#seek his widow’s pride

[sigmaelxgr]

Vorhim Kegran, Morag Tong agent

[thenightwolf51]

"Danny was born a Wayne" AU except he's Bruce's grand uncle. The result of a one time drunken affair, shortly before Kenneth Wayne's death, to a young unmarried woman who gave the baby up for adoption.

(Whether the Fenton's, and therefore Amity, were just ahead of their times or the DC timeline is shifted a bit so that DP happens in its cannon era is up to you. Dealers choice, though now that i know about her i just love badass widowed prohibition leader Laura Elizabeth Wayne)

Danny grows up knowing hes adopted and loved by the Fentons but something (dealer's choice) happens and he loses his family and friends (maybe the whole town goes too?). In an attempt to avoid a Dan situation he flees into the Infinite Realm and doesn't stop.

He just wanders, time passes in its weird Realms way, not that Danny truly notices. A protector spirit thats lossed everything it protected. Its a wonder he doesn't fade and he actually might've if it wasn't for his human side.

But its a tug at his core that brings him from his near catatonic wandering. Gone before he can even understand it but enough to shake him back to himself. Enough to know that hes nowhere near ready to go anywhere familiar so he continues on, his wandering no less pointless but at least he's aware again.

What feels like a relatively short time later he gets another tug, and this time he manages to follow it.

He follows it invisibly through a natural portal that drops him somewhere in New Jersey and all the way to a fancy hospital room in the gloomiest city he's ever seen.

In there he sees his half brother Patrick Wayne, though he wont figure out their connection for a few more years, holding little Agatha. She's adorable in her little dress and pigtails and her sweet face causes that familiar tug he recognizes from what must have been six years ago given the girls age.

Then a nurse comes in and hands a little bundle to what must be the mother (whos name i cant find) and Danny takes one look at the little core tugger who brought him here and just melts. Even without knowing yet that this is his last remaining family, his instincts latch on and he vows to protect and care for the Waynes.

And he does.

He finds his forgetful brother's documents and keeps Aggy company when everyone else is busy and soothes baby Thomas so his poor sister-in-law can get some more sleep. He ices fevers and bruised knees and helps on later games of hide and seek.

He very rarely becomes visible and only to the children. His grief over the Fenton's convinces him its better to protect his new family from the shadows.

Danny explores every inch of the manor, including secret passages and an underground cave system. He claims a forgotten room in the back of the attic as his own, which over the years fill up with knickknacks, heirlooms, and pictures of the family. Even a gift or two from Agatha, who hadn't stopped believing in their shadowy guardian like her brother did when Danny felt they were too old to see him without drawing suspicion.

The manor becomes his haunt and he always knows where each family member is within it. And when any guests have some no good intentions.

And when baby Bruce is born tugging at his core and with the bluest little eyes, he welcomes the fussy little thing. And makes sure dear Martha never knows just how fussy baby Bruce really is, otherwise she might've never had a full nights sleep.

Danny blames himself for not being there when Thomas and Martha die, and promises to never leave Bruces side, practically becoming the boy's living shadow. Watching over him as he gets older, secretly aiding him in his training. Danny feels a bit of pride when Bruce takes some inspiration from the old stories Thomas told him of the shadowy Wayne family protector when creating his Batman identity, glad his nephew still remembers him even if he hasn't shown himself since the now young man was six.

Danny continues to protect and care for the family in a variety of ways over the years even as the family grows.

Lightening Alfred's workload, softening Dick's falls, calming Jason's temper both pre and post pit, hiding Tim's coffee when the boy hasn't slept in far too long, providing plenty of shadows and hiding nooks for Cass, helping Damian hide the litter of kittens he found.

And no one seems to know he's there, except maybe Cass and he's pretty sure Alfred has been know since he first started working for the family. No one knows, that is, until Duke Thomas moves in and lookes right at him watching invisibly from the sidelines.

(@omnicrafts @dcxdpdabbles @hdgnj @ailithnight @nelkcats @im-totally-not-an-alien-2 i dont know, the main point of all this is that Danny's been protecting the Wayne family for decades and no one, except maybe Alfred, knew until Duke moved in)

[oceandolores]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | chapter 19

dbf!joel miller x female reader

"Every time I close my eyes , it's like a dark paradise"

summary: you met someone you thought you will never see again

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, pedophilia, cannibalism, human trafficking, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

CHAPTER 19

masterlist!

previous | chapter 18

next | chapter 20

Joel’s days bled into nights, each second stretching painfully into the next as he searched for you, his desperation sinking into his bones, gnawing at the core of him. It had been a year—a long, relentless year without you. And yet, each time the sun set, he felt the ache deepen, as if it were the first day all over again.

He barely slept, barely ate, his mind only running through endless, frayed memories and half-seen shadows, trying to piece together the face of the man who took you.

In his hands, the maps were worn soft, smudged with the faint ink of hastily scribbled notes, each line a fragment of his obsession. Every lead brought him from one shabby motel to another, each with rooms that smelled of stale smoke and peeling paint, rooms that looked like places where people vanished.

And still, you weren’t there.

Each disappointment drove him further into the kind of desperation that made him push aside his pride and seek help. He went back to Frank and Bill. They did what they could to help Joel, sheltering him, keeping him out of the FBI’s reach, printing missing posters and scattering them across countless towns, reaching strangers who might hold a shred of information.

Anything to bring you back.

Back home, Tommy, Maria, and Ellie were waging their own quiet battle to find you, doing all they could without raising suspicion. Their quiet alliance held the family together as the months dragged on, sharing hushed updates through phone calls that grew more desperate, more strained.

Ellie tried to keep her hopes up, imagining you somewhere safe, waiting for rescue. But in her heart, she could sense the tremor of fear that everyone else tried to hide.

Alone, Joel grew unraveled, each night lost to bottles of booze that only burned his throat and numbed nothing. He let the papers pile around him, scraps littering tables and floors, covering the walls of Frank and Bill's guest room as if he could somehow will them into an answer.

Sometimes, he’d find himself whispering to the empty air, as though you could hear him, as if his voice might reach through the miles. He pictured your face—so vividly, it ached—wondering if you felt him out there, searching.

Joel held that crumpled, fraying photo, it was the photo of him and you in Houston night fair a year ago. His thumb brushing over your face frozen in that photo booth smile.

It was a memory he clung to in moments of weakness—when everything had been beautiful and right, when he still believed the world held space for happiness.

“Where are you, doll? Come back to me... I can’t do this without you.” His voice cracked, swallowed by the darkness. Every silence, every cold night, brought him closer to madness. He could almost hear you whispering back, as if in the ghostly hush, your spirit hovered just beyond reach.

But across that unseen distance, your reality was twisted, tethered to the darkest kind of survival. Negan’s shadow stretched over you, growing more sinister, feeding off your misery, his cruelty sharpening with every "client" he sent your way.

Each encounter made you sick; the nauseating dread gnawed at your insides until you turned numb. He forced you to swallow handfuls of pills, snort lines of powder until the world blurred, all to make you obedient.

And you were compliant now, the fight in you dimmed to a silent acceptance. Resistance meant pain, bruises, and the relentless smirk on his face as he reminded you who held all the power. So you learned to still yourself, to play dead, just to survive the hell.

Each night, you sank further, disappearing into the numbness the drugs provided, the feeling of survival slipping through your fingers. The hollow shell you’d become didn’t fight him, didn’t flinch under his gaze or resist when his rough hands traced over your skin, marking you in ways that left scars deeper than any wound. 

He raped you over and over again. Every night, almost every day.

One night, he gave you a room of your own. A twisted gift of “freedom.”, a mockery of comfort in this prison where he kept you. He still came to you each night, creeping into the darkness, and if you moved or whimpered, his hand would clamp over your mouth as he told you, sweet as sugar, not to fight, that “we’re just playing house.”

You could barely keep your eyes open, the haze of sleeping pills thick in your head. His sickly-sweet games bled into the hours until you lost track of time. By morning, your body felt like a shell, hollow and sore, skin pulled tight over bones.

And that smell—it clung to the air, especially strong near the heavy metal door down the hall that Negan kept locked tight. A rancid, metallic odor, a reminder of something you’d rather not know.

You avoided looking at the fridge, too, its shelves stuffed with slabs of meat that didn’t look like anything from a grocery store. Your stomach turned at the thought, and you took to cooking whatever you could, clinging to some shred of normalcy with pancakes and eggs, anything but that meat.

But when Negan stomped into the kitchen that morning and you put the pancakes on his plate, his face twisted with disgust. His hand shot out, sending the plate crashing to the floor as he barked, “You call this breakfast?” You flinched, heart hammering in your chest.

“There’s nothing left, just the meat,” you managed to whisper, trying to calm him, to avoid the sting of his rage.

But his face darkened, and he hissed, “Then eat the damn meat.” Nodding, you moved to the fridge, pulling it open, but before you could even start, the nausea hit you hard.

You stumbled to the bathroom, stomach heaving, bile rising as you clung to the edge of the sink. It had been days of this—dizzy spells, constant nausea, a weakness that wouldn’t fade.

You asked him, once, to take you to a doctor, but he’d only laughed, brushing off your words as if they were nothing.

But that morning, as you knelt there, Negan’s mocking voice drifted from the kitchen. “You sure got a weak stomach, sweetheart. Or wait,” he paused, as if a dark thought dawned on him.

“you wouldn’t be knocked up, would you?” His words sliced through the air, and in an instant, dread filled your veins.

Negan’s grin spread, a slow, dark realization flickering in his gaze. He tilted his head, studying the growing horror in your expression. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Got something to tell me?”

You tried to dismiss the thought, No, every clients always use condoms or pull out, there's rules, strict rules by Negan that everyone need to follow.

"Alright, tell me which one of ’em didn’t pull out, huh? You let one of ’em break the rules?” His tone shifting from amusement to something far darker, his voice is low, cruel and invasive, as if he could peel back your skin and see into every memory you wanted to erase.

You shook your head, unable to hold back the tremor in your voice. “No one… they all followed the rules..." Then the realization hit you.

No.

No, It couldn’t be.

You couldn’t carry his child.

Negan’s smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with a twisted satisfaction. “Guess that leaves only me, then,” His fingers grazed over your jaw, tilting your face up.

"Goddamn, I knocked you up, didn't I?" He mocked you with his laugh and a big grin on his face.

“Guess we’ll be a real family now, huh, sweetheart?” You shuddered listen to what he said, nausea twisting into a spiraling fear.

The room spun as panic clawed at your chest. A child bound to this, bound to him, a part of him, growing inside you, chaining you to this nightmare forever.

This couldn’t be happening. You can't bring a child into this prison, no. Not with him.

The thought ignited a fire of panic deep within your chest, yet you felt paralyzed, frozen in his grip. Your hands trembled, and a numbness spread through your veins. The world around you blurred, his face, his voice, everything distorting in a haze of disbelief and horror.

***

Tonight’s your last client for a while, he’d said, with a twisted grin that made you feel sick to your core. He wanted you to carry his child, to tie you to him with an unbreakable chain, to make you his forever.

The thought was unbearable, a darkness spreading through you, filling every corner of your mind with a terrible dread.

You kept your face blank, expression as smooth and placid as a lake’s surface while your insides churned. You couldn’t let him see the fear, the desperate calculations racing through your mind.

But every time you imagined the life inside you, growing, becoming a part of this nightmare, the dread swelled, crashing over you like a wave.

That afternoon, Negan took you to the grocery store, his hand firm around your arm as he steered you through the aisles. He had that sharp glint in his eye, the one that warned you not to cross him.

Normally, you did this on your own, gathering what you needed while he watched from his truck outside. But today, he hovered close, his presence a constant reminder of the leash you couldn’t see but felt tightening with every step.

The store was cold, the fluorescent lights harsh against your skin. You moved mechanically, plucking items from shelves, the rhythm of normalcy a bitter contrast to the chaos inside.

Your fingers shook slightly as you reached for a can, and you forced yourself to breathe slowly, in and out, hoping he wouldn’t notice. He was bored, restless, eyes scanning the people around you with thinly veiled irritation. When the line at the checkout stretched out, he sighed impatiently.

“Fuck this,” he muttered, leaning close, his grip firm on your face. “You try any shit, and you know what’ll happen. Got it, sweetheart?”

You nodded, throat tight, and he released you, storming out to wait in the truck.

The line crept forward, a snail’s pace that made your pulse thud in your temples. Each second felt stretched, unreal, the world around you moving in slow motion. You clutched the handle of the shopping cart, mind racing.

People milled around you, chatting, smiling, oblivious to the shadow that lingered just beyond these walls, waiting to consume you whole. You wanted to run, to disappear into the crowd and never look back, but his warning echoed in your ears, a brutal reminder that you were still chained.

When it was your turn at the register, the cashier was kind, offering a smile that made your heart ache with longing for something that felt impossibly far away.

