#i love drawing this jons skin
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mxwhore · 7 months ago
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some monster intimacy commission for @chrisis-averted of their AU "Rewind. Reset. Rewrite"
commission me!
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greenglowinspooks · 4 months ago
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Honestly I think the fics where Danny’s a Kryptonian have a lot of potential, so here’s me throwing my hat into the ring
Danny was born a human. He was born to two loving (though slightly neglectful) human parents in the painfully mundane state of Illinois.
Then, he died, but he didn’t do it right. He became a Halfa; too alive to be a ghost, but too dead to be human.
Then, through strange, uncontrollable circumstances, that changed as well.
He had been heavily injured, missing a large percentage of body mass, and was at the cusp of either dying fully or just fading from existence.
(Perhaps it was an ordinary fight. Perhaps it was the GiW, or his parents. Perhaps it was a simple accident. That didn’t matter now.)
He fled, phasing through the ground, trying to bury himself as deep as possible.
(Perhaps he didn’t want to be unmasked in death. Perhaps that was already too late, and he just wanted his body be able to rest in peace.)
Unfortunately for him, he was in Metropolis, and ended up in a secret genetics lab below the earth.
Danny detransformed, completely exhausted, falling onto a table covered in different labeled specimen containers. He closed his eyes, and prepared himself for what would happen next.
And… nothing.
Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes.
Danny sat up, brushing off the foul-smelling liquid from the specimen jars, petri dishes, and assorted vials.
He felt…fine.
No, better than fine. He felt normal. Healthy.
He felt like he wasn’t missing most of his internal organs anymore.
Danny looked down at his stomach, and saw that the wounds that were killing him had completely disappeared.
(The blood blossoms, if there had been any, were still there, but they no longer hurt. At most, they itched a little, or maybe just tickled a bit.)
He wanted to question what in the hell had just happened, but he didn’t want to jinx it. He just quietly changed back to Phantom, going invisible and phasing out of wherever he had found himself in, ignoring the loud alarm system that had begun to blare when he broke the samples on that table.
Life mostly went back to normal after that.
If, like Danny, you ignored all the physical changes in a valiant effort to remain in denial that something was horribly wrong.
His skin was tougher, now; he didn’t get scrapes or cuts, even when he accidentally fumbled a knife while trying to cook. His ghost form was stronger, too; he was barely knocked down by his old rogues anymore.
He could fly, even in his human form. Though, admittedly, the flight was much different. It was like using a muscle he hadn’t known existed beforehand. He didn’t just ignore gravity or wind resistance, though he felt more graceful in the air now than he ever did as Phantom.
There were more powers popping up, lasers and cold breath, x-ray vision and super strength. His lungs and heart were larger, and he could handle temperatures much easier. He didn’t have to transform to handle the pressure and cold of space anymore.
His reaction time had improved, becoming much faster than ever before. His senses were much stronger, and he had even seemed to gain a sense of electric fields, like a shark.
The only thing that separated him from a Kryptonian was that he had developed electrokenesis, which he had never seen any of them use on TV.
So, surely, he was fine.
Everything was normal, he hadn’t been transformed by alien DNA in a sketchy lab, he had just had a really weird and specific metagene activation.
Clark Kent, Kal-El, was panicking.
It had been around a month and a half since a particularly brutal fight between Intergang and an unknown assailant, and it seemed that Intergang was determined to draw out whoever had scorned them.
Their method of doing this, of course, was trying to level the city.
He and Jon were doing their best to stop them, but with both Kon and Zor-El away on their own business, it was difficult.
And by difficult, he meant almost impossible.
Slowly but surely he was driving them back, but not without massive amounts of damage to the city, especially with only Jon on dedicated rescuing duty.
He was distracted, trying to draw a group away from a heavily occupied building, when a projectile hit him in the back of the head.
The world spun for a moment, and then it went black.
(It was, probably, then, some sort of Kryptonite-metal alloy. Intergang at its finest.)
He woke slowly, forcing his eyes open. He felt like he had been hit by an eighteen wheeler.
Clark jolted up, preparing for the worst.
To his shock, though, the city hadn’t been reduced to rubble while he was out.
Jon seemed to still be working on evacuation, either unaware that he had went down or forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.
Then, a lightning-quick figure flew into view, and Clark’s mind went blank.
He thought, for a moment, that Kara was back. But, no, that wasn’t right, she was supposed to be off-planet for another week or so.
Besides, this new figure didn’t move like her. They were lankier and more slender, and they flew quicker than any member of his family.
Their powerset was different, too; they focused mainly on using blasts of ice and electricity to drive enemies back, only occasionally using their strength or lasers—ones which came from their hands instead of their eyes.
He had woken up at the tail end of the fight, it seemed. The remaining Intergang members were fleeing from the mysterious metahuman.
They stayed in the sky, motionless, watching them leave.
As if they could sense him staring, they turned.
They were small, still clearly young. Probably around Kon’s age, or maybe even younger.
Instead of the colorful clothing he had inherited from his family, the stranger wore black and white clothes which looked similar to a hazmat suit, their face covered by some sort of gas mask.
Interestingly enough, instead of the S-shape crest that he was so used to seeing, the stranger wore the letter D on his chest.
Kal’s heart sped up.
From up in the sky, he heard the stranger’s heart, on the left instead of the right, speed up in return.
But before he could say a word to them, they sped off, disappearing into the deep blue sky.
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fox-guardian · 11 months ago
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[ID: Two digital drawings of Jon and Martin from The Magnus Archives in lovecore themed outfits. Both are on pink backgrounds covered in hearts with a larger heart behind each of them. The first image is of Jon, a thin Arab man with brown skin and long curly black and gray hair and a matching mustache. He's wearing a pale pink button down, a lilac argyle sweater-vest with pink hearts, pink flared trousers and lighter pink shoes. He's also wearing pink half-moon glasses with a matching chain with heart beads. He is posed as though floating with his knees bent and he has one hand over his chest and is holding a bouquet of roses in the other as he smiles to the upper right. There is a large shiny pink heart over his actual heart.
The second image is of Martin, a fat white man with freckles, a tooth gap, and long red hair pulled into a low ponytail and body hair. He's wearing a pale lilac button down and a long hot pink cardigan with the sleeves rolled up, pale pink trousers, hot pink loafers, a magenta neck scarf, and a gold belt, cuff, and scarf ring all with pink hearts as the buckle or charm. He is also wearing gold round glasses with pink lenses and gold ear gauges and two gold ear cuffs. He is posed as though floating with his legs tucked under him and his arms outstretched, holding out a floating shiny pink heart, smiling towards the bottom left. end ID]
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happy valentine's day gamers!! i wanted to do a lovecore jon cuz he's just so full of love and i thought well, i can't just NOT make a matching martin, so here they are!!
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stevieschrodinger · 14 days ago
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Part One ThirtyNine
prompt from @mugloversonly @after-the-end-times @spectrum-spectre
It’s a little odd having a birthday banner hanging across the Christmas Tree, but everyone was pretty determined that this is Eddie’s birthday, and that’s a totally different thing to Christmas Eve. So everyone is here; Joyce even baked a proper birthday cake, and now they’re doing the thing where they bring out the cake and everyone sings.
It feels bittersweet to Steve; Eddie’s first birthday. It was a year ago today that Steve pulled Eddie out of the pool. A year ago today Eddie came back to him. He remembers vividly struggling to get Eddie up the stairs. Cleaning all the filth off him. How he’d looked, with no hair at all, all skin and bones, wobbling his way down the stairs. The noise he’d made the first time he ever tried bacon; the startled look on his face the first time he’d ever hiccuped.
Eddie stays where he’s been put, sitting at the head of dining room table, proudly wearing a Birthday party hat. Eddie’s been to a couple of birthdays this year, mainly for the kids, so he knows what’s coming. He looks fucking delighted at the sight of the cake, but he still checks, “I can blow out the candles?”
“Yeap,” Steve tells him.
“Make a wish first!” Joyce calls.
“I wish-”
“Nooooooo!” probably half a dozen people yell, “keep it a secret or it won’t come true,” Robin adds. Eddie stares hard at the candles for a long second, and then he looks up, finding Steve. Steve can see the moment Eddie settles on his wish.
He’s still staring at Steve when he blows them out.
“So...things with Eddie are good then?”
It’s a little uncomfortable, but all the stuff that happened feels like it was a long time ago now. Nancy has definitely been making an effort to build a fresh friendship, and Steve can’t fault her for it, not really. Steve finds Eddie, he can see him through the doorway into the kitchen, making something with Robin and Chrissy, “yeah everything is...great. Like really great.”
“I was...a little surprised, you know?”
“Yeah that’s...understandable,” and it is. Eddie is literally a creature from The Upside Down; he didn’t even look remotely human to begin with, half of him was literally a fish. Plus Steve’s never really been interested in guys before, but he guesses there must have always been a little something there for him to take to it so easily. Granted the circumstances forced his hand a little, and he’s still had a couple of things to work through but...he feels pretty good about it. Besides, Eddie still isn’t even really human, so it probably doesn’t exactly count. Not with his lack of nipples and his downstairs situation anyway; you can’t exactly try to stick Eddie into a category...he’s Eddie, a unique and perfect thing all his own.
In the kitchen, Robin spills something, Chrissy shrieks and Eddie manically dashes for a cloth, cackling. The chaos of it makes Steve smile at them; everyone is at least a few drinks deep, Steve’s sure.
“You really care about him though?” She presses a little. Nancy’s never been able to just let it go, especially if she doesn’t understand it. She always needs to know, Steve’s pretty sure it’s not a nosiness thing; more an understanding thing.
“Yeah, yeah I love him,” Steve tells her unabashed, it is the truth, “he loves me too.”
“You’re sure it’s not just...I mean you did rescue him, plus, where would he even go if you weren't together-”
“Are you suggesting Eddie has some sort of-of-of Stockholm syndrome?” Steve can’t help but laugh, a little incredulous at the suggestion.
“Well no, I just. Think you should both be sure-”
“How are you and Jon then?” Steve cuts her off. He chooses to lean into the spirit of Christmas and assume that Nancy’s concerns all come from a good place. Even so, it’s not a good intention Steve has to tolerate if he doesn’t want to. He raises his eyebrows at her, waiting.
Nancy draws breath, like she’s not done, but then clearly rethinks it and chooses her battle, Steve can see the moment when she decides not to pursue it, sipping her drink before she replies, “yeah, really good,” over her shoulder, Eddie, Chrissy, and Robs have their heads together, the conversation clearly turned serious.
“That’s good Nance,” Steve chooses to be the bigger man, “I’m just really glad you’re both happy,” he tells her pointedly. In the kitchen, Eddie’s turned to find Steve, watching him back. Steve can’t quite decipher the look on his face, but Robin’s clutching his arm, on her toes, speaking urgently to Eddie. She looks kind of panicked, which immediately worries Steve.
“Well, I mean, obviously I want you to be happy, I mean I’m glad, really glad it all worked out for you.”
Eddie has a look on his face that Steve’s pretty certain he’s never seen before. He can’t quite work out what it means other than...Eddie’s pissed. Like, really fucking angry. And he’s marching closer, shaking off both Robin and Chrissy in the process.
