Jon's, an older man with a shock of white hair and eyes the same light and color as the shield formed around these memories appearing. He's tall even sitting, likely about as tall as Superman, and looks to be in his thirties. A full body suit comprised of black and silver accents stretches across broad shoulders, a stylized D on his chest. He knocks his thigh into Jon's again.

"You said I couldn't go back," Jon says quietly.

"I lied," the man says lightly.

"You're lying now," Jon says, glaring at him. "I can hear your heart."

"Nice try, kiddo, I don't have a heart in this form," the man says, reaching a hand out, presumably to ruffle his hair. Jon dodges.

"I know you're lying. You would've told me. You would've helped me get home."

"Jon--"

"You're protecting Clockwork, aren't you?" Jon demands, eyes beginning to burn red. "That old coot decided it wasn't enough to play with you, he had to play with me too."

The man slaps a hand over Jon's eyes. "Breathe, like we practiced," he instructs firmly. Steam rises from where his palm meets Jon's eyes, but if it hurts he shows no indication. "In, 2, 3. Out, 2, 3."

Jon whimpers but heaves a breath, and the burst of red light dies down from between the man's fingers. His hand moves down to Jon's shoulder.

"I can't pretend to understand Clockwork's decisions," the man says, as tears begin to pool in Jon's eyes. "Frankly, I don't want to. I suspect they are hard decisions to make, sometimes."

"I don't get why you defend him," Jon says. "Dumbledore acting bastard."

"Language," the man says, lightly bopping him on the head. J'onn notes the boy actually winces, as if the blow hurts.

"I am upset with him, I hope you know that," the man continues. "But at the end of the day I'm also grateful. Because I got to meet you." He hooks an arm around Jon's shoulders, pulling him in. "And now you'll get to see your family again. And Sally, Arnold, and Damian!"

Jon sniffles, rubbing roughly at his face. He leans into the man's bicep. A trusted adult figure, then. One he's described his life to. A life, J'onn is sad to note, he appears to have lived for the past six years, as opposed to a sudden shift in appearance. Jon's next question all but confirm it: "Can I really go back? It's been so long. They'll be all grown up."

"Hey, of course you can," the man says, rubbing his shoulder. "I'm sure they've missed you so much. They'll be so happy to see you again."

Jon starts to smile. "I'm going home."

"You're going home!" The man laughs, shaking him.

"I can finally eat some decent barbecue again!"

"Hey!" the man protests, "The smoker blew up one time!"

Jon continues, beginning to get excited. "And Ma will make her jalapeño cornbread! I never could get it right, I can't wait for you to try it!"

J'onn notes the older man's smile fading, eyes growing sad.

"And Damian will definitely want to spar and oh, oh! With you on our side we can totally prank Batman! I bet Alfred will even help! And Mom gives the best hugs, Pops comes really close but Mom will be really excited to meet you, everyone will."

"Jon," The man says.

"I knew you'd be worried about it, but they'll want to meet you," Jon says, clocking his expression. "They'll be grateful. You, you helped me. You kept me safe and taught me how to be Superman. They'll love you, I promise."

"Jon, I can't go with you," the man says gently.

"I'm not saying you stay, but you can visit! I'm sure the Justice League can figure out a way to maintain a portal, they're super used to all that multiverse stuff. Once they have the coordinates, you can stop by whenever!"

"I can't go through the portal, Jon," the man says. "To other worlds, I'm a god. And gods can't interfere. The only reason I can continue to live here is because this is the world of my origin."

Jon gapes at him. "But--but,"

"You're going to see your Mom and Dad again," the man says. "And your brother, and grandparents."

"I can come here, then," Jon says desperately, pushing his way out of the man's arms. The man is already shaking his head. "I can!"

"You can't."

"Why, because Clockwork says so? He's a liar!"

"Because multiverse travel is never a good idea. If you got trapped here again--"

"I wouldn't,"

"You belong with your family,"

"You're my family!" Jon cries. The man freezes. "You, and Sam, and Jazz, and Tucker and Val and Ellie and Pops and Mads, you're all my family! I can't just leave you, I won't!"

"Oh kiddo," The man says, eyes wet. "I love you too. We all do."

"So I'll stay," Jon says decisively. "For all we know my world is a wasteland. Gramps wasn't exactly right in the head when I left. It's better to stay here."

J'onn notes a green vine unwinding from a nearby trellis. It slides down the eave towards the pair.

"You don't mean that," the man is saying.

"I'm sixteen. I can make my own decisions. I'm staying."

The man cups Jon's face. "Your parents did not have a choice in losing you. I'm willing to bet they're devastated. Because I'd be devastated, losing a kid as great as you."

"Maybe they're not even there," Jon says, but the words are half-hearted, and it clearly hurts him to say them.

"I know I seem like a pushover, but if I thought Clockwork was sending you back to anything less than your loving family, I'd destroy him first. And he knows that. They're going to be there, I promise."

"I don't want to go," Jon says. Behind him, the vine rises from the eave of its own will, poised like a cobra enchanted by a snark charmer.

"I know," the man says, eyes drifting to the vine. "I'm so sorry, Jon."

"For what?" Jon asks, as the vine attaches itself to the nape of his neck. His eyes roll back as he collapses into the man's arms. The man hugs him tighter than is strictly necessary.

J'onn expects the memory to now end, alongside Jon's consciousness. To his curiosity, it does not.

"For what it's worth," a young woman spits bitterly, vines supporting her weight as she slips over the side of the roof. "I still think this is horrible." Her eyes are red and miserable.

"Seriously, team punching Dumbledore in the face," A young black man says, appearing in the air supported by a woman almost identical in appearance to the man holding Jon, down to the suit colors. They land on the rooftop.

"Are you sure about this," the dark haired woman with powers over plants asks. "Because to be honest, Danny, I'm five seconds away from punching you in the face."

"Jazz won't speak to you for months," the girl, likely his sister, points out.

"Make it a year," the man says, crossing his arms.

The man, Danny, ignores them all. He cards a hand through Jon's hair. "He'll retain the experience, but not the memories?"

"Yes, he'll be a perfect little superhero, just as you taught him," the woman says, vines twisting agitatedly around her, wrapping around her thigh, wrists and neck almost punishingly.

"Sam," the man says. "He needs to go home. All of you know that."

"He doesn't have to forget us to do so!" the sister bursts, eyes flashing green.

"Remembering would be a torment," Danny says. "He'll know he was loved. That's enough."

"Danny," the plant woman says, sitting beside them both. She puts a gentle hand on his, both on Jon's back. "This is just a different torment."

