#indigo eleven

[twothpaste]

chapter cover artwork for my postgame mother 3 fic,

[ The Settled Score ] 🌻🚢🐉

[thefvrious]

@endlessfebrvary/ @ghostsxagain

[upsidedownwithsteve]

hi! im so glad ur doing well, my dash did feel a lil empty without your blurbs and random posts c:

if you're still in the writing mood, steve and unconsciously searching out each other’s hand while sleeping or not realizing they’re holding hands till someone points it out got me all soft and i think you'd write something cute w it :(((

🧡

Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe it was that animal part of your brains, the one Murray always spoke about, the part that quietly told you all there was safety in numbers.

Maybe it was because you’d all gone through enough to realise there were indeed very real reasons to be scared of the dark.

Movie nights turned into sleepovers, never really planned, but always wholly accepted. Bodies on couches, on the floor, sleeping bags pulled from attic spaces and kids crushed together top to toe on the pullout in the Wheeler’s basement. Someone on an old recliner, a blanket pulled from a picnic basket to use to keep warm, heaps of pillows making a patchwork on the floor, socked feet pressed to thighs because even in sleep it was nice to know your friends were close.

Maybe that’s why it happened.

A night of watching Jaws, everyone chewing on popcorn and pretending that there wasn’t something evil outside, something lingering in the dark that was so much worse than a big fish called Bruce. Before the credits could roll, before the spilled candy could be cleaned up, people would nod off one by one, soft snores becoming a well heard lullaby.

It was only you and Steve left, squished in the corner of the floor, sandwiched against the couch that Max and Eleven had claimed, your backs only just saved by a mismatch of sleeping bags and cushions reserved for the patio furniture in the summer. The TV buzzed with static, an indigo glow barely lighting the room and Steve had long lay down, cheek pressed to his pillow as he whispered back to you.

The conversation was never light hearted, not anymore, not even in the midst of a sleepover. Worried words always exchanged, knots between brows and an unsettled feeling in stomachs because everyone was past believing it might actually be okay this time.

Something had to give. Right? Right?

So sleep didn’t come easy, not when your last words, last thoughts were about survival and risk taking, about your friends getting hurt or worse. The chocolate coating your tongue turned to dust and everything tasted sour, so you stared into the dark until you felt it staring back, and only then did you close your eyes.

Sleep still didn’t come. It taunted you, teased at you from behind your eyelids, pulling you downdowndown until the sharp prod of the beginnings of a nightmare jerked you back awake.

At some point, when you lingered between sleeping and not, something touched your wrist. Something warm and heavy and comforting. You barely registered the feeling of it sweeping over your pulse, fingers bigger than yours curling over your palm, catching at the spaces between your own until you were holding on for dear life.

Something in the back of your mind told you it was safe, it was better now. You could sleep, it was okay, someone was looking after you.

A body, nudging a little closer, careful not to touch, but a solid wall of warmth beside you, a familiar scent, a thumb running circles over the back of your hand.

You didn’t wake until morning, after Nancy had stepped over your sleeping frame to start making coffee. You would’ve followed too, offered to help by pulling out mugs and cups, but something kept you tethered to the floor.

A hand in yours, fingers intertwined a little looser than before, but there all the same.

Steve.

The boy was still beside you, closer than when he’d fallen asleep, his nose dangerously near your own, his soft breaths huffing out warm air over your joined hands, clasped between your faces. He looked the most peaceful you’d seen him in months.

The lilac bruises under his eyes were still there, but his pink lips were parted lazily, lashes kissing his cheeks, his hair softer than you’d seen and falling into his eyes. He had a crease along his jaw from the sleeping bag zip, an indent of each stitch, pushed into his skin beside each freckle.

Someone stretched and groaned and the boy shifted, only just, nose wrinkling, lips pouting, his hand grasping yours a little tighter - as if even in sleep, he didn’t dare lose you.

You heard Nancy crack some eggs into a bowl, the coffee machine gurgling.

You stayed, holding onto Steve as tightly as he held onto you - if only until it was time to wake up.

[hiro-doodlez]

MASS ARTFIGHT ATTACK!!!!!!!!!!!! GRAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

This took so long but IT WAS FUN SO WHO CARES (my wrist does)

characters and owners under cut LOL!!

Faerie- @borisboring

MCPJ- @shynetyme06

Sticker- @stars-and-wish-fulfillment

Splatter 1- @sketchingstars03

Juno- @starmonsterrr

Indigo- @my-names-kris

Dessucate- @twinribbonz

Mosquito- @switchthedragon

Sandee- @sandeewithtwoe

Star- @squidthechaotickid

Moonjelly- @queersharky

Bubblegum- @squidling2005 / @moccasins

Starbug- @starswirly

Cupcake- @pixxypop

Go- @rawrlands

Nostolgia- @zity015

Thriller- @ashenoranges

Waz- @carol-shine

Eleven- @/mivian on DA, TH,AND AF. Mivianart on twitter!!!

Sweettooth- @/firesetter on AF, @/undernovela on twitter, and @/errorsans on TH

Fresh!dream- @/songbirdd on AF

Devout- @cloudtaleblog

Splatter 2- @frannstrash

Astrx- @scramble-eg

GOROAGAHH THATS ALL OF THEM!!! I THINK!!!!!! SORRY FOR THE PINGS

Aaahhhh im so so tired LOL

[ddarker-dreams]

Redamancy.

Yan Scaramouche x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes and unhealthy relationships. Word count: 1k.

“You scowl too much.” 

If anyone else were to speak to Scaramouche, Sixth of the Eleven Fatui Harbinger in this way, they’d certainly be reduced to a pitiful pile of ash on the ground. Perhaps he’s thought about subjecting you to this fate, once or twice. That number could very well have been bumped up to three times if the indignant air he currently regards you with is to be considered. 

Then again, no one aside from you would get to experience this deceptively domestic scene. You sit beneath a canopy, branches free from winter’s thaw hastily preparing buds to herald in spring. Scaramouche holds your thighs captive, the soft flesh serving as his pillow. Indigo locks splay out against and tickle your skin. 

“There’s a lot to scowl about,” he replies, though he makes an effort to relax his tense facial muscles. The contemptuous smile he gives makes his previous expression look benevolent in comparison. “I’m stuck dealing with a fool of a woman who’d probably wander off a cliff because she was too busy admiring the clouds.” 

“Clouds are meant to be admired.” 

“Case in point.” 

“You make it sound like I’m chained to you with iron shackles, though,” you raise your ankle (notably shackle free, imagine that), drawing his attention and ire. Your sarcasm never fails to rile him up. He never seriously tries to put a stop to it, however. Such is his capricious nature. “If I’m such a bother, why not let me wander off the cliff?” 

Scaramouche grits his teeth. “Because…” 

There’s a pause, then, weighty and tangible. You know what he both wants and fears to say. If he were any less of a coward, he’d fill the aromatic air with truth, rather than engaging in his usual sidestepping. He’s so proficient at the act you swear he could moonlight as a crab. This mental image earns a barely contained giggle from you, one that further sours his mood, if such a thing were possible. 

Knowing you as intimately as he does, he correctly assumes that he’s the unwitting source of your amusement. 

“I can’t stand you,” he grumbles. Whether it’s to you or himself, you can’t decide. “Truly, I can't.” 

“Then hand me over to someone who can.” 

There’s a flash in his eyes then — otherworldly, malicious — he disregards composure like a snake abandons shed skin. He rises in a flash. Inhumanly cold fingers take your chin captive, bringing you closer to him, his delight in the ease with which he can manhandle you evident. Always the type to go for grand gestures, this one. His theatrical outbursts befit his moniker. 

Scaramouche grins, beset with an onslaught of bitterness akin to a black hole. It draws in and swallows anything unfortunate enough to be nearby. 

“You just love testing my patience, don’t you?” 

If you feared him, maybe you’d tremble, but you don’t, so you are still. It’s likely that you should fear him. He is volatile, a mess of contradictions too complicated to untangle, a vessel who fills himself with acrimony, the same way humans must with air. He delights in it and considers it his birthright. 

Your smile is not without kindness and that’s what bothers him most. 