You fumbled through paying, glancing nervously toward the parking lot where you knew he waited, his gaze a weight you could feel even from a distance.

You made your way to the truck, feeling his eyes on you, his smirk as you approached. You tried to keep your voice steady as you loaded the bags in. “They…they didn’t have pregnancy tests. They were out of stock.”

Negan chuckled, a sound that made your skin crawl. “Figures. Bet all the other sluts in this town already cleaned ‘em out.” He smirked, a gleam in his eye that held no warmth.

“Get your ass in. We’ll grab one at the gas station."

You climbed into the truck, feeling trapped, the seat belt tight across your chest like a noose. His words echoed in your mind, each one a nail hammered into the cage around you.

The plan he’d laid out twisted your insides, a sickness coiling in your stomach that was worse than anything you’d ever felt. You couldn’t bring a child into this—a child tied to him, a child trapped just as you were.

The weight of it settled over you, heavier with every mile you drove, until it felt like you could hardly breathe. Your mind raced, grasping for something—anything—to stop this.

You were spiraling into a dark pit of despair, thoughts swirling like autumn leaves caught in a tempest. The closer you got to the gas station, the more your heart pounded against your ribs, desperate for freedom.

As you arrived, Negan leaned back in the truck, his eyes glinting with impatience. “I’ll wait here. You go in, but be fucking quick.” His tone was as sharp as a blade, leaving no room for disobedience.

You nodded, pushing the weight of your dread aside as you stepped out into the sunlight, a harsh reminder of the world beyond this nightmare.

Inside, the fluorescent lights flickered above, cold and clinical, You moved for selecting the pregnancy test from the aisle, fingers brushing over it as an image flickered in your mind—Joel’s face, his soft smile, the warmth of his hand brushing over yours.

You bit back the tears that burned in your eyes, the ache in your chest deepening. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

You always wanted a family of your own, but not like this. Not with him. A child tied to this nightmare would mean a lifetime under Negan’s thumb—a life bound to his sick, twisted idea of family.

You blinked back tears and moved toward the counter, your thoughts in turmoil, when a voice—a familiar voice—pierced the haze.

“Is that you?”

You turned, heart pounding, and there she was—Emma. Your best friend, the one you hadn’t seen in what felt like a lifetime. The sight of her sent a jolt of warmth through your veins, but it was quickly overshadowed by the shadows lurking in your mind.

Her face was lined with surprise and worry, and as your eyes met, memories flooded back—laughter shared in the hallways, secrets whispered under the stars.

She stepped closer, and you felt her arms wrap around you, a lifeline in a turbulent sea. The embrace was both a comfort and a reminder of everything you’d lost.

“Oh my god, it’s really you,” Emma whispered, pulling back to study your face, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears. You felt the weight of her worry pressing against you, and you wished you could share the whole truth, but the words tangled in your throat.

“Where have you been? It’s been over a year…” Her voice trembled, and for a moment, you were lost in the familiarity of her presence, a beacon of hope in your dark reality.

You took a shaky breath, trying to piece together your thoughts. “How—how can you be here?”

After a moment, she explained, her voice rushing as if she were afraid time might snatch you away again. “After graduation, Jim and I moved to California. We just got married last month!” The excitement in her voice felt like a distant echo, contrasting sharply with your own turmoil.

But as quickly as the happiness arrived, it faded. “Are you okay? Where’s Joel?” Emma asked, concern etching deeper lines on her forehead.

You felt a sharp pang in your chest at the mention of his name, the very name that felt like both a lifeline and a chain. “I got kidnapped,” you managed to choke out, your voice trembling.

Emma’s expression morphed from surprise to confusion, and then to horror. “What? What are you talking about?” She looked around, panic creeping into her eyes, as if the very ground beneath you was about to give way.

“I can’t explain it to you,” you said, your heart racing. “He’s out there.” You gestured vaguely, your heart sinking as you glanced outside and saw Negan, an ominous figure lingering like a dark cloud over your thoughts.

Emma’s eyes widened as she took in the scene. “Wait, it’s not Joel,” she whispered, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Where the fuck is Joel? What is happening?"

"Didn't Joel fucking killed your parents and Jamie and Ben?"

“No! He didn’t kill them. Negan did." You said, "Please Emma, you have to help me,"

“Who’s Negan?” Emma asked, her brow furrowing with confusion and fear.

“He took me from Joel. He framed Joel,” you said urgently, dragging Emma to a quieter corner of the store, heart racing with the urgency of your situation. This was your chance, a lifeline thrown to you in the storm.

“Help me, please, please,” you begged, tears spilling down your cheeks. “I can’t stay with him any longer. I need you to do something.”

Emma’s expression shifted as she processed your words, the gravity of your situation crashing over her like a tidal wave. “Can we call the cops?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“No, we can’t! He’ll kill us!” Panic flared in your chest, a wild beast clawing at the walls of your sanity. “I don't have much time, but you need to tell Tommy, Emma. Call him and say I’m in California. I don’t know where Negan’s house is, but his name is Negan Smith. The man who took me is Negan Smith. Tell him to find his address.”

Emma's eyes widened, the reality dawning on her. “W-we could just run away. My car is out there.”

“No! You don’t understand. He'll hunt us down. He’s dangerous, Emma. We need to be smart about this.” The words poured from you, desperation lacing every syllable.

“I just need to get out of here.” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I can’t stay with him another day.”

In that moment, she stepped closer, enveloping you in her arms. The warmth of her embrace was a balm against the icy grip of fear that had settled around your heart.

You could feel her tremble, too—an echo of your own turmoil. It was a shared sorrow, a recognition of the gravity of your plight.

“I promise I’ll get you out,” she whispered fiercely, her breath warm against your ear. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and you felt your own grief swell anew, a flood of emotions threatening to spill over.

The weight of everything—the fear, the pain, the uncertainty—pressed down on you both, and in that fragile moment, you wept together, two souls adrift in a storm.

“I can’t stay with him another day,” you sobbed, the truth cutting through you like a knife. You could feel Emma’s heartache mingling with your own, each beat a reminder of the love and hope you were fighting for, despite the darkness that loomed.

She pulled back, searching your eyes, and then her gaze dropped to the pregnancy test clutched in your trembling hands. “Are you…?” she began, her voice faltering.

“He raped me, Emma,” "Over and over again," you admitted, each word a raw confession, a wound laid bare.

“and he pimped me out. He made me into a prostitute.” The weight of those words crushed you, the reality so unbearable that you felt like you were going to shatter.

Emma’s expression shifted to one of horror. “Is it… is it his child?” she stammered, and you could see the disbelief in her eyes, the way your pain struck her like a physical blow.

“I can’t… I can’t, I can't have this baby,” you whispered, choking on the anguish. You could barely comprehend the gravity of it all, a future painted in shades of dread.

Just then, you caught a glimpse of Negan climbing out of the truck, and fear twisted in your gut like a knife. “Tell Tommy to find me,” you urged Emma one last time.

“And if you find Joel… please tell him I’m waiting for him. Always.”

With that you pulled away, forcing a smile to mask the turmoil swirling within you. You had to play your part. You turned away from Emma, letting the illusion of normalcy settle over you like a shroud.

Emma ducked into the shadows, her presence fading from your periphery, and you approached Negan, your heart pounding like a war drum in your chest.

“What took you so fucking long?” he barked, irritation etched on his face.

You feigned confusion, forcing the words out. “I’m just… confused, Negan. It’s my first time.”

“Then just fucking pick anything! Jesus, woman.” His voice cracked like a whip, sending a shiver down your spine. You nodded, swallowing the knot of fear in your throat, feeling smaller than ever.

As he stepped outside, waiting by the truck, you turned toward the cashier, each step heavy with the weight of what you were about to do.

The store felt surreal, a juxtaposition of mundane normalcy against the tempest brewing in your heart. Each item on the shelves seemed to mock your despair, the fluorescent lights flickering like distant stars in a darkened sky, reminding you of everything you had lost.

Approaching the counter, the world around you began to blur, thoughts racing through your mind like a whirlwind. What if this was it? What if you didn’t escape?

The reality of your situation sank in, pressing down on you like a lead weight, suffocating in its intensity. You were here, a ghost of your former self, trapped in a nightmare of someone else’s making, and the walls felt like they were closing in.

As you laid down the items—each one a reminder of a life you once knew—you thought of Joel.

His warmth, his laughter, the way he made you feel safe against the chill of the world. Those memories glimmered like fragile stars in the darkness, a bittersweet ache that filled your chest.

You wondered if he was fighting for you, if he even knew what had become of you.

You took a breath, trying to steady the whirlwind inside. As the cashier rang up your items, your mind spiraled back to the pregnancy test, the weight of it pressing down on your conscience.

In your faith, it was a sin to kill a baby, a sin that echoed through your upbringing like a haunting hymn. The Bible spoke of life being a sacred gift, a trust from God.

But this baby is not a gift.

The thought of bringing a child into this world—a world filled with darkness and pain, where they could inherit a life as broken as your own—sent waves of panic crashing through you.

You steeled yourself, feeling the tremor of fear and guilt intertwining within you. “Do you have anything?” you asked, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess yourself.

“I want to get rid of it,” you said, your hand instinctively brushing against your abdomen as if to shield the burgeoning life from the shadows lurking in your reality.

The cashier’s eyes widened, shock painting her features. “What do you mean?”

You swallowed hard, fighting back tears. “I… I want to get rid of it.” You gestured to your belly, feeling the weight of your confession settle in the air between you.

The cashier hesitated, her expression flickering between concern and caution. “You sure about it?” she asked, her voice softening, an unspoken understanding passing between you.

“Yes,” you whispered, desperation threading through your tone. “Please, just anything.”

She studied you for a moment, weighing the gravity of your request. “Are you really sure about it? It’s none of my business, but you should consider going to a hospital for this.”

“No, I can’t. I—I just can’t,” you managed, urgency coursing through your veins. “Just give it to me.”

“Alright, but it ain’t my fault if anything happens,” she replied, her voice laced with a mixture of sympathy and resignation. You watched as she reached beneath the counter, pulling out a small, unassuming package that felt like both a lifeline and a curse.

As she handed it to you, time seemed to stand still, the world around you fading into a blur. This was it—a moment carved in time, one that would alter your path forever. You grasped the package tightly, your fingers trembling as you felt the weight of your decision press against your chest.

You turned to leave, but just before stepping out, you glanced back at Emma. Her eyes were glistening with tears, her face a mixture of fear and heartbreak. The sight of her anguish sent a fresh wave of guilt crashing over you, a reminder of the innocence that had been stolen from both of you.

You wanted to reach out, to assure her that you were going to be okay, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you silently nod and gave her one last smile, you don't know if you're gonna see her ever again.

As you stepped out of the store, the fluorescent lights flickered behind you, casting long shadows on the pavement that stretched out before you. The outside world felt colder, more foreboding, as if it sensed the turmoil brewing within your heart.

Each heartbeat echoed the weight of your choice, the urgency of your situation clawing at your mind. You were standing at the precipice of an uncertain future, the horizon obscured by the storm clouds of despair and fear that loomed above you.

But amidst the chaos, a flicker of resolve ignited deep within. You thought of Joel, his strength, his unwavering presence that made you feel safe even when the world was crumbling around you. In your darkest moments, his memory became a guiding light, urging you to fight for the life you once had.

You needed to find your way back to him, to reclaim your story from the shadows that threatened to consume you. The road ahead was murky, each step a treacherous dance with danger, but you steeled yourself for the fight. The thought of Joel ignited a fire in your belly, a relentless determination to survive.

With each breath, you whispered a silent prayer into the darkening sky, clutching the small package against your heart as you resolved to face whatever lay ahead.

You would find a way to escape this nightmare, to reclaim your future, and to make sure that Negan would never have power over you again.

The night felt heavy with anticipation, the air thick with a tension that twisted in your gut. You stood in front of the hotel mirror, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glare on your reflection.

Each detail felt foreign—your skin, once vibrant, now dulled and pale; your body, a ghost of its former self, now a canvas marked by the weight of what you had endured.

Emma’s words echoed in your mind: “It’s been a year since I last saw you.” It means now it's been a year and a half. A lifetime spent away from Joel, the man whose laughter had once wrapped around you like a warm blanket.

You missed him so fiercely it was like a physical ache, a void in your chest that no amount of prayer seemed to fill. You whispered your pleas to God, each word hanging in the air like a desperate song.

But as the days blurred into nights, doubt began to creep in, gnawing at your faith like a hungry wolf. Was there even a God to hear you?

You glanced down at your stomach, where a life was growing inside you, innocent and unaware of the darkness surrounding it.

You remembered the test you took earlier with Negan, the little plus sign a cruel twist of fate.

Pregnant with his child.

The thought twisted in your gut, an iron weight pressing down, reminding you of everything you had been taught.

Your father’s sermons flooded your mind, words from the Good Book spilling into your consciousness like water from a broken dam. “Children are a gift from God,” he had preached, his voice booming with conviction.