Steve has no clue what’s happening as Eddie approaches, pushing Steve away from Nancy to press him against the wall and then...kisses him. Steve has his eyes open, not sure what to make of Eddie’s rage, but he soon lets them slide closed. He melts against the wall. Eddie’s kissing him like he’s got something to prove. He’s almost bitey as he sucks at Steve’s lips, leaving little scrapes that don’t quite break the skin. The passion is surprising, but so fucking hot Steve leans into it fast, matching Eddie’s energy and he sucks on Eddie’s tongue, curling his fingers around Eddie’s hips to pull him closer, no longer wanting to stop to question Eddie’s motives.
Eddie pulls back, pink and flushed, an inch of space between them, panting for breath Eddie asks, “you and Nancy used to be together?”
“I-” Steve can’t help his gaze flicking side wards to Nancy, and then back to Eddie, Eddie’s eyes narrowing at the sight, something flashing in the depths, “yeah?” Steve confirms weakly.
Eddie presses closer, his claws pricking Steve’s skin through his clothes; Eddie’s never been possessive like this before, and Steve is...well they’ve had a lot of sex, and Eddie pressing himself against Steve like this, kissing him like that...Steve’s body is only reacting the way it always does, which is a little mortifying in a room full of people.
Eddie leans his face closer again, his hair brushing Steve’s forehead, his breath warm as he growls, “you had sex with her?”
“Eddie!” Steve splutters, but apparently even that is too much, Eddie has him by the wrist, not quite painful, but very harsh compared to Eddie’s usually gentle nature. Eddie turns, pulling Steve along and he...bares his teeth at Nancy, actually hissing at her on the way past.
“Eddie!” Steve starts again, shocked, this time a reprimand, “be nice!” That’s no way to behave, and Nancy is unnerved enough that she takes a big step back. Steve is dragged along behind Eddie, ending up locked into the downstairs bathroom together. Eddie pins him against the door with his body, kissing Steve soundly.
“Baby,” Steve starts, his words broken by kisses, “what’s gotten into you?”
Eddie just growls. It’s not a sound Steve’s ever heard before, and he can feel it, rumbling in Eddie’s body where their chests are pressed together, “need you.”
Eddie starts nipping at Steve’s throat, stinging kisses that makes Steve’s hips roll, looking for friction against Eddie’s thigh. His brain feels like it’s going a little mushy, Eddie’s being unusually forceful, and Steve’s vaguely aware that everyone is still out there and, probably, are now very aware that they’re shut in here together but...as Eddie’s questing fingers find the button on Steve’s jeans, he’s struggling to care about that stuff.
“We’ve got to be quiet,” Steve breathes out, a final token protest, giving in to what's about to happen. Eddie huffs dismissively, tugging down Steve’s jeans and underwear together, Steve angling his hips away from the door to help. Eddie abandons them there, bunched around Steve’s thighs, surging up for another possessive kiss. Eddie grabs Steve’s bare ass with both hands, his claws digging into the meat a little as he squeezes, pulling Steve against him.
“She not touch you again,” Eddie growls against Steve’s mouth, words choppy, “promise.”
“I...I promise baby, of course,” Eddie stares into Steve’s face, their warm breaths mingling as Eddie inspects him from inches away, like he’s searching for any hint of a lie, “no one else ever again, I swear it.”
Eddie nods once, sharply, before spitting into his palm and grabbing Steve's now, very hard cock. He had no idea he’d be into this, but possessive, bossy Eddie is lighting him up in a way he didn’t know he’d like, his brain turning to mush a little as Eddie touches him. He feels too warm, flushed and sweaty already, the world narrowed down to Eddie’s touch on him, hard and fast, intent on getting him off.
“And you,” Steve’s mouth is insisting before his brain catches up, he needs it, needs to make Eddie feel good too. Eddie doesn’t stop jerking him, but he does slow it down, leaning back a tiny bit, giving Steve space to reach past the bend of Eddie’s own arm to get to the button on his jeans.
Steve sees the fabric move. He can see Eddie’s cock desperately wriggling for freedom beneath his zipper. Eddie’s told him before that it gets real uncomfortable real fast, and Steve tuts quietly, “baby.”
Eddie’s cock forces it's way free before Steve even has the zipper half down, already having found it’s way through the slit in Eddie’s boxers, it rushes into Steve’s fingers, greeting him eagerly and tangling itself firmly there. Eddie groans, shuffling close again. The head of Eddie’s cock opens, setting sucking kisses on every part of Steve’s hand and fingers it can reach. They arrange themselves as Eddie’s hand speeds up again, “fuck, baby, yeah.” Steve’s cock is leaking, making Eddie’s hand slick, but Eddie still stops to spit again, landing the glob on the exposed head of Steve’s cock. It’s red already, and Eddie squeezes, forcing Steve’s foreskin up to roll back up and partially cover the swollen head.
Steve’s guts are tight already, the muscles in his ass and legs tensing, he can’t stop the shift of his own hips as he works his thumb in circles across the head of Eddie’s own cock. Eddie jacks him again, slow and so firm, forcing a massive dribble of pre come out of the head of Steve’s cock. Steve groans again, “baby, I’m gonna’-”
“Wait,” Eddie uses his free hand to push Steve’s hand off himself, letting his cock to wriggle free between them. It stands tall, searching, the black petals rippling.
Eddie angles Steve’s cock out, pulling the head down and towards himself, and Steve instantly knows what Eddies planning, “oh fuck baby, yes, yes please.” They’ve never done this before, but just the idea of it makes Steve hips shift, his balls going tight, the orgasm bubbling at the base of his cock, “please, now,” Steve vaguely aware that he’s whining, loud and desperate.
People can hear; he doesn’t give a fuck. He wants this.
Eddie’s cock latches to the head of Steve’s, the black petals stark against the dark pink spongy head. The fit is perfect, the slit of Steve’s cock, the head, being suckled and gently rubbed by all those little bumps, the sucking pulse feels like a mouth, the texture incredible. Eddie drags his hand upward, forcing Steve’s skin up again, his foreskin sliding over top of the petals. Eddie makes a choked noise, his free hand scrabbling again at the meat of Steve’s ass. Steve desperately locks his knees to stop himself from falling. The pulsing, sucking, pulling sensation is relentless.
Eddie moves his hand again, dragging Steve's foreskin back down, revealing the filthy sight of those jet black petals cupping the head of Steve's cock, the body of Eddie's cock writhing. Steve’s head thumps back against the door, his hips wriggling now, unable to stop himself moving in tiny little thrusts, “fuck, fuck, fuck,” Steve groans, “baby-”
Eddie leans up for a kiss. It’s messy, uncoordinated, both of them groaning and panting into each others mouths, and Steve cries out against Eddie’s lips as he comes. The pull is sharp, the stimulation on the head of his cock turning frantic as, just like with Steve’s spit on his cock, Steve’s come works to push Eddie into his own orgasm. Eddie accidentally catches Steve’s lip with his teeth, and the sting is delicious. His orgasm seems to go on forever, Eddie's cock suckling fiercely, and Eddie’s hand working him so perfectly.
Eventually, Eddie slumps forward onto Steve, Steve using his back to the door to keep them both up. “That was…” Steve starts, but doesn’t know where to go. He doesn’t know how to describe what just happened. It was maybe the best orgasm of Steve’s life.
“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, muffled where his face is smushed into Steve’s shoulder. The head of Steve’s dick is suddenly cold, and he figures Eddie’s dick has gone back in. They stand there for a few minutes, Steve rubbing Eddie’s back, gathering themselves. Eddie clears his throat, lifting his head so he can look Steve in the eye, “I’m sorry.”
Steve frowns, brain still a little flooded with happy chemicals, “what?”
“For before. I just...I found out about you and Nancy and I got...I got so angry. It,” Eddie makes a motion between them, a churning of his insides that he can’t express, “I’ve never felt like that before it was...like I hated her. And I needed you and I don’t understand-”
“You were jealous, baby?”
“I...yeah, it was horrible. And stupid- I didn’t – there’s no-” Eddie huffs, struggling for the words.
“How you feel doesn’t always make sense. There’s no...rules, you know.” Steve frowns, remembering, “should probably say sorry to Nancy though, you like, hissed at her which, kind of funny but still.”
Eddie looks a cross between horrified and mortified, “I don’t even remember.”
“Wow,” Steve can’t help being smug, “got it bad for me, huh?”
Eddie limply slaps at Steve’s chest, sighing through his nose, “shut up.”
Steve hums, “uh huh. We should get cleaned up.”
“Probably.”
They peel themselves apart, Steve leaning to grab for some tissue off the roll as Eddie starts to pull his pants down a little, but as Steve investigates, his finds his cock dry, “huh, where did it go?” He wipes up a little, the skin tacky with spit and precome, but otherwise everything is clean and dry, “uh...is my come on you? I can’t, uhm, find it?” He tucks himself away, pulling everything up so he can help Eddie.
“I don’ t think so?” Eddie replies, touching himself, his slit, the crease of his thighs, when Steve goes to wipe at him with the tissue, since Eddie usually makes a lot of come, there’s nothing, “I’m clean,” Eddie tells him.
Steve frowns, “did you come?”
“Yeah,” Eddie huffs, “I definitely, definitely did. That was…”
“Yeah,” Steve agrees, “but you’re dry?”
“Yeah,” Eddie scissors his thighs together, something he normally does when he’s spreading all the jelly like come about, “nothing there.”
“This is weird, where'd it all go? And why haven’t you, you know?” Steve feels for himself, running two fingers gently along Eddie’s slit, pushing in to part him the tiniest bit, Eddie makes a breathy little noise as Steve pulls away, “you sure you came?”
“Steve,” Eddie replies flatly, pulling his pants up and buttoning them.
“Right right it’s just...weird, right?”
Eddie shrugs, “makes it easy?”
“Yeah...don’t look a gift horse in the mouth I guess, considering we now have to go out there and face everyone.”
Eddie grins, “I like that they know.”
“Of course you do,” Steve sighs, fixes his hair in the mirror, and opens the door.
It’s after midnight; Eddie’s birthday is officially over. All the kids have gone home with Hopper and Joyce, and before everyone else heads home, since it’s Christmas, they’re going to exchange gifts now.
Steve had been, mildly mortified after they came out of the bathroom, not really wanting to face Joyce's raised eyebrows or the girls giggling...Eddie however, has been strutting around like a proud peacock, so Steve hasn't been feeling too ashamed about the whole thing. He is however, glad of the distraction of the gifts.
All the gifts are stacked under the tree, and Steve has been voted to distribute. A lot of the labels have been made from cut up magazine letters so that the hand writing won’t be recognized; to Steve they vaguely look like ransom threats.
They go around the room, opening their gifts one at a time, trying to guess who got them. They mostly work it out. Steve isn’t that interested in his own; he’s more interested in what Eddie got. The box is actually kind of heavy, and it’s pretty big.
Eddie opens it happily, pulling out a record that Steve knows he’s wanted for ages. And then...a denim jacket with no sleeves that Steve knows he was eyeing at the thrift store. Steve watches with mounting suspicion as Eddie pulls out a book he's talked about. The box, now Steve’s thinking about it, is wrapped with very familiar wrapping paper.