"And if someone finds out?" Danny asks. He has been patient amidst their scorn, but now a tiny edge ekes into his voice. "A god's child, unprotected? Threatened? He would never stop looking for a way back, and being vocal about it could get him killed."

The others are silent.

"He'll be home. He'll be happy," Danny says. More powerful than a prayer. A directive. He raises his head past the child slumbering in his lap, past them all, face hardening, and says to J'onn: "And you will say nothing."

J'onn takes a step back, fear so thick he could choke on it flooding his very being. Thismanwillkillhim, thismanwillkillhim.

This man will reach through dimensions and kill him.

"Now, get the fuck out of my kid's head," Danny snarls. J'onn is pushed back with enough force he enters his own mind in a vicious whirl that leaves him physically on the floor, gasping.

"I'm sorry," he says as Superman rushes to lift him, and he's not sure who he's apologizing to. Green eyes will pierce his dreams. Vines will crush his throat in his nightmares, screaming silence, silence.

You will say nothing.

"I'm sorry," J'onn says, politely pushing Clark's hands away as he rises. He's already beginning to calm, because he understands. Those are consequences he will not face. He will do as directed. He looks at Jon Kent, bewildered but unharmed, clutching his mother's hand.

J'onn reaches down and dusts at his pants. "I'm sorry," he says evenly, ready to spin his tale. Perhaps the Kents will continue to seek their answers. Perhaps not. He will stay out of it either way. He has been warned.

You were loved by gods. And to keep you safe, they would quiet us all.

Part Two

[laurorne]

༊*·˚ CRAVING YOUR WARMTH | aegon ii targaryen x targaryen bastard sister!reader

summary: two dragons who seek to move closer for warmth during their grief must remain apart, as they can only hurt one another with their sharp teeth and barely contained flames. though they both share the intentions of a close relationship, they're unable, for reasons they cannot avoid.

content: targaryen incest, angst, allusion of self-mutilation/harm, bastardphobia in westeros, night after intimacy suggested, self-hatred, blood, wonky metaphors and personification, no beta we die like vizzy t, badly written angst, that damn necklace

word count: 1.5k

a/n: let me tell you that i struggle writing angst, but god do i love reading it. i'm like my own self entertaining paradoxical concept and it astounds me

A gentle hand smoothing over his back is what stirs him from the throes of sleep, nails skating along his marked skin softly enough to tickle. He shifts as the hand moves from the expanse of his back up to his hair, rubbing circles into the crown of his head. Twirling bits of hair between deft fingers as she presses a kiss to the slope of his shoulder.

He hums, limbs stretching out clumsily as he rolls onto his side, fingers weak as his hand dances along the goose-down duvet until it reaches her. Her, and her softness, and her warmth.

“Wife.” He’s barely awake, even with the exasperated sigh that comes from his older sister.

“We are not wed, Aegon.” A gentle reminder from soft lips, her eyes taking in his tired demeanour, the curve of his brow.

She brushes the strand of choppy hair from his face, thumb dragging along the apple of his cheek.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, lids finally fluttering open as he stares up at her with those watery eyes. The ones he knew made her weak to suggestion. He lets his hand creep up her calf –where he can still feel the divets of scars from their childhood running through the gardens– until it finds home on the hand she has in her lap, he threads his fingers with hers. The number of rings adorning her fingers was thanks to him: he and his obsession with keeping his older sister glamoured. 

Imported Dornish rings that gleamed with the heat of the sun, Essosi ornate cloth and dresses that were far from the modesty of Court, hair pins adorned with pearls from the Summer Isles, and an intricate necklace crafted from the smelted metal of a Valyrian sword, inlaid with gemstones he had pulled from the Red Keeps vaults.

She was wearing it now, the stones gleaming under the sun that spotted through the lace curtains of her room. The engraved details scatter the few beams of light they catch like dew drops upon spider silk. The stones dangle between the valley her breasts create, the smallest of them twirls some intricate dance as she shifts. Like molten silver, it fits her without any of the stiffness metal should have. 

“We should be.” He glances down at his hand intertwined with hers and watches her thumb rub over his —in the way she always has ever since childhood— it makes him all the more rueful.

He’s hopeful, far beyond it. His bones ache and his head throbs from a swelling hangover, and he feels his throat ache something terrible at its use. His eyes trail from their hands to her face, he wants anything aside from sorrow to be there.

It’s worse. 

Her brows are furrowed as she stares down at him with pity, oh how he wishes it wasn’t pity.

“Oh, sweet boy.” She pulls her hand from his grasp and holds his face in her gentle hands with all the care he needs. “Some things, they just can’t be.”

His lip curls, a pathetic smile covering his visage as he cups the backs of her hands in his own. “But they could. Helaena would not care, she loathes our marriage. As do I. We could take Valyrian vows on Dragonstone. Just as our sister and uncle have. We could leave.”

“Aegon.” A wistful breath of his name, pained and twisted with grief of things that never were and never will.

“We don’t need to stay. Just you and I, riding atop Sunfyre. Across the Narrow Sea.” He moves onto his knees, staring into her wet doe-like eyes as he speaks. He doesn’t leave her an opportunity to doubt him. Doesn’t allow her to pull away as he keeps her hands on his jaw.

Her lips twitch and so do her fingers against his. “Aegon, don’t be foolish.”

“You mustn’t know what you mean to m-”

“Aegon, please.” She tries to pull away now, but he winds his hand into the hair at the nape of her neck and presses forward. Wine-stained lips crushing against the curve of her nose, fluttering across her brow like the gentle wings of a cotton moth as it devours silks and linen allied— devourer of all things beautiful and plain. 

He drags his lips to hers finally, soaking her up in a way only someone as depraved as he could. It’s like stretching out upon a rock after not feeling the son for years, like stripping yourself of shackles you’ve worn since birth. Her lips are chapped, a split in her lips from all the worrying she does to the poor thing scratches along his upper. He surges forward, pulling her so fully against him that it fills some empty part of him, like a puzzle piece that’s never been slotted into place. But oh —how it has— and how it always disappears just as quickly as it comes to him. He licks at her bottom lip, sucks it into his mouth and shudders out a breath as she reciprocates. Her lashes fluttering against his cheeks as they finally shut, as she cups his neck and presses her butterfly kisses onto him, licks into his mouth as she breathes hotly across his face in a way only Aegon can enjoy.

He nips at her tongue accidentally, overexcited and eager as he is. And that seems to bring her back from whatever hole he had dragged her into. But he persists, hand drifting down to the smooth metal of her necklace as he thumbs at a jewel. He tries to savour her presence even as her face scrunches and her fingers fist the hairs behind his ears. It nearly pains Aegon, with the way his head tilts away from her just slightly, Adams apple jumping against pale skin as he stares oh-so adoringly, heady breaths stinking of wine fanning her bruised lips.