“Come, don’t pout. I have no intentions of being complicit in whatever havoc you'd wreak if I was with another.” 

His eye twitches at the pesky word ‘another’. The mere thought of this faceless, nonexistent being having the audacity to lay claim to you, even in the land of fantasy, has his nostrils flaring and jaw tightening. You can see the ripple of muscles beneath his synthetic skin. He’s a wonder, this proprietorial doll, who can exalt and condemn you in the same breath. 

You are mine, and mine alone, his eyes seem to scream, and I’d sooner end the world than exist in it without having you for myself. 

“You really do scowl too much,” you reiterate your opinion from earlier, gently, almost sweetly. Whatever spell Scaramouche was under temporarily breaks, or perhaps he’s held prisoner to a new one, far more agreeable if not equally dangerous. “Your face is too pretty to always be frowning.” 

You enchant him by running your finger over his lower lip. It trembles by your command. His eyes go lidded, a lovelorn haze obscuring the former tempest. He can never decide if he wants to destroy or devour you. For someone like him, he can’t do one without the other. His love for you is a death sentence, despite the immortality that should’ve never belonged to your mortal body. 

It’s you who kisses him. 

He temporarily forgets himself. The arrogance, the hurt, the fear that you might slip between his fingers should he ever relax his hold. You find him foolish in that regard. He can have you in the palm of his hand if he likes, and you know he’d like that very much. There’s nowhere else for you to be. Not when he’s seen to the fact himself. 

Scaramouche melts into your person, returning your kiss with rapture, drunk on the way you offer yourself to him. He makes a deep, breathy noise, willing you closer, demanding total subservience. You let him have his way. Civilizations could rise and fall in the seconds that follow, and he’d pay them no mind, too absorbed with savoring your temporary connection. 

It is what he lives for; what he'd kill for.

His fair skin is flushed when you part. From the apple of his cheeks to the tip of his ears, he’s painted in a color from your palette. The pigmentation suits him. Red is the color around his eyes, of his longing for you, and of what would spill across the land should you ever part. 

“There,” you whisper, as if it were a secret meant for him alone, “That look suits you far better.” 

He wants to deny it — you can tell by how his grip tightens — but he remains uncharacteristically quiet. If he gets to delight in you, it’s only fair that you can occasionally delight in him, he supposes. 

Such is your capricious nature. 

[sweetbonniebel]

Jaes's hen jēdar

God's of the sky

Eleven

Daemon x reader

Synopsis: Laenor’s funereal, politics. Alicent being a bad mom, Viserys being a idiot. Talk of Rhaenyra having more power.

Note: If you wish to be added to the taglist, comment. Greatly appreciate it.

Masterlist <-previous , next->

122 AC Driftmark

Five dragons left Bloodstone for Driftmark. Another funureal of a Velaryon. Baelon sat in front of Daemon, strapped by leather belts. Vhaenor was in Aegon's saddle and Aerion was held by you.

Vermithor the largest of the beasts flew ahead. Your youngest slept soundly strapped to your chest with cotton wraps. Occasionally involuntary moving in the swaddle.

You felt sorry for Rhaenyra, not only did she loose Harwin not long ago now her husband has perished. And what of Jace, Luke and Joffrey.

You heard the familiar screeches of Caraxes and the warmth of dragon fire, you glanced upwards to see the blood wyrm, Sunfyre and Moondancer chasing each other.

Rhaenys and Corlys looked awful, they lost all of their children in the span of four years.

Your favourite cousin looks bad clad in black, but that colour seemed to follow her. You wrapped your arms around Rhaenys, offering her your comforts.

"I am so sorry, Rhaenys, Corlys." You said taking Rhaenys's hands in yours.

"Thank you, cousin." The Queen who never was answered.

"We are glad you could make it." She forced a facade of confidence.

"It is all right, you do not need to fake being nice. You just lost your son, I would except you to scream, cry and rage."

"I have done my fair share of mourning already, Laena and now Laenor." She whispered, tears prickling her waterline.

"Whatever you need we and the Stepstones are at your disposal." You offered.

"Thank you, y/n." Corlys answered placing his palm on your shoulder, squeezing thankfully.

You returned to your family at the side of the cliffs, on the other side closer to the casket stood Rhaenyra and her three boys.

"Mama." Vhaenor tugged at your black mourning skirt.

"What is it?" You questioned leaning to his level.

"I'm sad." He muttered shyly, you smiled sadly at him. "I don't like it."

"Oh sweet boy, it is normal to feel sad sometimes. Especially when a member of your family passed. But soon you will feel better, the feeling will pass." You tried to console the two year old

"It will?" He hopefully asked.

"I'm sure of it."

Laenor's sea stone casket was being wrapped with ropes, soldiers of house Velaryon prepared to lower it into the salty sea.

You saw tears escape Rhaenya's and Laenor's children, the three boys wore teal doublets adorned with silver seahorses and black trousers. Jacaerys looked the most like his grandmother, Rhaenys with dark hair and indigo eyes.

Lucerys was most like his mother, silver-gold hair and blue eyes, while Joffrey named by Laenor was most like his father, curly dark hair with silver streaks and violet eyes but his face was entirely Laenor.

Your children with Daemon on the other hand were of typical Valyrian beauty. Baelon had silver hair and bright violet eyes, his eye and nose shape were just like Daemon's. Vhaenor was your spitting image with your red eyes and face shape.

Aerion was most like his grandmother Alyssa, Daemon said so. You never met your father's first wife but from what your brothers said, Aerion was very much like Alyssa.

You wondered what will Rhaenyra do now, her husband has perished, she has three children but she is still young. The realm will expect her to marry again. 

You took your children by their hands and walked over to where the realm’s delight was standing. You stared solemnly at Rhaenyra, you placed a hand on her cheek and brought the princess into a warm embrace. No words exchanged but that was fine, none were needed. 

The three boys standing around Rhaenyra on the other hand, looked at you with muted curiosity. 

„Jace, Luke, Joff this is your aunt Princess y/n.” Rhaenyra introduced, you kneeled next to the boys. 

„I’m sure you do not remember me, but we have met a few times before.” You said placing your palm on Jace’s rosy cheek. 

„Good morrow, princess.” Jace shyly answered. 

„You can call me aunt, Jace.” The dark haired boy nodded his head sheepishly. 

„I would like to introduce your cousins to you.” You slightly pushed Baelon and Vhaenor in front of the three Velaryons. 

The eldest of your princelings slightly bowed his head at them. 

„I’m Baelon.” He introduced himself „This is my brother Vhaenor, and the babe is Aerion.” 

„I’m Jacaerys this is Lucerys and Joffrey.” You watched as the two boys interacted. 

„How are you faring?” You questioned Rhaenyra leaving your sons to themselves. 

„It is not as hard as I thought it will be. I did love him, but it was more of a brotherly love. I’m thankful for the children we have…” She told you her thoughts and you listened intently. „I’m glad we left for Dragonstone when we did, I do not think I could have endured more of that vipers den. And Laenor, gods save him. He was a good father but not much more than that.” 

You slightly chuckled as you talked in a secluded area. 

„Do you think you’ll remarry?” You suddenly questioned. 

„I have a lover I am very close to… But I do not want to marry so soon. I wish to experience more freedom.” She answered smoothing her black gown with teal accents. 

„A lover you say?” You curiously asked, you saw as a blush spread on Rhaenyra’s pale face. 

„He is a noble man from Lys.” 

„Lys?” 

„Darys Ormollen.” She said without beating around the bush. 

„You do not mean… Aunt Saera’s son.” You remembered the name you heard in passing conversation. The heir only nodded. „How did you come to meet our cousin?” 

„It is a long story.” 

„I would love to hear it some day, and meet him. Perhaps we could even invite aunt Saera to the Stepstones.” 

„I don’t think she will accept but you can always try.” 

„It is important for our family to be together. Besides I didn’t even know she was married for a long time, Jaehaerys told me of Saera a few times but nothing of her life outside of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

The funereal procession started. The heads of house Celtigar, Massey, Darklyn and Bar Emmom were present. Corlys’s brother Aethan, delivered the eulogy. You watched with Rhaenyra your children and Daemon as Laenor’s casket was lowered into the sea. The same way Laena’s was four years ago. Baelon and Vhaenor were standing next to their cousins. Aerion was in your arms and Joffrey was in Rhaenyra’s. 

