#Jon Valor

[dcdreamblog]

What can you tell me about the pirate superheroes? Guys like the black pirates, captain fear, swordfish and barracuda?

Well the first thing I can tell you is that you're kind of talking about two different time periods. Jon Valor AKA the Black Pirate was active in the 16th century and was more what we would call a privateer than a true pirate.

He was commissioned by the English crown to rob, plunder and scuttle Spanish shipping in the Atlantic but because of the nature of Spanish sailors at the time and Valor's own personal sense of honor he did end up putting down a lot of truly despicable slavers and conquistador-ish men

The other 3 you mentioned, Captain Fear, Swordfish and Barracuda were all active in the mid 18th century much more within what we would call the Golden Age of Piracy.

(Fear's illustration in an 1866 updated edition of A General History of the Pyrates)

Fear's history is very roughly sketched, what we know about him is that he was a Carib (a people group we now call the Kalinago) on an island in the Spanish Carribean enslaved by Spanish sailors who led a native mutiny aboard said slave ship. Making a vow to "treat the Spaniards as I was treated by them"

Fear was a scourge on Spanish shipping, especially Spanish slave shipping for years before teaming up with an English privateer named Baron Hemlocke. The two men led an exceptionally bloody raid on the Spanish town of San Bartolemo (near modern day La Ceiba in Honduras)

Something led to a breakdown in their partnership directly afterward as Captain Fear began to chase Hemlocke out into open water where neither man was ever seen or heard from again

Swordfish and Barracuda we know frighteningly little about. Save that from description of their activities in the waters of what is now Costa Rica its safe to say they were some kind of metahuman. They too vanished without a trace during a confrontation with the pirate "god" X'ult.

[krinsbez]

Pulptober 2023 Themes Elaborated, Part One

A reminder that everyday of Pulptober has two prompts; a specific character, and a theme that that character is an example of. This is the first in a series of posts elaborating on what the themes are, and giving 2-3 alternate examples; I will try not to use multiple alts for different days, but may periodically use someone who has their own day.

Thanks to @maxwell-grant who once again helped me with assembling the lists of alternate examples. Characters who have a plus sign (+) next to their names were suggested by him. Characters with an asterisk (*) are ones where I have not consumed any source material (note that I'm including tie-in or revival media as source material).

1-The Shadow/Master of the Mind: This one is fairly straightforward; a LOT of Pulp Heroes have some form of psychic or mesmeric powers. This day is for them. Alternates: Brain Boy, Fascinax*+

2-Doc Savage/Famous Name: While many Pulp Heroes have aliases, many will just use their real name which, with frequency, comes with a surname (or occasionally a given name) that is an actual word or the name of notable historical or mythological figure, that suggests some form of badassery. unsurprisingly, a lot of them are expies of today's primary but far from all...Alternates: Professor Challenger+, Jon Valor*, Athena Voltaire

3-The Green Hornet/A Rainbow of Justice: Another name based one; like their superhero descendants, a significant number of Pulp Heroes use aliases that prominently feature a color. This day is for them. Alternates: Lavender Jack+*, Blue Demon, Red Sonja

4-The Avenger/With A Little Help From My Friends. Most Pulp Heroes have a supporting cast of some sort, but these guys take it a few steps further, working with a team of loyal, capable assistants, with whom they frequently share the spotlight. Alternates: Adventureman, Lobster Johnson

5-John Carter/All For Love: These heroes may or may not have higher motives, but what really pushes them forward is that someone they love is in danger, they intend to save them, and no one and nothing will stand in their way. Alternates: Flash Gordon+, Rick O'Connell

[superherobriefings]

Black Pirate

Creator(s): Sheldon Moldoff

Alias(es): Jon Valor

1st Issue w/Uniform: All-American Comics #72

Year/Month of Publication: 1946/04

dc.fandom.com/wiki/Jon_Valor_(New_Earth)

[superfamilyweek]

Superfamily Week is Coming!

We would like to officially welcome you to Superfamily Week, a fandom event which aims to celebrate Superman and all members of his family. The week will run from Sunday, November 24 through Saturday, November 30.

Make sure to check out the event rules here. Stay tuned for the prompts!

[pliablehead]

Super self-indulgent little piece of writing I did laying out the guys from EE as a dungeons & dragons-style adventuring party, which I have just mailed to @heyjudelaw but figured I’d also share here if anyone cared hehehe

Central among them stands a dark-clad man who draws the eye almost instantly with his towering, statuesque height, and then keeps it, quite striking in appearance and countenance. His dark hair rakes back from a noble brow in an elegant widow’s peak, and with it, two smooth, sweeping devil’s horns, darker still–a tiefling, then, from some high elven stock but some of something else, deeper, infernal. The rake of his horns only serves to make him look even taller. He wears a long, crisp travellers’ coat, its shining buttons left undone along his front; it is perhaps black, perhaps only nearly black, effecting something more subtle and expensive than a stark blotch of pure pitch might in the dappled soft-focus light of the wood. Beneath it he sports no armor, merely a simple knit sweater with a high turtleneck, obscuring nearly all of his tanned skin. It is clear he does not need it: here in what should be at least three days’ rough travel from the edge of the wood, his clothes and slim boots show not a speck of dirt nor wear, and not a single strand of his smoothly coiffed hair falls out of place. Some sort of power beyond the material realm of the forest auras him–the only thing about him that is difficult to look at. Though his eyes are also dark, theirs is a warm, liquid darkness, speaking of more brightness and kindness than the rest of his striking presence might command.

At his side, another—perhaps maybe even tall as the tiefling man, but comporting himself such that he appears smaller, somehow stooped without stooping, his shoulders in an altogether different set. He is unmistakably elvish, though in a rare way of no clear high elf or wood elf bearing, his fine features and complexion betraying neither, his eyes clear but hooded and narrow, as though constantly peering into spaces deeper and further than the planes around him. The singular visage of an arcanist. This elven man is clad in soft cloaks of greys and tans, much more of a place in the wood than his tiefling companion seems to be; and belted around his waist and shoulders are a number of small, esoteric devices that he seems to touch and catalogue with a practiced, almost uncanny ease, finding one and implementing it immediately in almost the same deft, fluid motion. The casual movement of his dexterous hands belies the deep arcane complexity of the challenges they perform, mastered only after years or even decades of study—despite his unassuming appearance, his reputation has come to precede him. Surely this is the wizard Kaines.

Smallest among their number, but by no means slight, stands a man of a much more human bearing, though there lingers just enough in his bone structure and the cool piercing blue of his eyes to indicate some elven heritage within him as well, perhaps several generations back. Compared to his companions he seems almost nondescript by choice, with dark, close-cropped hair and a matching stubbled jaw flecked through with grey, and a posture of almost deliberate, calculated looseness, an alert mind and a keen gaze. He wears light and almost airy raiments, a diffuse shade of blue, as though of a white fabric dyed by hand to perfectly match his eyes, and their monotone palette seems—symbolic, representative of something, perhaps some order he has sworn himself to, or some other alliance beyond his traveling party. Despite the shaded cool of the forest, the shirtsleeves of this raiment are short, as though to give him the broadest and easiest range of motion. Mounted at his waist are a few small instruments of combat, blades and cudgels clearly designed for nimble swiftness rather than overpowering might, though his bared arms are corded with lithe muscle, that same loose but wary carriage.

At the front of the party—stepping forward—

Not the first of them to stand out and command attention, but the one who does so now with the greatest strength and tenacity, good gods, impossible to look away. Like his companion in blue, he appears mostly of human heritage, but whatever other ancestry lies in his blood is not that of his half-elven cohorts, but some more fey or bestial nature, some kobold or gnoll of some deep underforest, gleaming feral about his wild blue eyes, the unsettling too-clean sharpness of his teeth. His brows and the shadow of his jaw are dark, but his head of hair is bleached to blond by some caustic process or by some other clime’s blazing sun, a strange clash, at home in his strange whole. His broad body is clad in textured, dark black underleathers, a wicked pitch-black breastplate and greaves, all underneath some sweeping sleeveless cloak or priory tabard—mist-grey and somber, at its surface, but seeming to ripple with a frisson of hellfire orange and magenta when the woodland breeze catches it, there one moment and vanished the next, preternatural and alarming as the rest of the man himself. Whatever vestments these are that he wears, nothing of the divine realms has lain touch to them. His power, compelling and captivating as has ever graced this wood, stems from something oppressive, ancient, and fathomlessly dark, till it nearly clouds the air around him. Against its weight he seems almost illumined by compare.

And so bidden, you approach the crossroad…

[petalsinmoonlight]

closed starter for Jon Kent @hellhathnosavior​  “i told you to turn your music down”

“What was that? Turn my music up? Not a problem good sir.” Valor nodded raising the volume on his stereo to promptly ignore his sponsor. He turned back to his canvas, continuing his painting. It was a park by his old home...back when he still had a family that cared about him. Before his sister sold him out. “¿Necesitas algo Sportacus?” 

[eccentricallygothic]

Crosshairs

Description: Trying to get Robb's attention is one thing, but when you have successfully landed yourself in his crosshairs is another.

Pairing: Brat Tamer Prodigal Son!Robb Stark | Spoilt Brat!You.

Warning(s): Brat taming, jealousy, spanking, punishment, unprotected p-in-v, doggy style (it's me), claiming, manhandling (it's Robb), power imbalance, degradation, light misogyny, Robb's BDE because I live for that shit, corporal punishment ig, boob play. MDNI.

Type: Request, here. 

. . .

“You do realize you will land us both in trouble if you keep this up, yes?” Jon does not look up at his older brother's betrothed half out of respect and half out of the playful annoyance he feels for the spoiled girl batting her eyelashes down at him with faux coyness.