“We could start a family in Essos. As many children as you want.” He desperately reaches for her again.

“Aegon.” 

“A home in Braavos, on the beach. Where we could lo-”

A hiccuped sob that withers in her throat is what stops him, punches the wind from his lungs.

Her lips are pursed and her hands have loosed upon his hair and move to cup his ruddy cheeks. Nails pressing into the flesh of his face hazardously. His eyes are dark and his lips part as he stares up at her, he sees the tears edging along her waterline. That deep frown she has when she’s trying not to cry, whether it's about something he had done or when she’s ordered by their Grandsire to stop her hysterics.

“Aegon,” It’s a sullen whisper as she lets his face go entirely, fingers slipping down his chest before they land in her lap again. “I am not a trueborn daughter. I will never be. I am not right in the mind. I will birth lunatics and monsters and wailing death. You can’t love me.”

He doesn’t know what to say, for once he has no sharp-tongued quip or comment. He pushed her from a height, just when she had finally reached the top of her spire. He retracts, fingers loosening from the grip he had on her pale hair, and lets her fall back onto the plush of her bed as she stares up at him like he’s burnt her. Like he’s dragged a dagger across the soft of her flesh and told her he never loved her. She pushes herself away, curling in on herself as tears cut through the flush of her cheeks. A wobbly exhale, and another as he drags a hand through her hair.

Her fingers dance down her neck and across the skin of her arms where they find home on the pale scars marring the upper parts of her arms. He can see her fingertips quivering with the urge to dig. To pull at chords of muscle beneath her skin and scratch at her bones. She had told him about things she saw. Things that hunted at the edge of her vision and scattered when she went looking. Dreams that came to the waking world with her. A pale man with the stench of darkness seeping from his pores.

“I love yo-” He leans forward to comfort her. 

“You don’t.”

“I know that I love you.”

“You know nothing, Aegon.” She pulls herself to the edge of the bed and drags herself to stand, the silk bedsheets slip away and her goosebumps raise upon her bruise-marred skin, she’s as bare as the day she was born. Her throat is too tight and her necklace feels heavy as she stumbles to the secret passage, she slips from the room unbidden and leaves a smudge of blood on the wooden grain of the bookcase as Aegon sits in her bed. Salty tears of his own roll down his face as he clenches and unclenches his fists.

[love-minor-poltergeist]

A/N: I've only known this man for roughly a week and I want to pour milk on him and violently throw him against the wall (lovingly). While I'm not known to write for horror media, let alone for a franchise as brutal as Outlast, but I've been quite captivated by the Outlast Trials since the July 16th update. Because of course I would fixate on the hyperviolent mafioso with extreme mommy issues. _:(´ཀ`」 ∠):_

General Franco Barbi Headcanons

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Loathe as he is to admit—  that is if he’s willing to acknowledge it— Franco and his father are far more alike than one would think. Both men share the same hair-trigger temper, a fondness for collecting artisan firearms, tastes in women… And who could forget that sailor’s mouth? 

Hell, prior to his exile, it became something of a running joke between the triggermen of the Barbi family. The minute they hear Franco and Don Barbi’s shared “FUCK”/“CAZZO”, they share a knowing look amongst themselves. Like father, like son.

Of course, they also take it as a warning to keep their heads down and quietly pray that lupara isn’t pointed their way.

His birth mother was killed long before he could even remember her. No one dared utter it aloud, but he knew why. He would’ve been downright stupid to think it was because of anything other than how he came out. Ugly. Malformed. Hell, his father certainly made it clear how he felt about his defective son whenever he got mad; and Franco’s got the scars to show it.

However, during one of Don Barbi’s infamous bouts of rage– fueled by alcohol and his ever-growing frustration over Franco’s reckless spree killings– he had let it slip that Franco resembled his late wife far more than he was comfortable with. 

Dark eyes– cold and vast like the deepest parts of the sea– regarded the crumpled form beneath him. Franco couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen then. He had just gotten back from a hit. Some rat bastard from another crime family; a lowly racketeer who thought he was hot shit. At least he did until he was filled with hot lead from lupara. Only thing was— his father just wanted the intended man dead. It was a simple request. And what did his ugly shithead fuck of a son do? Franco ends up massacring the whole bar he had tracked the man down to. Staff, patrons, and a band of musicians that were unluckily set to perform that night— a whopping thirteen other people on top of the measly single target the Don wanted. And the real fucking kicker? That very bar– dinky as it was– was under Barbi family protection. And they had paid handsomely for their services. 

All hell broke loose once Franco came home. The minute he stepped foot in his father’s office, the world became a blur of violent shouting and spat expletives. The walls and furniture shook with each slam as the Don punched and kicked at the younger man. Franco had tried to fight back, getting in a few nasty hits himself, but it was clear his father easily overpowered him. In a matter of minutes, his vision and lungs grew wet with blood. Everything hurt, and all young Franco could do was fight for air.

“You had one job, boy. One. Yet I find that we lost a paying customer— one that we’re supposed to protect. Making me look like the asshole for not keeping my word.” 

The older man crouched down, yanking Franco by the little patches of hair he had. The Don was baring his teeth now, eyes boring holes into his son. 

“You’re even lucky I let you live, you miserable waste of spunk,” he pulled harder on Franco’s hair, ignoring the latter’s grunt of pain. “I could have killed you in your crib. I should have.” 

He accentuated each word with a rough yank, and a particularly pathetic pained moan from Franco only made the Don slam his head into the floor. Hot, sticky crimson coated his broad fingers, and he regarded the now weeping visage of his son with disdain; as if he had found a piece of gum stuck to his shoe. A pregnant silence fell between the two. Nothing but the faint sounds of breathing filled the air. 

Then the Don spoke once more.

“Even now, you look just like your mother. Useless, bloodied, and soft.”

Don Barbi never did talk about his first wife again after that incident. Not that Franco ever cared. He never knew her. Though, he did faintly hear from a few of his father’s older associates that he shared his mother’s eyes, or that he had the same hair as her. One man even said that had Franco been born normal, he would’ve been the spitting image of her. 

Said man was later found in the alley between a bar and sundry store. Discarded within a dumpster and body absolutely mangled. 

Once, when he was around maybe ten years old or so, his father had tried to take him to the dentist in order to get braces. Something to fix up those “broken piano keys” he had, as his father put it. Franco didn’t even last a half hour before a capo had to come pick him up because the boy went and bit the finger clean off of the poor dental assistant that tried to get him ready. 