„May the winds guide into the the afterlife, nephew.” Aethan recited „For our words are the old, the true, the brave. You may not have been old, but you were true and brave.” 

You saw tears stain Jacaerys’s and Lucerys’s cheeks, your palms rested on their shoulders. With the back of your palm you wiped their tears. 

…

You watched as Viserys stumbled down the cliffs with Alicent and Otto by his side. Helaena and Aemond following after them. You approached his grace with Daemon and your children. 

„Your grace.” You bowed before your sickly brother. 

„Oh, y/n.” He wheezed „You certainly are a sight for sore eyes.” He placed his boney palm on your cheek. 

„Brother, you do not look well. Are the maesters treating you well? If you wish I can call upon my healers from Essos.” You offered putting your hand over his. 

„The maesters are taking great care of his grace. They do best they can.” Alicent butted in. 

„Perhaps their best isn’t enough.” Your husband snipped staring with wide eyes at his brother’s worsening condition. 

„Hush now husband I am sure the maesters are… healing our brother to the best of their abilities. Even if they are not enough.” 

„And your children, your highness?” Otto muttered chanting the subject „Happy news reached King’s Ladning that new dragons hatched.” 

„Yes, lord hand. Five dragons indeed hatched.” 

„And since when are you interested in dragon, Otto? I remember you said they are an abomination to your gods.” Daemon carelessly said. You tried to surpress a chuckle. Viserys through his hazines glanced disappointed at Otto. 

„Speaking of children, your graces we must return to them.” 

„And where is Aegon? He has not come greet me or his lord father.” Alicent questioned accusatory.  

„Aegon is with his cousins.” Your brother answered for you. 

„So you saddle him with taking care of babes, now?” The green Queen made a snide comment. 

„Oh not at all, your grace. He is simply offering his comforts to Baela and Rhaena. After all they just lost and uncle.” You intertwined your arm with Daemon. 

„I see.” She only muttered and the two of you left, returning to your children’s side. 

„Have you seen him? He looks like the stranger is eating him alive.” You whispered to Daemon, he nodded and squeezed you hand reassuringly. 

„The greens are ordering the maesters to be worsening his condition.” 

„We need our healers to take a look at him.” 

„And what if they don’t do anything?” 

You stayed quiet, consumed by thoughts on how to turn this situation in your favor. 

„What are you thinking of?” 

„Do you remember when our grandsire named father his hand when he was too sick to rule?” 

„You do not think..?” 

You nodded at your brother. 

„Viserys is sick, the greens control the throne. Rhaenyra is his heir, she should become her fathers regent and wear his crown.” 

The two children of Baelon the brave stared at Rhaenyra from afar. She and her children stood alone amongs the cliffs and salty sea. 

„It could work, but Otto is still hand. He will go against this, the council will side with him.” Daemon noticed, caressing your hand affectionately. 

„Then we have to think of a way to find new members of the small council, those who will be unwaveringly loyal to ’Nyra. And us of course. Still we have to get rid of Otto somehow, name a new hand.” 

„Corlys…He hates the greens as much as we do. His house is the richest in the seven kingdoms. He is old and experienced.” 

Your eyes widened surprised. 

„You would not want to be hand? I know you pestered Viserys for that position.” 

„I used to, but we would have to move to King’s Landing. I do not want to leave the Stepstones, I do not want our children to be raised there. At least on Bloodstone we are the rulers of our own lives, Baela and Rhaena are happy there and so is Aegon.” 

„You have changed.” You stated, a warm feeling spread in your insides. 

„Does my wife, enjoy it?” He teasingly questioned placing his large palms on your waist. 

„Very much so.” You smiled leaning into his warm embrace. 

„Your highness.” Annora approached the two of you with Aerion in her arms. He was fussing, you could see tears stain his chubby cheeks. „I’m sorry but he could not stop crying.” 

„It is fine, thank you.” You answered taking Aerion, he will be turning one soon.

„You coddle him.” Daemon stated taking him from your arms and into his. You could see that he started to wiggle in discomfort.

„Maybe he’s hungry.” You said feeling your sore breasts. 

„No, he is spoilt. You always hold him, you didn’t do that with Baelon or Vhaenor.” 

„It’s just… he’s so small.” 

„He’s healthy, my love. He’ll be fine without your embrace for a while.” Your husband answered keeping Aerion in his arms. 

You walked with Daemon through castle Driftmark. A dreary seat, even more than Dragonstone. Your children were taken to a spare nursery, that left you and Daemon in your temporary chambers. 

You sighed and begun to unlace the black mourning dress with silver accents. 

„Do you need help?” Daemon approached you from behind, without and answer he began to unlace the bodice and dress. 

„I need to change into something more comfortable.” You announced „This dress squeezes my breasts and I cannot take it anymore.” 

„Perhaps you are due to a visit to the tailor?” Daemon muttered sliding the fabric off your body. You raised your silver eyebrow. 

„Are you saying I’m too fat for my dresses?” 

„No, your tits are too big to fit in that dress. Although I do like to see them spill out of your cleavage. Perhaps I was wrong to mention a tailor.” Your husband teased caressing the side of your breast with his thumb. 

„I wasn’t so big after Vhaenor…” You stated staring at yourself in the mirror. 

„You aren’t big, y/n.” 

„Do you want more children?” You questioned turning to face Daemon, dressed in cotton underdress. 

„I want as many children as you will give me.” He leaned against your forehead. 

„A girl, then.” 

„A girl?” Daemon pressed a kiss to your neck, his hands roamed over your body. „As you wish, wife.” 

…

You slept comfortably tangled in Daemon’s arms, the bed was not as comfortable as the one you shared on Bloodstone. A knock stirred you out of sleep, you tried to ignore the sound but it was persistent. You groaned and wrapped your body in a silver robe and opened the door. 

„Aegon? What has happened so early?” You questioned leaning on the door frame. 

„His grace invited you and your family to break fast together.” He nervously said. 

„Now?” 

„In an hour or so.” 

„Why are you telling me this? You are not a servant.” 

„I’m… What if they order me to return with them?” You sighed at his broken heart expression, you wrapped him in your arms and caressed his messy silver gold hair. 

„I will fight to keep you with me.” You answers pressing a kiss to his temple. 

„Promise?” 

„I promise. Now go back to your chambers and dress, preferably in black it is a funeral after all.” 

He nodded and skipped off to your chambers, you sighed and pressed your hand against your forehead. It was too early for political warfare, you felt tired and a bit sore from the strenuous activities of the night before. 

You walked over to the bed where your husband laid, his naked back spread comfortably over the bed. 

„Daemon.” You nudged him, he groaned and turned away from you, you chuckled and sat on his abdomen keeping him in place. „Daemon.” You  whispered into his ear.

„hmm?” He murmured waking from sleep. 

„We are invited to break fast with our brother.” 

„How do you expect me to leave when I have you on top of me?” He cheekily said, your cheeks warmed and you felt him growing hard under you. 

„We do not have time…” You whispered. 

…

Your black dress with embroidered red dragon’s breath swayed with your movement. The long sleeves of the dress were in Baelon’s clutches as he walked next to you unsure. He did not like castle Driftmark nor did he like the sea. 

„Your highness.” Ser Erryk and Arryk Cargyll bowed as they guarded the King’s chambers. 

„Sers.” You answered and entered your brothers room with your family. 

Viserys barely lucid sat at a round table in the corner of the room, a weird smelling incense was burning in the chambers. 

You kissed his healthier cheek and took a place on his right, Daemon to his left. 

„Where is Alicent and the children?” You questioned. 

„It will be just us, my siblings.” He wheezed back, motioning for the servant to bring the food. 

„What is that smell?” Daemon asked sniffing the air. 

„Oh it is- it is an ailment the maesters prescribed.” Your brother answered breathlessly, you nodded at Daemon to put out the poison and open the windows. 

„I’m afraid it’s making the children a bit queasy, you do not mind if we open the windows?” You took Viserys’s hand in yours. He simply nodded and glanced at your eldest, Baelon. 