“Eddie, you got loads, they definitely didn’t stay on budget. Who got Eddie? Steve, was it you?”
“No, no it wasn’t me,” Steve quietly chuckles to himself. He half listens as Robin goes around the room, and every single person denies getting Eddie.
“Whoever pulled your name must know you pretty well, huh Baby? They got you exactly what you wanted.”
“Yup,” Eddie grins happily.
“Steve, come on, it must have been you, it wasn’t any of us.”
Steve just shakes his head in denial before turning back to Eddie, “baby...it’s kind of against the rules to pull your own name.”
Eddie frowns, “no it isn’t,” the whole room erupts into laughter around them.
Steve tries to clear up some of the aftermath, but it’s nearly two in the morning and he can’t be fucked really. He collapses on the couch, finishing his now warm flat soda. He can hear Eddie pottering, “we should go to bed!” Steve calls. He’s not loud, not much above speaking volume really, but he knows Eddie will hear him.
“Can we do our gifts now?” Eddie asks from the doorway.
“Sure Baby, if you want to. We’re going to be out most of the day tomorrow anyway,” they’re spending Christmas with the Hopper-Byers brigade, and Steve is kind of looking forward to it. Eddie’s second ever Christmas.
Steve heads off to his hiding place in one of the spare rooms to get Eddie’s gifts, Eddie does the same; Steve knows his are stashed out in the utility.
He’s been pretending not to know.
“Okay, me first,” Eddie says, sitting and pulling out what Steve knows is the record. Steve eyes the gift he has from Eddie; just the one, but it’s fairly big looking. Square. Steve has no idea what it could be.
Eddie likes the record; he absolutely loves the book of Metallica tabs and almost leaves to get his guitar right there and then, but Steve stops him, “tomorrow baby. We really need to sleep after this.”
Eddie laughs at himself and his own excitement, agreeing. When he opens his final gift, the guitar pick necklace, he puts it on immediately and swears he loves it so much he’s never going to take if off. Steve’s glad to hear it, even if it makes him feel, momentarily, a little weirdly possessive.
“Okay, this first,” Eddie pulls over the box, “Chrissy helped me,” he admits as Steve unwraps it, carefully pulling out the frame inside. It’s wrapped in soft packing paper, and Steve pulls that away to reveal his crown. It’s been artfully arranged behind the glass, all dried now, the tufts of grasses stand tall, still twined up with all the little flowers that Eddie had included. Clearly someone spent a very long time carefully setting it out, and it looks beautiful. Steve had carefully stored it away in a shoebox, so he hadn't even noticed it was gone. He’s...touched, by the memory of them in the woods around Hopper’s cabin. Eddie had told Steve he loved him for the first time not long after.
“Thank you...it’s so thoughtful. Thank you. I can hang this up and remember it forever, I love it.” Eddie smiles, slipping off the couch to kneel in front of Steve. Steve sets the frame down.
Eddie pulls a little velvet box out of his pocket, “I didn’t understand what it meant,” he starts slowly, “when you put this on me,” he lifts his left hand, rubbing at the ring with his thumb. “I didn’t know what being engaged was, or weddings or...any of it. I didn’t know, but you loved me anyway, and I’ve never taken it off,” Steve swallows thickly, he knows, he knows in his bones where this is going, but he lets Eddie speak. If Eddie’s saying so may words in one go, it means he’s really thought about, and Steve won’t interrupt him. “But I know now. I understand all of it, and I know I’m a guy, and...we can’t get married, but I...wanted to show you that I know. I know now, and I love you too.”
Eddie opens the box, it’s a simple silver band, thicker than Eddie’s but still, it matches. Steve isn’t sure he’d be able to speak, his eyes already feel wet, so he silently holds his hand out for Eddie to slide the ring on; it fits perfectly.
Steve feels like he’ll crack open if he tries to talk about what he feels right now, it’s too big, too much, “you measured my finger didn’t you. Before the mall? So sneaky.”
Eddie nods, his own eyes looking suspiciously misty, smiling and biting at his lip, clearly nervous, “do you like it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I love it, thank you. I love you.”
Eddie smiles, sitting up for a kiss, “love you, too.”
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thefrogdalorian · 9 months ago
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Nowhere Else To Run
Din Djarin x GN!Reader
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Summary: Despite the fact that sharing a cabin with you and Grogu on Nevarro has given him the peaceful life he was searching for, Din cannot escape the nightmares of his past which haunt him most nights.
Although he feels unworthy of your love, the only time things make sense is when you take him in your arms and dutifully put his pieces back together. Even on nights when he feels he does not deserve it.
Word Count:  3.4k ✯ Rating:  Teen ✯ Content Warnings: ✯ PTSD, nightmares, descriptions of canon-typical violence, survivor's guilt, Din feeling unworthy of love, Din's violent past, reader's hands described as being smaller than Din's. Author's Note: I created my blog six months ago, so here is a little Din drabble to celebrate. Title is taken from 'All These Things That I've Done' by The Killers (which is so Din coded) and I also listened to 2 Rocking Chairs by Jon Bellion a lot recently, so that might have inspired some of this too! Really hope you enjoyed it and here's to many more months of Din Djarin brainrot ☺︎
✯ My Masterlist ✯ Read on AO3 ✯
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On the nights he startles awake, haunted by the nightmarish, twisted visions of the worst things he has done, he is certain that he does not deserve you. With all his evil deeds laid bare as his mind plays cruel tricks on him, Din Djarin remains convinced that he could live a thousand lifetimes and never be worthy of your love. 
His eyelids fly open as his bare, muscular chest heaves. His golden skin is covered with a sheen of sweat. Din raises a trembling hand to wipe the moisture from his furrowed brow. Disorientated and afraid in the darkness.
His sharpened senses, honed thanks to his previous life as a bounty hunter, begin to function with all the effectiveness which once led to him being deemed the best in the parsec. He cringes as he remembers his narcissism, disgusted by how dishonourable it was to take pride in such an epithet. 
First, Din feels your presence at his side. A warm mass of flesh in the dark, coldness of the night. So close that he could reach out and touch you if only he were not petrified that doing so would shatter your beauty. He yearns to draw comfort from you. Yet, he is too afraid to bring you down to his level, to defile your splendour.
Then, Din hears your soft snores. Truthfully, the sweet sounds you make are not quite snores at all. Merely the even, shallow sounds which indicate that you are peacefully resting. He relaxes slightly, relieved that his unwanted awakening has not disturbed you. 
Emboldened by your continued slumber, Din sits up and gazes at you. Your stunning features are barely illuminated by the faint moonlight which streams in through an ill-fitting blind, yet even such a simple glimpse leaves him overwhelmed by your beauty.
As he quietly watches you, Din wonders what he could have done to deserve you in a past life. He certainly is not worthy of you in this one.
How could someone as wicked and treacherous as he ever be worthy of the love you envelop him in each day of your lives?
The guilt creeps in, then. It snakes its horrifying tendrils around Din's entire being and suffocates him under the weight of his regret and his pain. 
He feels guilty that he has even found himself in a position to receive love like this in the first place. Especially after everything he has done, all the pain he has caused and contributed to.
Din wonders whether it is cruel to keep you around. To have intertwined his life with yours in the way he has. Surely you deserve someone better than him.
Inviting you to move in with him changed so much for Din. It deepened and strengthened his relationship with you while opening him up to experiences he had missed for much of his life. How to share space with someone else, to show affection and receive it in return.
Sharing a bunk with someone for the first time meant Din could not continue outrunning his past. It was a race that had begun decades prior on the day he lost everything on Aq Vetina, a marathon which continued well into adulthood. 
The race was almost won when Din took the job that changed his life and led him to Arvala-7 in the hunt for the bounty who eventually became his son.
Yet it wasn’t until Din found you that he had finally crossed the finish line. 
He still remembered the horrified look in your eyes when he awoke for the first time in your presence, thrashing and screaming as the night terrors plagued him. Terrified by the haunting visions that made his past as vivid as though it was happening right before him. 
The nightmares are indiscriminate when they strike. Extensive in their scope. 
In slumber, Din is confronted with the shameful jobs he took from the most reprehensible individuals in the galaxy, reminded of the ego he once possessed.
He relives how readily he hunted people for his gain, collecting bounties without a care for who he hurt. Who was he to be the law? To be judge, jury and, on occasion, executioner? Din is pained at the memory of the life of sin he led. 
Din sees the job on Alzoc III in harrowing detail. The unspeakable acts of violence he had a hand in. As much as he tries to downplay his role and blame the atrocities on the disgusting band of crooks he ran with at the time, deep down, Din knows that he was a willing participant in the barbarity.
He replays the moment when, in a cruel, unforgiving tone, the gold-helmeted woman he had always idolised coldly informed him that he was a Mandalorian no more. Din is tormented time and again by the knowledge that he rendered himself an apostate in the eyes of the people who saved him; who taught him how to live. Being a Mandalorian and swearing the Creed were the only things aside from violence Din had truly ever been successful at. Walking The Way of the Mandalore was the only thing which had brought him anywhere close to achieving inner peace.
But most chillingly of all, Din is reminded of the gravest transgression of his life. An act of cruelty he knows that he will never truly forgive himself for committing, for as long as he lives.
Night after night, Din is haunted by how he had given up the child you both adore beyond comparison, who sleeps peacefully next door, to the Empire for the measly sum of a camtono of Beskar. 
Was that truly all Grogu’s life was worth?
Of course, Din knows that there is no sum in the entire galaxy which would prove comparable to how Grogu has enriched his life.
Even though Din has seen the error of his ways, as he thinks back across the decades and counts his mistakes, Din Djarin knows that he is not a good man. 
Yet, somehow, he has found you. 
You are the greatest blessing to happen to him, matched only by his son.
He thinks of the way you still look at him with such love in your eyes, even after knowing the atrocities he committed in a past life; it almost embarrasses him to be loved in such a manner. 
Somehow, Din has secured your unconditional love. A fact which proves every now and then, both suns shine on a womp rat’s tail. That even the most undeserving of rodents can occasionally have the greatest of fortunes.
Even when the terrors overcome him, you have never contemplated deserting him. No matter how dark and disgraceful the visions he divulges to you are.
When he wakes up yelling for his parents or screaming for Grogu, whom he is momentarily convinced the Empire have recaptured, you are always there to reassure him and to hold him while he sobs; to kiss his pain away with a touch of your soft lips against his tear-streaked cheeks.
Even knowing all he has done, you still look at him as though he is responsible for hanging all the stars which twinkle in the sky above your cabin on Nevarro. 
Din recalls evenings spent on the porch with you outside the unassuming cabin you share by the lava flats of Nevarro. Watching the sun set beneath the horizon as he holds your smaller hand in his, while he admires how your hands fit together as they rest on his lap. He thinks about how smooth your skin is there, how it is so unlike the calloused roughness of his own.
You are softness and humanity in the face of his wickedness. 
A wave of nausea overcomes him. Din is stricken by an overwhelming urge to get away from you. To put some distance between himself and you before he corrupts you with his immorality once more.