“What trouble?” The male rolls his eyes as he works away at his sword. “I haven't the slightest inkling of whatever you mean, Jon” he resists the urge to scoff at your obvious innocence. 

The uncharacteristic nature of your actions makes you stick out like a sore thumb. The forced lady-like smile that holds your features in an uncomfortable shift due to lack of experience, the way you hover above his head in a flirtatious side hang even though you never behave in this manner around the opposite sex save one, the overdone grace with which you tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear and the little tilt of your head that is accompanied by a confused and senseless giggle fitting to women, the pains with which you put this effort forward is painfully obvious. 

“Right” the object of his discomfort -something you have in common with said object, at times- appears on the horizon of his vision and Jon sighs. 

Well, there goes his hope of not becoming the collateral today.

“No, tell me what you meant” though you aren't used to or too comfortable with leaning into men, you do so because you have also caught the quiet figure in your own peripherals and unlike Jon, you welcome the circumstance like the fool you are. “I want to know, Jon~” the dark haired male uncomfortably shifts away from you who puts an extra swing in your sway towards him. He lets out a suppressed scoff and glares at you. The two of you have been friends long enough for him to know exactly what it is that you are doing. 

“Stop” you know each other too well to be affected by any proximity with each other but Jon's older brother who is an advocate of propriety has taught his younger brother that this distance with a lady one is not related to seldom fares well and thus his teachings show in his behavior. “You—” though he decides not to beat around the bush for any longer, it is too little too late.

Alas.

“Father calls for you, Snow” the male in question releases a breath he was not aware he was holding and jumps to his feet abruptly with a gladness he is still cautious of since his brother likes to get unfair at times despite being well acquainted with your personality. 

Jon departs, or rather flees the scene without another word.

A smirk makes its way onto your face so you turn your ‘unsuspecting’ back to the hairy giant, bending to pick up your upper coat that you had shrugged off in a bout of confidence. Though you aren't the sharpest and certainly don't possess the perception of your betrothed, you hear him approach you in his manly and wise silence as you clear the haystacks of your coat in one swift movement and resume an upright position.

“Oh!” You exclaim with a surprise so artificial that the impurity nearly cuts Robb because of how he always dons the gold of honesty and valor. “My heart!” You use your endearment for him for Robb neither likes to hear you refer to him by name in public nor does he prefer you call him by his titles. “When did you get here? You were not a moment ago!” 

The coolest, most small smile spreads over his rosy lips and Robb tips his head back an inch to grant himself a better look at your audacity. The milky skin under his eye slightly twitches in response to him narrowing his eyes at you. Though he says nothing, you can still hear his rhetorical inquiry in that sarcastic way of his that you are well familiar with due to how long you have known him. 

“Whatever’s the matter, my love?” Robb has to resist the urge to scoff at the extra pitch in your voice because of the pretentiousness you are putting into your performance. 

He just stares at you for a good while, studying you, perhaps giving you a chance. So much so that there comes a point where you feel yourself gulping down a bile from your rising nervousness. But unlike many other times, you refuse to give in today. Like husband, like wife. After all, you rebelled against your nature today to end up here, in this ‘predicament’. Giving up now would be to waste all your effort and turn your bold attempt futile.

“Come” he says after you know not how many minutes pass but before you can say anything, Robb’s hairy claw has already seized your smaller hand within it. It is unlike his nature too, for usually he is the effortless victor in a battle of wits between the two of you.

“Oh!” But you are used to being treated like the most delicate and valuable thing to ever exist. You have been raised in a manner which has accustomed you to everyone giving in to your demands and wishes. The firm manner in which Robb balances all things with a just foresight is most undesirable to you, fancy for him or not. Things should always go your way in the design of your desire, and not in a way that is mindful of safeguarding the welfare of other people too, unlike your dearest. If it does as a byproduct, jolly. If it does not, well, then that is simply not your pain to bear. And whilst you underwent this stunt to provoke Robb and his attention, the way your smaller body is being dragged somewhere through the dark hallways of the estate with a rigidity typical to your betrothed, it is hardly the conclusion you planned.

Not like this.

“Oh, my!” Your brutish man's ironhold is beast-like as you try to free yourself of it. But what good is a mere pip against a wolf out for blood? “Stop, stop!” You huff and puff half out of your liking to test him to the best of your ability and half because your scheme was not to be so quickly overthrown with such ease!

No, he was supposed to get jealous and sulk in the envy your behavior was aimed to stir in him due to your treatment of his brother. Then he was supposed to fight for your attention and give in to all demands bestowed upon him by you and fulfill any and every need you may have. Robb was to kneel down to you like everyone else in your life did and strike conversation to get you to shower the blessings of your company upon him. He was to say the first word and you were to act like he usually did; with a teasing indifference to make him haste harder for your notice. Except, your little mind failed to realize that you yourself had broken the very first rule of your own game not too long ago when you had spoken.

And now as you are pushed into a little room for the stored animal feed and other domestic necessities before your smaller body is pushed like a delinquent babe's to bend over hay forming a stack half your size, you whimper and pout as your pampered elbows itch from the dried grass. This outcome is far from what you had expected of your contrivance. This is not supposed to be it. 

“We are not wed yet, my Lord!” Your mouth runs its senseless attempts in vain. “Oh no!” You try to worm your body free from his elbow that he settles between your shoulder blades to nail you in place as the rest of his arm lays down along the length of your back, the tips of his fingers pressing against the twin dents in your tailbone. “This—”

“All that fuss to have my attention, dove” when he does speak, the guttural quality of his throat shushes you into silence. “Only to raise mayhem and put up such fight when it has been granted to you” you feel the fingers of his free hand dance along the plump, clothed cushions of your buttocks and your eyes widen as though the position he had put you in was not telling enough. 

No, no, no!

He is supposed to get on his knees and worship you! 

Not discipline you like a guardian does a misbehaving child! 

“Perhaps they are correct in what they say about a woman's eternal uncertainty in what she wants herself” not entirely true. You do know what you want. But if you confess it to him this will get even worse for you! He must not know! You shall conceal it like your life depends on it!

Or so you scheme in your naivete, for you have behaved in similar ways more times than one.

But trying to flirt with another man? That is new. 

And Robb is very determined to find out the source of that course of action.

“Ugh,” you shake your shoulders in a futile attempt once more. “Do not be a cruel brute!” You order the future King of the North like you are in any position to bark at a man of his stature. “I am not one of your savagely bannermen! I— ah!” A furious hiss shoots through your lips when his free hand comes down upon the midpoint of your cheeks that jiggle feverishly from the impact. You whine at the sting that goes all the way down to your pucker and though Robb is wordless, he curses under his breath when he realizes that you are not wearing adequate underclothing despite his constant advice and request that you do.

How typical of you.

The young man brings another strong hand down upon your rear at the thought and you let out such an exaggerated sound -in his opinion, as he is scarcely aware of the extent of his own strength- that it mimics a cackle. Only, it is one of woe. Your hips desperately try to find solace in swerving the endangered half of your body out of his line of devastation but your wolf-man is far too strong. 

“Aaaa!” You furiously wail like a delinquent puppy being set straight, digging your elbows into the hay and your head in your arms to withstand the thunderous rain of your betrothed's hand on your buttocks. “I demand you stop this immediately, Robb!” Your whines are muffled and pathetic in their contrast to your words. 

“It will not be until you tell me whose plot your little performance was” you gulp and bark out a wheeze to respond and it is like he senses the lie that goes to bud on your tongue and he swats it away with a foreseeable slap to the underside of your rear. “And you best think twice before giving me a false answer,” you shake your whole body and your head in protest and pain when he spanks you again. “Or so help me gods.” 

But you remain faithful to your nature and preserve your brain's unutilized state by choosing to, after all, lie. “I- I have not the slightest idea what you mean!” Robb releases a cool, mirthless scoff and shakes his head at you, his palm now taking turns on each of your cheeks as it comes out in strong, powerful hits that he lands with well paced delays so you can fully feel the ache of one strike before the next lands. “O- Ow! T- There was no- ah— p- plot! Nevermind a- any performance!” He sighs as if to lament what is about to happen to you next. 

“Fine” your eyes widen and you squawk in shock like you aren't accustomed to this or you were not hoping to arouse a more ideal variant of this outcome anyway. “Have it your way then, my dove” oh… that never fares well for you. 

And Robb proves your suspicion true when he lifts your skirts out of the way and tucks them under the hand that sits on your lower back like a menacing serpent with unkind intentions. “Tsk,’’ a strong strike is given to your barely secure intimates before he tugs your poor excuse for undergarments down. 

What?

They are uncomfortable!

It is not your problem if the man of your future household is too pedant and fastidious!

He always laughs at it and just ruffles your hair but you are unyielding in your belief that he is the way he is because your betrothed is adamant on reaching bachanalness three times faster than other people his age. 

“Ouch, my heart, please!” You cannot help but whine out an endearment though you absolutely do not want to because you are just as cross with him as he is with you! Ugh! He never falls in your traps! Why is he so clever?! Is this what your mother meant when she told you that you were finally going to have someone who would handle you like you ought to be the day Robb asked your father for your hand in marriage? “It hurts!” 

You gasp in realization.

The pieces fall into place.

It does make sense.

Gods, the world conspires against you!

This is not fair at all!

Robb's cruel palm is unrelenting even when it begins to tingle upon coming into contact with your bare and blushing skin over and over. “Tell me the name, my angel, and I will cease this immediately” he spreads your legs with one strong jerk of his hand and your whole body undergoes a turbulence. “You know I hate this just as much as you do” before you can feel any warmth for your cruel lover for he always tells you that he does not like to punish you, his lowered hand comes upwards in a vertical hit and collides against your drenched petals. The impact reverberates through your whole being and your mouth falls open at the way your folds shake. “Make haste, sweet one.”