„And how are you, my nephew?” Viserys asked, the two boys looked at him unsure. Aerion stayed in the nursery. 

„I’m well, your grace.” The four year old answered playing with the hem of his doublet under the table. 

„There is…no need to call me your grace. I am your uncle you may adres me as such.” Your brother said, you smiled seeing the love he held for his family. „I heard you have a dragon.” 

„Yes! I call him Aegarax, he’s brave like Darren!” Baelon exclaimed happy to talk about his hatchling, simply forgetting the uneasiness he felt before. 

„You named him right, Baelon a strong name.” He turned to you. 

„Thank you, I do not remember our father but the stories grandsire told me of him makes me feel as if I did get to know him.” 

„And where is the babe?” He questioned. 

„In his nursery.” Daemon answered. 

„Viserys… do you think it well to name a regent?” You gently coaxed him into the new topic. 

„Regent? Otto is my hand, he does well in my absence.” His grace wheezed. 

„And how often does he rule in your absence. I’ve been hearing that he sits the throne every day.” Daemon a bit more harsh added. 

„My sickness keeps me abed most days, yes.” 

„Even the greatest Kings get sick or old and they need help. Their family’s help. Remember Jaehaerys? He named Baelon his hand and regent.” 

„Yes, father was an excellent hand despite his short time serving the role.” Viserys agreed. You noticed that once the incense cleared your brother seemed to get a bit better. More lucid. 

„Rhaenyra is your heir, you should let her take more responsibility. She is after all the future Queen.” 

Viserys pondered for a moment, he glanced at you then at Daemon. 

„Perhaps you are right…” He admitted. „I will have to talk with the council of this change.”

You sent a small smile in your husbands direction, he returned the gesture smugly. The Hightowers have controlled the throne far too long, as true dragons it was your duty to stop their rule.

The bigger problem however was Alicent Hightower, you couldn't dismiss a Queen as easily as a Hand. You knew Viserys never loved her, he may hold some affection for her but it couldn't compare to the feelings he held for Aemma.

"Have you thought of Aegon returning to King's Landing?" You suddenly asked, your brother raised his eyebrow. It is as if he just remembered he has a son.

"Oh yes... Aegon."

"He's turning into a man soon, brother." Daemon added.

"I suppose he is... what is the issue then?"

"Aegon doesn't want to return to the Red Keep." You stated matter of factly.

"Why wouldn't he? His siblings and mother are there." He said unaware.

"That castle is a viper's den, it is no surprise a boy of only five and ten wouldn't want to stay there. After he was raised for over a decade in a loving home."

"Alicent is his mother it is her choice in the end."

"You are the King, Viserys. I'm sure it wouldn't be out of the ordinary for you to have the last say. I'm sure Aegon would be thankful." You stated

"I..." He wheezed "Bring him." He ordered.

Aegon dressed in a black doublet and trousers, the cape on his shoulders was of a deep crimson.

"Your grace." He bowed his head slightly at his sitting father "Aunt, Uncle."

"Aegon, sit." He ordered, the boy took a seat next to his little cousins. You smiled symphatically at Aegon as he uncomfortably cowered under Viserys's gaze. "I have heard you wish to stay with your aunt and uncle, is this true?"

"...Yes, father." He nodded unsure.

"I see no reason to-" Viserys was cut off in the middle of the sentence, the doors opened and Alicent stepped in the chambers. Her dark green dress flowing after he movements.

"Husband, son. Princess y/n, Prince Daemon." She was out of breath as she acknowledged your presence.

"Alicent." Viserys wheezed "What are you doing here? I... I didn't call for you."

"I came to see my son." Aegon tensed at his mothers words.

"We have just been talking of extending his wardship." Viserys answered and in that moment you wanted to commit treason and strangle your brother for his idiocy.

"What?" She asked in disbelief.

"I wish to stay with my aunt and uncle, your grace." Aegon meekly said.

"That is out of the question. Your wardship has come to an end, there is no reason for you to stay on that rock any longer."

"Lady Mother-" He wanted to speak but Alicent silenced him with a flick of her wrist.

"And you would allow this?" She glared at Viserys "For them to take away my son from me? Again?"

"I am not taken away anywhere, I want to remain with my cousins and aunt." Aegon explained but Alicent ignored his pleas.

"Aegon..." You whispered to the boy who had tears in his eyes.

"Don't you see Viserys! She has raised my son! Poisoned him against me, and his family!"

"Alicent! Mind your tongue. My sister has done and admirable job at raising Aegon, you should be thanking her instead of spitting such vile accusations." Viserys said angrily glaring at his Hightower wife. "If it is Aegon's wish to remain in the stepsons he may do so until his eight and tenth birthday when he shall return to King's Landing."

"My King-" Alicent tried to speak.

"My decision is final, Alicent."

King Viserys's health has deteriorated over the years making him incapable of sitting the throne. He named his heir Princess Rhaenyra regent until he would be able to rule once more. Many believe that is is Princess y/n and Prince Daemon's doing for the realm delight to sit the throne. - From the dragon bringer by the feather and quill of Grand Maester Roland.

Taglist:

@nessjo

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive

By Niles Niemuth

The Toronto Police Service (TPS) escalated their campaign to crackdown on and suppress protests against the Gaza genocide last week with the announcement of a second arrest in relation to a March 7 protest. In addition to mischief charges which could bring up to 10 years in prison, the two demonstrators are facing charges of “disguise with intent” for wearing medical masks which protect from COVID-19 and other infectious diseases during the protest. This latter “offence” also carries a maximum sentence of a decade in prison.

“While demonstrations may end, investigations into criminal activity continue and we pursue all leads to hold individuals accountable,” Toronto Police Chief Myron Demikw declared in a statement Tuesday on X. He then boasted, “Over the last year we have made 80 demonstration-related arrests and laid 124 charges. Arrests can happen at any time after an offence.”

Tens of thousands in Toronto and across Canada have turned out to protest week after week for more than a year as Israel, with the backing of American imperialism and Ottawa, has carried out its ethnic cleansing operation in Gaza launched in the aftermath of the October 7 uprising led by Hamas. Protesters’ demands that the trade union-backed Liberal Trudeau government press for a ceasefire and stop arming Israel have been rebuffed, with Trudeau and Foreign Minister Mélanie Joly instead smearing protesters opposing genocide as “antisemites.”

Pro-Palestinian protest encampments erected by students, faculty and supporters on campuses across Canada have been broken up by court injunctions and police raids. The deployment of far-right Zionist vigilante groups on campus to provide “security” has been openly encouraged by the federal government, with a new law passed enabling private security firms to access government funding. Groups in line to profit from this funding stream include Magen Herut, whose members must be Zionists and have experience in policing or military service, and Shomrim, an international vigilante group present in Hasidic communities. Magen Herut members have “patrolled” at anti-genocide protests, where they have surveilled and intimidated participants.

Immediately upon Israel’s launch of its genocidal onslaught on Gaza, Canada’s political establishment closed ranks to launch a vicious witchhunt against anyone who spoke out against the mass slaughter. The New Democrats, who were in a confidence-and-supply agreement with the Liberals at the time, threw Member of the Ontario Provincial Parliament Sarah Jama out of their parliamentary caucus because she issued a statement declaring her solidarity with the Palestinians and accusing Israel of apartheid, an accusation supported by the United Nations. Trudeau has repeatedly sought to intimidate protesters by repeating the lies of extreme Zionist forces, including in February when he accused demonstrators of being antisemites merely because they marched past Toronto’s Mount Sinai Hospital.

With the backing of the governments of Liberal Prime Minister Justin Trudeau and Tory Ontario Premier Doug Ford, Demikw and the TPS have launched a far reaching campaign of harassment and arrests of pro-Palestinian protesters under the title “Project Resolute.” The Breach published an investigation in June which revealed the extensive character of the secretive political policing operation, which has included early morning raids, trumped-up charges and efforts to turn protesters into informants.