But this child felt like a curse, a cruel reminder of the monster that had taken you from the light and plunged you into shadow.

If it was a boy, what hope did he have of escaping his father’s blood? If it was a girl, you couldn’t bear the thought of her living in a world ruled by a monster like Negan. You don't want them to live your life, no.

No, you couldn’t bring this life into a world so steeped in pain and darkness. You would save them, save them from their father’s sins, from your own sins.

In the solitude of the bathroom, you grasped the small package tightly, your heart racing as you decided to take four pills, hoping to end what had begun.

Your hands trembled as you swallowed them, each one feeling like a stone lodged in your throat, a final act of defiance against the life growing within you.

Almost immediately, pain erupted in your abdomen, sharp and relentless, as if the very fabric of your being was unraveling. You doubled over, gasping for breath, your body turning weak and unresponsive.

The world around you blurred, the edges softening into darkness.

Then, a sudden pressure built within you, an overwhelming urge that felt like it was ripping you apart from the inside. You stumbled toward the toilet, only to be met with the horrifying sight of blood—thick, dark clots spilling out between your leg. Dizziness swept over you, and your knees buckled beneath you.

A loud knock echoed from the door, a frantic urgency that barely registered in your foggy mind. You didn’t respond; you couldn’t. The world spun wildly, the darkness closing in as you finally succumbed to unconsciousness.

In those final moments, you caught a glimpse of a figure—a man, not Negan, shrouded in shadows—his face indistinct. A fleeting sense of fear gripped you before everything faded to black.

***

You jolted awake in a hospital bed, the sterile scent of antiseptic assaulting your senses. Confusion clouded your mind, disorientation settling in like a thick fog. 

What had happened? The memories of the hotel room came rushing back, a torrent of pain and loss flooding your thoughts.

Then, you saw him—Negan. His face twisted in fury, a storm brewing behind his eyes. “What the fuck did you do?” he barked, the words sharp and menacing, cutting through the haze of your consciousness.

You were no longer in the hotel. Your heart raced, each beat a reminder of the choices you had made, the life you had tried to save, and the monster that now loomed before you.

"Wha--what happened?" you managed to stammer, confusion clouding your mind.

“Robert,” he spat, the name dripping with venom. “The man supposed to be satisfied by you found you passed out, blood coming from your fucking vagina.” His words struck you like a physical blow, and the reality of your situation settled over you like a shroud. 

“I lost the fucking money because of you!”

Your breath hitched in your throat as Negan’s hands closed around your neck, squeezing tightly. Panic surged through you, and your vision blurred as you gasped for air. 

"And you. You fucking killed it, you killed my child." he hissed, his face inches from yours, anger radiating off him like heat from a fire.

“I can’t… breathe…” you choked out, the world around you spiraling into darkness.

The realization crashed over you like a wave, and the weight of his accusation sank into your bones. He knew. 

You successfully killed it.

Desperation clawed at your throat as you felt the pressure tighten. “Please… let go…” you begged, tears welling in your eyes.

"I should have fucking killed you for it. I gave you everything. I gave you a house, jewelry, dresses—everything. And you... You can’t even say thank you to me." His voice was a storm, his breath hot against your skin, suffocating you with anger and betrayal.

“This is how you repay me? Murdered my child? You ungrateful bitch.” His grip was like a vice, unyielding and cruel, squeezing the breath from your lungs. Your hands flailed, grasping at his wrist in a desperate attempt to free yourself, but it was futile.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the pressure released. A sound echoed in the room—the quick, heavy footsteps of someone entering. The doctor. She rushed in, her expression a mixture of concern and urgency, breaking the spell of Negan’s rage.

Before she could assess the situation, Negan released you, feigning innocence as if nothing had happened. The mask he wore was chilling in its calmness, a predator in a sheep’s clothing.

“Good, you’re awake,” the doctor said, her voice laced with concern. “I’m really sorry to say, but you lost the baby.”

Each word was a heavy stone, dropping into the depths of your soul, sending ripples of anguish through you. You had made a choice, a choice steeped in desperation and fear.

You had committed a sin that now hung over you like a dark cloud, one that would shadow you for the rest of your life. The weight of your actions settled on your chest, squeezing the air from your lungs as effectively as Negan’s hands had.

You had killed a life that had barely begun, snuffing out a flame before it could ever flicker. The echoes of your father’s sermons filled your mind—his rigid beliefs, the scriptures twisted into weapons against anyone who strayed from the path.

You remembered the fervor in his voice as he spoke about children being blessings, gifts from God. But how could you bring a child into this world, into the clutches of a monster?

“It was three months old,” the doctor continued, her tone gentle yet firm. “You took too many pills. You had a miscarriage. We’re already getting everything out from you.”

With each sentence, you felt the ground shift beneath you, the world tilting as the weight of what you had done bore down on your heart.

"Now, your condition is not stable, we recommend you stay here or do you prefer to go home?"

Before you could respond, Negan’s voice cut through the room, harsh and authoritative. “No. We can take care of ourselves. We just need to go home.” His words dripped with a possessiveness that made your skin crawl.

The doctor nodded, taken aback by his decisiveness, and you could see the thin veneer of professionalism slipping away as concern flickered across her face.

As she prepared your discharge, a whirlwind of fear enveloped you. The idea of returning to that dark house, of being alone with Negan, sent icy tendrils creeping up your spine. You felt like a bird caught in a storm, wings clipped and unable to escape the chaos.

What would he do to you? The thought gnawed at your insides, a relentless whisper that echoed through your mind. You had already seen the monster within him, and now that you had taken away his child, you feared what lay ahead.

Would he unleash his fury upon you? Would he kill you?

The hospital room felt like a fragile bubble, a temporary refuge from the darkness that awaited. As the doctor handed you a few papers, explaining what to expect, you could hardly focus.

Your mind was a flurry of thoughts—about the life that had been extinguished, about the man who now loomed over you, and about the impending return to hell.

Every moment spent in that sterile room felt like an eternity, yet all too soon, the time came to leave. Negan’s presence loomed beside you, his anger barely contained, a smoldering ember threatening to ignite.

As you walked through the hospital doors, the world outside felt both foreign and suffocating. You stepped into the night, it only served to highlight the darkness within you.

With every step toward the truck, your heart raced, a drumbeat of dread marking the rhythm of your impending fate. You asked God this time.

***

The journey to his house was a blur, each mile a countdown to the inevitable confrontation. The walls of the truck felt like they were closing in, pressing down on you with an unbearable weight, and you fought against the rising tide of panic swelling within your chest.

Each bump in the road sent jolts of fear coursing through you, reminding you of the storm that awaited you in the shadows of Negan's world.

As the truck lurched to a stop in the driveway, dread coiled tightly around your heart. You were still weak, your body aching from the remnants of your earlier ordeal, but that didn’t matter to Negan. The moment the door swung open, he was upon you, his rage igniting like wildfire.

Without warning, he punched your stomach, the pain radiating through you like a shockwave. You gasped, doubling over as the world blurred around you.

He didn’t wait for you to recover, dragging you by your hair as your body felt the ground, from the truck with a brutal strength that made you feel like a rag doll.

“Get fucking inside!” he snarled, his voice a low growl, devoid of any compassion. The darkness of the basement loomed ahead, an abyss waiting to swallow you whole, and with each step, the walls seemed to close in tighter, the air heavy with unspoken threats.

Once inside, he unleashed the storm that had been brewing during the drive. “You killed my child!” he roared, his fury reverberating off the walls like thunder.

Each word was a strike, sharp and relentless, cutting through the fragile remnants of your spirit. “I SHOULD FUCKING KILL YOU FOR IT! YOU UNGRATEFUL BITCH!”

His fists rained down on you, each punch a testament to his rage, and the pain was a visceral reminder of your shattered choices. You cried out, tears streaming down your cheeks as you tried to shield yourself from his wrath.

You felt small, powerless, as he pulled your hair, yanking you back into his orbit of violence.

“Please, Negan… stop!” you begged, but your words fell on deaf ears. Your pleas were drowned out by his anger, a tempest that raged against the fragile vestiges of your hope.

Then, in a terrifying twist, he dragged you toward the toilet in the basement. You knew what was coming, the reality of it sending a shiver down your spine.

As he held you down, your heart raced, fear curling around you like a snake. He plunged your head into the cold, unforgiving water of the toilet, and instinctively, you fought against him.

You screamed, the sound echoing in the confined space, desperate for someone—anyone—to hear you. Your voice was a fragile thread, straining against the suffocating darkness that surrounded you.

The water rushed into your ears, muffling the world, and in that moment, you felt like a drowning sailor, flailing against the tide, praying for the hand of rescue to pull you from the depths.

Each gasp was a desperate plea, each breath a struggle against the overwhelming force threatening to swallow you whole.

Every instinct screamed at you to fight, to survive, but in that suffocating darkness, you felt your resolve weaken. You were trapped in a nightmare of your own making, the very monster you had tried to escape now looming over you, and all you could do was pray—pray for an end to the torment, pray for mercy, pray for the light to break through the crushing darkness.

He pulled your hair, yanking you up and forcing you onto your back, the rough floor digging into your skin. The pain ignited your senses, but he didn’t stop there.

His boots connected with your body in brutal kicks, each impact sending shockwaves of agony radiating through you. “I keep you alive! I put a roof over your fucking head! And this is how you repay me?” he spat, venom lacing his words.

“I should have fucking killed you from the beginning!” With every kick, you felt your spirit crack, your body weak and unable to retaliate.

You crawled backward, instinctively trying to escape, but there was nowhere to go. You were a fragile leaf in a storm, tossed about and battered, your only response a quiet, desperate, “Please… stop….”

He advanced, relentless, an embodiment of fury, each blow a reminder of your helplessness. “Now I can’t fucking kill you,” he growled, eyes blazing with a twisted sense of satisfaction, “What a fucking waste!"

As he beat you, the world faded into a haze of pain and fear. You felt your thoughts slipping away, replaced by a singular mantra—God, please make it stop. 

You realized you hadn’t prayed in so long, hadn’t found solace in faith, and yet now you found yourself begging for a reprieve from this torment. “Why won’t you help me?” the question echoed in your mind, a haunting refrain amidst the chaos.

Negan grabbed you by the hair again, lifting your head as if to force you to confront the monster before you. “What should I do to you, hm?” His voice dripped with malice, and you could see the gears turning in his mind. “You killed my child. You need to suffer.”

You were too tired, too hurt to even look at him, your body pleading for relief, but his grip was unyielding. "You would fucking regret this," he hissed, before he slammed your head against the wall, over and over.

Each impact sent a jolt of pain coursing through you, and you felt your vision blur, blood trickling down your face. The metallic taste of it mingled with the tears streaming down your cheeks, a bitter reminder of your despair.

“Stay fucking here!” he barked, his final words a command that felt like a death sentence. He kicked you one last time, a parting gift of pain, before he stormed out of the basement, leaving you alone in the darkness.

You cried out, the sound a desperate, broken thing, a haunting wail that echoed through the empty space. You were so tired, so desperately exhausted.

You felt like a wilted flower, struggling to survive in a garden of thorns, every breath a battle against the encroaching shadows.

With each sob, you crawled to the corner of the basement, seeking comfort in the darkness. You wrapped your arms around your knees, rocking back and forth, feeling the warmth of your blood seep into the cool concrete beneath you.

You didn't know what Negan would do next, but the fear of the unknown was almost worse than the pain you had already endured.

[cellarspider]

Since I’ve been thinking about it all morning: here. A partial introduction to my favorite villain.

In the days of yore, when I was a teenager and video game hype was almost exclusively magazine-based, I saw a kid reading a copy of Game Informer.

“Hey,” said I, “could I see that for a second?”

The kid, not knowing what they were about to unleash, handed me the magazine.

I had seen this on the cover:

I had no idea what this was, but I knew that I wanted whatever it was selling.

I found out that this was an advertisement for City of Villains, an expansion to the previously-released MMO City of Heroes. I’d never played WoW with its Alliance and Horde split, so the idea was new to me. WoW also failed to present me with anything like the vibes of the newly-introduced lead villain, Lord Recluse.

Yes, they liked this art so much they did it twice, and I’m glad they did. More below the fold on why he was so appealing for a young queer kid, for those who are intrigued.

I’ll keep this focused on a single topic for now: The intensely queer vibes that Recluse acquired over the course of the game’s plot. Keep in mind that this game came out in 2004, so the actual amount of openly queer content was very minimal. However, CoH/CoV developed a reputation as an extremely queer-friendly space, with a community Pride event becoming a semi-official yearly celebration, complete with the devs showing up as major NPCs, custom assets, and spawning in unique raids that tanked everybody’s framerate. Equivalents of this have carried over past the game's tragic shutdown in 2012, with community-run servers still staging their own Pride events.