He has some breathing problems, going off what could be heard within the trials. If he’s not yapping off, he could be heard heavily panting and straining to catch his breath. It’s nowhere near bad enough to be considered asthmatic, but Franco’s definitely not winning any marathons, that’s for sure. Not that his little baby legs would let him-

Absolutely refuses to drink anything that isn’t sweet enough to send a bear into a diabetic coma. If he doesn’t have his thermos of wolf’s milk on him, he’s dumping a whole bowl’s worth of sugar into whatever’s given to him. He doesn’t care if it's already been sweetened. He needs it sweeter.

Murkoff’s budgeting department is at their wit’s end and it is absolutely Franco’s fault. Does he care? Of course not. He deserves nice things and it’s a travesty that someone of his status is forced to live in squalor. About a week after he’s been taken to Sinyala, a special budget ends up being put aside for him. He goes over said budget every time. No, he won’t stop, either. He is a luxury that few could afford.

The first thing he demanded for his living space was the fanciest phonogram Murkoff could get and some records. He didn’t particularly like juke boxes– he thought them too flashy and that they usually played the same boring tunes. Usually if you walk by his containment unit, you'd hear the rich, dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, and the occasional Engelbert Humperdinck.

Don’t ever take him to the beach for too long. He usually forgets to put on sunscreen and ends up sunburnt at the end of the day. It’s one of the few things he doesn’t miss about Miami/Cuba. 

Small dogs hate him. His stepmom Angelina owned a few pomeranians. He and the little bastards never got along. It wasn’t all too uncommon to walk in on him telling one of them to fuck off whenever they bit at the pant leg of his suit. He’s held a vendetta against all tiny dogs ever since. 

While he may not look like it, he’s quite fond of the ocean. He enjoyed the boat rides he took to and from Cuba, and would occasionally fish if time was passing by a bit slow. Though he didn’t do it very often thanks to bastardly seagulls and pelicans trying to bully him for whatever he caught. 

Would probably own an aquarium of tropical fish if Murkoff trusted any of their test subjects with a living thing under their care. When he was younger, Franco’s father had an associate who owned a giant tank full of brightly-colored tetras, cherry barbs, and guppies. And while his dad sat through boring talks, Franco would usually watch the little things dart around in the water.

Speaking of, he’s particularly fond of ranchu goldfish. Mostly because, in his words, “they’re ugly little fuckers”.  Franco means this lovingly, of course. 

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

[talentforlying]

gwendolyn face-eater soul-sucker: HRRR constantine, about to get his grubby little hands on the agricultural equivalent of a hydrogen bomb: oh noooo, doooon't, i'm just so YUMMY, look at me standing here, all alone, stoooop

gwendolyn: hrrr~ constantine: no! no — stop! do me! l-leave them out of it. clarice: you heard the man.

and WHO is doing it like clarice sackville, i ask you. WHO on planet earth is out there SERVING like this!!!

[talentforlying]

priest: i don't, ah, quite know what to say to you. if you are in such terrible danger, why are you taking it all so calmly? constantine: hmh! i dunno, father. i had a bloke beaten to a pulp earlier this evening. that sound calm to you? priest: you did what...? constantine: i must've been off me bleedin' rocker. i've never done anything like it before in me life, y'know?

constantine: but there's header gets his guts blown out, and george is stickin' his head in the noose, and helen gets ... jesus, then friggin' sarah bites me head off — ! everything's coming to bits in me hands and it's so easy to just see red and now, shit, they could've killed the tosser for all i know! and now i'm just like the bastards i've hated all me life! kill him! fire him! close them down! piss all over him! screw you, i can do whatever i want! i so much as blink and you're dead, pal! i'm in charge!! ...

constantine: 'scuse me, father. i'm always like this when i don't get me own way. — hellblazer #81, "rake at the gates of hell pt. 4"

babygirl you are just....so, sooooo offputting. (and grieving, and guilty, and terrified, but yeah: offputting.)

anyway, it's issues like this one that remind me why i kind of hesitate over some of the retcons in the recent spurrier runs, like the one with him now having opened dream's pouch of sand and stolen some before they even met. because like, it's easy enough to look at john constantine now — with 70 years of worst possible choices and unresolved trauma crystallizing underneath his skin to cover up all the soft, hopeful bits where he's used to getting hit — and assign him arbiter of ill intentions, magus of wasted potential, saint of shit choices, but man . . . he was new to this, once. he was still new to this 80 issues in.

80 issues in, and he's not used to losing friends yet; he even has time enough between catastrophes to grieve each individual one. still has enough left to live for at this stage to necessitate running and hiding, instead of bodily throwing himself at the problem like he learns to later, or sitting apathetically by to do nothing except smoke and watch the world fall apart when he finally gives up. fuck, he still apologizes.

and you're telling me this guy, this soppy wet cat motherfucker hiding from the devil in a church basement, so guilty over not knowing what happened to the guy that he paid people (paid chas, so chas could pay people) to attack that the bottle he's holding in this scene isn't even his second or third........this guy's past, more innocent self lied right to the face of DREAM OF THE ENDLESS and got away with it?

hm. i just don't know about all that.

[paroslineage]

THINGS I THINK THE :

MAFIA!TOKYO REVENGERS BOYS WILL DO FOR YOU.

TW : Gore, Description of Torture, Killing, and Reader death, female reader, Mafia themes, gun violence, shooting, blood.

All boys are aged up don't come at me.

All characters except reader belong to Ken Wakui i do not own them.

Don't steal my idea or I'll hunt you down :D.

Masterlist.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Context:

Y/N L/N the wife of the most dangerous Mafioso in the of Tokyo having an undettering face of cold ruthlessness and having a uninterested facade is only sweet for his lovely darling YOU.

But...

What happens if the mafia organizations having grudge on your husband go after the unsuspecting sweet little bunny of the dangerous mob boss.

YOU.

Scenario:

"My sweet darling! I'm home and I brought your favorite choco chip pastry from the bakery!"

"Why is it dark honey?" He chuckles

He turns on the light and what he sees makes his blood run horribly cold.

The entire mansion was ransacked.

The table broken, cabinets upturned and His darling's favourite flower vase shattered.

He drops the box and runs frantically up the stairs pulling out his gun for the the holster to the both of your shared grand bedroom.

He breaks down the door and what he sees makes him turn unhinged.

His darling... Laying on the center of the bed fully bled out.

Five holes on the chest, three in the temple and four in the stomach and two in your abdomen.

But your eyes were stuck open, the life in them drained a long time ago.

He walks over to you, eerily silent kneels on the bed his eyes trembling and hands fiercely cradling you to his chest and he buried your cold little face into the crook of his neck.