The police operations have gone hand in hand with the efforts of the political establishment to smear protesters as “antisemitic.” Eleven people were arrested last November in relation to a postering protest against the CEO of Indigo Books, who happens to be Jewish, over her campaign to support the Israel Defense Forces, with the police insinuating that their actions were “hate motivated.”

Demikw and TPS have been carrying out their crackdown in coordination with the RCMP’s Integrated National Security Enforcement Team and the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS), Canada’s premier spy agency.

Faisal Ibrahim, 38, was arrested and charged on October 19 with one count of mischief, interfering with property and a count of disguise with intent in relation to the March 7 protest. A research assistant and teaching assistant at the University of Toronto, Ibrahim had been targeted by Zionist social media pages for his pro-Palestinian activism before being charged by TPS.

Rachelle Friesen, 38, of the Student Christian Movement of Canada and Community Peacemaker Teams, was charged on October 1 with two counts of mischief that obstructs, interrupts or interferes with the lawful use, enjoyment or operation of property and one count of disguise with intent in relation to pro-Palestinian protests on November 13, 2023 and March 7, 2024.

After living in Israel for five years, including four as Peace Program Coordinator with the Mennonite Central Committee, Friesen was deported from the country in 2014 and banned for 10 years for her advocacy on behalf of the Palestinians.

Protesters interrupted the Scotiabank Giller Prize gala at the Four Seasons Hotel in Yorkville on November 13, 2023 to protest the bank’s complicity in the Gaza genocide. Evan Curle and Maysam Abu Khreibeh, both 25, and Fatima Hussain, 23, were charged at the time with obstructing, interrupting, or interfering with the lawful use, enjoyment or operation of property and using a forged document.

March 7, meanwhile, was a day of action by students and others protesting RBC and calling for the bank to divest from support for Israel, respect Indigenous sovereignty and end financing for the Trans Mountain Expansion and Coastal Gas Link pipelines.

The police claim that both Friesen and Ibrahim “wore medical masks to conceal their identity” during a March 7 protest in Midtown Toronto and that their participation prevented an employee from entering her workplace and forced her to leave the area in fear of her safety.

In another recent effort to suppress the protests, the Trudeau government in coordination with the Biden administration in the United States banned the Samidoun Palestinian Prisoner Solidarity Network as a “terrorist entity” and placed sanctions on activist Khaled Barakat.

Samidoun has organized protests in opposition to the Gaza genocide across Canada. Its international coordinator Charlotte Kates was arrested in April in Vancouver following a speech in which she led the crowd in a chant of “Long live October 7th” and advocated for the delisting of Hamas, Islamic Jihad, Hezbollah and other groups as terrorist organizations. The organization’s listing as a terrorist entity resulted in its bank accounts being frozen and make it difficult for members to travel internationally.

The unanimous endorsement of Israel’s genocide within the political establishment has introduced a climate of fear and censorship into Canadian cultural life. In the latest example of this, the Aurora Cultural Center north of Toronto closed down an exhibit titled Expressions of Critical Thought after one day this month due to complaints of “antisemitism” on social media because some of the works on display referenced Palestine. The Center told the artists in an October 4 email that the show was being censored due to “concerns raised by members of our community regarding the traumatic responses to some of the artworks.”

“I feel what they did contributes to the consistent dehumanization of Arabs in general,” Iraqi-Canadian artist Hala Alsalman told Hyperallergic. “I’m the only Arab who was showing, but obviously it’s not just me, it’s all of us.” Chantal Hassard, a co-curator of the show and grandchild of Holocaust survivors, noted that there was nothing antisemitic about the art on display and the claims were a “dangerous mischaracterization of the term.”

[gabunyan]

Orion. 25. he/they | bi. white/arab. taken. ⤷ autistic ADD | mentally ill. personal blog ❥ selfships; Funtime Freddy & Bill Cipher fnaf sideblog @fazforce

usual DNI applies | minors don't follow

main interests;

Adventure Time. Dragon Ball. DunMeshi. FNAF. Gravity Falls. Inazuma Eleven. Indigo Park. Kingdom Hearts. Moomins. [other: animals. cartoons. paranormal.]

kins;

Chilchuck. Emma Verde. Glamrock Chica. Irma Lair. Little My. Jibanyan. Roxas.

[elliott-the-creature]

hey, what’s up, it’s me, ur creature Flax! I thought I’d share my giant namehoard with you all. they’re pretty much all nouns/adjectives (although K may do a part two with human names).

hope you all enjoy, and feel free to use any of these for yourself; we don’t mind :3

-🌿🪲

putting it under the cut because holy crap it’s a lot

Nature related

Willow

Clover (one of my personal favourites)

Reed

Birch

Aspen

Mangrove

Oak

Hickory

Pine

Fern

Ivy

Thistle

Rose

Orchid

Primrose

Buttercup

Bloom

Lily

Brook

River

Rain

Storm

Thunder

Cloud/cloudy

Sun/sunny

Blizzard

Flurry

Frost

Hail

Torrent

Reef

Meadow

Ridge

Fen

Marsh

Bog

Forest

Boreal

Conifer

Deciduous

Animals

Mouse

Rabbit

Bunny

Rat

Puppy/Pup

Kitty/Kit

Tiger

Leopard

Ocelot

Sheep

Cow

Macaw

Pigeon

Hawk

Owl

Dove

Chickadee

Lizard

Gecko

Manta

Orca

Beetle

Bee

Lepidoptera

Hymenoptera

Spider

Weevil

Objects/clothes

Button

Jacket

Mittens

Domino

Mug

Novel

Hoodie

Plush

Cottage

Monocle

Mannequin

Doll

Acrylic

Tupperware

Socks

Toque/beanie (they’re the same thing so I’m grouping them together)

Patch

Miscellaneous (aka me mixing a whole load of small categories together)

Mono

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Eleven

Liar

Handsome

Dreamer

Shade

Mercury

Venus

Mars

Jupiter

Saturn

Neptune

Amethyst

Garnet

Pearl

Bismuth

Tourmaline

Moonstone

Jade

Yellow

Green

Blue

Lavender

Indigo

Taupe

Mauve

Grey

Ivory

[twothpaste]

working on fic illustrations but posting the art early cuz it's nice 😌⛵

[serenelia]

ᴍᴀꜱQᴜᴇʀᴀᴅᴇ

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ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ ꜱᴄᴀʀᴀᴍᴏᴜᴄʜᴇ/ᴡɪᴛᴄʜ ʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Content includes: SFW, mentioned vampire Harbinger Childe, ball room dancing that's probably all over the place, the reader experiences stress (to say the least) and vomits.

Scroll away if you don't entertain any au's regarding vampires, witches, and hunters. Also this is quite long (yes again), almost two-thousand and five hundred words, grab a drink!

If you haven't read the first part: ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀʟʟ

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Before she could even begin to theorize who the person was, she’s promptly shut up once he ceases spinning her around and intertwines their hands. One of his hands takes hers from the same side and places it on his shoulder, resting his on her waist soon after. The gentleman looks.. soft; compared to his intimidating gaze and aura, his features are similar to those of a porcelain doll. A pretty one at that. If one were to differentiate between Childe and him, she could definitely say with confidence that the stranger is more pleasing to the eyes, one would be easy to be distracted by such a man.

The two stared at each other as they swayed gently from side to side, and [Name] felt her breath be taken away upon examining his face even further. Illuminated by the bright light of the chandelier above, his soft indigo-colored hair framing his soft cheeks, his pale skin, and sharp eyes perfectly compliment his very being; even [Name] could feel herself slowly starting to get insecure in his presence. And upon shifting her gaze to his lips, she could see the corner of his lips quirk up and the shine of a sharp and long fang.

[Name] gulps. “Is it too late to back out now?” the stranger muses, evidently entertained by her previous comment that was very obviously for the man she danced with before.

“..My apologies, dear sir; I had intended that for my previous dance partner, Childe, who.. had suddenly left.” She forces herself to look away, her gaze locking with the audience as she turns away, and sees Childe scurrying away in the crowd, not even bothering to look back at her.

Well, it's not like she wanted him to, but she was hoping he'd be attached somehow. Those make the killings easier.

The latter snorts, “Do you…” His laughter dies down as quickly as it came, and [Name] didn’t have enough time to react as he abruptly raised their intertwined hands and spun her around, eliciting a surprised gasp from the lady.