If the art above doesn’t make it clear, Recluse had a much-beloathèd archnemesis, Statesman. If the art above doesn’t make it abundantly clear, this was always an extremely fraught relationship, with a complicated backstory that became more and more tragic the deeper you got into the game lore, eventually bordering on cosmic horror. But one thing was for certain, this was Hark A Vagrant levels of obsession over a nemesis.

The game at first seemed to backstep on that: oh, it turned out, Recluse had once been villainous life partners with a woman who went by the villain name Red Widow. She died decades ago in the collateral damage of one of Recluse’s nigh apocalyptic confrontations with Statesman, and her death left him with nothing but his obsession. So sad.

And then when Statesman died in the course of the game’s plot, Recluse spiraled into depression and nihilism that was only halted when someone managed to dig Red Widow’s soul out of storage and resurrected her.

It was always deniably presented, but the implication was very much that the two were functionally equivalent emotional anchors to his psyche, and losing both of them was something he couldn’t survive.

Also, there was that one time that the game’s Valentine’s Day event was advertised with a heart split down the middle, half Statesman’s iconography and half Recluse’s, topped with a banner that read “AMOR OMNIA VINCIT”, meaning “LOVE CONQUERS ALL”.

And that’s without getting into the first tie-in book. A prequel starting at the end of the 1920s, it was a delightfully and deliberately pulpy book, which… centered around a complicated man slowly dying of lingering health problems after his exposure to mustard gas in WWI, and his very good friend, estranged from his family for unknown reasons, who’d devoted the last ten years to caring for the protagonist, and helping him seek a cure. This has carried on year after year, even though the man’s illness has made him unresponsive to the emotional needs of others, something they both know is going to culminate one day in the two parting ways.

…And then they get superpowers, and their relationship does not get any healthier from there. But what it does gain is a surprising trans metaphor as our now-antagonist slowly metamorphoses into the spidery villain I know and love.

I completely missed this back in the day. I have no idea if it was intentional. But there’s a scene where this man looks in the mirror and sees the first signs of his oncoming physical transformation, and he likes what he sees. He has no idea where he’s going, but he’s excited for it.

…And he’s started killing people who refer to him by his former name, in the most literal case of “dead naming” I’ve ever seen.

Throughout the rest of the series, Recluse is unapologetically who he is, putting him in that category of queercoded villain that doubles as a power fantasy. He’s grown physically monstrous and loves it. He has respect from everyone around him, either legitimately for his capabilities or out of fear of what he can do to those who don’t give him his due. A new demigod who is only matched by the man he’s never stopped obsessing over. He wins just as often as he loses, and often salvages something from his defeats in ways that nobody expected.

He is terrible. And he is wonderful.

[eywaseclipse]

A Taste of Heaven*

Characters: Original character Tani, Dad!Jake, Tonowari (made him a widow again lol) 

Synopsis: During the celebration of Aonung’s Iknimaya Tonowari and Jake get drunk, and talk about how lucky he is to have a mate like you, Tonowari tells Jake how he’s missed the touch of a woman since his mate died, and Jake gets an idea

Warnings: smut, dirty talk, aggressive behavior while drunk, complete loss of inhibitions lol 18+ only!

Word Count: 2k

Your people have suffered more loss than you could even physically fathom, the pain in your chest heavy like stones. When you and your family arrived at Awa’atlu seeking Uturu, your mate Toruk Makto left behind his old life. You all had. No longer at war, you knew your sacrifices were to keep your children safe. Several months had gone by since your arrival and you found your kids adjusting better than you could’ve imagined. Neteyam and Lo’ak became excellent free divers and hunters of the reef, Tuk and Kiri free diving took a liking to Ilus and began training young Metkayina children how to bond with the animals. You being a mighty warrior yourself took a liking to spears and tridents although struggling at first, you got the hang of these foreign weapons. As the tsakarem of your own clan you were in tune with healing practices and naturally thrived among the new clan, weaving baskets, collecting shells, making medicinal herbs and healing the wounded. Your mate Jake spent most of his time with the Metkayina Olo’eyktan, Tonowari. Learning the hunting ways of the tribe. You and Jake spent most of your nights with your children in the maruis after long days of training and earning your keep. 

The day came for celebrating Ao’nung’s rite of passages being completed, his place among the people being solidified as a true man. The preparations for tonight all distributed among members of the tribe, yourself and husband included. You spent your day picking fruits, and collecting seafare for tonight’s feast. Excitement burns in your belly knowing you’re wearing your special festival outfit you spent time working on with the chief’s daughter. You and Jake haven’t had much time by yourself since your arrival, tonight would be a time to celebrate, relax and enjoy the festivities of the evening. The children already off with the new friends they made, had your tent feeling empty. You anticipated Jake’s arrival after his day of preparations, butterflies rising in your stomach. You finish the final touches of your shell adorned outfit, turning in the mirror gazing at your taunt figure. You smile to yourself knowing you hand crafted everything from the sea pearls, beautiful abalone, sea moss, and blue cloth. Your ears perk up at the sound of your tent flap opening, head whipping to the source. Your mate entering the tent smiles at your appearance. “Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” He says putting his hunting gear down. You chuckle at his flirtation and make your way over to your husband. You wrap your arms around him and kiss his lips passionately. “Hi Paskalin honey.” You whisper in a smile. Your tail flicks with contentment, Jake’s whipping your thigh. He turns to wash up from the day to your table, as you assist him. “I like that outfit, did you make it?” He says taking a cloth into the bucket of water. You observe your mate cleaning himself as you nod lightly. “Yes, I spent several months on it with Tsireya for this night.” As he finishes cleaning his skin, he smiles at you lightly. Appreciating the rare moment you two have alone together. “Jake, I made you something as well.” You announce. You make your way to your bowl of belongings pulling the shell necklace you spent making for him. You bring it to his face, as he grins with pride. “It’s beautiful, just like you.” You giggle at his compliment walking to his back to put the necklace on, moving his locs. “There, now we both look like we fit in here.” You speak softly. He turns his head to you, embracing the now comfortable silence. With eclipse approaching, the celebration is coming soon. He brings his thumb to your jaw stroking it gently, closing the space between you two. Your lips slowly touch, melting into each other. This is the first time he’s kissed you since your arrival at the reef village. Your intimate moment suddenly broken with the sudden opening of the tent flap. “Hey mom have you seen my-Oh!” Neteyam immediately sees the moment he interrupted. You and Jake break the kiss, whipping to your son. Jake chuckles at the sick joke he calls parenthood as you laugh with him, squeezing his arm. “What is it my son?” As you walk to your eldest. 

With the celebration now in full swing you sit among the beach, the cool air lightly caressing your skin, torches along the sand with a buffet of food that you helped gather. Exotic fruits, seafood, grilled banana leaves stuffed with rice and fish, fermented juice. All celebrating the chief’s son. You sit with your mate as you watch your children dance with the people now adapting to the dance of such a celebration. With several cups of alcohol flowing in your veins you feel warmth radiating through your body. You lean to your husband as the music vibrates through the sand. Suddenly being pulled off your feet, Tsireya beckons you to do. “Tanywral, you must! It is the way!” She giggles. Who are you to say no to the chief’s daughter? You awkwardly move to the crowd of people moving their bodies fluid like ocean water. Your own moves still not quite perfected, but none the less your body finds the rhythm of the drums and horns weaving into the air. Jake watches you attentively, as your hips sway to the beat of the music. You roll your head back, arms spinning in the air. Your laughter fills his ears like the sweetest song. His loincloth tightening at the sight of his enticing mate. Suddenly he sees Tonowari sit beside him on the log. He sighs a breathy sigh taking a sip from his own drink. “What’s that sigh for?” He inquires to his good friend. Tonowari turns to Jake, “Just a few moon cycles ago, we were celebrating the return of the Tulkun. My mate being among us. This is just an adjustment that’s all.” Jake feels sorry for the chief. Not understanding the unbearable pain of losing a mate, he does empathize for this man. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine.” He responds to the chief. Tonowari sighs, “Keep your mate close, appreciate her, even when you disagree, always understand how lucky you are to be blessed with such a union, and beautiful woman.” He speaks softly staring right at your moving body. Jake looks to where Tonowari’s gaze is locked to you dancing in the crowd. At first jealously pools in his stomach, then a fleeting thought enters his mind, treading along a borderline insane idea. With alcohol flowing through his veins, he lets the fermented juice do the talking. “You know, Tanywral and I haven’t had anytime to even be intimate since we got here.” Tonowari’s ears immediately perk up with intrigue. “Can’t seem to get a damn moment of peace and quiet these days.” He chuckles. Tonowari looks to you, then to Jake again. Is he? Is he taunting me? He thinks to himself. Jake senses Tonowari’s curiosity and continues, “Sometimes I think we need something to spice it up.” Your dancing figure comes into line of sight running to Jake. Breathlessly, you lean over the two men realizing you’re interrupting a private conversation, “Jake! I-oh!” You bring your hand to cover your laugh. “Sorry I didn’t realize I was interrupting something.” Jake smiles at your drunk state, “It’s okay princess, Tonowari and I were just talking about how lucky I am to have you as my mate.” Your cheeks immediately flush with his boldness. You look to Jake, then Tonowari who’s reaction you can’t read. “Oh is that so? Tonowari what do you think about me?” You say cooing to him. His eyes light up with shock, now flustered with your cheekiness. “I- was explaining to Jake the importance of savoring one’s mate.” He says chest now heaving with tension. You look to Jake, sharing a silent agreement. “Maybe, I can show you how to savor that, ‘Wari, would you like that?” Is she being serious, this cannot be. He thinks in shock.

He slowly turns his head to Jake, with eyes hooded with lust, practically salivating over his mate. You bring your hand to Tonowari’s flushed cheek, “Wari bring us somewhere private where we can be together.” His eyes now wide in shock, he looks to where his people are singing and dancing oblivious, all drunk on the fermented juice like you three. He lets his liquid courage guide his actions. Slowly rising up, he nods, and leads the way to the mangrove forest. You and Jake’s hands intertwined walking in happy drunken strides following your leader. Eyes and body heavy with lust your belly burns with passion. Tonowari leads you to a forest clearing with moss and lush grass lit by the moonlight. Jake brings you close to him, crashing his lips to yours passionately. With you moaning into his mouth, Tonowari stares at the two of you igniting a fire within him. You break your kiss, slowly turning to the tall teal man. You reach out to him, his hand intertwining with yours. Your soft smile melting him to his core. “Wari let me make you feel good. We can make you feel again. Would you like that?” You whisper in his ear. Shivers sent down to his spine he feels his loincloth tighten with excitement. You chuckle at his reaction. “I would, my flower.” He breathlessly replies. Jake nods to him, ensuring he’s on board. Then you slowly bring your lips to his, causing a light moan to escape his mouth. You bring your hands to cup his strong pecs, feeling his body as he brings himself closer to you. You slip your tongue into his mouth as you lower your hands to the string of his loincloth. Jake circles in behind you rubbing his hands on your hips. You hips buck into Tonowari’s from the sensation of being touched by two men at once. Tonowari’s hands find their way to your breasts lightly massaging them, as you release a moan into his mouth. Your hands hastily work to untie his strings, as the material falls to the forest floor. His throbbing cock springs out slapping his toned stomach leaving a small mark of precum on his glistening skin. You gasp at the size. Jake was more than able to satisfy you with your needs and then some, being at about 14 inches himself, but where Jake exceeded in length Tonowari was making up for in sheer girth. He stood proud at at least 16 inches. You feel your mouth begin to salivate, as his eyes bore into your stare. He nervously chuckles, before bucking his hips into you, seeking friction. You bend down into the grass, bringing your face to his throbbing length. Slowly taking his cock in your mouth adjusting to the size, you wrap your tongue around the length, causing a loud moan to escape the hulking man. You bring your hands to his cock and begin caressing his member, watching his pulsating balls twitch at contact. 

Your mate’s hands caress your braids softly as you bring pleasure to the chief. “Such a good girl.” You hear Jake coo. Your pace quickening around Tonowari’s cock, as his chest tightens with pleasure. You bring yourself to suck hard around his swollen mushroom tip causing a loud whimper from him, “Ah! My petal, if you keep that up I will not last long.” His eyes fluttering to compose himself. You chuckle at his excitement. “Sorry, Tonowari, tell me how you want me then.” His ears perk up, “how I want you?” He inquires. Jake laughs as he brings you up to face both of them, rubbing circles on your shoulders. Your hands now wrapping around Tonowari’s neck, “yes tell me how I can make you feel good. Tonight is about you mighty warrior.” Your hooded eyes boring into his soul. His primal arousal now guiding his thoughts, he growls into you and scoops you up, causing a gasp to escape your mouth. Jake watches with desire, as he begins undoing his own strings to his loincloth. Tonowari brings you to a tree, head making contact with the trunk with a thump. His strong hands begin to untie your loincloth, as you lift you hips up for easier removal. The material falls to the floor revealing your glistening pussy. A sight he swears is going to end him. His nostrils filled with your sweet nectar. “Oh, princess I am going to devour you.”