"I'm so sorry for being late my dove, forgive this asshole."

"I'll take revenge for you my dove just you see."

"I'll murder those son of bitches and feed their bones to the wolves I swear on your life darling."

He kisses your forehead looking into the empty void of your eyes and closes them by his hand his tears running down his anguished face.

His eyes frantically and disturbingly wide not even once blinking looking into your dead ones...

As he caressed your hair on tenderly kissing you on the forehead right where the bullet mark was present...

God did his heart hurt.

His lips trembled as he spoke but not the words..

They were spoken loudly and fully finalized...

TOKYO REVENGERS BOYS WHO :

♡ Would be the one to hunt down your murderer

And brutally and ferally slaughter that bastard

That includes.

Gouging their eyeballs, Their brains from their noses, waterboarding them till their last seconds of consciousness, Skinning them alive, flaying them, dipping them in acid.

And lastly shooting them exactly the number of times and the precise location that monster shot you.

Which totals to 14 times.

And then fed them to the wolves of and burning the bones.

"Revenge taken my little dove... Just as I promised."

He whispered quietly to no one as he smoked a cigarette and looked up at the night sky full of stars shining brightly than usual.

With tears dripping endlessly down his emotionless visage.

"I see you looking after and smiling at me darling keep doing that."

He exhaled his smoke through his nose smiling painfully.

"Because soon I'll be joining you up there my love..."

Characters : HANMA , KISAKI , Izana, Kakucho, Ran, KAZUTORA, Rindou, Mikey, Draken, Baji, Mitsuya, SANZU SANZU SANZU.

[forsworned]

I NEED more Elias Walker content before I die😫😫💀

God Knows I Tried ft. Elias Walker

Synopsis: Your daddy issues are raging and your long-time 'victim' has been none other than your superior and captain, Elias Walker. After a failed attempt to capture and kill Rorke, you go to "comfort" him, but he seems to have other plans for you.

Author's Note: AND GUESS WHAT I WILL PROVIDE FOR YOU, I'M GLAD WE'RE REVIVING GHOSTS IN THE FORM OF DROOLING OVER DILFS BC LORD KNOWS I NEED SOME MORE MCDADDY CLUB LOVIN

Tags: NSFW, Daddy Issues, Age Gap, Power Dynamics, Reader has long hair???

Elias ruffles his fingers through his silver hair after he removes his distressed and worn mask, setting it down on his desk as he sharply inhales. He hadn't gotten to Rorke on time and that pissed him off, and rightfully so. The bastard had been getting away every damn time. His body is tense and he feels as though his anger is brimming from within, bubbling to the surface and he yearns to do something about it.

So when you come rapping on his door, ripping him away from his inner turmoil, and he hears the pleasant sound of your voice through the small crack asking, "Can I come in?" He is more than willing to oblige.

His body completely faces you now, beaconing you over, and taking in your figure in your all-black tactical uniform. It fits you like a second skin, but his intense gaze shifts to your smooth visage. The moonlight catches in your teeth when you greet him. "Can I speak to you for a moment, Sir?"

He raises a brow at you. "Somethin' on your mind, Sergeant?"

Truthfully, you had no idea why you came in. You just found yourself walking back to his office rather than your bunk. After today's failure, you want nothing more than to comfort him. You slowly step forward, just a few feet away from him. "Was just checkin' on you...?"

God, you were so stupid. Checking in? Come on...

A flash of amusement etches into his features, he tilts his head as he studies your expression. "Checkin' in?" He leans his palms against his wooden desk.

"Yeah, I mean--I know this is something very close to you..."

Oh. My. God. Would you shut the everliving fuck up!?

He sighs and turns to the night sky. The moon is full, and its luminance brings a sense of calm to him. He chuckles at your obvious statement, but he doesn't chide you about it. Something about you makes the hardass in him a little soft. "Suppose so."

You swallow and fiddle with the leather on your gloves, waiting to think of something, anything else to add to the conversation, but your mind is coming up blank.

"Tell me, Sergeant--why did you really come into my office?"

Your heart drops to your ass, and your stomach does the thing. Not the hot-and-sexy-thing, but the oh-shit-I-just-got caught thing.

Elias is a sharp man; follows his intuition, checks every corner he treks, and was raised by plain-spoken folk. He can see through most people and unfortunately, you're most people. You wear your heart on your sleeve, your gaze lingers longer than usual and although it may not be obvious to others, you imitate most of his behaviorisms.

Where you used to take your coffee sweet and milky, you now take black. The way you now drink sparkling water over soda. Your go-to music is The Eagles and Creed over Ed Sheeran and Taylor Swift (though you still did listen to them, it was seldom). Even your eating habits have changed drastically from avid fast food eater to health nut, although that seems more like a get in shape sorta ordeal due to your fast-paced, rigorous work environment. Either way, you have definitely been picking up on a lot of things that he actively does.

You avert your gaze to your fatigued boots. "I don't know."

"Step forward, soldier." He commands, and you oblige. Not because he commanded it, but because you want to be nearer to him. To take in the scent of gunpowder and the leftover aroma of his aftershave.

You're a foot away from him now, hands tucked behind your back, eyes forward. His dark eyes size you up, and you feel the sweat forming on the nape of your neck. 

"Eyes up." His fingers tap under your chin and your lip quivers a bit when you meet his gaze. "You gonna tell me what's really on your mind?"

He taps on your chin once more. "And don't lie to me."

You swallow thickly. "It's not...appropriate."

He clicks his tongue and a half smile appears on his lips. "That right?"

You nod. "Yes, sir."

"I want to hear it."

But he sees the trepidation that overcomes your features. It’s been so painfully obvious to him. Your little crush. It was endearing, cute, mere puppy love, but he would be lying to himself if he hadn’t thought of molding your walls with his girthy cock. He usually tiptoes around it, but the mission from earlier is bringing on an itch that he can’t quite scratch. Not even a Playboy mag could get him right anymore.

He sighs. "You're not my bud to blossom, sweetheart." Brushing the strands out of your face. You tremble at his touch, yet you lean into it. God, he could do anything to you and you'd let him.

"But I'd let you." You grasp his hand. His eyes ream in surprise, but the building arousal jostles up his spine. He may think that blossom is not for him, but he's intently observing how your desire stirs, seeping into your veins. His breath spreads out your petals, the smell of your perfume permeating, intoxicating him.

Your lips part open and his thumb slips in, your saliva coating his gunpowder-stained skin draws an involuntary groan from him. He wants to devour you, but he can't. You're too sweet, too decadent, too fresh. He needs to take his time to savor you. It's wrong, but he can't help himself. Especially when you look up at him with those pretty, perfect doe eyes with his fingers in your mouth.