Your eyebrows come together in a tight, angry knot and your cheeks puff at his condescending tone. “N- No name!” You bark out of spite and clutch at the hay angrily. “There was no one!” The compressed dried grass comes loose in your hold and you add. “You have gone completely mad, you hoary troll!” The way Robb audibly chuckles at that causes the arm that he has on your back to buzz into your spine.

You gulp because he is a man of a few words and even lesser noise. So this cannot mean anything good. Although you are quite determined in your resolve, you still have to bite your lip to suppress the whimper that you let out when his offending hand now begins to softly caress the blemished skin of your buttocks and sit spots. For you know his touch and it is not this when he means to be genuinely affectionate.

Just what kind of a predicament have you landed yourself into?

“I see.” You hear the zip of harnesses coming undone and the thump of coats hitting the floor. “Then nevermind the actions of a mad man precisely how we will the name of your fellow conspirator, my dear” you are confused by his words but the feeling of his tip aligning against you when he gets behind you and takes your sore thighs -for Robb never punishes your buttocks alone but all the spots in their vicinity- in his strong fingers that are decorated in scars which bear testament to his experience in conquest, causes a tumult in your determination-taut brain from the burst of sensation and the upper half of your body relaxes as result of all tension shifting to your nether regions. 

You mewl as you feel the delicious burn of your entrance that your beloved had deflowered some time ago stretch around the thick tip of his cock that makes love making feel like the first time whenever your balmy cavern is made to accommodate his manhood. “Oh! I can't take it!” You throw your head back and moan, forgetting everything else and getting lost in the flutters of pleasure you have been taught to find in the strain his cock causes on your flesh band. “You're too big, love!” Robb curses under his breath when the leaking apex of his cock is met with resistance against your folds that he feels quivering against him. “P- Please help me take it!” He just has to give a sharp strike to the underside of one of your buttocks to accompany with his scoff.

You are such a fox.

Saying all the agreeable things in that obedient tone of yours that he knows better than to trust. 

He shakes his head at the surprised squeal you whimper out as though the events of the last quarter did not happen. 

“Whoever said anything about you taking it, my sweet dove?” Horror creeps down your spine in the form of an ice cold shiver. 

No. 

“B- But— aaaah!” You are stinging, aroused, open but not filled and inching closer and closer to mindless, undignified desperation. “But!”

“Hm?” Robb seems to be enjoying himself, ever the master of restraint and self control, as he penetrates you only to the wide hilt of his tip before he sloshes it right out of your entrance only to repeat the tortuous action where your walls clench and bathe with slick in anticipation of his cock only for their buzzing excitement to be denied satisfaction. 

“W- What…” You rarely ever misbehave once he has you like this. But your wanton frustration makes you kick one foot as you huff. “Why would you— oh!” You bite your lip because of the shoddy pleasure that sparks but fails to ignite, leaving your body on a trembling edge that brings you to heaven's door each time he fishes his way past your swollen folds and plops into you never to let you sheathe him thus denying you the paradise beyond. “W- Why are you doing that?!” You finally break from your pretentious rhetoric as you try to push yourself down on his shaft but strength has never been grounds for competition between the two of you. 

Robb's nearly inhuman hold keeps you detained exactly where he wants you. “Doing what?” It's his time to display faux behavior and you huff although you know deep down in your mind that it would not do much to move him and would rather only land you in more trouble. 

“That!” You cry when you feel his cock release more precum right at the threshold of your cavern because of how he fucks your entrance with a warm, torturous gentleness that scorches both of your insides alike. “Why w- won't you put it in, cruel ogre!” 

A satisfied smirk suppresses Robb's breaths that grow heavier with the passing moments. “Why, I am a mad and cruel ogre-troll, my dove” he enters you again and this time both his hands come down on your cheeks in the form of slaps at once and you howl. “And creatures of my like have queer ways beyond the comprehensive abilities of pretty little things like yourself” you whine and your toes curl at how the frustration morphs into a dull ache in the mound between your legs. 

The painful twitching of your sex makes you croak and you try to move your hips once more. “No! No!” You gurgle on your own spit as you vehemently shake your head.

“No?” Robb's inquiry is nice, somewhat kind even… unlike his heartless actions. 

“No!” You affirm as you feel your knees ache and sore thighs quiver. You are a sensitive little thing. Rough handling is not a domain you are much acquainted with beside the brief encounters you have with it sometimes during spells of passion with your dearest betrothed. “No, the light of my life, you're not! You—” your back arches and you cry and pout like an entitled juvenile not getting their way, your frivolous unrest and feverish jittering making his great form that looms behind you like the silhouette of doom itself to shake in silent mirth. “You're perfect! Please, you're the most perfect Stark heir! You are the best Lord Winterfell can ever hope to have!” Your praises make him curse under his breath and he gropes your thigh harder to withstand his impulsive urge to thrust all the way in.

No.

He is the man and the responsible one.

No can do until you learn and acknowledge his authority.

That is the way.

Of men, and Lords.

“The name, my love” though he masks his words with nonchalance quite well, there is a disguised urgency in them. You light him up just as unbearably as he does you. “Tell me the name and I will give you all you need and desire.” He gives you one rough jerk just past the band of your entrance and the momentary friction you feel in the drenched velvet just above your entrance snaps the thread of your determination. “Just like that, it is that easy. But you choose the fruitless path of torment and frustration.” There is a hypnotic lull in his words and that is enough for you to gush out a part of your impending confession. 

“It was—!” You finally confess the name of your lady friend and Robb decides that it will do for now, rest you will tell him yourself with your own free will in your sensitive and emotional post orgasm state when you will be securely tucked in his arms and against his chest. 

“There” your eyes and mouth widen at the same time and a guttural grunt crawls out of your throat when he doesn't pull his tip out this time around and instead slots himself inside you until he is hilt deep. “There is my bonnie lass” the upper half of your body goes lax and appears as though your bones have dissolved into your blood. You go to collapse face first into the hay to lay down and get fucked into oblivion but Robb's territorial paw finds a hold on the underside of your jaw and he rams you onto his cock and continues to curve your form until the crown of your head is touching his shoulder. “Tsk, such havoc just because I could not attend to you right away and requested you show some patience.” His fingers find one of your nipples and you shiver.

“S- Sorry, hubby!” You finally use for him the odd yet heartwarming endearment he loves most and that is how he knows he has you netted in.  

“Who loves you?” You shiver as you feel his girth stretch out your insides even though you were more than prepared for him. 

“Y- You—” he pulls at your nipple before giving both your breasts punishing swats. Your waist further curls outwards at the feeling. 

“Say it properly” you clench around him because of the way his baritone voice grinds against your eardrums and Robb cannot help but twitch right under your cervix. 

You do not need to be told twice. “Robb Stark!” 

He hums in satisfaction. “Who knows better?” 

Your bubbling loins tighten. “Robb Stark!” 

“Who takes care of you?” His hands roughly fumble to throw your skirts out of his way. 

“Robb Stark—!” Your answer turns into a shivering moan when his fingers find the trembling gem under the hood of your sex. 

“Who do you trust with everything?” The minute crevices on the tips of his fingers rub against the sensitive nub and your vision falters. 

“R- Robb Stark!” His hold on your jaw is the only thing that keeps it in usable shape. 

“Who will you obey when he tells you that you will no longer be friends with—” you whine when he takes the name of your dear friend but it is not a complete surprise. 

Robb greatly dislikes and condemns for you any influence he deems indecent or bad.

“R- Robb Stark!” You whimper as you move your hips along to his cock that now fucks you so fast and rough that you lose your footing with each thrust, the fingers he has on the nub of your womanhood only adding to the flutters of pleasure that narrow the knot around your hips with each snap of his hips. 

“Who do you belong to?” This time, his mouth comes to press against your ear and his coarse beard irritates your sensitive skin. His words carry a wolfish ferocity and you hear him gnash his teeth in as much clarity as your thumping ears will allow. 

“R- Robb—” your teeth begin to chatter from the intensity of your orgasm and your body flexes against his much bigger one to withstand the explosion in your abdomen. “S- S- Stark…” Your words melt into hissing whispers and you shudder and hiss when he continues to rub, fuck and fondle you even when the ecstatic feeling has subsided and your mound demands solitude. 

“That is correct” he pounces onto the stacks that you face with your smaller body underneath him like a depraved wolf having trapped in its hold a helpless little lamb. The action causes for his tip to collide against your cervix and your body thrashes defensively but it is in vain. “Do not forget that.” Robb whispers in your ear before he regains his footing and his hairy claws tuck under your thighs from the front. Your betrothed easily lifts your legs off the floor and begins his annihilation of any remaining misconduct perchance still shrouded in some unwise crevice of your little mind.

MASTERLIST 

. . .

I… can swear I thought this was like 1K at best… 

[atopvisenyashill]

Hi!

I wanted to talk to you about the Targaryens choosing to marry for love, but more specifically Aegon V and his kids, and the influence from Maekar

We all know Maekar was not originally meant to be king, and as the fourth and last child of Daeron II and Myriah he had the small freedom of choosing his own spouse.

Baelor had to marry a Marcher lady in order to make Westeros believe the Martells were not taking over the Iron Throne (I wish it was the case though), Aerys also a Marcher lady to alleviate more the relationship with the Marcher Lords and who potentially had Targaryen blood to emphasize Aerys' Targaryenness and lack for martial prowess after Baelor, and Rhaegel an Arryn since they were the oldest Andal House and because of its martial power. But Maekar chose Dyanna Dayne who was from a minor noble House from Dorne, when he could have married a Tyrell or someone else from the Reach, or even someone from the North, Westernlands or the Riverlands, but he didn't.