He ponders that perhaps he will find some relief on the porch in the dead of night. A solitary figure, save for his thoughts and the ghosts that haunt him. Sitting in total silence, apart from the bugs which chirp in the distance, is an appealing prospect.
So Din slowly swings his legs off the edge of the bunk, careful not to disturb you. He cringes at the way the sheets rustle. It is a minor offence compared to the many sins Din has already committed. Still, he does not want to add disturbing your peace to that list.
He sighs in the darkness as he perches on the edge of the bunk, a forceful exhale which causes his shoulders to droop when he realises you are still sleeping soundly. Din is relieved that you are unaware of his distress. 
He is tantalisingly close to the door when the moment of solace is cruelly snatched away. His careful steps across the wooden floor were evidently not soft enough.
The gentle sound of your voice cutting through the darkness stops him in his tracks. Din turns to face you.
“Din?” you whisper, voice thick and husky with sleep.
The wave of guilt that washes over him is immediate. It threatens to wash him away, to drown him. 
“Go back to sleep, cyare,” Din shakily responds, hoping he sounds convincing to someone so attuned to his every mannerism.
“Did you have another nightmare?” you ask, clearly unconvinced by his display.
Din Djarin may be many things, but he is not a liar. 
Even under the merciful cover of darkness, when he would not have to look you in the eye as he skirted around the truth, he cannot bring himself to lie to you.
“Yes,” Din finally responds. His voice cracks as he struggles under the pressure of admitting his weakness. 
The light is on before he can protest, and you rise from the bed before he can insist that there is no need. Din blinks rapidly for a few seconds as his retinas adjust to the rude intrusion into the darkness.
When his eyes finally focus, you are standing right before him, already moving to gather him into your arms.
It is strange to him, this notion that he ever needed someone to pick him up and dutifully put his shattered pieces back together. A human needing repairs is an alien concept to Din Djarin. While he has always been adept at finding and fixing faults in his impressive arsenal and starships, he was never able to identify his weaknesses and repair himself. Until he found his Clan.
It wasn't until Din saved the kid that he realised he had been running from something for his entire life. Since that terrible day, when he watched over his father's shoulder as the bodies of his neighbours hit the dusty floor. Crumpled heaps, which used to be people until moments ago, were clad in the same distinctive red robes as him. The terror he felt as his parents ran through the streets, determined to save him, their only son. 
On his worst days, Din wonders if their sacrifice was worthwhile. He frets over what they would think if they could see what became of their precious boy. Whether they would be disappointed to see the life he followed. A life of such violence, such mercilessness. 
Your warm presence against him, as you take him into your arms, snaps him back to the present. Din willingly melts into your embrace, relishing the human contact. 
“Talk to me, Din,” you whisper as you hold him to your chest.
When you run your fingers through his hair, he loses all composure and breaks down into small sobs. Din shudders in your arms as you trail soothing fingers through his hair with one hand and rub your hand in circles on his back with the other.
“I don’t deserve you,” he eventually murmurs, voice quivering. 
Din feels the way you shake your head. You gently place your hand underneath his chin and tilt his face up. Din's eyes meet your gaze and he notices how your eyes are full of concern for him. He can hardly look at you, feeling mortified at being studied like this. 
Allowing himself to be vulnerable like this is still so fresh to him. To have his soul laid bare like this is uncomfortable and unnatural.
“You are not the worst things you have ever done, Din,” you whisper as you gently wipe the tears he was unable to prevent trailing a hot path down his cheek with your fingertips, “You cannot change the past. I know that you are a good man, Din, and I love you. All of you. You would not be the man that I adore without those parts of you. For better or worse, they shaped you into the man you are today.”
Din trembles under your gaze, under the weight of your words. Unsure whether he can allow himself to accept the unconditional love you offer so readily to him, time and again.
The tears stream steadily down his cheeks, as you continue to soothe his soul:
“In you, I see a caring father. A considerate man who will do anything to protect his Clan. A fearless Mandalorian warrior who has turned his fighting prowess towards a more noble endeavour. To rid the galaxy of any threats, to build a better life for your son. That is an honourable undertaking, Din.”
“I am not an honourable man,” he scoffs, instantly rebutting such a compliment. He is far too undeserving of such praise.
“You are,” you sigh, gently stroking his cheek with your thumb. There is such tenderness in your gaze and in how you touch him that he struggles to keep his emotions at bay. His bottom lip trembles at your next words, “Your life is not defined by your most evil deeds. I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. I adore you, Din. There is so much of you that is loveable.”
Din sighs. In his current mental state, he is unable to believe your words. Unable to let them sink in, to find solace in your reassurances. He looks away from you, shaking his head in a silent response.
When he finally feels able to find your gaze again, he watches as something shifts in your eyes. A tether of patience snaps. 
There is a firmness in your tone the next time you address him.
“Do you know how empty our lives would be without you? How much the little boy in the other room adores you?" you plead in an exasperated tone. "He’s asleep right now, surrounded by a mountain of plushies that his father bought for him because even though you intimidate most you come into contact with thanks to your appearance, I have seen firsthand that, beneath your armour, you have a pure heart. And you are wrapped around each one of his little green talons.”
At the mention of his son, Din cannot help the way his lips curve upwards, the ghost of a smile crossing against his features. A welcome respite from the tortured look he has worn since he awoke from his nightmare. 
“Grogu adores you, Din. He idolises you. You would do anything to secure his happiness,” you nod, “And mine. How lucky am I to know a love like that?”
“I do love you," Din nods, "And I’m going to spend the rest of my life taking care of both of you,” Din vows, the cracks in his voice replaced with steely determination. 
Din notices the way you seem to loosen at his words, knowing that the man you know and love is gradually returning to you. His insecurities and devastation have been replaced by his determination to protect you from anything in the galaxy which could harm you.
“Then, let’s get some more rest, honey,” you whisper as you press a soft kiss onto Din’s stubbly cheek.
Din nods and laces his fingers with yours, allowing you to lead him the few steps back to the bunk you share. He slides underneath the covers, watching you as you round the bunk to join him. Once you have slid beneath the sheets, you turn the light off and plunge the room back into darkness. 
Yet, the darkness which permeated every atom of Din Djarin’s being has vanished. He can only see the light now. The way your love illuminates every part of his life. How unrelenting, yet not overbearing, the way you adore him is. 
Especially when you gently encourage him to roll over on his side so you can wrap your arms around his tight waist and nuzzle into the centre of his back. Your nose and mouth nestled between his broad shoulders.
Din lets out a sigh of contentment. 
In your arms, there is tranquillity. The necessary remedy which soothes his anguished spirit. 
✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯
Later, when Grogu is finally sleeping soundly after another long day of being doted on by his parents, Din finally makes it to his intended destination. Although he tried to reach the porch in the middle of the night, he would rather be here now. Especially since you are by his side, sitting next to him. It is a moment of rest after a hectic day spent entertaining a hyperactive Force-sensitive toddler with a voracious appetite.
With your presence in his life, Grogu has only continued to flourish. Din’s chest swells with pride as he thinks of his son's progress and all the milestones he has reached. Din knows that being a good father to Grogu is the most important role he will ever fulfil. He treats it with as much seriousness as such a responsibility warrants.
But Grogu is asleep.
Now, it is just Din and you. He smiles as he looks at your hands together, and appreciates how your fingers are intertwined. Din relishes the comfort he draws from your physical presence. He feels soothed by the knowledge that he has hidden nothing from you, that you can still love him regardless of his past transgressions. 
Din looks out across the landscape towards the rolling volcanic hills of Nevarro, dusted a pale pink and orange colour in the fading light of dusk. He thinks about how he will grow old with you here in this little cabin. If fate grants him such an honour. 
He cannot help but smile as he thinks about how you will sit out here on this very porch, holding hands with each other. When his patchy facial hair is flecked with grey and even when it is entirely white. When the wrinkles on his face are as lined and drawn as the crevices which scar the surface of Nevarro. Perhaps Grogu will be old enough to run around by then. Maybe he will have gained the gift of speech.
Regardless, even many rotations from now, Din knows with absolute certainty that he will still think you are the most beautiful sight in the galaxy. Even after years of adoring each other, he will still wonder how he was ever so lucky to be worthy of your love. 
Din is excited to spend the rest of his life proving to you that he is the good man you repeatedly inform him you still see, even amongst all his flaws. It is a heavy task, yet one he relishes. Love had terrified him for so much of his life. When he discovered its beauty, he was determined to make up for lost time.
It is a heavy thought that he may never exhaust his capacity and reach the depths of all the love he has realised he possesses.
For now, though, Din turns his head to look at you, a soft smile lighting up his face as the sunset illuminates his features. The colour has returned to his cheeks. You return the gesture, gently sweeping your thumb across the back of his hand. 
In the fading light, your face glows golden, only accentuating your beauty. Din wonders again how he was ever so lucky to know a love like this. 
Except now, he does not doubt that he deserves it.
Now, Din Djarin allows his chest to be flooded with the warmth he feels when he embraces your love.
He accepts it, even after all the things that he’s done.
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ai-manre · 4 months ago
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Following the Roses: A Meta
Having remerged into the fandom now after a long break, I was surprised to see all the currently prevailing ideas on a lot of things. It looks like the longer we go without the books, the more cycles and counter-cycles of convictions we have as a fandom, as our echo-chamber gets more intense and the contexts that much matter so much in canon fade. It was interesting to see all the different ideas and head-canons of people regarding R+L now in particular (with many now stalwartly characterizing Rhaegar as a prophecy-obsessed lunatic who impregnated Lyanna, with or without her will, and that Lyanna later grew to hate him). That made me curious into delving back to see what the books tell us and try to see where the narrative is leading us. Or maybe, more specifically, it's the roses I want to follow. The winter roses.
**The Introduction**
GRRM does a beautiful misdirection in the first book. Having Ned associate Lyanna again and again with the winter roses in his thoughts, by the time the origin of the winter roses is shown in Ned's last chapter, we have already associated Lyanna singularly with the roses. Rather than feeling the full impact of them being associated with her. So I'd like to go through the winter roses chronologically instead, according to the timeline.
**What is the narrative telling us?**
>Yet when the jousting began, the day belonged to Rhaegar Targaryen. The crown prince wore the armor he would die in: gleaming black plate with the three-headed dragon of his House wrought in rubies on the breast. A plume of scarlet silk streamed behind him when he rode, and it seemed no lance could touch him. Brandon fell to him, and Bronze Yohn Royce, and even the splendid Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.
>Robert had been jesting with Jon and old Lord Hunter as the prince circled the field after unhorsing Ser Barristan in the final tilt to claim the champion's crown. Ned remembered the moment when all the smiles died, when*Prince Rhaegar Targaryen urged his horse past his own wife, the Dornish princess Elia Martell, to lay the queen of beauty's laurel in Lyanna's lap. He could see it still: a crown of winter roses, blue as frost*.
>*Ned Stark reached out his hand to grasp the flowery crown, but beneath the pale blue petals the thorns lay hidden. He felt them clawing at his skin, sharp and cruel, saw the slow trickle of blood run down his fingers, and woke, trembling, in the dark.*
>*Promise me, Ned, his sister had whispered from her bed of blood. She had loved the scent of winter roses. "Gods save me," Ned wept. "I am going mad."