Your free hand palms at his crotch. It's intrepid, daring how forward you are about your fiery fervor for him. He cocks an eyebrow at you, but he doesn't halt your actions.

"That's a big weapon you're slingin' there, sir." You smirk up at him, squeezing his member over his trousers. "Can I cock it?"

He chuckles at your cheekiness. He wants to disarm you, wipe off everything on his desk, and throw you up there. And you'd be so easy to lift too...

But he's shocked when your lips lock with his, a dauntless action on your part. A subordinate fraternizing with her superior? It's enough to get you locked up, and dishonorably charged, but this wasn't the minor leagues anymore. You were hunting for bigger fish. Something that's beyond the crumbling American government outside these four walls. There's a spark between the both of you that you've been waiting to ignite in him, and he can no longer suppress his deepest hunger pains for his carnal needs.

And soon he is swiping away at the stacks of papers and stationery that lines his desk, hoisting you up to sit that pretty ass on his mahogany counter. A gruff moan escapes his lips as you collide once more, and you're practically clawing at his chest. His tongue slips between your lips wanting to collect yours as your teeth clash in desperate need for each other's solace.

His hands grasp at your wrists, slowing you down, wanting to relish in your taste, your smell, your touch, and the way you moan when he dips his head in the crook of your neck to sensually kiss at your sweet spot. Perspiration builds at the base of his forehead as he slowly unzips your fleece, revealing more of your skin and he kisses at your sternum. Your fingers thread through his silver hair and your breaths become labored at his hot touch.

He wants to build as much anticipation as possible before he takes all of you, all of what you'll allow him at least. Impatiently, your arms cross over your chest, pinching at the hem and smoothly peeling off the skin-tight fabric, leaving you only in your tactical bra. Elias pauses for a second. He loves to appreciate the finer things in life.

His fingers caress your disheveled plait from the top to where your hair tie keeps it bound and he gently removes it. You analyze the lust and admiration in his features as he carefully unweaves your hair.

You watch as his Adam's apple oscillates. "You're beautiful." He susurrates, carding his fingers through your hair. Your heart stammers against your chest when you notice how he looks at you. The rough pads of his fingers glide over your collarbone to the strap of your bra, and slides either side off of your shoulder to reveal your naked breasts. Your nipples instantly harden from the chill in the room, and he gulps before reaching out to squeeze your left one.

To say it had been a while was simply an understatement. The touch of a woman has been lost on him since the death of his wife. So soft, so supple. He pinches at your bud and you involuntarily arch your back and whine out. The guilt he feels dissipates the second his lips latch onto your nipple and you shudder as his tongue swirls around the sensitive skin. "Captain...!"

He gently hushes and kisses your lips tenderly, then your cheek, your jaw as he cops another feel, grabbing two handfuls of your tits while he sucks on your neck. One of his hands glides over the expanse of your abdomen, to unbuckle your belt and unzip your trousers--

"Dad?"

Shit, he left the office unlocked. But it's too late. His boys are stepping through the door, although it's not long before their eyes ream at your half-naked form, legs spread with their father between them. Hesh quickly shuts the door and you both glance down, feeling the guilt skulk into your minds.

"I should go--" Elias sputters, and you nod as you scramble to put your clothes back on. Now this was humiliating. Being caught by his sons fraternizing with their father is just the icing on the cake of it all. You straighten your hair and fix your collar as you begin to head out the door, but his hand catches your wrist bringing you back flush against his chest.

"Don't think I'm lettin' them scare you off." He caresses your cheek, with thumb and you sigh, cheeks still warm with embarrassment. "I ain't done with you yet, sweetheart. Got that?"

He raises his brows at you and you nod. "Yes, sir."

He kisses you softly and your heart skips a beat. "Go on, now." He gestures toward the door. "I'll deal with those two."

Your lashes flutter up at him and you feel warmth all over. He smiles at you, kissing your wrist and it's no wonder you keep forgetting to leave. His gaze, his aura it's alluring and you keep pulling back in for more.

He chuckles at the hearts in your eyes. "That's an order, soldier."

You straighten at his words and nod before rushing out the door, ensuring you hear the click as you close it and quickly get to your quarters. A feeling of heaviness weighs on your shoulders as soon as you shut your door. How were you going to face Hesh and Logan?

[respectthepetty]

Pride Petty Watch - LiTA (Sky/Prapai) 1/3

The crowd picked Love in the Air as the first show to ever move off of my Petty List, so I'm watching it and recapping my experience, and oh boy, is it an *experience*. I wrote about the first seven episodes in two parts [here and here], so it's time to dive into the next six episodes!

Woot woot!

I had to make sure I didn't click on episode one again because it's the same scenes showing again. This is the third time they have been shown? Fourth? I'm here for one thing and one thing only. Quit bullshitting LiTA and GIVE ME WHAT I CAME FOR!

Oh my God, my heart just jumped into my throat with this music and this lighting behind this devil.

I know how their story starts. I already knew. I will be not be upset at him. I will not get into my feelings about this even though this music and lighting are hellbent on making Prapai seem like The Worst™

I would love to claim "pink = 💕love💕" but not today, Satan.

Sky saying "Where's the condom?" as more of a demand rather than a question and the arch of his back are an appreciation post in themselves. This is transactional and he is not here to make friends.

WHY AM I BEING SHOWN RAIN AND PAYU AGAIN?! If you don't have enough material for thirteen episodes, just say it! Because my boy disassociated, went on autopilot, and is now tucking this nightmare away in a dark corner of his mind in true Trauma Compartmentalizing 101 fashion, yet I gotta see Payu and Rain's Daddy x Baby nonsense another round?! I only respect one person in this house and the rest of these men can choke. I wrote what I wrote.

Hold up, Prapai was AWAKE when Sky left looking like that? And now he is reminiscing about it in all black with that black rose of death lapel pin? *Arthur Fist*

I support queer rights AND queer wrongs, but this show is testing me like I'm fucking Frodo having to deliver a ring to the depths of hell in the month of Pride. Sky just went home and cried on his bed, while this woman is talking about getting over heartbreak because Prapai can't stop thinking about this one-night stand. I cannot be queer and *here* in these conditions with el diablo smirking every two seconds.

KinnPorsche, my old enemy, we meet again. Didn't think I'd see you here, but it tracks because where there is a rich bastard incapable of getting over the poorer man he wrongfully exerted power over, there will be a robe, wine, and a sex worker. (That boy looks like the Memory in the Letter lead)

"I feel sorry for your prey" - Everyone is too busy looking at the metaphorical weather that represents the characters to notice the red alert standing right there.