He slows her down after a few spins, intentionally making her land right on his chest. He places a careful hand on her back, pulling her closer, and he whispers, “When dancing with someone, it's rather rude to focus on other people, don't you think?”

“…” Her eyes widened, her mind turning to mush at their nonexistent distance, and her heart started beating loudly in her chest. Yet before she could even respond, he swiftly maneuvered her back to her previous place and started swaying them once again, wearing a small but polite smile.

“..My apologies; I was simply confused for a mere moment.” [Name] says through gritted teeth, mentally cursing at the rate of her heart at that one cheesy action. How many more times is he going to spin her around?!

“Forgiven,” he replies, a smirk growing on his lips. “I am Scaramouche, the 6th of the Eleven Harbingers. I must apologize for my fellow Harbinger’s actions. I’ll make sure to ask him to give you a proper apology later.”

[Name] smiles back politely and shakes her head. “Good evening, Sir Scaramouche, I am Lady [Name]. You ought not to, I’m sure the matter is something of outmost importance for him to handle.”

“Even if that is so, it’s still rather rude to leave your dance partner in the middle of it.”

“You need not to fret; I take no offense to it.”

Scaramouche squints his eyes. “Lying is not a very friendly mannerism to a stranger, is it?" he says, tilting his head to the side and peering down at her.

forcing a smile, [Name] made an effort to avoid glaring at him, “Quite so, though, may I ask why you took it upon yourself to replace my previous partner?” her charm was working marvelously on Childe, a little more would have him end up in her lab. Why did he have to intervene?

The Harbinger replies in a sly tone, “Upon realizing his gaze would inevitably stray away from you, I had to clean up after him to make sure he doesn’t do more harm than good.”

[Name] raises a brow, “Then one should not bother himself with a fleeting matter such as this, I assure you, there is no need to occupy your time with a dance.” She removes her hand from his shoulder and takes a step backward with her body following suit, accompanied by an outreached hand; the latter does the same and assists her once she spins herself and lands carefully near his chest. His hands outlining her waist, she wraps her arms around his neck and threw her head back as Scaramouche leans her downward.

She tries her utmost best to avoid ogling his face, “Why, there is no need to belittle this wonderful dance; I am finding it rather enjoyable, so consider my time well occupied.” Scaramouche praises, though [Name] could clearly see the empty words behind it.

He guides her back to her feet by the waist, “I am incredibly honored to hear such.” [Name] lies, moving her hands from his neck back to his shoulders as they started swaying side to side, frowning at his natural beauty and nonchalant behavior.

a flicker of doubt crosses his face, “..I find myself honored as well to be able to speak to you, Lady [Name].”

[Name] forces out a smile.

silence overruns the space between them, both plastering polite smiles on their faces, one more visible than the molecule of a smile the other has. After a few more seconds of their bodies swaying, they switched their perspective positions and once again intertwined their hands together. [Name] takes a step back before raising their hands to hang above her head to be able to place herself by his side, facing the opposite direction with their arms resting on top of each other.

To her surprise, it was he who broke the silence between them: “How does one find the event so far? I hope it suits to your adequate tastes.”

[Name] glances at him from behind. Is he one of the people who arranged the whole event? Or maybe well acquainted with the person who did?

Perhaps she should watch her mouth from now on.

“This event has been wonderful so far; I can tell a lot of effort has been put into it to make it satisfactory for both races,” she replies, which, in a way, is true.

Scaramouche suppresses what sounds like a scoff: “Yes, this whole event wishes to bring both the human race and the vampire race together.” The two break off the physical connection between their arms and held hands, with Scaramouche raising them as [Name] spins herself before doing the same for the latter. After he spins, they repeat their outstretched arms by their sides. “I must say, this whole idea is rather.. idealistic. Don’t you think so?” he continues, gaze glued to her figure during the whole step.

[Name] remains silent for a second longer. “Why does one think so?" she asks, her eyes finding it difficult to maintain eye contact. They each took a step to meet at the center and held hands, withdrawing for a mere moment before letting go of one pair as she started to slowly walk in a circle around him, with Scaramouche having to adjust his hand over his head once she made her way behind him.

“Anyone who had proper education would be able to process that.. ideas like that are just utterly impossible. It defies the natural law in the food chain, no? With who has the most favor in the eyes of the “gods,” it’s pretty obvious whose more deserving to rule.” Scaramouche states.

[Name] could almost trip at the absurdity of his belief. “…Is that so?”

He tilts his head once they come to face each other. “Do you not agree, Miss [Name]?”

“I.. don’t have a particular view on that subject,” [Name] mutters, lowering her head slightly to avoid his unwavering stare. Aside from the predicament she finds herself in, at least she can confirm that this gentleman is a vampire. A psychopathic human who would be willing to be a blood bag for vampires doesn’t seem to be a plausible explanation. It is also worth adding the glimpse of a fang she saw earlier, further supporting her theory. The only remaining challenge here is figuring out where he prefers his blood to come from.

They repeat their outstretched hands from their side, and [Name] could feel her anxiety (or could it be giddiness?) spike up once she felt his hands embrace the sides of her waist firmly after she spun herself to land with her back to his chest, “To be able to grasp the true reality of this hierarchy-focused world, one must adapt their beliefs and get rid of this foolish agenda,” he speaks up while lifting her carefully into the air, her feet kicking purely out of instinct at the loss of ground beneath her. [Name]’s heart rate only increases as he spins himself around, taking her along with it, her beautiful dress a dazzling display for the awed audience.

He swiftly gently places her back on the ground, their hands instinctively finding their way to each other, “Only in that way can you accomplish your desired goals,” Scaramouche adds, his eyes boring onto her whole being with silent but much perceived expectations. [Name] feels the overwhelming urge to run away to her bones; she feels naked around him. With the way he worded his sentences and the tone along with them, it was as if he knew everything about her already.

Cold sweat drips down her back.

What does he mean by that?

Does he mean something more?

Does he know I’m a witch hunter already?

Is he going to expose me?

Oblivious to her panic, Scaramouche continues dancing to the music, seemingly thinking she’s merely thinking about it in her head. He decides to take the lead. His hand always with hers as they became the sole partners left dancing under the light. Their movements were graceful and calculated, appearing to be peaceful for both parties, with the exception of [Name], whose expression slowly turned to one of morbid horror the longer they danced. Scaramouche, for some reason, doesn’t react whatsoever, only keeping a small smile on his face. Only giving rise to her unparalleled feeling of distraught.

The cheerful atmosphere inside the manor suddenly becomes claustrophobic, and the space around her seems to be choking all the air remaining inside her lungs. She needed to get out of there fast. She had underestimated the gravity of her whole situation; she had overestimated herself.

When will this dance end?

The music provided by the musicians was constantly fighting with the dominating ringing in her ears, the muffled voices of the audience increasing and decreasing in volume; it pierced her ears, yet it was almost as quiet as the soft whisper of the wind. Her feet stumbling even at the perfectly made marble floor, her heels screeching upon contact, they trip among themselves, every spin and turn made, but never did she make an attempt to run away. She can’t.

It’s all too much. She could feel the merciful brush of the wind upon her hair, the warm touch of the light above, the tight hug of the corset in her chest, yet the most primary of all, his penetrating gaze set on her, the strong scent of his cologne hazing her mind, his cold touch on her clothed skin, leaving a burning sensation behind. Every trail of his finger from her hand to her shoulder, down to her waist, creates a shockwave of shivers that resonates with her very core.

Please, please, have pity on me, gods!

Let this night end!

Suddenly, everything stops.

The crowd applauds as the music slows down, and they’re both standing in the middle of the circle, facing one another. [Name] had to take a moment to process it. She scans the room around her, and with her raggedy breathing, she can’t find it in herself to say anything, let alone breathe in his presence.

It’s… over?

Something heavy and tight presses itself against her neck, and she involuntarily flinches. Her hand immediately shoots up to her collar; it grasps on nothing. The imaginary force’s hold on her tightens as she locks gazes with Scaramouche. “I thank you again for having this dance with me, Miss [Name]. I hope the rest of the night treats you well.” He purrs and takes her hand up to his lips, pressing a light kiss on the glove.