This is the origin of the winter roses according to the timeline. We do not get mentions of Lyanna with the winter roses before Rhaegar crowned her with them. When Bran looks back in time and sees Lyanna, she's not seen around those roses. When the Northmen discuss her in her childhood, they don't mention her roses, only her horse-riding skills. In Howland's story of the wolf maid, she is not associated with them. Winter roses start featuring prominently around Lyanna Stark only after Rhaegar crowns her with them. Considering this to be the origin of the roses, I would find it safe to interpret that the roses don't solely symbolize Lyanna, but rather *the bond that grew between Rhaegar and Lyanna*. This way, the roses also work as a great narrative device for Ned to covertly think of R+L without directly giving it away to the readers.
This interpretation fits in very well with the next words, where Ned reaches out to touch the flower crown and feels the thorns underneath that claw at him. The beauty of the petals was hiding the "sharp and cruel" thorns underneath which could draw blood. Just like R+L's love which likely seemed a thing of great beauty to them, but resulted in pain and suffering for both of them and all around them. If, as some other interpretations go, the roses were meant to symbolize only Lyanna as a Stark maiden or represent her connection to Winterfell, it would make no sense for the sharp and cruel thorns to appear underneath.
In the words after, Ned describes her words from bed of blood and again, seemingly out of nowhere mentions how she had loved the scent of winter roses. Why was this sentence put here? In the middle of a seemingly irrelevant of her death? Following the narrative flow of where the roses began a few sentences ago, the meaning is clear. Lyanna had loved the scent of winter roses, loved the beauty of her bond with Rhaegar, maybe ignorant or uncaring of the thorns underneath.
>"And now it begins," said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light. "No," Ned said with sadness in his voice. "Now it ends." As they came together in a rush of steel and shadow, he could hear Lyanna screaming. "Eddard!" she called. *A storm of **rose** petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as **blue** as the eyes of death.*
This is our next memory of Lyanna after the crowning at Harrenhal. Ned clashes with the Kingsguard trying to get to Lyanna, Ned's subconscious and the narrative associates this clash against a background of *storm of rose petals as blue as the eyes of death*. Again, the rose petals are associated with things like pain and blood and death. The blood-streaked sky is the background of the war, the war sparked by R+L's actions, the beautiful petals are still blowing, though they are "death". Rhaegar who is dead and Lyanna who is dying, their love that has started the fire that killed them both and many more including all the kingsguard and many northmen here here. (Though the situation was far more nuanced than just R+L being responsible for all the bloodshed that happened).
> "I was with her when she died," Ned reminded the king. "She wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father." He could hear her still at times. *Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses.* Promise me, Ned. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister's eyes. *Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the **rose** petals spilling from her palm, dead and black.* After that he remembered nothing. They had found him still holding her body, silent with grief. The little crannogman, Howland Reed, had taken her hand from his. Ned could recall none of it. "I bring her flowers when I can," he said. *"Lyanna was … fond of flowers."*
Now we come to her death. Ned remembers her room which had smelled of blood and roses. More importantly, he recalls the rose petals spilling from her palm as she died, implying that she had been holding on to them until the point of the death. The fact that her room smelled of roses itself implies that she had been making an effort to keep the roses around her, nothing was forcing her to have them around considering Rhaegar had left her months ago and died as well. (Unless anyone thinks evil Rhaegar ordered his Kingsguard to keep bringing roses to her against Lyanna's will? Or that the Kingsguard wanted to force her to continue having the roses around her? Imo that's ridiculous). It seems clear if we follow the narrative that the only roses these can be are the winter roses which connects her with Rhaegar. The fact that she took the effort to keep surrounding herself with roses, that she held onto the roses *until the moment of her death*, seems pretty irrefutable proof that she loved Rhaegar till the very end.
I have seen interpretations before that she was holding onto the roses as they symbolized her connection with Winterfell and her home. Apart from the reasons I had already mentioned above regarding why the roses clearly don't represent Winterfell, there is also the fact that if Lyanna wanted a connection to her home, her brother Ned Stark should be a much clearer option to cling onto rather than the roses connected heavily with Rhaegar (who according to this interpretation, she must have grown to hate). If it was only about her desire for home, we would have only gotten mentions of how hard she clung to Ned, there was no reason to mention the roses. But they were mentioned. And she did. She clung onto the roses as hard as she'd clung on to Ned, until death forced her to let go. This is capital R romanticism, Rhaegar died with Lyanna's name on his lips, Lyanna died with his roses (the last remnant of their love) in her palm. They died thinking of each other. And the roses, the roses are now "dead and black" just as both of them are.
After remembering that moment, Ned tells Robert that he brings her flowers. That Lyanna had loved flowers (note the ellipses). Lyanna had loved the scent of winter roses, even as they'd brought her death. She had loved Rhaegar, even as that brought her so much pain.
> Her eyes burned, green fire in the dusk, like the lioness that was her sigil. "The night of our wedding feast, the first time we shared a bed, he called me by your sister's name. He was on top of me, in me, stinking of wine, and he whispered Lyanna." *Ned Stark thought of pale blue roses, and for a moment he wanted to weep.* "I do not know which of you I pity most."The queen seemed amused by that. "Save your pity for yourself, Lord Stark. I want none of it."
Next, Ned thinks of the roses when he speaks with Cersei. And this, I love this!! Ned having to confront Robert's love for his sister and all that had cost him (not getting into Robert's vices here), knowing that Lyanna had loved Rhaegar. To see his friend cost himself a life and the love of Cersei by not getting over Lyanna, unknowing that Lyanna had never loved him! What Ned doesn't know but the narrative enriches is "I do not know which of you I pity the most" because Cersei had wanted Rhaegar as much as Robert had wanted Lyanna. Both were defeated so thoroughly by R+L's love for eachother.
>He was walking through the crypts beneath Winterfell, as he had walked a thousand times before. The Kings of Winter watched him pass with eyes of ice, and the direwolves at their feet turned their great stone heads and snarled. Last of all, he came to the tomb where his father slept, with Brandon and Lyanna beside him. "Promise me, Ned," Lyanna's statue whispered. *She wore a garland of pale blue roses, and her eyes wept blood.* Eddard Stark jerked upright, his heart racing, the blankets tangled around him. The room was black as pitch, and someone was hammering on the door. "Lord Eddard," a voice called loudly.
Nothing much here, just Lyanna again with her garland of roses (aka R+L) reminding Ned of his promise to protect their only son. This is a covert reference to R+L=J. With this, we end Ned's POV and move on to the next references of winter roses.
>She smiled again, a flash of white teeth. *"And she never sung you the song o' the winter rose?" "I never knew my mother. Or any such song."*
The next time the mentions of winter roses crop up again is in Jon's story, where Ygritte asks him if his mother had never sung the song of winter rose to him. To which he responds that he'd never known his mother or such a song, unknowing that this song was the hint to his mother, that this song represented her life.
>North or south, singers always find a ready welcome, so Bael ate at Lord Stark's own table, and played for the lord in his high seat until half the night was gone. The old songs he played, and new ones he'd made himself, and he played and sang so well that when he was done, the lord offered to let him name his own reward. 'All I ask is a flower,' Bael answered, 'the fairest flower that blooms in the gardens o' Winterfell.'"
>*"Now as it happened the winter roses had only then come into bloom, and no flower is so rare nor precious. So the Stark sent to his glass gardens and commanded that the most beautiful o' the winter roses be plucked for the singer's payment. And so it was done. But when morning come, the singer had vanished . . . and so had Lord Brandon's maiden daughter. Her bed they found empty, but for the pale blue rose that Bael had left on the pillow where her head had lain." Jon had never heard this tale before.*
A singer and a Stark maiden. The Stark girl who loved Bael so much that she'd given him a son (just as Jon himself was born) and who later threw herself off a tower when her son brought her Bael's head. Quite a few narrative resonances here, death of the Stark maid in a tower, a relative who had a hand in the death of her love. "No flower so rare nor precious". Is there anything so rare and precious as true, unconditional love? As Maester Aemon says, "We are only human after all, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory and our great tragedy."
> But there were others with faces he had never known in life, faces he had seen only in stone. *The slim, sad girl who wore a crown of pale blue roses and a white gown spattered with gore could only be Lyanna.* - Theon V, ACOK
The next mention is, oddly enough, in Theon's prophetic dreams. Again, Lyanna is associated with the crown of roses Rhaegar gave her and death. The white gown might represent marriage as it is an interesting detail to have mentioned (instead of just calling it a gown) but I don't have strong opinions on it either way.
The next mention is the most interesting to me, as for the first time, the roses lead to the future rather than the past.
>Then phantoms shivered through the murk, images in indigo. Viserys screamed as the molten gold ran down his cheeks and filled his mouth. A tall lord with copper skin and silver-gold hair stood beneath the banner of a fiery stallion, a burning city behind him. Rubies flew like drops of blood from the chest of a dying prince, and he sank to his knees in the water and with his last breath murmured a woman's name. . . . mother of dragons, daughter of death . . . Glowing like sunset, a red sword was raised in the hand of a blue-eyed king who cast no shadow. A cloth dragon swayed on poles amidst a cheering crowd. From a smoking tower, a great stone beast took wing, breathing shadow fire. . . . mother of dragons, slayer of lies . . . Her silver was trotting through the grass, to a darkling stream beneath a sea of stars. A corpse stood at the prow of a ship, eyes bright in his dead face, grey lips smiling sadly. A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness. . . . mother of dragons, bride of fire . . . - Dany IV, ACOK
>"Perhaps," she said reluctantly. "Yet the things I saw . . .""A dead man in the prow of a ship, a blue rose, a banquet of blood . . . what does any of it mean, Khaleesi? A mummer's dragon, you said. What is a mummer's dragon, pray?" - Dany V, ACOK
And what a lovely image it is. Jon, the sole child of Rhaegar and Lyanna, the only remnant of their love, growing at the Wall. For once, the imagery is overwhelmingly positive. The beautiful blue rose, against all odds, flourishes in the harshest of environments and what's more, it "fills the air with sweetness". Rhaegar and Lyanna might have died, but the child that resulted from their bond is making the world better.
The Conclusion
What's more, even in the latest calendar illustration GRRM had [commissioned](https://www.reddit.com/r/ImaginaryWesteros/comments/1093bgk/2024_calendar_cover_art_by_justin_sweet/), we know instinctively that it is Rhaegar and Lyanna thanks to the winter roses. Rhaegar who crowned Lyanna with these roses. Lyanna who died clutching them till the last moment. Their son who fights to protect the realms of men, doing the duty of a King without even knowing that he is one, that he is the King of the narrative. The blue rose who continues to bloom in the harshest of places.
The significance that in the text, it's Jon and only **JON** who is connected with/represented as the blue winter rose is important. Neither of the Stark maidens, Sansa or Arya, are ever connected with the blue rose in the text itself despite both having love for flowers. No other Stark has this motif in their story. The motif belongs solely to Bael and his Lady Stark, to Rhaegar and Lyanna, to Jon himself. It's the motif of love. Prince Rhaegar had loved his Lady Lyanna and thousands died for it. Lady Lyanna had loved her Prince Rhaegar and their child is saving the realms of men.