Now when it came to his children it was the fact that after so many deaths in the family, more duties were lied upon Maekar's family; he had to keep the alliance with Tyrosh and had to marry Daeron to Kiera; maintain the image of Targaryenness and marry Aerion to his cousin Daenora; and make alliances with other Houses through his daughters' marriages. But then Egg was able to marry for love, and it's not like he didn't love the rest of his kids but probably Egg and Betha reminded Maekar of himself and Dyanna, and let them marry.

And it's interesting when we consider the love lives of Egg's siblings: Aemon said he once fell in love but gave her up to keep his duty from not challenging his brother's claim and to protect the Targaryens within the Citadel; and either Daella or Rhae had an affair with Duncan the Tall and had to pass off her first child as a Tarth, while the other one probably got to fall in love with her spouse over time.

We don't know if Egg was aware of both cases, but if he did, then it amplified his realization that love is frequently a foil to duty, which was overwhelming when it came to his children.

And it's also interesting analyzing how Maekar and Aegon were the only ones among their siblings who got to marry for love while Aegon's daughter Rhaelle was the only one of her siblings who married for duty

something something you nickname a character egg and then have him act as a foil to a daughter who married for duty. yes that is an “egg is a trans woman joke” and i’m half serious. anyways.

this is all very good analysis on why Egg eventually becomes the king he becomes - i think the point that his uncles all married for duty while his father married for love, and his siblings all followed duty over love, and then his sons start shirking their duties for love...all of that enforcing the advice Aemon gives, that love is the death of duty and duty the death of love. I think there's been some hinting that the Egg that exists by the end of his reign is a vastly different, much harder, potentially much more gray version that we have come to know. Obviously there's this bit-

It is unfortunate that the tragedy that transpired at Summerhall left very few witnesses alive, and those who survived would not speak of it. A tantalizing page of Gyldayn's history—surely one of the very last written before his own death—hints at much, but the ink that was spilled over it in some mishap blotted out too much. ...the blood of the dragon gathered in one... ...seven eggs, to honor the seven gods, though the king's own septon had warned... ...pyromancers... ...wild fire... ...flames grew out of control...towering...burned so hot that... ...died, but for the valor of the Lord Comman...

and this comment from Aemon-

Burning dead children had ceased to trouble Jon Snow; live ones were another matter. Two kings to wake the dragon. The father first and then the son, so both die kings. The words had been murmured by one of the queen's men as Maester Aemon had cleaned his wounds. Jon had tried to dismiss them as his fever talking. Aemon had demurred. "There is power in a king's blood," the old maester had warned, "and better men than Stannis have done worse things than this." The king can be harsh and unforgiving, aye, but a babe still on the breast? Only a monster would give a living child to the flames.

I'm not the first one to posit that Egg might have purposefully attempted to sacrifice one of his own blood, still living, to hatch dragon eggs. I'm not saying I'm fully convinced of it either tbc - I think it's just as likely that Egg simply lost control of the wildfire and got his family killed which is bad enough on its own to be "worse things than this." COMMA BUT. I mean...we're talking about Stannis sacrificing a baby to the fires and Aemon says "better men" have done worse than sacrifice a baby they don't know to the fire. Again, it could just be that Egg was negligent with safety during the egg hatching experiments and Aemon sees that as worse because Egg got his family killed....it could also mean that Egg tried to kill his own family and the attempt was foiled by Duncan.

But regardless of all of that! Aemon paints a picture of an Egg that grew into a harsher man. And that's something we know - that Egg got increasingly frustrated with dealing with the Lords and their squabbles and turned to the dragon dreams that had doomed his brothers (and perhaps his sisters) when he felt like he had hit a wall. Duty as the death of love, for a boy that had spent so many years positively surrounded by love. Very interesting when you bring it to back to his daughter - likely growing up surrounded by love until suddenly duty comes calling for her in a way it never does for any of her siblings.

I think it's also interesting when you look at them both as kings. Maekar is often kind of passed over when discussing kings but it seems like he was...pretty fine? Fairly competent at the nitty gritty but not known as someone to inspire loyalty. I think that's sort of funny when you think about him in comparison to Baelor - Baelor is the one who married for duty yet Maekar is the one who has that younger brother who feels jilted sort of feel to him. Maekar marries for love but Dyana is never a Queen - she dies before then. Then Egg, who marries for love as well, but Betha does become Queen. And while there's mixed feelings on Egg, he is not the sort of king whose influence is passed over the way Maekar's rule is. Theyre fascinating as father and son - so many commonalities, such similar lives, but they are so vastly different in how they see themselves and the actions of those around them.

[stargareed]

The Human Heart in Conflict with Itself -- Vol. 2 (Jaime Lannister)

"The only thing worth writing about is the human heart in conflict with itself." -- GRRM (quoting William Faulkner)

1. Kingsguard Vows

King Aerys made a great show of Jaime's investiture. He said his vows before the king's pavilion, kneeling on the green grass in white armor while half the realm looked on. When Ser Gerold Hightower raised him up and put the white cloak about his shoulders, a roar went up that Jaime still remembered, all these years later. But that very night Aerys had turned sour, declaring that he had no need of seven Kingsguard here at Harrenhal. Jaime was commanded to return to King's Landing to guard the queen and little Prince Viserys, who'd remained behind. Even when the White Bull offered to take that duty himself, so Jaime might compete in Lord Whent's tourney, Aerys had refused. "He'll win no glory here," the king had said. "He's mine now, not Tywin's. He'll serve as I see fit. I am the king. I rule, and he'll obey."

That was the first time that Jaime understood. It was not his skill with sword and lance that had won him his white cloak, nor any feats of valor he'd performed against the Kingswood Brotherhood. Aerys had chosen him to spite his father, to rob Lord Tywin of his heir.

(Jaime VI, ASOS)

Stupid stubborn brave bitch. She was going to get herself good and killed, he knew it. And what do I care if she does? If she hadn't been so pigheaded, I'd still have a hand. Yet he heard himself whisper, "Let them do it, and go away inside." That was what he'd done, when the Starks had died before him, Lord Rickard cooking in his armor while his son Brandon strangled himself trying to save him. "Think of Renly, if you loved him. Think of Tarth, mountains and seas, pools, waterfalls, whatever you have on your Sapphire Isle, think . . ."

(Jaime IV, ASOS)

"There were trials. Of a sort. Lord Rickard demanded trial by combat, and the king granted the request. Stark armored himself as for battle, thinking to duel one of the Kingsguard. Me, perhaps. Instead they took him to the throne room and suspended him from the rafters while two of Aerys's pyromancers kindled a blaze beneath him. The king told him that fire was the champion of House Targaryen. So all Lord Rickard needed to do to prove himself innocent of treason was . . . well, not burn.

"When the fire was blazing, Brandon was brought in. His hands were chained behind his back, and around his neck was a wet leathern cord attached to a device the king had brought from Tyrosh. His legs were left free, though, and his longsword was set down just beyond his reach.

"The pyromancers roasted Lord Rickard slowly, banking and fanning that fire carefully to get a nice even heat. His cloak caught first, and then his surcoat, and soon he wore nothing but metal and ashes. Next he would start to cook, Aerys promised . . . unless his son could free him. Brandon tried, but the more he struggled, the tighter the cord constricted around his throat. In the end he strangled himself.

"As for Lord Rickard, the steel of his breastplate turned cherry-red before the end, and his gold melted off his spurs and dripped down into the fire. I stood at the foot of the Iron Throne in my white armor and white cloak, filling my head with thoughts of Cersei. After, Gerold Hightower himself took me aside and said to me, 'You swore a vow to guard the king, not to judge him.' That was the White Bull, loyal to the end and a better man than me, all agree."

(Catelyn VII, ACOK)

Jaime's anger had risen up in his throat. "I am not a crutch. I am a knight of the Kingsguard."

"Then guard the king," Ser Jon Darry snapped at him. "When you donned that cloak, you promised to obey."

Rhaegar had put his hand on Jaime's shoulder. "When this battle's done I mean to call a council. Changes will be made. I meant to do it long ago, but . . . well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken. We shall talk when I return."

(Jaime I, AFFC)

The sight had filled him with disquiet, reminding him of Aerys Targaryen and the way a burning would arouse him. A king has no secrets from his Kingsguard. Relations between Aerys and his queen had been strained during the last years of his reign. They slept apart and did their best to avoid each other during the waking hours. But whenever Aerys gave a man to the flames, Queen Rhaella would have a visitor in the night. The day he burned his mace-and-dagger Hand, Jaime and Jon Darry had stood at guard outside her bedchamber whilst the king took his pleasure. "You're hurting me," they had heard Rhaella cry through the oaken door. "You're hurting me." In some queer way, that had been worse than Lord Chelsted's screaming. "We are sworn to protect her as well," Jaime had finally been driven to say. "We are," Darry allowed, "but not from him."

(Jaime II, AFFC)

He saw traitors everywhere, and Varys was always there to point out any he might have missed. So His Grace commanded his alchemists to place caches of wildfire all over King's Landing. Beneath Baelor's Sept and the hovels of Flea Bottom, under stables and storehouses, at all seven gates, even in the cellars of the Red Keep itself.

. . .

"My Sworn Brothers were all away, you see, but Aerys liked to keep me close. I was my father's son, so he did not trust me. He wanted me where Varys could watch me, day and night. So I heard it all." He remembered how Rossart's eyes would shine when he unrolled his maps to show where the substance must be placed. Garigus and Belis were the same. "Rhaegar met Robert on the Trident, and you know what happened there. When the word reached court, Aerys packed the queen off to Dragonstone with Prince Viserys. Princess Elia would have gone as well, but he forbade it. Somehow he had gotten it in his head that Prince Lewyn must have betrayed Rhaegar on the Trident, but he thought he could keep Dorne loyal so long as he kept Elia and Aegon by his side. The traitors want my city, I heard him tell Rossart, but I'll give them naught but ashes. Let Robert be king over charred bones and cooked meat. The Targaryens never bury their dead, they burn them. Aerys meant to have the greatest funeral pyre of them all. Though if truth be told, I do not believe he truly expected to die. Like Aerion Brightfire before him, Aerys thought the fire would transform him . . . that he would rise again, reborn as a dragon, and turn all his enemies to ash.