I wrote this months ago while I was drunk and just left it with a cliffhanger, which is super annoying. should I do a part 2 and get the good stuff? Let me know!

[windermeresimblr]

The Bachelor Beaumaris, 0.0

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife." Jane Austen, "Pride and Prejudice."

Mr. Gregory Beaumaris, having recently inherited Ferncombe Hall and its income of §750 per year from a distant relation, and in need of companionship other than his unmarried sisters, his neighbors, and his friends in London, has determined that he ought to seek a bride spouse. The attached portrait shows his appearance; he is a proper gentleman, fond of horses and taking exercise, and enjoys playing the piano. (And, in his heart of hearts, a hopeless romantic.)

Ladies Sims of all types may apply, provided that they are Young Adult or Adult, unmarried, of good reputation (or clever enough to disguise such a flaw), and of suitable means and upbringing. The ladies' virtue and reputations will be guarded by his sisters, the eminently respectable widow, Lady Venetia Beaumaris Gracefield, and the equally respectable spinster, Miss Ursula Beaumaris. Gentlemen candidates, should they apply, shall be chaperoned by Mr. Beaumaris' valet. (Nonbinary candidates will have shared custody between the ladies and the valet.)

Interested would-be matchmakers are invited to reply to this post. Mr. Beaumaris regrets that he can only invite seven ladies Sims, who must arrive at Ferncombe Hall by January 31st. He hopes to find a suitable companion--if not true love--and is counting the days most ardently.

Please note that while the hostess has almost every slider in existence, she cannot be expected to put every article of CC ever designed in her computer; the ladies guests are encouraged to bring only the essentials, with links, when they are sent to her.

If they do not have appropriate (read: rococo) clothing for the climate of Ferncombe Hall, it will be provided to them upon arrival. If desired or needed, hairdressing will be done free of charge by Lady Venetia and Miss Ursula's tiring-women and Mr. Beaumaris' valet. Sims with textured hair shall have visits from specialized stylists OR the hostess shall retexture hairs for them as desired.

APPLICANTS LISTED BELOW THE CUT.

Applicant 1: @danjaley's Mathilde Bellgard

Applicant 2: @simsmono's Gabrielle de Fay

Applicant 3: @nornities' Marie-Claude Delveaux

Applicant 4: @vagensims' Isadora Fontaine

Applicant 5: @flotheory's Demelza Septon

Applicant 6: @schokokokatze

Applicant 7: @holocene-sims

[heavenlybackside]

THE FACE OF THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

How did the widow of the creator of the Singer sewing machines give her face to the Statue of Liberty?

Isabella Boyer's life is like a thrilling novel. She was born in Paris, in a family of an African pastry chef father and an English mother. Her name was Isabella, a beautiful name that should have been the basis of a beautiful destiny. It quickly became clear that nature gave Isabella a special beauty.

At 20, she marries sewing machine maker Isaac Singer, 50, and after his death becomes the richest woman in the country. And no wonder she was chosen as the model for the Statue of Liberty, because she embodies the American dream come true. After becoming a widow, Isabella began traveling the world, seeking new knowledge and exciting challenges, far too young to be buried under mourning clothes.

She remarried Dutch violinist Victor Robstett, who is a world celebrity and an earl, so Isabella also becomes a countess. Soon Isabella becomes the star of showrooms in America and Europe, and is invited to all world events. At one of them, she met the famous French sculptor Frederick Bartoldi. At the time, Bartoldi was strongly impressed by his trip to the United States, by the size of the country, by its natural resources, by the population there, and had already accepted the proposal to create a statue symbolizing the independence of the United States. The sculpture was supposed to be a gift from France in honor of the 100th anniversary of the country's independence. Thus the idea of a giant statue depicting a woman holding a torch in one hand and plates in the other was born, with the date of adoption of the Declaration of Independence of the United States.

Bartoldi was so impressed by Isabella's face that he decided to use it as a model for his sculpture. Therefore, on Bedlow Island in the Gulf of New York, the Statue of Liberty was erected with the figure of an ancient goddess, but with the face of Isabella Boyer.

Isabella marries for the third time, at the age of 50, to Paul Sohege, a famous collector of art.

She died in Paris in 1904 at age 62. She is buried in Passy Cemetery.

But the statue with her face continues to rise over Bedlow Island, symbolizing America's first pride, freedom.

[thegirlwholied]

fellow period-piece swooners, I have a movie rec for you and I am downright flexing my hand about it. and I am sorry, so sorry, that you cannot watch it right now- because I attended the world premiere at TIFF last night and apparently it's still seeking distribution which means unfortunately there are no gifs yet for me to reblog - but this is your notice to keep a weather eye:

the movie is the Widow Clicquot. the plot is champagne!

...not the celebratory spritz and spray of it all, but the dedication and innovation and passion and knowing-your-taste-and-insisting-on-it of getting bubbles to be just the right size and fuck Napoleon's embargos actually...

also, the people expressing opinions about Napoleon are a British cast pretending to be French - which I guess appeals to the piece of my soul that is Les Mis.

it's beautifully filmed in a way I specifically associate with Pride & Prejudice 2005... which makes sense given the director, Thomas Napper, directed the second camera unit on P&P 2005 & Atonement & Anna Karenina & etc. Joe Wright, who directed those, is a producer here (and was on stage last night & I had no idea who he was whoops).

there's a scene of exploding champagne bottles that may haunt me forever the way the floating cotton in North & South 2004 does. that & the vines.

to quote Taylor Swift, "it's giving cinematography."

the Widow Clicquot herself is played by Haley Bennett (who has been in many things I haven't seen...yes I had to imdb Haley while sitting in the row right behind her but) who I have seen before in Music & Lyrics! As Cora Corman! "Way Back Into Love"! & "Buddha's Delight"- I believe in karma (la, la, la)

anyway she's great in this - the Q&A host after called her performance "transcendant", not wrong - she had a SAG-AFTRA waiver to be there, and thankfully because this was very apparently a passion project throw-everything-you-are-into-it role for her. And her post-movie quotes speaking both about the character's passion and her own- "do something that makes you feel like a goddess!"; "do what you love and let it kill you"- made me a fan.

the Widow Clicquot's dead husband? Tom Sturridge, The Sandman himself and playing just as much a dream as Dream (note: I do not promise "dreamy" I promise "dream" which can also have adjectives like "wild" and "fever" applied). You need a good voice when leaning on some voiceover from letters/memory for a character; he sure has it.

but. Sam Riley. aka Mr Darcy from Pride & Prejudice & Zombies, and Maleficent's hot raven (and looks even better in this imho)- his character is Louis Bohne, Veuve Clicquot's wine merchant, and as much as the Widow herself, his character made me go, "I need to read the book" to learn how much was history v fiction there.

the character dynamic was: damn, of course you're cool with your husband's libertine BFF/possibly-lover, you're secure and he's such fun company.... your husband's tragically gone but his friend helps you out & appreciates your true love of the vineyard without overstepping... well. get yourself a friend you can both giggle with over how hot the new foreman is (Leo Suter filling a historical-eye-candy role) ... AND hook up with yourself. you go girl, & bless your hot bisexual heart fictionalized Louis Bohne.

(hottest kiss in cinema off the top of my head is always the Timothy Olyphant & Jennifer Garner first kiss in Catch & Release. But some scenes here flirt with that level, & it was the Widow/Louis scenes for me).

the sound alone made this one worth seeing in theaters; sounds were so well used (maybe when a movie is so much about taste, & you can't convey taste through a screen, you double down on the senses you can) and it was scored by Bryce Dessner from The National (whose brother has been collaborating on Taylor Swift's recent best tunes)-

the Widow's name is Barbe-Nicole and not to make a Champagne Barbie reference but this hit in the spot Barbie also reached for, in a subtle way, with the effortlessly close relationship she has with her maid (Lizzie from Peaky Blinders! thanks imdb, knew I knew that face) and the woman in a man's world of it all - obviously one who created a successful dynasty of champagne and how did I never know how instrumental women have been in creating champagne as we know it, about to jump down a historical rabbit hole here-

+ also. grief. "you don't understand. he wasn't just someone's first love". an early line + the one that stuck with me.

anyway. not to say I think it's a perfect movie (there were a few "wait I need more information" beats that left me feeling like I *need* and not just want to read the book)... and it didn't make me think "this better be up for an Oscar" (One Life, with Johnny Flynn & Anthony Hopkins which I saw Saturday: made me cry & should be)- though I think it could be for sound!... and I don't know if I'd say it's the movie I enjoyed the most (Flora & Son, out Sept 29) or learned the most from (Paul Simon documentary, all 209 minutes of it, probably takes that of the 4 films I saw)-

But it's the one I'm writing this post about. & I'm going to get the book. It made me want a bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne. & to go to the champagne region. & to see gifs of it on my dash, immediately. & I would read fan fic if there was some- it built the characters and its own movie world enough for that, with enough space left to wonder- and when a movie can do that, it thrills me.

anyway Tumblr, or at least the side I always land on. I think you'd like it. I think it's your kind of movie too. and it's filled with a lot of love from people who clearly loved making it. here's to independent productions and the unions fighting for fair deals to make a living doing what they love, here's to feeling like a goddess, here's to gorgeous period pieces and gif makers of scenes to come, here's to the author in the audience who got to see her book on screen- and the movie star who got it made and all of us still working on making our own art into something that can be seen someday. Here's to the passion of creativity in whatever shape it takes, pour the champagne 🍾🥂

[giveamadeuschohisownmovie]

Concept for an episode of What If…?: What if Nick Fury’s roster for the original Avengers was completely different?

* This would at least be a two-parter

* This would be one of the most divergent timelines in the MCU since pretty much the entire flow of events would be different compared to the main timeline. Not just different Avengers, but different threats.

* Keep in mind, this timeline is completely different, so the characters that appear will have altered personalities and motivations.

* The line-up, for me, would be -

Alexei Shostakov (Red Guardian) replaces Steve Rogers (Captain America) as the Avenger who is the pride of their respective nation

Xu Wenwu replaces Thor as the Avenger whose powers come from a mystical item(s)

Robbie Reyes (Ghost Rider) replaces Bruce Banner (Hulk) as the Avenger who transforms into a powerful monster

Hope van Dyne (Wasp) replaces Tony Stark (Iron Man) as the Avenger who is a brilliant inventor and an executive of a powerful corporation

Gamora replaces Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow) as the Avenger who is a femme fatale spy seeking to redeem themselves

Frank Castle (The Punisher) replaces Clint Barton (Hawkeye) as the Avenger who is a regular guy and a combat veteran

/

/

/

Despite the changes, there are parallels to the original timeline, such as -

1) The main villain is an evil Shang-Chi. In this timeline, he wants to usurp his father as the leader of the Ten Rings (paralleling Loki’s actions).

2) Gamora feels guilty about abandoning her sister, Nebula (paralleling Natasha and Yelena)

3) Frank Castle is a depressed loner since he lost his family (paralleling Clint’s love for his family)

4) Hope van Dyne requires a constant use of Quantum Realm energy due to an incident in Afghanistan (paralleling Tony’s injury)

5) Alexei Shostakov hopes to see his wife, Melina, once again and is depressed over the loss of his daughter Natasha, unaware that Natasha had actually been transferred to the Winter Soldier program (paralleling Peggy and Bucky)

6) Robbie Reyes is on the run from the Ancient One and the Sanctum Sanctorum due to him keeping the Darkhold away from anyone to use (paralleling Bruce running away from General Ross)

[merlwybs-wife]

LFRP: Mjara Phovent (Marsnek Miret)

Basic Stuff —

Name: Mjara Phovent (Marsnek Miret)

Age: 58

Birthday: November 17th //  17th sun of the 6th astral moon

Race: Viera -> Veena

Gender: Genderqueer (he/they)

Sexuality: Homosexual

Relationship Status: Widowed

Carrd Link

Physical Appearance —

Hair: Purple, layered with fringe; slightly asymmetrical, swooped to one side.

Eyes: Gold

Height: 5′10″

Build: Lissome; Svelte 

Distinguishing Marks: Strikingly feminine figure; wider-set hips, narrow shoulders. 

Personal —

Hobbies: Fashion, Sewing, Embroidery, Dancing

Languages: Common/Eorzean

Residence: Ishgard

Birthplace: ?? 

Religion: Why do you ask? He worships Halone, of course. Like any proper Ishgardian. Halone be praised.

Patron Deity: Rhalgr

Fears: “I am afforded my secrets, dear.”

Tropes: femme fatale, black widow, caged bird

Relationships —

Children: He couldn't even keep a plant alive, let alone a child.

Parents: Status unknown.

Siblings: Older brother- status unknown.

Other Relatives: None he is aware of.