She clutches her free hand tightly, “..To you too… Sir.” [Name] manages to croak out, barely hearing him over the sound of her heart in her ears and the audience’s amazement.

And with that, he lets go of her hand and leaves his station, blending in with the crowd only a few seconds later, and [Name] is left on her spot, frozen. Looking in his direction with a chill up her spine, this mission was too precious to give up, but was it really worth it just for her experiment?

Her stomach twists and turns in her throat, and [Name] makes quick work with her feet in finding the restroom.

She hastily washes her mouth and hands after exiting the cubicle, banging her hands onto the sink counter repeatedly.

Curse him, curse him, curse him!

her voice strains itself in her throat, tempting her to let it out, but imagining the possibility a fellow guest walking in on her and having to explain brings a blush to her cheeks and a headache in her already dazed head. So she settles by whispering it loudly to herself instead, resulting to her coughing into the sink as flashbacks of the previous dance floods her mind. She takes a deep breath with her eyes closed, but it proved to be useless meditation for his smell clouded her sense of smell everywhere she turns. Oh, how she wishes she could wash it off her right this moment.

It was intoxicating. He was intoxicating.

the sensation of dread and excitement only continued to plague her mind. It never occurred to her—the real danger of being undercover and having a dance with your victim. It was as if the gods were punishing her and keeping her humble.

She scoffs and takes out a small container she kept hidden in her, opening it before applying the ingredients imbedded in it to her lips, wrists, and neck.

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..this was originally supposed to be like 5k words but I held back (my schedule partook in it too). Truly, I was supposed to make this plus two more scenes all in one post, but I was editing and decided to check the word count and... almost 2,500k words... And I know that'll be a mouthful 😪 and I thought that if I delay it further I was afraid ya'll would lose interest and would probably forget about it, haha.

Apart from my self-pity, I really enjoyed making this! Took me like 5 days for this and the rest of the outline.. It was still enjoyable nonetheless. So I hope it's a joyful read too!

Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!

[send-me-a-puffalope]

just got a hold of the fnaf movie novel and it’s so fascinating the way they characterize vanessa during the police outpost scene. they focus a lot throughout the book on her weird out of place “code switching” but it’s really emphasized here, her continually switching between being afraid and angry. and idk man the implications go crazy.

“she shrank inward like a victim” is so dhjakfhfjsksfahjsg. trauma responses say what

anyway sorry I know you’ve already read the book but i had thoughts and i thought you’d be ok with them being in your inbox lmao (i hope you’re okay btw. covid is mean. and ap graders also.)

THE LINE "She shrank inward like a victim" MAKES ME CRY LIKE HELLLLL,,,, I'm gonna be so fr, I skipped a lot of this novel except for the Vanessa scenes-- I read specifically just the Vanessa scenes.

The way Vanessa is written in the books is so weird because on one hand, the "switching" between modes thing is definitely intended to be just about Vanessa putting on a facade of like a hardened cop when in actuality she's terrified for Mike and Abby. On the other hand, theres scenes about the specific hues of colors that her eyes change that feels so intentionally written 😭😭😭 though I assume they're probably red herrings. Like the scene with Vanessa and Mike by the river and "Mike watched, mesmerized, as Vanessa's irises deepened noticeably in hue. They went from their usual soft, almost grayish blue ot a deeper indigo. The color shift was so pronounced that it almost looked computer-generated." LIKE SCOTT CAWTHON. WHAT DOES THAT MEAN.

Anyways I started flipping through my copy of the book for this ask EFOASIDJOI man, as rough as some of these pages are, they really do give depth into some of the stuff people tend to not pick up in the movie-- specifically how the bodies of the vandals got cleaned up and stuffed in the suits. Most people don't think about Vanessa having a hand in it due to her reveal being later in the movie but in the novel, when Mike mentions that he can't reach Max, Vanessa's half smile disappears and she replaces it with her cop stare, which was dialed up to eleven (almost quote for quote from the book)

Some other things cause you've got me Vanessa thinking, Vanessa very clearly either knew the kids in the suits or have seen their ghosts because she mentions the Golden Freddy kid being the blond hair boy. Also. All the descriptions of Vanessa regressing back into 'little kid mode" whenever she's scared.

"Vanessa pulled in her shoulders. She didn't look up. "Someone," she said in an almost little-girl voice, "who's trying to help you.""

"The resolve wavered. Little-girl Vanessa reappeared, hunching Vanessa's shoulders. "He'll be coming," she said in a hushed tone."

I NEED TO KILL MYSELF. I LOVE THE VANESSA CHARACTERIZATION IN THIS BOOK GRAUGHHHhhhHHhh...

[mogai-sunflowers]

wondernox!

wondernox-

a gender related to a wonderland of eternal night- wonderlands infinitely filled with the mystical beauty of the night!

[Image ID: A flag with eleven equally-thick puffy horizontal stripes. From top to bottom, the colors are pastel pink, bright magenta, purple, indigo, royal blue, black, medium magenta, purple, indigo, pastel blue, and pastel pink. End ID.]

term and flag by me :3 tagging @radiomogai !

[ainyan]

FFXIV Write - Day 3: Tempest

Outside was a beautiful day; the sun was shining, there was a breeze whistling through the canyons, and the spray of the waterfall outside cooled the sultry Thanalan air. The heady scent of blooming flowers hung heavy above the gardens, inviting a moment of contemplation surrounded by brilliant color. The world spun on in lazy harmony.

But that was outside.

Inside was a virtual tempest, and Thancred knew if he did not tread carefully, it could become a literal one. Kal’istae’s anger was a palpable thing, boiling in his heart and hers until the air between them nearly simmered from the heat of it.

And she had a right to it, he had to admit. He had deliberately gone behind her back, made a unilateral decision that directly contradicted one they had made together. That he had done so with only the best of intentions would mean nothing to her, and he knew she wouldn’t accept his arguments.

But he had to try.

“She’s a natural, Kali.”

“She’s eleven years old, Thancred!”

He winced visibly. “Only two years younger than Ryne when I gave her her first daggers, and she’s already yalms and malms ahead of her.”

There was a distant rumble of thunder and a whiff of ozone in the air. As Thancred watched, the thin wisps of hair that had escaped her braid began to rise, and he could feel the thin hairs on the nape of his neck follow suit. “Thancred,” she said, her voice low and furious.

“She’s my daughter too, Kal’istae,” he said, and, suddenly tired, he sank onto the edge of the bed, gazing up at his wife. “Xarise is not like Minyda, she’s not like you. There’s magic there, but it is a pale, pale flame compared to you or her sister. Her gifts lie in other directions. My direction.”

Again, thunder rumbled, but the longer that Kal’istae gazed at Thancred, the less obvious the effects of her temper, and finally, the brewing tempest died away with a final sputter of sparks from the metal decorations upon her horns. Wearily, she crossed to the bed and sat down beside him, reaching for his hand. “I’m afraid, Thancred. Xari is so young.”

“So was I,” he murmured, lifting her hand to his lips and gazing into her frustrated indigo eyes. “Younger than she, but hunger is a harsh teacher. Our daughters will never have the kind of childhoods we had - they will never know hunger, or cold, or privation, will never know the pain of sacrifice.”

She closed her eyes and leaned into him, resting her forehead against his shoulder. “I don’t want my life for my daughters. Our daughters.”

The Warrior of Light. These days, even Thancred sometimes forgot. The world spun on, indifferent to the changes she had wrought, the frameworks her actions had built for unification across the face of the known land. Calls upon their linkshells came but infrequently these days, and tended to be casual in nature; a request for advice, a desire for company, delivery of joyous news. So rarely now was it a plea for aid, a cry for salvation.

The world spun on, and the sun was bright.

The tempest had passed.

“Xarise will never make the decisions you made, the sacrifices you made. But she is our daughter, my heart, and she has your tempestuous nature and my brash one in spades.” When he felt her lips curve in a reluctant smile against his shoulder, he slid his arm about her and drew her against his side. “I will teach her. I will guide her.”