. . .

"It fell to me to hold the Red Keep, but I knew we were lost. I sent to Aerys asking his leave to make terms. My man came back with a royal command. 'Bring me your father's head, if you are no traitor.' Aerys would have no yielding. Lord Rossart was with him, my messenger said. I knew what that meant.

"When I came on Rossart, he was dressed as a common man-at-arms, hurrying to a postern gate. I slew him first. Then I slew Aerys, before he could find someone else to carry his message to the pyromancers. Days later, I hunted down the others and slew them as well. Belis offered me gold, and Garigus wept for mercy. Well, a sword's more merciful than fire, but I don't think Garigus much appreciated the kindness I showed him."

The water had grown cool. When Jaime opened his eyes, he found himself staring at the stump of his sword hand. The hand that made me Kingslayer. The goat had robbed him of his glory and his shame, both at once. Leaving what? Who am I now?

. . .

"If this is true, how is it no one knows?"

"The knights of the Kingsguard are sworn to keep the king's secrets. Would you have me break my oath?" Jaime laughed. "Do you think the noble Lord of Winterfell wanted to hear my feeble explanations? Such an honorable man. He only had to look at me to judge me guilty." Jaime lurched to his feet, the water running cold down his chest. "By what right does the wolf judge the lion? By what right?" A violent shiver took him, and he smashed his stump against the rim of the tub as he tried to climb out.

(Jaime V, ASOS)

"How can you still count yourself a knight, when you have forsaken every vow you ever swore?"

Jaime reached for the flagon to refill his cup. "So many vows . . . they make you swear and swear. Defend the king. Obey the king. Keep his secrets. Do his bidding. Your life for his. But obey your father. Love your sister. Protect the innocent. Defend the weak. Respect the gods. Obey the laws. It's too much. No matter what you do, you're forsaking one vow or the other." He took a healthy swallow of wine and closed his eyes for an instant, leaning his head back against the patch of nitre on the wall. "I was the youngest man ever to wear the white cloak."

"And the youngest to betray all it stood for, Kingslayer."

(Catelyn VII ACOK)

"Ser Meryn." Jaime smiled at the sour knight with the rust-red hair and the pouches under his eyes. "I have heard it said that Joffrey made use of you to chastise Sansa Stark." He turned the White Book around one-handed. "Here, show me where it is in our vows that we swear to beat women and children."

"I did as His Grace commanded me. We are sworn to obey."

"Henceforth you will temper that obedience. My sister is Queen Regent. My father is the King's Hand. I am Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Obey us. None other."

Ser Meryn got a stubborn look on his face. "Are you telling us not to obey the king?"

"The king is eight. Our first duty is to protect him, which includes protecting him from himself.Use that ugly thing you keep inside your helm. If Tommen wants you to saddle his horse, obey him. If he tells you to kill his horse, come to me."

(Jaime VIII, ASOS)

2. Family Loyalties

You would not like the truth. He had joined the Kingsguard for love, of course.

Their father had summoned Cersei to court when she was twelve, hoping to make her a royal marriage. He refused every offer for her hand, preferring to keep her with him in the Tower of the Hand while she grew older and more womanly and ever more beautiful. No doubt he was waiting for Prince Viserys to mature, or perhaps for Rhaegar's wife to die in childbed. Elia of Dorne was never the healthiest of women.

Jaime, meantime, had spent four years as squire to Ser Sumner Crake-hall and earned his spurs against the Kingswood Brotherhood. But when he made a brief call at King's Landing on his way back to Casterly Rock, chiefly to see his sister, Cersei took him aside and whispered that Lord Tywin meant to marry him to Lysa Tully, had gone so far as to invite Lord Hoster to the city to discuss dower. But if Jaime took the white, he could be near her always. Old Ser Harlan Grandison had died in his sleep, as was only appropriate for one whose sigil was a sleeping lion. Aerys would want a young man to take his place, so why not a roaring lion in place of a sleepy one?

"Father will never consent," Jaime objected.

"The king won't ask him. And once it's done, Father can't object, not openly. Aerys had Ser Ilyn Payne's tongue torn out just for boasting that it was the Hand who truly ruled the Seven Kingdoms. The captain of the Hand's guard, and yet Father dared not try and stop it! He won't stop this, either."

"But," Jaime said, "there's Casterly Rock . . ."

"Is it a rock you want? Or me?"

He remembered that night as if it were yesterday. They spent it in an old inn on Eel Alley, well away from watchful eyes. Cersei had come to him dressed as a simple serving wench, which somehow excited him all the more. Jaime had never seen her more passionate. Every time he went to sleep, she woke him again. By morning Casterly Rock seemed a small price to pay to be near her always. He gave his consent, and Cersei promised to do the rest.

A moon's turn later, a royal raven arrived at Casterly Rock to inform him that he had been chosen for the Kingsguard. He was commanded to present himself to the king during the great tourney at Harrenhal to say his vows and don his cloak.

Jaime's investiture freed him from Lysa Tully. Elsewise, nothing went as planned. His father had never been more furious. He could not object openly—Cersei had judged that correctly—but he resigned the Handship on some thin pretext and returned to Casterly Rock, taking his daughter with him. Instead of being together, Cersei and Jaime just changed places, and he found himself alone at court, guarding a mad king while four lesser men took their turns dancing on knives in his father's ill-fitting shoes.

(Jaime II, ASOS)

Jaime left brothels and whores to his brother Tyrion; Cersei was the only woman he had ever wanted. "The girls pleasured some of my lord father's soldiers, it would seem. Perhaps served them food and drink. That's how they earned their traitors' collars, with a kiss and a cup of ale." He glanced up and down the river, to make certain they were quite alone. "This is Bracken land. Lord Jonos might have ordered them killed. My father burned his castle, I fear he loves us not."

(Jaime I, ASOS)

"That name again. I don't think I'll fuck you after all, Littlefinger had you first, didn't he? I never eat off another man's trencher. Besides, you're not half so lovely as my sister." His smile cut. "I've never lain with any woman but Cersei. In my own way, I have been truer than your Ned ever was. Poor old dead Ned. So who has shit for honor now, I ask you? What was the name of that bastard he fathered?"

(Catelyn VI, ACOK)

"Seven," Bran said, shaking with relief. His fingers had dug deep gouges in the man's forearm. He let go sheepishly.

The man looked over at the woman. "The things I do for love," he said with loathing. He gave Bran a shove.

Screaming, Bran went backward out the window into empty air. There was nothing to grab on to. The courtyard rushed up to meet him.

(Bran II, AGOT)

"Do you see that window, ser?" Jaime used a sword to point. "That was Raymun Darry's bedchamber. Where King Robert slept, on our return from Winterfell. Ned Stark's daughter had run off after her wolf savaged Joff, you'll recall. My sister wanted the girl to lose a hand. The old penalty, for striking one of the blood royal. Robert told her she was cruel and mad. They fought for half the night . . . well, Cersei fought, and Robert drank. Past midnight, the queen summoned me inside. The king was passed out snoring on the Myrish carpet. I asked my sister if she wanted me to carry him to bed. She told me I should carry her to bed, and shrugged out of her robe. I took her on Raymun Darry's bed after stepping over Robert. If His Grace had woken I would have killed him there and then. He would not have been the first king to die upon my sword . . . but you know that story, don't you?" He slashed at a tree branch, shearing it in half. "As I was fucking her, Cersei cried, 'I want.' I thought that she meant me, but it was the Stark girl that she wanted, maimed or dead." The things I do for love. "It was only by chance that Stark's own men found the girl before me. If I had come on her first . . ."

(Jaime IV, AFFC)

Jaime Lannister smiled. "Quite true. I'm looking for my brother. You remember my brother, don't you, Lord Stark? He was with us at Winterfell. Fair-haired, mismatched eyes, sharp of tongue. A short man."

"I remember him well," Ned replied.

"It would seem he has met some trouble on the road. My lord father is quite vexed. You would not perchance have any notion of who might have wished my brother ill, would you?"

"Your brother has been taken at my command, to answer for his crimes," Ned Stark said.

Littlefinger groaned in dismay. "My lords—"

Ser Jaime ripped his longsword from its sheath and urged his stallion forward. "Show me your steel, Lord Eddard. I'll butcher you like Aerys if I must, but I'd sooner you died with a blade in your hand." He gave Littlefinger a cool, contemptuous glance. "Lord Baelish, I'd leave here in some haste if I did not care to get bloodstains on my costly clothing."

(Eddard IX, AGOT)

Perhaps Stannis Baratheon and the Starks had done him a kindness. They had spread their tale of incest all over the Seven Kingdoms, so there was nothing left to hide. Why shouldn't I marry Cersei openly and share her bed every night? The dragons always married their sisters. Septons, lords, and smallfolk had turned a blind eye to the Targaryens for hundreds of years, let them do the same for House Lannister. It would play havoc with Joffrey's claim to the crown, to be sure, but in the end it had been swords that had won the Iron Throne for Robert, and swords could keep Joffrey there as well, regardless of whose seed he was. We could marry him to Myrcella, once we've sent Sansa Stark back to her mother. That would show the realm that the Lannisters are above their laws, like gods and Targaryens.