The roses that bloomed for them and between them. That showed how beautiful their love was and how painful. The world is cruel, the world is beautiful.
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crit20art · 2 years ago
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[ID: a digital drawing of Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood from The Magnus Archives. Jon carries a comically large stack of paper, his posture bowed slightly backwards as he struggles to keep the tower from falling. Martin, with an expression of alarm, reaches to steady the paper stack, one hand still mid-air and the other covering one of Jon’s. Jon, staring wide-eyed at Martin over the rim of his glasses, blushes. He is depicted as a short, thin British-Pakistani man with dark skin and professional attire—except for the cardigan he wears, which has slipped off his shoulder in the commotion and is crumpled around his lower arm. Martin is depicted as a tall, fat Vietnamese-Polish man with light brown skin and freckles. He wears glasses, a suit jacket, and a button up with a retro 80s/90s pattern. Both have short dark hair. End ID]
anon asked for Jon being flustered by Martin’s attention so i thought it was time for some s1 shenanigans……. don’t u hate when ur trying to loathe your employee but he happens to touch your hand and you fall in love with him for .7 seconds………
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jaehaeryshater · 6 months ago
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“[Would he] become the Lord of Winterfell? It seemed an easy choice when he thought of it in those terms . . . though if Ygritte had still been alive, it might have been even easier.” - Jon XII ASOS
Part 1 in any crown design series, art by: @nataa.draws on twit
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For about a year, I have been thinking about creating a series of artworks with my designs of crowns that either canonically existed in the ASOIAF universe but went without description (Ceryse’s crown, Jaehaera’s crown, Naerys’s crown, etc.) or crowns that could have existed but didn’t due to deaths of the ladies involved or a break in betrothal (the Ygritte one above and a Sansa QOT7K crown, which is what I’m hoping to do after this one). The only problem is, I’m awful at drawing! The design I can get down to the smallest detail and envision it in my head, but it simply doesn’t translate to paper. And because this is a series rather than one piece, it was a bit difficult to find an artist that both drew jewelry like I envisioned and also could make a commitment for an ongoing project. Luckily, I did end up finding Nata, which I was SO happy about because she was somehow able to commit exactly what I was envisioning on paper, and for that I’m so grateful. She is a lovely and talented woman.
I do want to talk about the designs a little bit, because I have been working on it for so long and absolutely in love with it, but I do want to make one thing clear first. This is not necessarily ship art, and the crowns I work with Nata in the future most certainly will not be. (I mean, Jon and Ygritte are my top ship of all time lol, but that’s not the focus of the art and I get why people don’t like her or them together). The relationship between Jon and Ygritte is problematic at best, and the other Queens I have mentioned above have even more abusive relationships with their husbands/betrothed (with the exception of Jaehaera and Aegon III, whose relationship was practically nonexistent and the problematic elements came from the situation and not from either of them individually). The focus of this series is on jewelry and designs that reflect the culture the person is from and their personality, rather than their relationship to their husbands. So I hope even if Ygritte and Jon are your NOTP and/or if you absolutely despise Ygritte, I hope you can still appreciate the art and cultural influences. The art was originally just supposed to include the crown and therefore be up for interpretation of it was Ygritte or Val’s, but I got carried away with the dress design I had thought of and because it was green which goes beautifully with red hair, I went ahead and asked for Nataa to draw Ygritte.
Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, I can talk about the design, which I’m sooooo excited about. The main idea was the merging of Freefolk and Northern culture, but I still did want to remain relatively true to the 15th to 16th century English time period that ASOIAF is roughly centered around. I understand the idea that Ygritte would never be caught dead in such a thing, but you must understand!!!! Jon designed it for her himself when preparing to ask for her hand. So she grumbled and griped, but was secretly chuffed, so she wears it. From the beginning, the main element that I think Ygritte needed if expected to wear a dress is that she needs lots of furs lining it. Not only because of the cold, but also as a symbol of where she came from the make her feel more comfortable in her skin. The puffs are meant to be general fashion at the time, something more common in the Vale or the Reach, but I imagine that could be more of a Sansa influence on the North. The emeralds’ only purpose is to contrast and compliment Ygritte’s hair and to show the wealth of the dynasty. There are two different weirwood embroideries implemented in the dress design: the one on the top that is by the wolf, which of course represents the Stark dynasty that she has now married into, and the bigger weirwood at the base of the dress which has mammoths walking underneath it. Mammoths are one of the symbols of the Freefolk, and weirwoods are very sacred to both the Northern people and the Freefolk, and their shared religion following the Old Gods. I imagine that when Jon was designing this dress for Ygritte, he was more attentive and involved than men in this universe usually were, and his ultimate goal was her comfort and for her to feel included in her new position instead of feeling like a commodity for Jon and the North.
As for the crown, which was the reason for the commission in the first place, I wanted it to follow the same general design as the King of the North crown. I know there’s lots of different ideas of different crowns Jon could adopt as King of the North instead of somehow either regaining possession of or replicating his brother’s crown, but there were way too many options and it made my head spin, so we’re doing this. So the structure of the crown is the same, but the main difference is that instead of being made of metal, this crown is made of weirwood. Of course, weirwood is very special to both cultures, but I figured that metal wouldn’t impressive Ygritte or her culture as much as weirwood would. Therefore, the texture is very different. There are emeralds around it to compensate the lack of metal and extra agency, and to give the crown more of a feminine look as well as to compliment Ygritte’s hair. The tops of each bar are meant to look white and as if capped by snow. This is meant to symbolize the Beyond the Wall influence and I was also thinking about the Crown of Winter when creating this part of the design. The Crown of Winter was given up by Torrhen Stark when yielding to Aegon the Conqueror. We aren’t given a description of it, but I have always imagined it having those snow caps and generally being mostly white. I’ve thought of Jon bringing back the design of the Crown of Winter, but because we have so little to go off of, I chose for there just to be a small influence included instead of going off nothing and trying to create something from scratch. Lastly, there’s the three engraving in the middle. The two mammoths are meant to show who Ygritte is, where she’s come from. She is a member of the Freefolk, and becoming a Northern Lady is not meant to erase that or get her hide that part of her (not that she’d ever agree to that anyway), but it is a part of her and a part of the future of the North merging together. There’s a wolf in the middle as well, because she’s married in to that family and she is a representation of the Starks. But her and Jon and their resulting family is part Stark, part Freefolk, and both of those cultures are meant to be displayed and remembered. The next generation is a merger of the Freefolk and their ideals, and the the traditions of the North.
Okay, that is all, thank you so much if you read all of this! I loved working on this so much and I want to thank Nata again, because she did an amazing job. I hope this is enjoyable to someone else like it’s enjoyable to me. I think the idea of Ygritte as Queen of the North is hilarious, although probably bad for the health of Northern Lords. I can’t even imagine what unhinged things she would do, or how violent archery practice could become. The only thing I can say in her favor is that I think she would get along great with Rickon and be a good (well depends on what you think a good upbringing is, manners would lack, but I think he would be happy) mother figure to him. They would be the worst duo to terrorize Winterfell. I also like to think that Theon and her, although she would not like him, could build up some sort of beneficial relationship between them and she could help him regain his strength and his love of archery, because that is something they share. Anyway, I’ll see you soonish with my next commission ^_^
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pumpkinstrawbrew · 6 months ago
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💀_is this deviant enough for you, my dear? _💀
or jon makes some deliberate changes to his outfit, after catwoman said that he's not 'a real pervert'.
...
(i was re-reading all those 'crow vs 'cat issues recently, an' i gotta say i don't ever get tired of how much those two genuinely loathe one another. there is smth beautiful about one part of my otp pretty much having it out for a character, who is canonically supposed to be the 'main' love interest for the other part of my ship. internalized jealousy is delicious.
that's bit aside, i do find crane n' selina's antagonistic relationships pretty entertaining in the void as well. they are both petty n' tend to take a lot of things personally, while dehumanizing others with ease. looking at selina n' jon side by side, their hatred toward one another makes a lot of sense. they are similar in certain *smaller* ways. selina might have not crossed the line n' becoming a murder, but in few versions, it came very close to it. or even come to it. not to mention, that while her own motivations are different from crane's, she also driven by her bitter life experience, when it comes to how she sees others n' how she acts. at times, she'd be doing shitty things just bc she felt like it. her sociopathy is latent in most cases, but it is there.
but regardless of complexity of all those themes, this whole thing was born only bc i found it funny how out of all things, selina n' jon had an argument about who get offs on fear harder lol. n' then, bc of how the very moment catwoman hallucinated batman, jonathan was literally almost in her face lol. listening to all those things with rapt attention.
as result, i ended up thinking about what if crane took selina's comment a bit too seriously. i imagine, he was sitting there trying to study what makes 'pervented' n' 'sexy'. but in like very nerdy way. drawing diagrams an' all.
the scarecrow historically has no impressive man bossom or ass, so he has to be clever about it. expose some skin, but like 'naugthy' bits. it helps that the way his costume is structured, fabric will always poof up a bit. so even his semi-muscular man pecs n' narrow hips can work too. an' then it should be short too. v-cut. n' stockings? yeah, sure. the greatest detective would take it upon himself to figure out what they're cliping to. an' what else is hidden underneath.
i still stan by my belief that jonathan can only be seductive or sexy by pure accident. but it is fun to think about how far he can go, if he's challenged n' his pettyness is what drives him to go out of comfort zone.
in general, i love how different this version of jonathan's costume is compared to his other looks. it's still classic, but so colorful an' whimsical. i wish he wore it at least one time in front of batman in canon. like come on, let my dude live out his goth fantasy. n' let bruce have some fun on his usually hard n' grim job.)
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feyhunter78 · 6 months ago
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Chapter Twelve - Banished from your sight on the day of Queen Margaery's nameday celebrations, Jon seeks comfort in the Godswood.
This is pure wish fulfillment, okay?
Ch 13
Jon finds himself in the Godswood of Highgarden, kneeling in the dirt, his head bowed. You have dismissed him for the day as you will be spending the whole of it with the queen preparing and primping for her nameday feast this very night.
The Three Singers lay before him, so intertwined it is as if they are one. Their blood-red leaves do not stand so stark against the landscape as they do in Winterfell. The lush gardens surrounding it blend so seamlessly, Jon loses himself in the view of it, mesmerized by the sway of the flowers and leaves in the wind.
Ghost lies beside him, stretched out in the sun, tongue lolling out happily.
Jon prays for strength, for the safety and health of his family, for his own health, for yours and Margaery’s. He prays that the Gods give him the strength to continue on the path Ser Jaime has set before him. This stilted, honorable path that he must follow so not to shame himself or you. But it is torture, the distance he must hold you at, the way he must keep his eyes from you, must keep his hands to himself even in private moments. Though he has lessened the private moments, and in turn you have sought solace in the queen. At least you will have a strong relationship as good-sisters, Robb will arrive and Jon can present him with an already bonded family, an apology for not being able to come home, not being able to stand by their father—Robb’s father, his uncle’s side, when he was accused on treason.