On God, if a man called me like that without telling me his name and proceeded to just . . . be creepy, it'd be on like Donkey Kong. I was raised by Sidney Prescott from Scream and if a man wants to play games over the phone, then he needs to be prepared to die. And what is it with this show trying to distract me with with these problematic men working out? I know they are attractive, but as Michelle Visage stated "stop relying on that body!" AND NOW CREEPY TEXTS, and the only thing Sky thinks is a "man like that wouldn't be into [him]" . . . BL boys would greatly benefit from feminism.

Prapai, you have to get less creepy. You just have to because this is not it, my man. You are throwing out the beginning-of-a-psycho-killer vibes and I cannot. I simply. Can. Fucking. Not.

Sky is pissed at Rain, threw the flowers, and has Prapai listed as "Psycho" so it's clear who has the brain cell of these weather boys, and it's the one whose back is hurting FROM CARRYING THE WEIGHT OF THE DAMN WORLD ON HIS SHOULDERS!

I will not be swayed by the sunflowers, the fact that Prapai is aware Sky is a Sad Boy, or the blue. As far as I'm concerned, by the end of this episode, Prapai is still the devil. NEXT EPISODE!

The energy between these two is giving me GMMTV "brothers," and that is not a compliment.

I'm not going to fault Sky for not throwing away the flowers because reuse, recycle, re-

WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?!

*took a six hour break and contemplated the meaning of life, made an avocado smoothie then poured rum in it, started doing yoga then ended up in savasana, which means I just laid there and looked at the ceiling, and finally I remembered the gorgeous Zani is in this show, so I returned*

This boy is me and I am him. I'm so chill that if I got any cooler, I'd be an ice cube. Just chilling. So chill. The chill is immaculate. I am meditating. I am praying. I am one with the storm. I'm the chillest. Climate change no longer exists because I'm just, so, fucking, chill. ~Let's continue~

I don't want to give Prapai any credit because I already told my mom I hate him which means we are sworn enemies in this life and future ones as well, but him noticing that Sky spaced out even though he immediately jumped back into flirting mode, and him reinforcing that he thinks Sky is attractive in any state including this one should be an issue because he is still focusing on Sky's body, but he doesn't know Sky well enough to have anything else, so . . . one whole point for Slytherin, I guess.

Rain is not a real one and if Sky was a rapper, this in when he would have dropped the ultimate diss track cementing his place in academic rhetoric for all eternity. Even if I didn't know about his ex, I could have read that expression, but Rain? Once again, one brain cell, and Sky has it.

I want to give Prapai the points for the food, but he doesn't even know what Sky likes, so this is White Man Ambition at its finest. Thank goodness that Sky is throwing it awa-

NOT THE FUCKING RED AGAIN!

Dear Reader, I'm going to level with you here one and a half episodes into this arc: I now fully understand The Fuckery. I greatly appreciate the 126 people who picked this show because this is the perfect example of what I keep reading about a MAME series. The abrupt shifts between aggressive flirting, dick jokes, and trauma is jarring. I knew the kidnapping was coming for Rain, but hearing Stop say that Rain would be sexually assaulted by his gang of men if Payu didn't stop fighting back was the most violent moment of an already physically violent event that, strangely, did not affect me until that very moment. I know what is coming for Sky, yet having these intercuts of Sky's abuse, although effective, are humbling in a way I was not expecting. Because what I had thought I was walking into was a trashy watch with gratuitous sex talk and some drama, but what I'm experiencing is a lot of emotional discord as the story swings between extremes while refusing to balance itself out. There is no middle ground in this show. I will continue to be petty about this watch, but I get it now in a way I was never going to grasp without watching one of her series and I'm graciously realizing I would not have survived TharnType because even as Prapai connects the dots that something *very bad* has happened to Sky based on his interactions with Sky, he smiles because . . . well, because.

So even though Sky and Prapai's arc is smaller than the first, my watch is going to be in three parts instead of just two because . . . well, because.

~Let's continue~

I'm going to try really hard to give Slytherin points here, *grinds teeth* so even though this man is stalking Sky, he gets credit for showing up, which according to the great philosophers, is half the battle. Also, I know his lapel pins are important, so the sunflower and the bee after he gave Sky meaningful sunflowers is a nice sentimental touch, but he gets no points because HE COULD'VE OFFERED THE BOY A RIDE! The perfect pitch was right there, yet he swings and misses.

I don't listen to true crime podcasts, but I feel confident that most cases start with a stalker using several devices to contact their victim after his primary mean is blocked. Basically, I need Prapai to do as Sky's shirt says and "CHILL THE FUCK OUT!" I'm trying to give him points but he refuses to exhibit any level of chill. None. No chill. Not ice cube. Just sad hot puddle of zero chills.

I felt *something* between Sig and Som when they were arguing across the tables in episode seven, but now I know Sig is trying to instigate a fight with Som just so he can have that boy's hands around his neck. I respect it.

Sky is having a breakdown because of the onslaught of texts Prapai keeps sending him from multiple devices and as he huddles in the fetal position begging to be left alone having bursts of anger, the phone begins to vibrate signaling more texts are coming through. The director, Ne, also served as an editor on Only Friends, and if he whispered in Jojo's ears to make Ray's bathtub scene just as gut-wrenching as this, I just wanna eat some soup with Ne and know like "You good, boo?"

I am fighting for my life in these trenches!

Rain picked up Sky's phone and told Prapai to come to the hospital. Rain? Rain who was on his knees begging for Sky's forgiveness after he gave Sky's number to Prapai? As in the Rain who was told to stay out of Sky's business? Like the same Rain who Sky looked in his face and told him he would never be with Prapai? THE RAIN WHO IS NOW GIVING PRAPAI THE KEY TO SKY'S APARTMENT?! That Rain?!

"I made a promise to Rain" - Pero like . . . why do you have to make promises to not fuck with unconscious and sick people? Cause shouldn't that be a given? No? Mmm. Interesting development.

I have only watched two episodes. TWO! I'm not even halfway through this AND I know how this ends. No amount of knowledge or spoilers has properly prepared me for this journey, and now I'm scared and I want my mom to come pick me up.

But here I am. Clicking on the next episode.

pinche cabrón

[admistedenslush]

Desert Rose ~ Prologue

Aemond Targaryen / Fem!Reader

Synopsis:Aemond always held a special affection for his elder niece, Ser Criston Cole's kin.

Warnings: self-deprecating reader, abusive/foul language

════════ ❀•°❀°•❀ ════════

DORNE, 130 AC

In a Dornish hamlet, ethereal silks draped gracefully upon your form, and the soft chiming of gold jewels accompanied every movement. As young maidens danced around you, a circle of elder women surrounded you.