(Jaime III, ASOS)

"It was poison that killed Joffrey, not sorcery." Lord Tywin glanced at Jaime's stump again. "You cannot serve in the Kingsguard without a sword hand—"

"I can," he interrupted. "And I will. There's precedent. I'll look in the White Book and find it, if you like. Crippled or whole, a knight of the Kingsguard serves for life."

"Cersei ended that when she replaced Ser Barristan on grounds of age. A suitable gift to the Faith will persuade the High Septon to release you from your vows. Your sister was foolish to dismiss Selmy, admittedly, but now that she has opened the gates—"

"—someone needs to close them again." Jaime stood. "I am tired of having highborn women kicking pails of shit at me, Father. No one ever asked me if I wanted to be Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, but it seems I am. I have a duty—"

"You do." Lord Tywin rose as well. "A duty to House Lannister. You are the heir to Casterly Rock. That is where you should be. Tommen should accompany you, as your ward and squire. The Rock is where he'll learn to be a Lannister, and I want him away from his mother. I mean to find a new husband for Cersei. Oberyn Martell perhaps, once I convince Lord Tyrell that the match does not threaten Highgarden. And it is past time you were wed. The Tyrells are now insisting that Margaery be wed to Tommen, but if I were to offer you instead—"

"NO!" Jaime had heard all that he could stand. No, more than he could stand. He was sick of it, sick of lords and lies, sick of his father, his sister, sick of the whole bloody business. "No. No. No. No. No. How many times must I say no before you'll hear it? Oberyn Martell? The man's infamous, and not just for poisoning his sword. He has more bastards than Robert, and beds with boys as well. And if you think for one misbegotten moment that I would wed Joffrey's widow . . ."

"Lord Tyrell swears the girl's still maiden."

"She can die a maiden as far as I'm concerned. I don't want her, and I don't want your Rock!"

"You are my son—"

"I am a knight of the Kingsguard. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard! And that's all I mean to be!"

Firelight gleamed golden in the stiff whiskers that framed Lord Tywin's face. A vein pulsed in his neck, but he did not speak. And did not speak. And did not speak.

The strained silence went on until it was more than Jaime could endure. "Father . . ." he began.

"You are not my son." Lord Tywin turned his face away. "You say you are the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and only that. Very well, ser. Go do your duty."

(Jaime VII, ASOS)

The day his sister had come to White Sword Tower to beg him to renounce his vows, she had laughed after he refused her and boasted of having lied to him a thousand times. Jaime had taken that for a clumsy attempt to hurt him as he'd hurt her. It may have been the only true thing that she ever said to me.

(Jaime IV, AFFC)

"Thank you, Brother," Tyrion said. "For my life."

"It was . . . a debt I owed you." Jaime's voice was strange.

"A debt?" He cocked his head. "I do not understand."

"Good. Some doors are best left closed."

"Oh, dear," said Tyrion. "Is there something grim and ugly behind it? Could it be that someone said something cruel about me once? I'll try not to weep. Tell me."

"Tyrion . . ."

Jaime is afraid. "Tell me," Tyrion said again.

His brother looked away. "Tysha," he said softly.

"Tysha?" His stomach tightened. "What of her?"

"She was no whore. I never bought her for you. That was a lie that Father commanded me to tell. Tysha was . . . she was what she seemed to be. A crofter's daughter, chance met on the road."

Tyrion could hear the faint sound of his own breath whistling hollowly through the scar of his nose. Jaime could not meet his eyes. Tysha. He tried to remember what she had looked like. A girl, she was only a girl, no older than Sansa. "My wife," he croaked. "She wed me."

"For your gold, Father said. She was lowborn, you were a Lannister of Casterly Rock. All she wanted was the gold, which made her no different from a whore, so . . . so it would not be a lie, not truly, and . . . he said that you required a sharp lesson. That you would learn from it, and thank me later . . ."

"Thank you?" Tyrion's voice was choked. "He gave her to his guards. A barracks full of guards. He made me . . . watch." Aye, and more than watch. I took her too . . . my wife . . .

"I never knew he would do that. You must believe me."

"Oh, must I?" Tyrion snarled. "Why should I believe you about anything, ever? She was my wife!"

"Tyrion—"

He hit him. It was a slap, backhanded, but he put all his strength into it, all his fear, all his rage, all his pain. Jaime was squatting, unbalanced. The blow sent him tumbling backward to the floor. "I . . . I suppose I earned that."

"Oh, you've earned more than that, Jaime. You and my sweet sister and our loving father, yes, I can't begin to tell you what you've earned. But you'll have it, that I swear to you. A Lannister always pays his debts." Tyrion waddled away, almost stumbling over the turnkey again in his haste. Before he had gone a dozen yards, he bumped up against an iron gate that closed the passage. Oh, gods. It was all he could do not to scream.

(Tyrion XI, ASOS)

"Innocent or guilty," Jaime had said, like the fool he was, "a Lannister pays his debts." The words had come so easy.

He had not slept since. He could see his brother now, the way the dwarf had grinned beneath the stub of his nose as the torchlight licked his face. "You poor stupid blind crippled fool," he'd snarled, in a voice thick with malice. "Cersei is a lying whore, she's been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and probably Moon Boy for all I know. And I am the monster they all say I am. Yes, I killed your vile son."

He never said he meant to kill our father. If he had, I would have stopped him. Then I would be the kinslayer, not him.

(Jaime I, AFFC)

I should tell Cersei the truth, admit that it was me who freed our little brother from his cell. The truth had worked so splendidly with Tyrion, after all. I killed your vile son, and now I'm off to kill your father too. Jaime could hear the Imp laughing in the gloom. He turned his head to look, but the sound was only his own laughter coming back at him. He closed his eyes, and just as quickly snapped them open. I must not sleep. If he slept, he might dream. Oh, how Tyrion was sniggering. . . . a lying whore . . . fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack . . .

(Jaime I, AFFC)

"I govern the realm."

Seven save us all, you do. His sister liked to think of herself as Lord Tywin with teats, but she was wrong. Their father had been as relentless and implacable as a glacier, where Cersei was all wildfire, especially when thwarted. She had been giddy as a maiden when she learned that Stannis had abandoned Dragonstone, certain that he had finally given up the fight and sailed away to exile. When word came down from the north that he had turned up again at the Wall, her fury had been fearful to behold. She does not lack for wits, but she has no judgment, and no patience. "You need a strong Hand to help you."

(Jaime II, AFFC)

Jaime felt his anger rising. "True, Loras does not leer at your teats the way Ser Osmund does, but I hardly think—"

"Think about this." Cersei slapped his face.

Jaime made no attempt to block the blow. "I see I need a thicker beard, to cushion me against my queen's caresses." He wanted to rip her gown off and turn her blows to kisses. He'd done it before, back when he had two good hands.

(Jaime III, AFFC)

"Are you deaf as well as maimed? You'll find the door behind you, ser."

"As you command." Jaime turned on his heel and left her.

Somewhere the gods were laughing. Cersei had never taken kindly to being balked, he knew that. Softer words might have swayed her, yet of late the very sight of her made him angry.

(Jaime III, AFFC)

And he had done his own part here at Riverrun without actually ever taking up arms against the Starks or Tullys. Once he found the Blackfish, he would be free to return to King's Landing, where he belonged. My place is with my king. With my son. Would Tommen want to know that? The truth could cost the boy his throne. Would you sooner have a father or a chair, lad? Jaime wished he knew the answer. He does like stamping papers with his seal. The boy might not even believe him, to be sure. Cersei would say it was a lie. My sweet sister, the deceiver. He would need to find some way to winkle Tommen from her clutches before the boy became another Joffrey. And whilst at that, he should find the lad a new small council too. If Cersei can be put aside, Ser Kevan may agree to serve as Tommen's Hand. And if not, well, the Seven Kingdoms did not lack for able men. Forley Prester would make a good choice, or Roland Crakehall. If someone other than a westerman was needed to appease the Tyrells, there was always Mathis Rowan . . . or even Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger was as amiable as he was clever, but too lowborn to threaten any of the great lords, with no swords of his own. The perfect Hand.

(Jaime VII, AFFC)

Jaime read it in the window seat, bathed in the light of that cold white morning. Qyburn's words were terse and to the point, Cersei's fevered and fervent. Come at once, she said. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once.

Vyman was hovering by the door, waiting, and Jaime sensed that Peck was watching too. "Does my lord wish to answer?" the maester asked, after a long silence.

A snowflake landed on the letter. As it melted, the ink began to blur. Jaime rolled the parchment up again, as tight as one hand would allow, and handed it to Peck. "No," he said. "Put this in the fire."

(Jaime VII, AFFC)

3. Other Vows

They'd all done a deal of vowing back in that cell, Jaime most of all. That was Lady Catelyn's price for loosing him. She had laid the point of the big wench's sword against his heart and said, "Swear that you will never again take up arms against Stark nor Tully. Swear that you will compel your brother to honor his pledge to return my daughters safe and unharmed. Swear on your honor as a knight, on your honor as a Lannister, on your honor as a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard. Swear it by your sister's life, and your father's, and your son's, by the old gods and the new, and I'll send you back to your sister. Refuse, and I will have your blood." He remembered the prick of the steel through his rags as she twisted the point of the sword.

I wonder what the High Septon would have to say about the sanctity of oaths sworn while dead drunk, chained to a wall, with a sword pressed to your chest? Not that Jaime was truly concerned about that fat fraud, or the gods he claimed to serve. He remembered the pail Lady Catelyn had kicked over in his cell. A strange woman, to trust her girls to a man with shit for honor. Though she was trusting him as little as she dared. She is putting her hope in Tyrion, not in me. "Perhaps she is not so stupid after all," he said aloud.

(Jaime I, ASOS)

Jaime had decided that he would return Sansa, and the younger girl as well if she could be found. It was not like to win him back his lost honor, but the notion of keeping faith when they all expected betrayal amused him more than he could say.