Pets: None. If he could manage it, he'd love a bird-- but settles for visiting a large aviary in a botanical garden.

Traits —

Extroverted / In Between/ Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open-Minded

Calm/ In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between / Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

vivacious. charming. enigmatic. Mjara prides himself on his artistry and intellect, a man of entertainment and hedonism. He wields his wit like a dagger, and isn't afraid to twist salt into any wound he deems proper to leave.

Hooks —

Black Widow: Though there is no substantial evidence to prove the true nature of the late viscount Etienne Phovent's death, it is an unquestionable "fact" within Ishgard that Mjara had a heavy-handed role in the matter.

Jewel of the Crown: Those who might have a finger on the pulse of the underbelly of Ishgard might have heard the Viera's name floated around amongst a particular criminal syndicate, The Crown. again, it seems any amount of proof is lost to the wind.

Burlesque Beauty: Though it would hardly be seen as an infamous act outside of Ishgard, many know Mjara's preferred moniker, Marsnek Miret, of which he dons for his touring, avant-garde burlesque performances outside of Ishgard. he's known to give a private show for interested parties, including some of his peerage-- whatever truly transpires there is something of scandal.

Something Wicked. Those who might be any sensitive to aether would perhaps realize something about Mjara is... not quite right. it's subtle, make no mistake, but undoubtedly curious to those who catch it. (note that this does not apply to void-affiliated characters. i will privately disclose what his aether reads as to such players)

Seeking —

Ishgardian nobles who may have known Mjara prior to his husband's passing.

Ishgardian nobles who would enjoy some criminal ties, such as information brokering. (Or would otherwise rather have a more "pleasant" and "less suspicious" liaison between themselves and a criminal syndicate)

Ishgardian criminals, preferably those who might be interested in playing a role in The Crown.

Those who might be willing to form a connection with him outside of Ishgard, primarily Ul'dah.

NOT SEEKING a romantic relationship, but would be fine with a friends with benefits type thing.

General OOC —

I’m Scully, a 30 year old AFAB agender individual (she/they) who has been writing for… idk 18 years or so.

Please only inquire about RP if you are 21+

Themes I enjoy: occult, horror, drama, romance, criminal, dark, slice of life, & more

I’m in PST, generally available from 9am/10am - 6pm, after which I get too tired to start RP in-game.

Due to my health, I prefer discord RP atm.

My DMs are open! No need to ask.

Reblogs/Boosts appreciated!

[fiefgoldenlake]

Recs for Disability Pride month (and some bonus belated recs for Pride!)

All titles link to Storygraph, which can give you a further synopsis, as well as any warnings.

Godkiller (Godkiller #1) by Hannah Kaner

Meet Kissen - the eponymous godkiller. In a world which has forsaken gods, Kissen deals with those who still prey on the public. She finds herself drawn into a quest with a young girl who is bound to a god. Along the way, they start to uncover what truly happened in their country's war against the gods. Bisexual rep, queer-normal world, main character has a prosthesis.

Iron Widow (Iron Widow #1) by Xiran Jay Zhao

Zetian volunteers herself to be a concubine pilot, to avenge the death of her sister. Giant robots, known as Chrysalises, are piloted by men, with the assistance of a female (concubine) pilot. Zetian's actions lead her to be punished by a match-up with Li Shimin, who has killed every concubine pilot who has ever flown with him. But everyone has underestimated Zetian. Poly, bisexual rep, the correct resolution to a love triangle. The main character suffers from chronic pain, mobility issues, and uses a wheelchair on occasion. 

The Final Strife (The Ending Fire Trilogy #1) by Saara El-Arifi

This is a class-driven society, and clear-blooded Hassa belongs to the ghost class, who've had their tongues cut out and hands severed by the ruling Ember class. The book follows Sylah, one of the Stolen Ember children, forged into a weapon and using drugs to cope with her past, and the beautiful and privileged Anoor. In the background, there's Hassa, keeping an eye on everything. The Ghostings communicate through sign language, and although Sylah is as fluent as possible without being a native, she can't speak it - it is a language exclusive to them. Sylah also suffers from drug withdrawal symptoms in the first book. Trans rep, wlw, mutism. 

Black Sun (Between Earth and Sky #1) by Rebecca Roanhorse

Xiala is a disgraced Teek, charged with bringing a 'harmless' passenger to Tova. Serapio has a destiny, one which has caused him to be blinded, and he's determined to fulfill it. Blind main character (but has the capacity to be magically enhanced), queer-normal world. 

The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue (Montague Siblings #1) by Mackenzi Lee (YA)

Monty is already well-versed in vice before embarking on his Grand Tour with his best friend, Percy. It isn't a problem that he has a big crush on Percy - really. But it is Percy's last chance for freedom, since he suffers from epileptic seizures, and his uncle has judged it best that he be put in a sanitorium at the end of the trip. Bisexual rep, mlm, epilepsy, period-typical homophobia, period-typical discrimination. 

Six of Crows (Six of Crows #1) by Leigh Bardugo

If you haven't already read it and you want to know more about a world like the Court of the Rogue, definitely check this one out! The Crows are a fantastic group, and you can't help rooting for them. Leader Kaz uses a cane and suffers from PTSD - Bardugo says she was looking to create a character who was "disabled and ferocious". Queer found family, mlm amongst the main characters, limp/use of cane, PTSD. 

Bonus Belated Pride Recs The Jasmine Throne (The Burning Kingdoms #1) by Tasha Suri

There's a rot spreading through the nation, which sees dying plants sprout inside people’s bodies, killing them. The Emperor is seeking to crush a rebellion, and will not tolerate any dissent. Priya does what she can to help the poorest citizens, but it's not without a cost, and she needs to keep her head down. Malini, the vengeful princess imprisoned by her own brother, has other ideas, however. Wlw. 

The Priory of the Orange Tree (The Roots of Chaos #1) by Samantha Shannon

A quest fantasy with a queendom on one side, where magic is prohibited and the throne of Inys has passed, generation after generation, from mother to identical daughter. On the other side, there be dragons. Assassination attempts, a beautiful wlw romance, another main character who reads as ace, and a gripping plot, this book is worth every one of its (almost) 850 pages. Part of a series but each book stands alone.

Little Thieves (Little Thieves #1) by Margaret Owen (YA)

Vanja is one of my favourite characters that I've encountered in years (and as a bonus, the author is a confirmed TP fan!). This is an irreverent retelling of the Goose Girl from the maid's perspective, and the concept behind the title is, "The little thief steals gold, but the great one steals kingdoms; and only one goes to the gallows." Vanja is a little thief, accustomed to fending for herself, but she comes up against a curse, an impending marriage, and a personified pocket ledger. Demi rep, queer found family. 

Finally, I read Something Wild & Wonderful by Anita Kelly, which is a story about two guys who meet hiking the PCT. One of them brought his comfort read - Alanna: the First Adventure

[imaginesofeverykind]

Viper’s Pit |A.T|

Recently widowed, you, Vaela Targaryen return home different than when you left several years ago, Aemond is determined to find out why.

Targaryen!Reader x Aemond

WARNINGS: Mentions of abuse, canon typical abuse, mentions of SA, unwilling betrothal, murder, vulgarity. MDNI !

I very much tried to write this in the realms of how women are treated as such in the canon of the show, I do not divulge in detail but there are sprinkles of discussion that might be difficult or uncomfortable to read which is why im taking the extra step to put this warning in addition to the warnings on top here.

Im on the fence about a part 2 :SS so let me know what yall think!!

— - ——- — - ——- — - ——- - —

Today had been that day the tides shifted, the sun shone brightly on Kings Landing, the clouds were nowhere to be seen other than the horizon of which the direction of the wind blew. The Royal party stood in preparation in front of the keep of your arrival, their most crowned jewel it appeared which would have you scoffing in the effort that was thrown for you.

“How do you think she fairs now? Still a brute, no doubt.” Aegon smirked as he whispered lowly to his one-eyed brother and Sister Queen. Purposefully out of earshot of their dowager mother who would’ve reprimanded him had she heard the insults he hurled toward his own twin.

“The only brute in this family has been you, dear brother,” Aemond smiles to himself, looking to the side at his sister to see Helaena share a faint smile at his comment. It was true the younger siblings and even nephews were fond of you than Aegon ever would be. Born mere moments before he was, you were everything he couldn’t live up to in the eyes of his mother and King Father. Though, you’d argue there was much more he didn’t see behind the scenes.

Duty was never prevalent through you, so much so you took to the yard to spar over embroidery or flower arranging. It enraged your mother that you simply refused to answer the call of duty and be the Princess she wanted you to be, though stern she never hated you and that was clear. Even when you were shipped off to Dorne at a young age to keep an alliance, you slowly understood that your mother didn’t do this out of spite or hatred or malice. Even if you were barely ten and four.

The conquerors Queen, Visenya was a woman who you looked up to, stoic and stern, a warrior Queen who kept her close comrades closed in an ironfist and bloodied her sword with her enemies. Perhaps this had been why you took to the sword over all else, training instead of sleeping and sparring instead of fulfilling the duties of a Princess.

So much that the muscles built over a short time was something a proper woman would never adorn with such pride.

Big enough to push around your twin brother and mediate the family squabbles was a feat that even Ser Criston Cole couldn’t always win over.

But alas, the minute your first blood arrived you were sent as an offering to secure the most attractive alliance at the time, which happened to be Dorne and it had been six years since you set foot in King’s Landing.

You weren’t cold when in this time only your younger brother and sister wrote to you, you missed the death of your own father, the maiming of your now one-eyed brother and the coronation of your twin. But you didn’t care, you experienced life outside of the confines of King’s Landing, but the Gods seek you out for a different fate as you once again arrived at the company of your family and the royal party, to live here after the untimely death of your lord husband, empty handed with no children.

“My dearest Vaela, welcome home.” The sound of your mothers voice was almost unrecognisable, but she stood proud with your siblings, all who have grown into their Targaryen features much like you had. After such a long time away from the Capital, it felt like you were being released back into a cage of unfed dragons, unsure of your fate.

Much to Aegon’s dismay, no longer were you a towering menace of pure muscle to bolster such physical power over him. If he had to guess, you were just short of Aemond’s towering height, in fact if he didn’t know better he would say you and the Cruel Prince looked more like twins than he and you did. Your silver hair was straight, and laid down over your shoulders stopping just at the waist, and the way you filled your dress wasn’t how he expected either. Coming from the hot environment of Dorne meant you wore more exposing items of clothing and sheer silks which didn’t go unnoticed by most of the Royal Party.

Regardless of attire, you still looked of Royalty and like a Princess, more than when you had left.

“Mother.” You curtly bowed your head, eyes settling on the two younger siblings. A wholesome smile pulled at your lips as you brought a hand to each face, caressing delicately, “my sweet sister, my dear brother.” Your voice was soft and loving, no amount of distance could separate the love you had for both Helaena and Aemond.

It was improper to greet The Queen like this but no one intervened nor took action, it was also the only time Aemond would openly allow such affection to show to the public and onlookers. The two of you were close growing up, it made sense that the bonds were never severed and the love remained.

Your eyes flitted to your twin, adorning the Conquerors crown which had caused a shallow scoff, he had not a single ounce of Aegon I in him and he was as pathetic as the man you were sent off to wed. Leeching from the powers he was handed to on a silver platter for being the firstborn son, a man. The only difference between you and him was that you had tits and a cunt and he had a prick, laughable really.

“Your grace,” you lazily bow your head, vitriol falling from your lips as you walk toward the Red Keep, counting the days until you're sent off again to ‘fulfill duty’.

Aemond had a sly smile on his lips, watching you walk away. He was grateful the fire hadn’t extinguished within you after all these years and you were still unmoving in your distaste toward your twin despite the crown that lay upon his silver head.

“Hypocrite.” Aegon muttered, shouldering past the young Prince as he stalked up to the Red Keep. The King was enraged the day Visery’s had died, the manhunt to find him and ready him for a coronation before his half sister seized the throne was the day Aemond reminded him of his duty to his wife and duty to the Realm. It was all about duty with the one-eyed Prince, so much of it being beaten into the oldest son by all around him it was hard not to harbor resentment when his sister could freely break the rules in the Prince's presence without a shroud of ramification like he had to endure.

Lunch with the family had been just as tense as the moment you arrived, sitting beside Aegon who despite being the King didn’t sit at the heads of the table, they seemed to be reserved for your grandfather and mother. An interesting choice, you pondered.

“We are sorry about the news of your lord Husband.” Alicent started, reaching across the table and outstretching what you assumed to be a comforting gesture. In a different world you might’ve taken comfort in your mother, she was always plotting and scheming while the maidens looked after the children, it was a wonder you had all ended up the way you did. Yet you could empathise, she was a pawn in your grandfathers greed and was forced into a loveless marriage which did more harm than good.

You quirked a brow, taking a sip of your wine, “I am not.”