Releasing the last of her temper, Kal’istae turned, wrapping her arms around her husband. “There’s no one better to do it,” she sighed. “Just… watch over her. She and I may never see eye to eye on much, but she’s still my daughter. My baby.”

“Our daughter. Our baby.” When he tucked his finger under her chin and tilted her head back, she met his kiss with her own, and all was right again.

The sun was bright. The tempest had passed. And their world spun on in harmony.

FFXIV Write 2024 (Daily Prompt List)

Day 3 - Tempest

OC: Kal'istae Miurani

NPCs: Thancred Waters

AU: Woven Souls (Canon AU)

[names-for-alters]

Hello one and all, alters and headmates! I am Charlie! I like to make lists! I also hoard names! Are you looking for a name? GREAT! You can send an ask and request a specific aesthetic or origin of name, or you can look at my list!

With that said…

…Cracks knuckles…

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[soufcakmistress]

Temptress

Pairing: Erik Stevens x Thick Black OC

The intricate oil painting hanging on the wall threatened to fall by the incessant pounding of the bed frame. “I wonder what they’re serving at the pub tonight…” Sybil Freeman pondered as this sad soul rutted away between her legs. The Viscount Peters was one of her frequent visitors, and always tipped well. A lackluster lover, but always super sweet. The viscount shuddered and finally expelled into the sheepskin condom, with sighs of much awaited relief. Her corset has her abundant breasts grazing her chin, which have now spilled out from the romp that just ensued.

This is the part that the men come for. “Ooooh, the Viscount is feeling very frisky this evening. I’ll be sure to put those juniper berries in your wine every time we meet, sugar.” The short and dumpy nobleman always moseyed down her street for a bit of loving. Black and white men alike patronized the house—a house of nothing but Black bawds and whores.

~

London is a long way from colonial Charleston. Sybil Ravenel was one of eleven children to an enslaved couple working the indigo crop on Edisto Island. Keen on her surroundings and fierce about her family, one particular overseer would always harass her. She was very shapely and purposely wore baggier clothes to conceal her body. She’d managed to make it this far without getting whipped or separated from her family. The overseer was tired of Sybil spurning him. Easter Day came and the slaves were able to take the day off for once. While everyone was congregated by the fire, Sybil was caught off guard and gagged and pulled around the tobacco barn. Little did that overseer know that Sybil had been preparing for that day.

She sharpened this stick every day and hid it in the waistline of her skirt. Today, she made good on her intentions and shoved the stick into his neck. “I the last Negro woman you try to push up on. Bastard.” Blood drenched her apron and bonnet, and she wrenched them off and hid them under her skirt. Scrambling to the slave quarters, she gathered up the few clothes she had, tied them up and ran towards the harbor with all of her might in the dead of night.

Sybil understood sex and how easy men were guiled once it entered a dynamic. Men had few motivations and if it didn’t involve money, food or sex, Sybil found they didn’t have much use past that. She wasn’t entirely sure of her age, but she was a woman full grown. She had no education but she had the will to live and extremely limited means to do so. Offering what she had between her legs was how she was able to convince the captain of a nearby merchant ship not to ring the alarm for a fugitive slave on the run. She sucked his pecker so good as a matter of fact, he gave her her own cabin, left to be undisturbed until the ship docked.

The manifest was set for London Harbor, with a large store of indigo posed for shipping to the British Isles. England outlawed slavery years ago and all Sybil can remember being in awe of how Black folks roamed so freely. London was expansive, a different feeling versus Charleston. Attempting to navigate the streets, she bumped into a striking woman, with incredible cheek bones and dwarfed almost every man. “Careful, darling. Yuh ‘ave to actually look where yuh walk in this city. Before yuh get trampled.”

Needless to say, her life was changed from then on out. Bellemere Almodovar. Born in Jamaica, she was purchased by Spanish spice traders in exchange for bushels of saffron. She was so beautiful that she was whisked away from the auction block to accompany a lord in the Spanish court in the Spanish royal seat in Madrid.

Bellemere took Sybil under her wing. Showed her the ropes, how to keep herself safe, how to articulate herself, and recognize what the means to the end was. Fuck the frogs until you find the prince. A marquis or a lord having you for his mistress meant security and stability. A binding contract between the two of you kept the relationship mutually beneficial at all times. You provide the cunny and ego stroking, he provides the lifestyle. It’s plain and simple as that.

Until then, Sybil would stack her money. Her and Bellemere have expanded their stable, with an extremely diverse group of Black women with various treasures to offer. Lola and Liza Ibeji, the Sierra Leonan twin Amazons liked to play with the kinky politicians on Downing street on every bank holiday who liked to be tied up and degraded. Sarah Macenroe was a biracial beauty from Ireland, looking for a new home since her last bawd kicked her out. She was a contortionist, and petite like a nymph who loved to stick her finger up a John’s bum. And Sybil’s best friend Janie Smith from Trinidad, always quick to cuss her in patois. She was plump and shaped like you and that brought you both closer. Janie learned that she did not have a gag reflex, allowing any man to aim his prick down her endless throat with no resistance.

And Sybil. Sybil’s prized possession was between her legs. It was wetter and tighter than anyone around, and was guaranteed to make any man lose his pride before he wanted to. Her blue fingertips were a marvel to gaze upon and added to the fantasy. These English nobles ached for the chance of sleeping with a liberated Negro woman from the colonies. Her life was easy now. Fuck her regulars, and live good. She was free. Free to eat in any cafe of her choosing. Led her girls into any social gathering with their heads high and guaranteed to garner whispers and gasps. Music to her ears.

As of late, Sybil had been bored to tears of the social scene. Janie had just snagged her keeper, and she’d been whisked to the northern countryside for the next month. On this particular occasion, Sybil’s carob skin emitted radiance unknown to this world with the midnight blue gown hugging her body close. Her scalp itched under the powdered wig, and she daintily threw back her 6th drink of the night. Her girls worked the room as always, prowling for the next kill, and yet Sybil couldn’t give a fuck about any of these men.

She grabbed her sachet, picked up the ends of her dress and sashayed to the terrace. Some fresh air was needed. A cigarette she already rolled was pulled out and heavy footsteps lurked behind her. “Is this seat taken?”

A puff of tobacco smoke billowed in front of her cherubic face. A pleasant surprise that a Black man with a familiar accent met her. “Do as you like.”

The strange man quietly observes Sybil’s appearance. Their eyes finally meet and she’s enraptured and forgets to mask her intent. He’s very handsome, with a sterling smile and dashing garments. And an American accent. Interesting. “What’s a southern Belle doing mingling with English society?”

“I could ask the same of you. You’re like a fly in a glass of milk with this crowd. American?”

The gentleman wore his own hair out, a beautiful tangle of curls, and an emerald green suit that was immaculately crafted. His scent was alluring, and made Sybil want to know how deep his pockets went. “Yes. I was formerly enslaved, just like you. My father was African however and fell in love with my mother on a trip to the colonies. He bought us and we went back to his country to live. I grew up and wanted to explore this world. So for the moment, here I am..”

He took her cigarette out of her hand and began to puff on it himself. “And how would you know that I was enslaved? I could have been born free for all you know.”

The gentleman blew out the tobacco smoke, and gently placed her hand in his. The indigo dye. Permanently marking her as a piece of chattel. A former piece of chattel, for that matter. He kissed every fingertip on her left hand, and Sybil gulped. Her eyes became glassy, and she pulled away. She adjusted her dress, and stabilized her towering wig. “I didn’t catch your name, miss.”

Sybil took the cigarette back from him, taking a harsh pull. Why did this man make her feel like this? “Sybil. Sybil Freeman.” She had to get out of there. As seemingly progressive as London purported itself to be, Black men were almost never gentlemen and of the ton. He exuded high levels of breeding and class. His skin was gorgeous and he had piercing eyes that never left her….and roamed all over her body. He was clearly different.

“Good evening, sir.” Sybil gave the stiffest curtsy and zoomed away, flustered and confused. Something told her that that wouldn’t be the last she saw of him..

A/N: I totally forgot that I had most of this written up already LMAO. Please let me know if you want me to continue this story. Pleaseeee reblog and comment, love yall!!!

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