(Jaime III, ASOS)

"Nor I. There was a time that I would have given my right hand to wield a sword like that. Now it appears I have, so the blade is wasted on me. Take it." Before she could think to refuse, he went on. "A sword so fine must bear a name. It would please me if you would call this one Oathkeeper. One more thing. The blade comes with a price."

Her face darkened. "I told you, I will never serve . . ."

". . . such foul creatures as us. Yes, I recall. Hear me out, Brienne. Both of us swore oaths concerning Sansa Stark. Cersei means to see that the girl is found and killed, wherever she has gone to ground . . ."

Brienne's homely face twisted in fury. "If you believe that I would harm my lady's daughter for a sword, you—"

"Just listen," he snapped, angered by her assumption. "I want you to find Sansa first, and get her somewhere safe. How else are the two of us going to make good our stupid vows to your precious dead Lady Catelyn?"

The wench blinked. "I . . . I thought . . ."

"I know what you thought." Suddenly Jaime was sick of the sight of her. She bleats like a bloody sheep. "When Ned Stark died, his greatsword was given to the King's Justice," he told her. "But my father felt that such a fine blade was wasted on a mere headsman. He gave Ser Ilyn a new sword, and had Ice melted down and reforged. There was enough metal for two new blades. You're holding one. So you'll be defending Ned Stark's daughter with Ned Stark's own steel, if that makes any difference to you."

(Jaime IX, ASOS)

4. Moving Beyond House Lannister

"You figure to row all the way to King's Landing, wench?"

"You will call me Brienne. Not wench."

"My name is Ser Jaime. Not Kingslayer."

(Jaime I, ASOS)

Tell me, wench, are all the women on Tarth as homely as you? I pity the men, if so. Perhaps they do not know what real women look like, living on a dreary mountain in the sea."

"Tarth is beautiful," the wench grunted between strokes. "The Sapphire Isle, it's called. Be quiet, monster, unless you mean to make me gag you."

(Jaime I, ASOS)

"And I'll serve you the same if you give me trouble," Steelshanks threw back. "We're taking the wench."

"Her name is Brienne," Jaime said. "Brienne, the maid of Tarth. You are still maiden, I hope?"

Her broad homely face turned red. "Yes."

"Oh, good," Jaime said. "I only rescue maidens." To Hoat he said, "You'll have your ransom. For both of us. A Lannister pays his debts. Now fetch some ropes and get us out of here."

(Jaime VI, ASOS)

"Ser Jaime?" Even in soiled pink satin and torn lace, Brienne looked more like a man in a gown than a proper woman. "I am grateful, but . . . you were well away. Why come back?"

A dozen quips came to mind, each crueler than the one before, but Jaime only shrugged. "I dreamed of you," he said.

(Jaime VI, ASOS)

Unbidden, his thoughts went to Brienne of Tarth. Stupid stubborn ugly wench. He wondered where she was. Father, give her strength. Almost a prayer . . . but was it the god he was invoking, the Father Above whose towering gilded likeness glimmered in the candlelight across the sept? Or was he praying to the corpse that lay before him? Does it matter? They never listened, either one. The Warrior had been Jaime's god since he was old enough to hold a sword. Other men might be fathers, sons, husbands, but never Jaime Lannister, whose sword was as golden as his hair. He was a warrior, and that was all he would ever be.

(Jaime I, AFFC)

"Why, I went to Tarth and saw her. I had six years on her, yet the wench could look me in the eye. She was a sow in silk, though most sows have bigger teats. When she tried to talk she almost choked on her own tongue. I gave her a rose and told her it was all that she would ever have from me." Connington glanced into the pit. "The bear was less hairy than that freak, I'll—"

Jaime's golden hand cracked him across the mouth so hard the other knight went stumbling down the steps. His lantern fell and smashed, and the oil spread out, burning. "You are speaking of a highborn lady, ser. Call her by her name. Call her Brienne."

(Jaime III, AFFC)

[writingbylee]

hi hello i think it’s time that i actually introduce all of my OCs? because i truly have so many and i never actually talk about half of them. so below you will find all my OCs! along with short bullet point explanations of their characters. if they have an OC sheet, that’ll be linked— as well as any fic i have posted about them. i’ve also included links to my vibes page (@vibesforlee) where i’ve got tags for each of my OCs.

Fandoms Below Include: Star Wars, A Song of Ice and Fire, Percy Jackson, Marvel, Chronicles of Narnia, Critical Role, Avatar The Last Airbender, and Top Gun: Maverick

so uhhhh yeah i hope this is helpful for at least my own brain but also anyone else who is interested!

dividers by: @saradika-graphics

banners by: me

Lyra Amidala Naberrie

General Knowledge

Younger sister of Padme Amidala

Jedi Healer during the Clone Wars

Served as Medic General of the 104th Legion, Chief Medical Officer of the 104th Company known as the “Wolfpack”, and as Medic General of the 501st Legion

Fic: @abandoned-by-destiny

Vibes

House of the Dragon

Aemma Velaryon Targaryen

General Knowledge

Firstborn child to Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon, before Laenor’s premature death three years after the marriage

Older sister to Jacaerys Targaryen Strong, Lucerys Targaryen Strong, Joffrey Targaryen Strong, Viserys Targaryen Strong, and Visenya Targaryen Strong

Bonded to the dragon Vermithor

Vibes

Game of Thrones

Lyanna Stark

General Knowledge

Eldest child of Catelyn and Ned Stark (by approximately seven minutes)

Twin sister to Robb Stark; believed half-sister of Jon Snow; older sister to Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, Bran Stark, and Rickon Stark

bonded to a red and brown direwolf called Scarlet Shadow

Fic: screaming from a crypt

oc blog: @princess-lyanna-stark

Vibes

Ceara Murphy

General Knowledge

daughter of Neptune and Emma Murphy, a legacy of Fortuna and daughter of Irish immigrants living in Portland, Oregon

inherited the power from her father to start earthquakes, and eventually manipulate seismic waves into concentrated blasts

brought down Mount Othrys after helping Jason Grace kill the Titan Krios

one of the demigods of the prophecy of Nine

Vibes

Emmalee Miller

General Knowledge

inherits the spirit and powers of the mythical Scarlet Witch when Wanda Maximoff is killed during her torture and experimentation at The Raft prison

is brought in by SHIELD after her powers emerge, and is initially assumed to be an Inhuman— and is therefore recruited by Daisy Johnson to join her Secret Warriors

Vibes

Edme Pevensie (female!Edmund Pevensie)

General Knowledge

Younger sister to Peter and Simon Pevensie, older sister to Lucy Pevensie

gains the power to manipulate ice and water after being stabbed with the shattered wand of The White Witch during The First Battle of Beruna

is crowned as High Queen Edme the Just, alongside her siblings; High King Peter the Magnificent, King Simon the Gentle, and Queen Lucy the Valiant

returns to Narnia twice after The Golden Age, both times to assist Prince, later King, Caspian the Tenth

Fic: A Reminder

Vibes

Campaign 1: Vox Machina

Alythea Vance

General Knowledge

Level 1 Druid/Level 11 Cleric (Death Domain) when hired by Vox Machina

is hired by Vox Machina to be their temporary healer/cleric during their mission to Whitestone, after Pike Trickfoot leaves on her vision quest

helps liberate the town of people of Whitestone, and returns to Vox Machina after the arrival of the Chroma Conclave in Emon

Vibes

Campaign 2: Mighty Nein

Kara Dean

General Knowledge

Level 7 Bard (College of Valor) when she meets the Mighty Nein

is Captain Avantika’s first mate/navigator when the Mighty Nein meet up with Avantika after stealing The Mist in Nicodranus

betrays Avantika and helps the Mighty Nein steal her journal

leaves The Revelry and Darktow with the Mighty Nein after The Plank King kills Avantika

Vibes

Xia Beifong

General Knowledge

Older sister to Toph Beifong, and heir apparent to the Beifong fortune

a nonbender who has trained extensively in swordplay

assists her younger sister in escaping, both to the fighting ring and to leave with the Avatar

in retaliation, is essentially sold by her father into marriage to the much older Earth King in Ba Sing Se

Vibes

Major Taylor Gardner

General Knowledge

28 year old Marine pilot

first Marine to ever be allowed to attend Top Gun, and the youngest female aviator to ever win Top Gun

callsign “Wasp”; due to the fifth generation fighter, colloquially called a Stinger, that she stole while escaping the uranium enrichment plant after being undercover there for several weeks obtaining vital intel

fic: Hangman and The Wasp

Vibes

[dcdreamblog]

So, hey, I apologize for poking at the definitions of your field, but.

Like, you mentioned that while Crimson Avenger is "officially" the first superhero, some in your field argue that legendary gunfighters such as Jonah hex also qualify.

But, like...why stop there? What about people like Jon Valor or Tomahawk?

What about the Knights of the Round Table? I mean, Shining Knight has been confirmed to be a member of that group, hasn't he?

Oh boy, well have you got a week and the ability to film a bunch of scholars getting into fist fights?

The definition of "superhero" is porous at best, and its a rather new term. We only call them "superheroes" in regular conversation BECAUSE of the appearance of Superman acting as the representative for the movement.

Famously, back in the "Golden Age' of WWII they were most often known as "Mystery Men".

Before then, America famously had a rash of "cowboy" heroes who are usually referred to academically as "Gunslingers" or "Lawmen"

(A mural of many famous western heroes painted on the wall of the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum in Oklahoma City)

Many of them, even those who weren't masked would fit the modern definitions of superheroes because they fought injustice using specific names and motifs. Bat Lash, El Diablo, Pow Wow Smith, etc.