Ghost’s head rises, his ears swiveling, and Jon pivots towards the intruder, not even needing to get to his feet to draw his sword.
“Whoa, peace, friend, I have not come to harm you.” A tall man, older, around Lord Stark’s age, with dark brown hair that fell to his shoulder, and piercing eyes. Though Jon could not tell the color with the sun at the man’s back. He was well muscled, the body of a man who had trained and fought hard for decades, the strength of his form clear. He would be a beast in armor, a terrifying sight to behold, Jon is sure. His skin is tanned, not like Lord Martell’s but perhaps a few shades lighter, and he is dressed in finery, a sword strapped at his hip.
“Apologies, My Lord.” He says, bowing his head in the direction of the older man, and getting to his feet. “I shall leave you to the Godswood.”
“No, stay, I would enjoy the company.” The man says, giving him a crooked smile, a scar running through his upper right lip.
Jon returns to the ground and the man sits beside him, his eyes on the weirwoods. “I often find only Godswoods can offer me the solitude I need when I am tormented by my own thoughts.”
“My Lord?”
“I am not a lord, have not been for many years. We are both knights, let us address each other as so.”
Jon nods, staring at the trees as well, wondering why the man wished for him to remain if he wanted solitude.
“You are wondering why I asked you to stay, and perhaps how I know your mind weighs heavily upon you.” He says, his voice accented, Dornish perhaps? Jon is not quite sure.
“Aye.” Jon says, scratching between Ghost’s ears.
“I have seen many a young man kneeling in a holy place wondering if his course is true.” He says a hint of sadness in his tone. “It helps to share your burdens.”
“I do not think that is wise…” Jon says, eyeing the man out of the corner of his eye.
The man laughs. “Who will I tell, I do not know you, you do not know me, but we are both knights, sworn to uphold our codes. Your words will not leave this place, I assure you.”
There is something about the man that Jon finds strangely comforting. He has carried the weight of his decision for moons now, and it is slowly suffocating him until one day he fears he will wake up and no longer be able to breathe.
He lets out a slow breath. “I am in love with a noblewoman, and I know she loves me, but I am not worthy of her.”
The man hums in acknowledgement.
“But her father has allowed us to court as he feels even with my...strange parentage I am worthy of her hand, but it must be kept a secret.”
The man shifts his weight, stretching out one leg. “Why, if her father finds you worthy?”
“Because…there are things out of mine and her control, things that could tear us apart, and I believe he wishes to spare her the heartbreak but I—I…”
“Slipped up, overindulged, made an error?” He asks in a wry tone.
“Yes, but I did not go too far, I restrained myself, but now…now I must pull back even further, and it saddens her.”
“And her sadness in turn causes you sadness.” The man supplies, nudging Jon with his shoulder. “It is a good man who is saddened by his beloved’s sadness.”
“And now her aunt wishes her to dance with suitors, and I cannot interfere, but I do not think I can bear the sight.” Jon grabs a fallen stick and stabs it into the ground, feeling a bit childish.
“Might I tell you my own tale? Perhaps you will gain some wisdom.”
“Of course, I would be grateful for any advice.”
“Wisdom, not advice, I would not advise following my course of action.”
Jon can see the man’s eye color now, a dark gray, nearing purple.
“When I was younger, a bit older than you, I was in a frighteningly similar situation, though it was not unknown circumstances that kept myself and my lady love apart, but my closest friend. He was convinced that they must be wed, his assurance bordered on obsession, near madness, but I said nothing because he was my friend, I trusted him with my life.” The man sighs and runs a hand down his face.
Jon swallows hard, stick still in hand, staring at the hole it had made as if it will give him answers, a way to react to what he believes he is being told. You have always said he was intelligent, he believed it, he always thought himself intelligent even as a boy, but intellect was no shield against this kind of revelation.
“I continued to meet my love in secret, I adored her, would have laid my life down for her if she asked, but I knew she never would. Then my friend snapped, and we did a horrid thing, and in my cowardice, I did not break away and take my love to safety, I kept her with us. Against all odds she still loved me, I had dishonored her many times before, and she began to show, I thought this would dissuade my friend, that he would see sense…”
“But he did not.” Jon says a sinking feeling in his gut. Was this man truly who he believes him to be? How would he even be here, and why, why now?
“No, he did not. He thought to have the child born then taken away so that he could seed her. It sickened me, sickened her, but the gods intervened. Neither I nor him got to keep her, got to live with and love her. My cowardice, my devotion to my friend, got her killed.”
“I see why you said not to follow your example.” Jon jests grimly.
The man laughs, it is watery, hoarse, and the sound of it pierces Jon to the bone. “Do not be a coward, boy. No code is worth the life of the woman you love.”
“Did she love you, at the end?” He is afraid to hear the answer, afraid his father is a monster.
“Yes.”
“And the child?”
The man he is sure is Ser Arthur Dayne smiles sadly at the thick roots of the weirwoods beneath them. “Blood is proof of our devotion, she bled for our child, and so did I.”
“Her bones are in the crypt of Winterfell.” Jon says quietly, testing the waters.
The man says nothing, only gets to his feet, squeezes Jon’s shoulder, and walks away.
For a moment he is a child again, a pit in his chest, fear tugging at his limbs, a desire to reach for and call out to the man he is sure is his father surging through him. Against his better judgment he gets to his feet and runs, Ser Dayne—his father turning, his instincts still as honed as the legends said, and braces himself.
Jon embraces him, burying his face in his father’s finery. Jon is tall, but his father is taller, the top of Jon’s head reaching his father’s neck, and he breathes in the scent, finding it oddly familiar, though he knows he could only have smelled it nearly a lifetime ago.
His father wraps him in his arms, burying his face in Jon’s curls. “I should have fought harder, my boy, my son, I did not wish to abandon you, I swear to you.”
Jon bites his tongue to keep the tears from falling. “Lord Stark was good to me, he treated me as a son, I was not beaten or starved. I have siblings who love me, who think of me as their own.”
His father’s tears hit his shoulders, his body trembling. “That is good, he promised my sister he would take care of you. My household guards, they told me that when they came to retrieve my body, they thought me dead, but I could not let the Stranger take me. Not when I did not know what had become of you.”
“What did she name me, is Jon my true name?” It has been a question long on his lips.
“Yes, yes, I would never begrudge her the naming of her child, nor would she let me. She wanted you to have a strong Stark name, to set you apart from all the other Dornish boys, she told me. She was brilliant, strong-willed, and witty, she never ceased to make me laugh, even near the end.”
His father pulls back, drinking in the sight of him, his voice trembling. “You look so much like her, apart from your eyes, she was so happy that you had my eyes.”
Jon blinks away the tears, willing himself to be strong, he will need to digest this information, he will need to find you, and tell you what has occurred.
“And you are so strong, look at you, Oberyn did not lie, you inherited my strength. And I have heard that you are a skilled swordsman as well, you have done so well, my son, I am proud of you.” His father says, cupping Jon’s face with calloused hands. “I am sorry, I should have sought you out sooner, but the reports said you were thriving, that you were happy, and then you were taken to King’s Landing, and I could not show my face there. Too many people would recognize me, Robert would have me killed, and Oberyn said you had found love. I could not take you from that.”
“Then why are you here now?” Jon asks, overwhelmed by his emotions, his mind a blur, his heartbeat in his ears.
“Because I asked him to be.” Tyrion steps out of the shadows, and Jon nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Lord Tyrion?”
“I know, a Dornish man working with a Lannister, it is a sight to see, but you cannot say much my son, considering you wish to wed his daughter.” His father says, releasing his face and turning towards Tyrion.
“Come, let us bring this happy reunion inside.”
Jon sits beside his father as Tyrion fills him in, this plan has long been in the works, since his parentage was revealed.
“It took some convincing, your father did not think you would wish to see him.” Tyrion says, inclining his head toward Jon’s father.
“Does Lady y/n know of this?” Jon asks, unsettled by the very fact that you are not in the room while pertinent information is being revealed.
“See, I told you, besotted. ”
“You did.” His father chuckles.
“I will inform y/n of this development when we break fast in the morning, she should be able to enjoy one more night of merriment before meeting her future good-father.” Tyrion says.
“Is it official, then? I may have her hand?” He glances between Tyrion and his father.
His father claps him on the shoulders, then kisses both his cheeks. “Yes, my son, we have come to an agreement, you will wed your pretty lioness.”
Jon is floating, his mind clear, the joy that will alight in your eyes, the smile you will shine upon him, the way you will throw your arms around his neck and embrace him excitedly, it is all he sees. He gets to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process, “I must tell her; she will be overjoyed.”
“No one will be telling y/n anything tonight. We cannot tip off my sister.” Tyrion orders. “You just remain as you have these past few moons, it will be safer for her.”
His jaw muscles twitches, he is sick of waiting, especially now that his father is here, that he could be claimed, his title of bastard shed like snakeskin. “Why must we hold back, King Tommen loves Lady y/n, he would marry us tonight if we asked.”
“Calm, Jon, I know the Dornish sun burns in your veins as it does mine, but you must trust us, soon all you have been promised will come to be.”
Jon forces his jaw to unclench and nods. “I will hold my tongue until morning.”
TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo, @legolastheleafyelf, @faerie-film
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tzaraat · 1 year ago
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i'm broke and have hospital bills to pay. in better news, i'm selling art!
sketches and small drawings on paper, size ranging from 5x5 cm to an A4 sheet. various mediums. price ranging from $10 to $30 US.
example pieces:
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[image ID: six drawings in pen, oils, pencil and watercolours, three in each image. they are all relatively realistic. /.End ID]
disclaimer: being sketches, many of these pieces have miscellaneous text on the backside and/or were not painted on the highest quality paper. these sorts of issues will be handled on a case-by-case basis.
illustrations from my new skin for the old ceremony project, each the size of an A4 sheet. various mediums. price ranging from $35 to $50 US.
example pieces:
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[image ID: four drawings in pen and oils, two in each image. each piece contains an illustration and sone handwritten text - the lyrics to the songs from new skin for the old ceremony. /.End ID]
larger paintings. oil on glass (approx. 70x100 cm), oil & watercolour on paper (100x140 cm), oil on embossed metal plate (approx. 55cm diameter). prices in the $200-$250 US range.
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[image ID: an oil painting of two grappling figures, painted on a window. /.End ID]
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[image ID: a watercolour and oil painting of two bare Chested figures, one lying down and the other kneeling. /.End ID]
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[image ID: an oil portrait of Jon Moxley, painted on an embossed metal plate. /.End ID]
if you are interested in any of the above, feel free to contact me through tumblr DMs, email at [email protected], or discord at tzaraat. i'll show you which pieces are available, and provide all necessary information.
disclaimer: much of my work is done on medium-low quality substrates (i don't like dropping entire paychecks on supplies, and i am no longer in school) or on found objects (like the window and plate). in addition, i often work on improperly primed or entirely unprimed substrates, or experiment with paint chemistry and the likes. as such, i can't really guarantee archivability. if any painting seems to me particularly fragile, i will disclose it and we can discuss what should be done with it.
i'm open to negotiation re: pricing and the like. feel free to contact me even if you can't afford it right now, and would like me to reserve a piece for a later date.
i also have a ko-fi:
thank you all ♡
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soapskies · 1 year ago
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Could you write yandere Nolanverse!Jon general yandere hcs ? your writing is amazing btw ❤️
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GEN. YANDERE NOLANVERSE SCARECROW
MALE READER. ROMANTIC HCS. CW FOR SUGGESTIVE/YANDERE STUFF.