The table had stopped, looking to you for elaboration which made you reluctant to indulge. Your family didn’t even bother coming to your wedding, to check on your wellbeing so how would they know the cruel fate you had been thrusted upon. The only respite from the torturous marriage was the people who had allowed you your freedom to do as you please.

“My princess, you cannot mean such a thing.” Otto had noticed the stillness in the air, he had advised your mother to not let you return after such a long time knowing that it would stir discourse. Alicent said otherwise, offering a tempting compromise upon your arrival should you behave.

“I was barely a woman when I was sent to marry a man thrice my age… No family to see me off to this man, no family to hear the screams of a child when she was bedded that same night. There was no love, no compassion. It would have been more kind to have me fed to a dragon than to be abandoned in the snakepit.” Your tone was cool and eerily calm, a testament on how broken in you had become over the years. Your siblings eyes were full of sorrow, even Aegon had some shred of sorrow in there which was unbecoming of even him.

“And now I return home, hollow welcomes as I’m taken from the viper pit and put into a dragon’s den. If it is broken, you wish to see me as then I’m afraid you missed your chance the moment I was wedded.” You brought the cup back to your lips and finished the rest of the wine, the taste souring in your mouth along with your mood. Excusing yourself before even Alicent had a chance to speak.

She was beside herself after the lunch, only now realizing the consequences of her past decisions at the behest of her father. It was Otto after all that suggested removing the boisterous Princess in fear that she may become like the ‘Realm’s Delight’, Rhaenyra and seek to take the throne from her brother. He could see her ambitious nature, mistaking her want to be a knight as motivation to rule the realm.

It was clear upon her arrival that he was sorely mistaken and misjudged her intentions of only a young age.

“Mother you cannot undo what has already been done… Vaela is headstrong and stubborn and she has been burnt by this family, but she does not harbor hatred for you.” Aemond, ever so calmly soothing his mother like he always had done. It was no wonder, she confided in him so often and looked to him for counsel, he was simply magnificent with his words.

“How could you possibly know? She barely greeted me at the gates, barely spoke a word to your brother—“

“Because I know it to be true!”

You had always come to your brother's defense when it involved petty sibling tussles, it was only a shame you were gone before his maiming in Driftmark, perhaps if you had been there things might’ve been different. It was owed to you, that he do the same, defend you in this moment, not that he could accurately compare the amount of times you stuck your neck out for him.

“Vaela has never shared hatred for you, dear Mother… I may only have one eye but I am not blind to the slights of my siblings, all three resent responsibility and perhaps even the King past. You must understand that she is wounded and abandonment has hardened her over the years… Do not mistake this coldness as hatred.”

Right he was, as you sat in the Royal Gardens every day in an attempt to soak in the Sun’s warm and comforting embrace, thrusting onto you the peace you so desired since you entered the Kingdoms capital several days ago. In this time you had noticed the increased array of religious paraphernalia which you had no doubt in your mind was thanks to your mothers devotion to The Seven.

At least she seeked comfort and refuge in a mostly malignant way, the only quarrelsome part about it all was their unending incessant need to rid the old gods from history.

One of the things that had developed in your time in Dorne was your keen hearing, keeping note of which footsteps belonged to who, but you were back in your old home where everyone stepped differently and you were yet to pick up on who they belonged to.

“I do not wish to be disturbed.” Your voice was calm, eyes closed and back facing the main path from where the person approached. It was too heavy to be Helaena’s or Mothers, you knew that for sure.

“We’ve let you be for a week, dearest sister. You can only sulk and avoid us for so long before duty calls out for you to fulfill.”

It was at least a familiar and mostly friendly voice, despite his cadence being cold and blunt. You knew it was a matter of time before Aegon or Mother sent for you to participate in familial habits of eating together. “I’m not sulking nor am I avoiding, I’m merely enjoying the sun… It’s where I have been every day until the moon rises, you should know, sweet brother, you have watched me long enough.”

He had stiffened at your words, deciphering how you possibly knew when he had been so careful and out of sight. At first merely curious as to what you did when you weren’t breaking bread with the family or meandering the castle. Then it slowly turned to silent admiration and even a hint of protection, he was acutely aware of your harrowing experience in Dorne even if it was based on your words the very first lunch you had. There was more to it than you let on which he was determined to uncover.

You sighed in frustration, sensing the overbearing presence of Aemond and knowing he was as stubborn as you were and one would have to give sooner rather than later, so you relent. Preferring to join him on whatever pointless drow your presence was needed for than sit here in silence where your peace was already disturbed.

“Might I say with the purest intention, that your time away in Dorne has allowed your beauty to flourish.” He had curtly nodded in your direction, once you arose from your seated position and finally faced him. He wishes for you to be comfortable now that you were finally back with family, not tense and looking over your shoulder constantly as he noted in the days of watching you.

A smile befell your lips and you bow your head modestly, “you flatter me, Aemond… Out of all of us children you were beautiful and always will be, sweetling.”

“If you think me beautiful, then you would be the first… Or a fool.”

You came to his side, resting a gentle hand to his cheek, fingers grazing delicately over his scar. Despite being in the solitude of the Gardens and only in the company of the little creatures that resided among the foliage, his swift hand came up to grip your wrist and firmly remove your touch from his face. No matter how much comfort he felt when you were near, and the warmth your touch brought to his skin, he simply didn’t need your pity.

“Oh dearest Aemond… My only regret was that I could not be there to console you after such a cruel slight. But it appears in my absence you have found your own strength, I am proud of you.” You had intended to leave the moment like this, beginning to depart from the orbit of your brother who mistook your admiration as belittling sympathies.

“And what of you? The fire within you was so strong when we were children, and what the Dornish have done is return you like a broken sculpture, shattered from the inside out. How is it, that little vipers snuffed out the fire and blood that runs through you.” In so many words he challenged your strength, calling you weak for returning like you had. More maiden than a warrior, his words suggested. When you left, your muscles were defined, prevalent more than your twin, more than even many highborn lords. But upon your arrival, as beautiful as you were, your frame no longer filled with muscles or boasted physical strength. You looked more like the Dowager Queen and Helaena, not the warrior that he looked up too.

You pondered his words for a moment, weighing your options of insults to throw or even debated saying nothing. His words were aimed to hurt and that was obviously accomplished, your silence made that clear as you still considered what to say next.

Hands clasped behind your back you merely bowed forward, which is something you so often did to vex your mother opposed to curtsying like a real lady should. “Thank you, dear brother. For your kind encouragement.” This was not an argument you intended to engage in, for your own sanity’s sake. But your words were loud and clearly heard, the two extreme poles of your personalities seemingly switching as the years went on.

Aemond inherited your anger, while you inherited his calm demure and in this instance his temper got the better of him. You knew of all things after this interaction he would be embarrassed by this, hoping that this will give him the means to approach you much later in the evening so that you might indulge him in the inner workings of what happened to your ‘spirit’ in the many years since your departure.

Just as you anticipated, the cruel Prince's anger stewed with him through the remainder of the day and even followed him into dinner. It wasn’t just you who had noticed his silence during the feast, where he normally would revel in small insults or quips to humiliate The King, he was quiet and did not engage in conversation even when spoken too.

Dinner was painstakingly long, much akin to a pregnancy it felt like — your thoughts wandered while you took refuge in the Library. You weren’t in the mood to read so you sat quaintly on the balcony that looked over King's Landing and all its beauty. Never, had the keep felt as much of a prison as it did in this moment in your life. You had a taste of life outside of the capital and as harrowing as it might have been, it made you a better person.

There was still time, you had thought about perhaps forsaking your family on your own terms and defecting to Rhaenyra’s campaign, but you have nothing to offer. No title, no dragon, no wealth. Nor did you really like her all that much, it would only serve as an act of rebellion but who was to say that your uncle Daemon would even consider your presence outside the realm of a prisoner or hostage.

“I killed him… My husband, I killed him.” Your words were soft and your eyes still sought out comfort in the darkened swells of buildings below. Aemond was typically a quiet approacher, but much like the garden, you had acquired a keen sense of hearing and it was only out of survival that it got as good as it did.

You didn’t turn to face him, nor did you feel like allowing him to see the melancholic expression that had pulled onto your face.

He didn’t say anything, merely stood a few paces behind in the shadows, he would allow you to speak more, “He was an over-indulgent, greedy cunt. A disgusting pig who wasn’t even in an important dornish house. Yet he laid his hands on me time and time again, and it wasn’t just me. When I wouldn’t bear his children I was treated worse than the common whores he bedded regularly. If I fought back, it was a fate I wouldn’t even wish upon our enemies—.”

“I do not wish to hear more, I have heard enough.” His jaw was clenched as were his hands balled into fists, urging him to take arms and burn all of Dorne with fire and blood.

“His face was buried in the cunt of a whore, ass out of its breaches and cock hard when I sliced it off… And well… After that I knew I wouldn’t make it out of this without consequence and I have no desire to start a war… Then again, I fear that even if I had been murdered or executed for my act of violence I would not be mourned.”

Aemond shifted from his position in the shadows, finally understanding what had changed within you. Much like the other Targaryen children you had an overwhelming sense of neglect when it came to its familial ties. “You wouldn’t just be mourned, my sister. You would be avenged. You will be avenged for such cruelty.”

Finally you look to him, as he kneeled by your side, his eye focused on you, “there is no vengeance to be had. He paid with his life, undignified and no cock. The servants helped me shift the blame, our quarrel is not with the lesser people of Dorne, some still revere our House.”

“You are my sister, we cannot allow such blatant abuse toward our house go unpunished—“

“It is done. And it cannot be undone, I reclaimed what was forcefully taken from me.” Your words were stern, and had no intention of wavering no matter how angry the past years of trauma ached for you to unfurl, “I used to believe that me never having a dragon to claim was because I was weak but I have just as much desire to watch our enemies burn to the ground and I know now, that it is not a dragon that people will fear me for, it will be myself.”

A smile pulled on The Prince's lips, his gaze in admiration and love. Guilty that there was ever a doubt in him that thought for a moment that the sister he aspired to impress as a boy, was gone. Alas, you were still in there, but it is your own mental strength that persevered after all this time and this enrichment is welcome to him. “Then it is done, we will burn our enemies to the ground. All of them… Together.”

“Together.” You mused, reaching over to grab his hand. The hand of the only man to ever provide you a semblance of comfort and a love, a love that extended past the boundaries siblings should have.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Memorabilia & First Kiss - Fingolfin x Anairë

Dear anon, here goes your story! :D

I am afraid that it might have turned out a little sadder than I've anticipated! Tomorrow, I'll be gone the whole day, so I'll post it now. I hope that's okay by you!

Lots of love!

Words: 1 020

Characters: Anairë x Fingolfin

Warnings: Sadness, canon-compliant deaths referenced, Fëanor mentioned, Russingon if you want to read it like that, marital estrangement

Ñolofinwë had never thought of himself as a vain creature, and thus the idea that people might find his collection of memorabilia odd had never even crossed his mind.

While most of the other revenants from that Eru-forsaken world in which he’d been cruelly slain seemed desperate to leave the past behind, he could not help but dwell on all the things he’d lost and still missed.

Soon, it had become common knowledge that the former High King of the Ñoldor collected mementoes—broken weapons, torn banners, and a lot of dented metal—to stare at them sadly.

Unbeknownst to him, other people did worry about his ever-growing hoard of absurd and grotesque trinkets, and when he disappeared into his secret vault once again, his oldest son finally decided to speak up.

“Mother,” Findekáno whispered, clasping Anairë’s slender hands in his own pleadingly. “You must stop him! This isn’t healthy…”

With a long, low sigh, she squeezed the strong fingers that had shed so much blood in the name of a lost cause; she too remembered the pudgy flesh she had, once upon a time, cradled lovingly through many a mingling, and her heart broke at the recollection of what was never to be again.

“Oh son,” she whispered. “You cannot fathom how heavily the past weighs on your father—on us.”

“Do you think that I have not loved and lost people? Even as I kneel at your feet like a child, my soul is burdened with the absence of those I’ve held most dear. Do not presume to know my suffering!”

When her face fell, he instantly kissed her hands devotedly. “Forgive me—I—”

“I understand,” Anairë said soothingly. “I shall seek out your father in his halls of miserable memory. We both know that I lack the fiery determination of the one who might have easily convinced him to set fire to his precious trove, but I shall do my best for you.”

“If he will not desist,” Fingon muttered. “At least convince him to accept symbols of fonder, happier memories to be added to his assortment of knickknacks.”

Reaching into his pocket, he extricated a golden ribbon, knotted around a slender ring into which was woven a gleaming, red stone.

“Fëanáro made that ring,” Anairë gasped. “He fashioned it when Nerdanel—when���back…”

“He made it for his firstborn son,” Findekáno nodded slowly. “I entrust to you, my parents, my guiding stars, the childhood we’ve lost. I’ve spoken to my siblings and to all our returned kin—not one has denied me, and I shall soon be in possession of objects that are more precious than the armour we wore and the banners we carried.”