I already did a little write up on the Black Pirate but you mentioned Tom Hawk, AKA Tomahawk, a famous frontiersman who served both during and after the Revolutionary War alongside who is probably the first MASKED hero in American history. Bess Lynn AKA Miss Liberty

(A mural of Miss Liberty, the original is hung up at the Liberty Bell Center in Philadelphia but others versions are commonly copied. We have one here at the Perisphere)

The Knights of the Round would certainly have been considered the superheroes of their day! And in the case of Sir Justin, ours! Really to dig into the question that you're driving at, the reason the Lee Travis is considered the "shot heard round the world" for the superheroes that exist now is because the chain of legacy he started is still unbroken. He took to the streets in 1938 because he saw people suffering and decided he wouldn't stand by for it.

He was joined by the Sandman, unveiling themselves to the world. Both men joined wartime superhero groups, the Justice Society eventually serving as moral and inspiration foundation for our modern Justice League. Said League still uses the original cloak, hat and mask of the Crimson Avenger to swear in its new members.

The wave that Lee Travis started has not ended. There is no end of the old west, there is no fall of camelot. He broke the ribbon on the new world and we are still living in it.

[filesbeorganized]

[Under The Gazing Sky]

Mild mannered Jon, his valor shines bright

Unwavering Martin, the love of his life

Lion hearted Melanie, her bravery

Loved by the summer, the sweet Georgie

Faithful of heart, the strong Basira

And mighty Daisy, her eternal harbour

Brilliant Sasha, a memory to keep

And restless Tim, who can finally sleep

Sly vicious Bouchard, the Eye's ruthless guard

Quiet Peter Lukas, the fears' secret card

Resolute Gertrude, ever the headstrong

Shelley and Keay, guilt that stay lifelong

The fears they lurk in the dark

They're foxes, and your souls' the lark

Disturbing, disrupting, their echoes of voices

Try and drown out the allure of their verses

[suzukiblu]

Ko-fi thank-you sentences for @miri-tiazan and @lectorel; the wet nurse omegaverse.

Jon's pheromones smell conflicted, a little. Anxious and unsure, but slowly softening into something calmer; a pup warming up to a stranger who's reached out to them with a kindness. Damian folds his arms and scowls accusingly up at Clark. Bruce shifts between them to buffer the expression before Clark can notice any weaponized preteen disapproval. It isn't Clark's fault that he can't get milked up anymore. Not his fault in a way that can be helped, anyway.

He's explained that to Damian, obviously, but ten years' socialization in the League is still winning out over two in Bristol, at least so far.

"Well, it seems like Chris is taking to Carl's milk alright," Bruce says, less because he finds it necessary to state the obvious and more to keep everyone distracted and head off anything too inadvisably vicious that Damian might decide to say if left to his own devices. The comment about "summoning" Jason was bad enough. Lor is officially deep asleep on Carl's chest and looks to be staying that way, his scent sleepy-warm and satiated, and Jon is smelling increasingly comfortable, if still a little shy. But if Lor is sleeping so easy and his pack bonds to Jon encouraged him nursing from Carl too, and they both seem to like his scent, well . . .

It does bode well for Lor not having any belated negative reactions or the like, that's all.

And it clearly was Lor's influence on their pack bond that had Carl offering his milk to Jon, seeing as he's effectively ignored Damian and Tim. Tim, admittedly, isn't much younger than Carl looks to be, but he's also a bit of a late bloomer and still technically unpresented, and Damian is only twelve. If Carl was just being friendly or polite, he wouldn't have picked out Jon specifically. It's obviously the influence of Lor's pack bond with Jon that motivated him to make the offer.

Again, that's a good sign for both Lor getting decently fed and the development of his pack bonds within the Lane-Kent pack, so at least they've learned that much from this meeting, if nothing else. Bruce has gotten more from less, in fact.

"It does seem so, yes, Alpha Wayne," Travers says, still looking pained and seeming to have decided that just ignoring Carl is the better part of valor. "Your request said the pup was, ah . . . particular?"

"Has a particular stomach, more like," Bruce replies with a careless shrug and an easy laugh, neither of which are remotely honest gestures after all the stress of getting even this far. "Not my territory, though, Clark'll have to fill you in on that one."

"Chris has some digestive issues," Clark says with an apologetic smile that is even less honest than Brucie's careless ease. "That's why our requests were so specific."

Incredibly specific, in fact. Bruce had needed to do some exceptionally careful research and testing to work out what was feasibly "reasonable" to request from a human wet nurse, so far as a Kryptonian pup's dietary requirements. The answer, unfortunately, had been "not enough, but maybe enough to get by on for now". It's an imperfect solution, but it's still something.

"Ah, yes, Alpha Wayne did mention something about that," Travers says, and doesn't ask for details. Discretion is highly coveted in Gotham society and also their specific situation, which is another reason the Waterton Agency made Bruce's list of options, so at least that they seem capable of managing without insulting an omega.

Small favors, Bruce supposes. Anyway, Carl's the one they're going to have to be putting up with on the regular, and his bad manners have been entirely equal-opportunity so far. He's treated him and Clark both exactly the same and the only pup he's been even mildly rude to was rude to him first–and much more so than he was in return, in fact.

And either way, he already clearly adores Lor, so that'd soften a lot more in the way of character flaws than Travers' "politeness" has.

"Of course, we do recommend waiting a few hours to make any official arrangements in these situations, just to be certain the pup's taken to the milk, but if you're pleased with Carly's service, I do have the standard contracts for you to look over and discuss as necessary," Travers says, her tone pleasant but stiff. "And I'd be happy to answer any questions, of course."

Carl tilts his head back to glance at the back of Travers' head over the top of his sunglasses and sticks his tongue out at her. She doesn't notice, too absorbed in the paperwork she's pulling out of her briefcase, but Tim has to muffle a strangled little laugh. His face is still flushed; Bruce makes a note to check he hasn't overworked himself into a fever again. They've been getting better about avoiding that, but "better" isn't "perfect".

Carl's eyes are very blue, some part of Bruce notes and files away.

"Would you prefer to discuss the contracts now, Alpha Wayne, or wait until we have confirmation of the pup's tolerance and Alpha Lane is available?" Travers continues, holding up a thick manilla folder in one hand. Bruce ignores the question and instead glances briefly at Lor, who is sleeping more peacefully than he's seen him manage yet, and then Clark, who exhales once before smiling politely at Travers.

"Lois likely won't be back for at least an hour," he says. "And Chris threw up every milk sample that bothered him by now, so I think we could at least begin preliminary discussions. Save a little time in the long run."

"Er–of course, Omega Lane," Travers says, just barely awkward. "Would your office be suitable, Alpha Wayne?"

She doesn't look at Carl as she asks, but Bruce would bet every dime in his bank account that she's trying to get them away from him long enough to close the deal before he finds a way to actually offend them. Given that's a significant portion of her job, he probably shouldn't blame her for it, but he does find the behavior just a little bit irritating.

Well, it'd be less irritating if she hadn't kept doubling down on calling the kid "Carly", probably.

. . . though if she's actually suggesting leaving her at best barely-legal subordinate unchaperoned with a presented adult in a household that could have any number of other presented adults in it, Bruce will very literally be burning down this agency. Alfred isn't any kind of risk or threat to any omega who isn't a violent criminal, of course, much less with the pups in the house, and even if he were Tim would put him on the floor before letting him lay an inappropriate hand on anyone, but Travers has no way of knowing that.

[superfamilyweek]

We are happy to announce the prompts for Superfamily week! Superfamily week is an event centred around Superman and his family (close as well as extended) and we wanted to reflect that through our choices in prompts. Note that the prompts are not mandatory, and can be followed as loosely or as closely as you'd like. They are as follows:

Day 1: It's a Bird! It's a Plane! / Metropolis & Smallville Day 2: Across Space or Time / Friends and Teammates Day 3: Singing Stars / Hope Day 4: Red and Blue / Krypton Day 5: Heart of Steel / Civilian Life Day 6: Up Up and Away / Of Tomorrow Day 7: Free Day

Reminder: the week will run from November 24 to November 30, 2024. Make sure to check out the week rules here.

[sunflowersandsapphires]

the irony of you reblogging things about not condoning the political atmosphere today but still actively supporting jon bernthal is so funny. "oh yeah guys we can't tolerate the culture that trump supporters and their ilk has perpetrated but let me support someone who actively contributes to the domestic abusers and rapists in Hollywood being widely accepted and someone who goes out of their way to tell the IDF what an act of valor the October attacks at Gaza were and someone who brushes elbows with people like joe rogan and cops involved in shootings." nice logic.

Babes, I am a tumblr blogger. He gets no money from me. If you don’t like what I post, you can block me and curate your own internet experience.

[agentrouka-blog]

Considering jon's dynamic with ygritte to be a romance is an insult to the definition of romance. He never once told her he loved her 💀, understandably, since she coerced him into a relationship and he gaslit himself. The most interest jon ever shows in val, and also the coldest he acts with her is when she looks like other characters. As much as it is the ultimate reddit male dream, romance =/= sex with a hot blonde with cardboard personality who exists solely to serve as a stand in.

I always laugh when people go "GRRM is so bad at romance, lol" because... he is not writing romance. He is writing abusive relationships or codependent messes or tragedies. He is challenging the reader to perceive how literally everyone (including Jon!) is projecting onto Val who gives nothing of herself away, or how awkward traumatized teenagers make awkward choices driven by trauma (Hi, Gilly!), or enhancing complex interactions around knighthood and disilusionment with the same imagery of knightly valor and chivalry that underpins the early origins of literary "romance". (Hello, Jaime and Brienne.)

He gave us a plethora of Really Bad False Knights.

And then he gave us Brienne. He's capable.

When he wants things to be actually romantic, we will know.