— edit: deleted credit because I didn’t actually end up using their divider :,)
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Jonathan can’t stand being away from you for too long. You invade his thoughts every waking hour, and it’s starting to interfere with his work…
He thumbs through every file of yours he can get his hands on; you seem to be a pretty average guy, so what draws him to you? For once the psychologist struggles to understand his own thinking.
Surely you wouldn’t mind it if he… observed you from a distance, right? On your way home, and to work, and so on…
It fills him with rage when people try to get close to you, but he’s able to keep his cool. He likes to have his hand in yours, or around your shoulders, glaring down whoever dares to bother you. Not many are willing to cross him.
God does running his hands over your rough skin bring him such ecstasy, especially when he inches towards your groin…
Lotta situations where the two of you end up in locked rooms together, either “coincidently” or because the good doctor only wants to discuss something with you... so he says.
He steals anything of yours he can get his hands on, mostly clothing. He likes to bury his face into them. Your scent is enough to make the blood rush to his face…
It doesn’t help that his obsession with you makes him fumble his dark secret.
“Do you like the mask? It looks better under the effects of the toxin…”
He won’t make a mistake like that again. You might be tougher than he thought.
He loves forcing you to stare at him when you try to look away, especially when he’s doing things to you… that spark of terror in your eyes excites him.
“It’s alright, you’re okay… You can’t help them anymore. They’re so lost in their fear, they can’t console themselves.
Jonathan will make you listen to the screams of your loved ones while he pins you to the wall and whispers sweet nothings into your ear…
Oh, are they scaring you? They don’t deserve a man like you. I can make it all feel better. Let me take care of you.” 🎃
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redhead-batgal · 1 year ago
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Sneak Peek of She’s So Gone Pt: 2
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Here's a sneak peek of She's So Gone Pt: 2, a Fem! and Best Friend! Reader x Damian Wayne/Robin, I did not expect y'all to love the first part this much so yeah. Unexpected, but I'm working hard to get this second part where I want it for y'all! Anyways hope you enjoy!
Here's She's So Gone (Pt: 1) in case you haven't read it but want to: Part One
Standing in the doorway, disheveled and sweating was none other than Damian Wayne. The two of you made eye contact and you felt the air and color leave you. Heart hammering, you froze for a singular moment, long enough to see the recognition and relief in his eyes.
Something warm blossomed in your chest, a wave of joy that wrapped around your throat. It squeezed at your heart as a bitter taste coated your tongue and you weakly took a breath in. He was here, he was here. It was almost instinctual to lean in and hug him. To start some sort of physical contact as if you make sure he was here-truly here. Then the tight pulsing of your veins and breathing of your lungs yanked you back into reality. He- he had betrayed you, he- he had abandoned you. Pulling back, you squeezed your hand into a fist, eyes raking over him before noticing the movement just beyond his shoulder. No, the person behind him. She looked a little frazzled, but still as perfect as ever. Looking back to Damian the sluggish feeling of betrayal up your spine.
A wave of emotions fierce and roaring climbed up your throat as you backed away from the door. For a moment you couldn't breathe, and the world was spinning as a realization crashed down around you.
He was here.
Why was he here? Why did he have to come just as you were starting to get numb to all those emotions? Why did he have to come after you just made it past an episode? Why did he come? Why? Why?!
Swallowing you pushed back your worries and fears, back the questions and pain. Gripping your hot chocolate tighter as you let out a slow breath, then you began walking towards the door. Hoping your nonchalant attitude would make them ignore you or so baffled you could slip past. As you made it to the doorway, you began to slide towards the street, outside of the store-the place with no escape, to the open and free air that allowed you the opportunity to turn and leave.
Unfortunately, your hopes were in vain. A hand clamped down on your arm, pulling you in. And you blinked, looking to find Damian Wayne practically towering next to you. Eyes frantically racing over your face and body, worry covering every feature as you felt his heavy breaths on your skin. Hell, his heaving chest nearly touched your arms as you felt his heat.
"Y/N."
Taking another breath you gave him a blank look, your eyes instantly drawn to your sister loitering behind him. A muddled mixture of emotions on her face.
"If," You began calmly, your eyes locking on his nose, so you don't have to look into his eyes, "you're here because you think I'm trying to steal Jon or poison him against you, you should know I'm not. And there's no reason to worry."
You saw his jaw twitch and his grip tightened on your arm as he pulled you in even closer. Faintly, you could feel Jon lingering behind you. Clearly watching and waiting for a moment that deemed too much for you or a spot to intervene.
"I am not here because of that."
You bit the inside of your cheek as you looked away from Damian's face. Eyes once again drawing to your sister, whose brow was furrowed, a scowl of sorts on her face.
"Then why are you here?" You softly asked nails digging into your palm as you looked towards the floor.
"I'm here for you."
Tag List:
@legendarylearner18 @hermiona18 @sylum @kalulakunundrum @ginger24880 @blu3cheesecheesecak3 @alishii @duckyyy70 @rossy1080 @nyxiesstuff @rukia-uchiha-98 @cyb3rg0th666 @jade-digital @damianwayne0 @pansyitcanton @greenbench @andromedaj2003 @thomasbeloved @instabull @zvtanna @daemonnix96 @neon-scenery @ssak-i @achromaticerebus @1lellykins @hyperfixiation-station
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jesncin · 8 months ago
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i was imagining kal-el bc i wanted to draw him a few days ago and he just. registers in my brain as a POC nowadays. like ik in dc canon he’s white but it just looks weeeeeird to me and i think it’s bc im used to seeing your drawings of him
oh I still draw Kal-El as white passing actually, haha. I follow the reading Gene Yang has of him:
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from Polygon, read it- it's good!
I know some artists (including my friends!) reimagine Clark as a POC for a variety of reasons, some even seeing STAS!Clark that way because of his tan skin color on that show. And all those are valid and so fun! I just have a different story to tell that relies on Clark being white passing. Like how Clark's able to assimilate into american society better than Lois Liando, and has to essentially come out as an immigrant because citizens didn't think otherwise. Which makes the Clois dynamic and love triangle so interesting for me. I also think it makes his legacy characters like Conner and Jon Kent refreshing since they're like Superman but they expand on his themes when they're visibly marginalized in comparison.
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cirrus-grey · 7 months ago
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Didn't know about that Corruption theory before (and didn't wanna reblog the post for spoilers) but now I'm curious, what other theories did people have while the show was still airing? I joined the fandom around 160 so anything before that is a mystery to me.
Referencing this post (beware, it has spoilers for The Magnus Protocol).
Oh goodness, so so many. Only a few that I remembered off the top of my head, but I spent some time today trawling the depths of my "magnus archives speculation/analysis" tag and found a couple more fun ones.
Most of the ones I did remember are either still popular headcanons (Web!Martin), or actually turned out to be canon (Jonah!Elias). The Gertrude one always stuck in my head because it's very silly on the surface but also draws attention to the fact of like - how was her skin still in good enough condition to wear after being buried for months? (And Lietner's too, for that matter). Was Nikola just wearing really tattered rotten shreds???
Anyway. Some that I remembered, which all relate to Martin for some reason:
Backup Archivist: Heading into the Unknowing, Elias had Martin reading statements specifically to train him to be a stand in Archivist in case Jon died. Also included sub-theories that he could end up able to compel people on his own, share the role with Jon, or take over entirely if the show pulled a bait-and-switch and Martin was the real protagonist all along.
Who's the Father?: Every single possible theory about who Martin's dad was and what implications that could have on the show, from Leitner to Elias to Peter Lukes to that one dude Peter banished to the Lonely in his statement in 159.
Schwartzwald Cousins: Albrecht von Closen says he and Clara/Carla had trouble having kids in his first statement, but in a later episode says they have two boys. Part 1 of the theory was that the kids were actually avatars who'd emerged from the mausoleum after Albrecht disturbed it, and been adopted by the childless couple. Part 2 was - well - it's canon that Gerry is descended from one of these kids. The theory was, what if Martin was descended from the other? Gerry seems to have some Eye powers linked to his heritage and upbringing, so it was speculated that Martin might turn out to have some as well and be important to either Elias's plans, or to thwarting him (this tied into the Backup Archivist theory nicely). A sub-theory was that they were significantly closer cousins, Martin's mum's maiden name had been Keay, and Martin K. Blackwood was Martin Keay Blackwood all along.
And the ones that I found in the tag (credit in brackets):
Martin’s mum was a runaway Lukas (@/centaurianthropology, here)
The lighter was linked to the Desolation (@agnesmontague) + an addition by me that I'm so proud of in hindsight - "I think the web design pretty much confirms that it’s linked to the Web, but if it’s the Desolation as well, might it be linked to the other occasions we’ve seen those two powers interact? Namely, the ever mysterious Hill Top Road?" (Here)
Another of my posts that I'm delighted to reread (here) reminded me of the many, many, "what's up with the tapes?" theories. I remember "the tapes are sent by the Web", "the tapes are sent by Elias", "the tapes are manifestated unconsciously by Jon" (my personal favorite, sadly disproven), and I think there were also some "the tapes are Gertrude's ghost" posts???
Elias was the Eye the same way Michael was the Spiral - Gertrude sacrificed him to stop the Watcher's Crown (@/statementbegins, here)
Also reading through these is reminding me that there was a stretch where we were calling the Vast and Lonely the "Void" and "Isolation", which I love.
This is just a select few posts from 2018, so there's a lot more under the tag if you're interested in looking! Link below, copy and paste into a web (lol) browser because the archive (lmao) page doesn't work on the app.
https://cirrus-grey.tumblr.com/archive/tagged/magnus%20archives%20speculation%2Fanalysis
If anyone else remembers other old theories please feel free to drop them in the notes! I know there were so many more that I don't have saved.
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saintbleeding · 2 years ago
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[ID: Two digital drawings of Georgie from TMA, made to look like polaroids. She has medium brown skin, dark curly hair, and brown eyes. In the first picture, she is younger and thinner, and her hair is long, with artificial highlights. Her eyebrows are pencilled in conspicuously and she wears a light green sleeveless top. The front section of her hair is straightened where it falls over her face. She is laughing, and writing at the bottom of the polaroid says “End of spring term party at Kate’s, 2007 (the Night Jon Quit Tequila, Permanently)”. In the second picture, Georgie is older, her hair greying and cut in a short mullet. She wears a bleach-stained shirt and purple ghost earrings. She has one eye closed in an exaggerated expression of amused incredulity, and the caption, presumably written by Melanie, reads “Asked G if she would still love me if I was a worm… :(“. End ID.]
i just. have. Some thoughts. about georgie and what recovery, such as it is, would look like on her. also i love her.
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