“Beautiful hair, thick and resilient,” one whispered, her touch tenderly weaving through your locks.

The collective murmur of agreement resonated, and your grin mirrored the reciprocity of compliments that flowed like a gentle breeze among kindred spirits.

Kindred spirits abound — men, women, and children mirroring your essence.

Amidst this tranquil interlude, a familiar, jarring screech pierced the air, disrupting the serenity. A distant crimson blur materialized in the sky, unsettling you. As the serpent-necked dragon descended menacingly, the ominous certainty of impending peril seized your consciousness.

“Run along, dears. No harm will befall you. He's here for me,” you reassured them.

“A dragon rider for you? Who?” inquired the older woman.

“My father,” you responded, prompting a furrowed brow that deepened the wrinkles framing her discerning eyes.

With eyes tinged in suspicion and anxiety, they fled, children cradled in their arms.

You remained motionless, unafraid of Daemon Targaryen, yet as he touched down, a subtle unease settled in your stomach. At that moment, your life unfolded before your eyes: a tapestry woven with images of your mother, heir to the Iron Throne, your brothers, Laenor Velaryon. And there, amidst the memories, lingered the haunting visage of the boy with the scarred face—your uncle, last encountered in what felt like a lifetime ago.

❀

Seated beneath a prayer wheel, crafted by Queen Alicent, he awaited—a miracle the queen gave you leave to enter his chambers.

“Who enters?” croaked the young boy.

Closing the chamber door, you settled by his feet.

“Guess who,” you smiled down at him.

You weren't present during the horrific incident, much like Aegon. The younger children spared you the disturbance.

“Why did you come, b-bastard?” His puffy face sought direction, frizzy hair falling untamed.

Aemond's answer didn't faze you; a wounded child stood before you.

“I thought I was your friend, your flower.” You reached for him, but he swatted your hands away.

“A rose. A desert rose. Somehow, you flourish even in the wrong temperature,” he spat.

You came to console the blonde but left, the need for sympathies shifting to you. Grabbing your skirts, you shoved the door open, brushing by the guards into the echoes of the castle.

❀

A bellow of your name and titles snapped you back to reality. Descending from Meraxes, your stepfather's gaze held a mix of anger and disappointment—a familiar look you'd encountered countless times. Though the exact memory eluded you, you believed it originated from the time you first entered this realm, a crying babe with dark curls.

“This is where you've been,” he strode towards you.

“Dorne,” you answered, feigning ignorance.

His eyes darkened.

“Do you realize how sick with worry your mother is?”

Your demeanor shifted, your hand resting on your stomach, the concern for your mother overpowering any attempt to hold your ground.

“I'm—” you began.

“No, listen to me. You don't have the fucking right to fly off by yourself without telling anybody, especially at this time.”

“I'm sorry,” teary eyes blurred your vision.

“I expected to find you a mess, maimed, scratched, on the brink of death. A corpse I'd have to carry back to Dragonstone for your mother! Yet here you are in costume, covered in gold,” he continued in a fit.

The sound of your sob halted him. He sighed, enveloping you in his arms, soothing your babbling apologies. Cupping your face, his calloused fingers brushed away your tears, your quivering mouth unable to articulate.

“ Tala. You are the blood of the dragon. Don't ever think less of yourself.” He tightened his embrace, pressing your face against his chest.

His hand shrugged off the Dornish textile from your shoulders.

“You are a Targaryen, you are your mother's daughter,” he whispered.

════════ ❀•°❀°•❀ ════════

@valleyof-goldenlilies

[thana-topsy]

The Neloth Post Nobody Asked For but now I'm making it everyone's problem

I guess I'll start out by saying: all of this pertains to my very specific version of Neloth who can be found alive and well (for now) in my fic series "Legends Never Die". It's a big wide fandom, I do not claim to be an authority on Anything, and I think everyone's little pocket universes and OC-ification of NPCs are all equally valid. These are just some of the ways I write and characterize him. So if you have any Neloth headcannons of your own, please sound off!

The Basics:

I estimate this old crusty bastard is in his 700s, or thereabouts, probably on the later end. He stopped counting at a certain point and can't be arsed to keep a talley. There are more important things that occupy his brainspace. He maintains his spry and youthful visage [cough] through his rigorous magical practices, (and his not-so-subtle interest in necromancy and discovering the secrets to immortality).

He was exiled decided to retire from the Telvanni Council a good fifty or sixty years before the eruption of Red Mountain, retreating to Solstheim to continue his experiments in seclusion. Due to severing his mainland ties and House loyalties, his power and influence are significantly weakened, though he continues to expand his studies and has a relatively well-functioning settlement of workers, as well as his current apprentice, Talvas Fathryon, under his tutelage.

And of course, the question on everyone's mind: do he fuck? In terms of his sexuality, he's finicky and if I had to slap a label on him, he's definitely in the realm of Aro-Ace, but on the gray side of things (pun intended???). Here, have an Ace Neloth Pride Flag because why not:

Personal Interests, Likes, and Dislikes:

The list of dislikes could probably rival the "color of the sky" post, so let's try to condense that into the main point: he dislikes inefficiency. The definition of what he finds "inefficient" can and does vary greatly, even in his own work. I would say one of his driving motivators is IncreasE Efficiency, above all else.

His likes are few and far between. As it stands, I could probably list three off-hand. He likes well-made tea (preferably dark, bitter, and stimulating), he likes an organized bookshelf, and he likes Teldryn Sero (who is also dark, bitter, and.... stimulating).

Morality:

Huh? What's that? Never heard of it.

I kid (kind of). Neloth has a complicated psychology. I characterize him to have underdeveloped empathy, but he is not entirely devoid of it. I suppose I'll let him explain it, (from chapter 5 of "Breathing Water"):

“I do…” Neloth began, [...] “I do… feel.” He twisted the stiff bedroll between his fingers. “I do.” [...]  “It’s just…” He didn’t know where he was going with this, but the words were clawing their way out of him like some kind of sick, emaciated animal emerging from a cave. “I don’t think I… feel… correctly.” He exhaled sharply, letting his head roll from side to side, neck popping. “I’ve always been this way. It’s not just the result of graying morals from a prolonged life. I’ve always had this,” he gestured to his chest with trembling fingers, “hole. Like something’s missing.” He pulled the bedroll tighter around him, curling in on himself. A small laugh. “It’s been useful, if I’m honest.” 

He does try, at a certain point, to understand this side of himself a little bit better. Though, honey, he's got a big storm coming.

Anyways, that's my Neloth post for now, maybe I'll add more another time. :) Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.