“So be it,” Anairë smiled, full of pride and yet also deeply humbled by the stubborn, reckless wisdom and determination of her son. “I’ll go to your father right away.”

Before she did so, though, she slipped back into the room she’d occupied during her long abiding as the mere ghost of a wife who was not even granted the quiet dignity of a rightfully grieving widow.

Just like Findekáno, she had kept certain things. Beneath the anger, the resentment, and the burning hatred, there had been stubborn memories, deeper and more precious, that she’d shielded and guarded ferociously, defending them from herself and the devastating violence of her own helpless wrath.

Maybe, she considered, it was now time to return them to the one she had always loved more than hated—a fact for which she’d oft reprimanded and punished herself severely throughout the ages.

“Your children are worried,” she called as she entered her husband’s vault on silent soles; after all this time apart, she no longer knew how to properly address him, and every word that came to mind—his name, his title, husband—burned on her tongue like acid. “Your heir sends me in lieu of that half-brother who might never return.”

Whirling around agonisingly slowly, Ñolofinwë raised his mournful, dull gaze to her radiant face with all the humble penitence of a dolorous supplicant kneeling at the feet of a divine statue.

“He sends you the insignia of his heart rather than of his house,” she went on, laying down her son’s offerings before Ñolofinwë. “And I’d like to add my own most cherished keepsakes to the pile.”

Steeling herself, she opened her other hand and produced a dried flower and a piece of torn fabric.

“I don’t know if you remember, Ñolofinwë, son of Finwë and Indis, and if you don’t, I am here to remind you…These are from—”

“When we danced in the light of the Mingling—you were so beautiful…” he finished her sentence in a quiet but unhesitant voice. “I do remember—I’ve replayed that memory in my heart whenever the dread and doom grew too overpowering.”

“These are from the exact moment I knew that I loved you and that I’d marry you,” Anairë corrected gently. “You swung me around so enthusiastically that my beautiful dress got tangled in an errant branch and ripped. Eru, you were so apologetic…”

“And then we kissed until we were both out of breath with laughter and—”

“Shamefaced horniness?” Anairë cackled. She had missed his sparkling humour as much as his tendency to baulk at salacious subjects, and her shattered heart started to mend. “I remember that as well. Don’t you dare blush now—we’ve conceived and raised the fruits of that sacred desire together. Do you recall?”

“I remember tearing them from you,” Ñolofinwë replied tonelessly. “I recollect their deaths, far from you, far from me…”

“But they were not,” she opined carefully, falling to her knees and cupping his cheek with a love she had deemed dead and destroyed. “Look upon these mementoes, husband, and understand that—from our first kiss to their last breath—not one moment of our story has been forgotten or lost. We’ve all held on to those memories in our own way. Cast away broken crowns and hearts! Feast your eyes and soul on the love that was—and that shall be again, I hope!”

@fellowshipofthefics here's a sweet one, for once

Welcome aboard for a new fic! I love to have you...and today, we'll have a canon ship <3

Lots of love and well-wishes!

-> Masterlist

[lightsday]

﹟𝙁𝙇𝘼𝙈𝙀𝙎𝙏𝙑   ⁝   welcome  elyan  dayne  to  king’s  landing.  the  ruling  lord  of  starfall  is  known  to  all  as  an  witty,  observant  individual.  however,  amidst  the  chaos  of  the  realm,  they  find  themselves  becoming  more  mercurial  and  apathetic.  visions  of  heavy  is  the  house  'pon  bird-bone  shoulders  -  you  seek  what  will  raise  your  house  /  your  family  /  your  lands  all  too  keen  of  the  whispers  of  war  'neath  your  feet,  raven  -  black  hair  broken  by  a  single  streak  of  silver  like  the  dawn  by  which  you  carry,  oh  sing  the  dead  man's  song  soldier  boy  !  restless  is  thee  /  hungry  to  forge  a  path  of  security  your  forefathers  failed  to  secure  haunt  the  dreams  of  dragons,  who  emerge  murmuring  of  their  support  for  their  house,  though  sympathetic  for  the  cause  of  the  heir.  we  do  hope  that  whatever  happens,  they  play  the  game  wisely.

THE  BASICS.

full  name:  elyan  dayne.  nicknames:  none.  title:  ruling  lord  of  starfall.  sobriquets:  sword  of  the  morning  /  the  guiding  star  of  starfall.  date  of  birth:  november  12th.  age:  thirty-seven.  birthplace:  starfall,  dorne.  gender:  cis  man.  pronouns:  he/him/his.  orientation:  bisexual.  languages  spoken:  fluent  in  the  common  tongue,  spoken  soft  and  calculated,  rough  as  gravel.

THE  PHYSICALITIES.

faceclaim:  m.anny  j.acinto.  height:  180cm.  eyes:  dark  brown.  hair:  dark  brown,  almost  black,  broken  by  a  thin  streak  of  silver  that  curls  along  the  left  side  of  his  face.  build:  a  knight's  build,  broad  and  visibly  strong  to  accommodate  heavy  weaponry.  scars:  a  few  in  typical  spots  (re:  his  hands,  arms  from  training).  a  long  slash  across  his  chest  from  when  he  shielded  his  youngest  sibling  from  an  attack.

THE  FAMILY.

father:  deceased  since  elyan  was  twenty.  mother:  deceased,  passed  shortly  after  the  birth  of  his  youngest  sibling.  marital  status:  a  political  marriage  that  was  decided  for  him  when  he  was  young,  officially  married  to  his  partner  since  he  was  twenty  one.  (  wc  ).  siblings:  two  younger  siblings  of  which  he  is  protective  over.  (  wc  on  main  ).

THE  EMOTIONAL.

mbti:  the  architect,  intj.  enneagram:  5w6,  the  troubleshooter.  element:  water.  temperament:  choleric.  character  inspirations:  anakin  skywalker,  howl  pendragon,  kaz  brekker.  deadly  sin:  envy,  pride.  heavenly  virtue:  diligence,  kindness.

THE  HISTORY.

(  trigger  warnings  for  :  death,  injury  ) first-born  of  the  dayne  house,  your  parents  whisper  a  promise  of  greatness  into  your  ears  before  you've  even  had  a  chance  to  part  lips  for  your  first  wail.  he'll  be  part  of  the  force  that  frees  us  from  the  rest  of  westeros,  they  whisper  amongst  themselves,  eyes  adoring  as  they  weaved  a  promise  between  their  fingertips  and  yours  (  soon,  those  soft,  chubby  hands  would  lengthen,  become  callous,  from  babe  to  boy  to  man  :  wielder  of  a  legendary  sword  ). you  are  recognized  only  by  your  proximity  to  those  closest  to  you.  first,  the  heir  of  the  lord  of  house  dayne.  second,  the  noble  eldest.  third,  the  son  of  a  widow,  the  brother-eldest  to  two,  when  your  mother  passes  after  a  hard  birth.  fourth,  the  pawn  by  which  a  marriage  alliance  was  to  unfold.  even  when  your  father  passes  after  your  twentieth,  the  title  of  ruling  lord  passing  from  father  to  son,  you  are  still  known  as  fifth  :  guiding  star  of  starfall,  the  sword  of  the  morning.  the  name  elyan  dayne  seldom  passes  through  lips  unless  in  official  capacity. you  grow  with  your  house.  the  political  marriage  formed  when  you  were  young  bears  fruit  -  it  is  a  quiet  affair,  bound  by  filial  obligations,  yet  even  your  siblings  catch  on  to  the  reserved  expression  you  make.  that  same  evening,  you  tell  them  :  it  is  duty,  after  all.  honor  to  your  house.  a  marriage  on  the  grounds  of  true  love  is  reserved  solely  for  the  ones  who  lack  ambition. your  sobriquet  echoes  through  dorne,  ringing  out  through  westeros  :  the  guiding  star  of  starfall,  lit  from  within  is  he.  eldest  of  a  vassal  house  sworn  to  house  martell  ...  yet,  allegiance  is  selfish.  remains  sworn  to  the  island-castle  he  was  raised  on.  at  present,  you've  left  the  dust  and  sand  of  dorne  for  king's  landing,  a  representative  to  your  house  and  region  alongside  your  family.  you  care  little  for  the  politics  of  a  far  -  flung  continent,  but  the  cause  of  the  princess-heir  sings  a  familiar  tune  that  you  are  sympathetic  towards.

THE  HEADCANONS.

oh  brother  another  eldest  son  with  the  world  on  his  shoulders  !!  extremely  devoted  to  his  family  and  to  his  house.  severely  blurs  the  line  between  caring  because  he's  supposed  to  and  he  was  told  to  do  that  versus  caring  because  he  has  love  for  them.

has  a  sick  ass  scar  on  his  chest  that  he  got  from  foiling  an  assassination  attempt  on  his  youngest  sibling.

is  sickeningly  lonely.  SICKENINGLY.  he  craves  connection  but  purposely  doesn't  seek  it  out  because  in  his  eyes  he  needs  to  remain  stoic,  unbiased,  very  knight-like  and  unattached  to  be  able  to  fulfill  his  duty  to  his  house/family.

actually  expanding  on  the  previous  point.  he  feels  like  people  will  only  love  him  so  long  as  he  can  serve  out  any  of  his  expected  intentions  (re:  as  a  brother,  as  a  partner,  as  a  lord)  so  he  is  quite  literally  always  putting  on  a  facade.  he's  never  truly  himself  in  public  bc  to  elyan,  being  himself  =  not  being  able  to  uphold  expectations.

man  of  few  words  but  he'll  yap  to  the  right  people.

was  a  bit  of  a  wh*re  when  he  was  younger  as  it  was  an  outlet  for  the  emotional  state  he  always  kept  2  himself  but  as  the  years  went  on  (and  also  bc  he  got  CUFFED)  he's  mellowed  out  significantly.  nowadays it's like bed  ?  no.  you'll  find  this  man  in  the  library  reading  up  on  political  strategies!

overthinks  really  easily  but  it's  difficult  to  tell  unless  you  really  know  him.  to  an  outsider,  he's  really  impassive,  not  that  expressive,  but  if  you  grew  up  with  him  or  you  spent  a  lot  of  time  with  him  you  can  catch  onto  all  these  minute  tells  that  expose  his  internal  workings.

THE  CONNECTIONS.

THE  DAYNE  SIBLINGS  :  wc  on  the  main.  the  middle  is  adopted,  the  youngest  is  blood-related,  though  none  of  that  matters  to  elyan.  he's  very  protective  of  his  siblings,  more  so  after  both  their  parents  had  passed,  and  most  of  his  personal  motivations  are  driven  by  the  need  to  forge  a  world  that  would  best  keep  his  siblings  safe  from  harm.  he  knows  as  royals,  they'll  always  have  a  target  on  their  back,  and  though  he  may  personally  align  himself  with  his  house,  he's  willing  to  do  whatever  ensures  their  personal  safety.  of  all  the  people  in  the  world,  his  siblings  are  the  ones  he  is  closest  with.  /  taken  by  no  one  yet

OH,  BETROTHED  :  an  initially  loveless  marriage  that  has  grown  into  a  partnership.  they're  both  aware  they're  being  used  as  political  pawns  to  strengthen  relations,  and  though  bitter  feelings  may  have  existed  before,  they've  since  melted  away  to  make  room  for  understanding.  not  dornish,  but  open  to  any  house.

CONFIDANTE  :  the  one  who,  outside  of  his  immediate  family,  is  the  person  elyan  is  closest  to.  they  seem  to  understand  each  other  without  needing  words,  and  they're  very  much  elyan's  opposite  in  many  ways  -  drawing  him  out  of  his  shell  and  recluse  with  ease.

SWORN  ENEMIES  :  for  whatever  reason,  this  person  rubs  elyan  the  wrong  way  always.  maybe  they  looked  at  him  wrong  at  a  banquet.  maybe  they  accidentally  tripped  elyan  one  day.  maybe  they  were  flirting  up  a  storm  with  his  partner.  either  way,  elyan  is  cold,  cold,  cold  with  this  person,  and  the  tension  is  always  palpable.

FORMER  LOVERS  :  elyan  is  no  stranger  to  what  occurs  between  bodies.  this  could've  been  someone  he'd  been  courting  for  a  bit  before  his  marriage,  a  sneaky-link  in  the  dark,  etc  etc.  he's  got  his  fair  share  of  affections,  though  most  were  surface  level  on  his  side.  he  knew  not  to  get  too  engrossed.

ALLIES  OF  THE  COURT  :  the  enemy  of  my  enemy  is  my  friend,  and  this  rings  true  for  the  political  maze  of  king's  landing.  whatever  brings  them  together,  be  it  trade,  a  common  foe,  or  even  simply  house  allegiances  -  they're  a  trusting  face  elyan  is  glad  to  see.

[myriamas]

who: @devanitoland when and where: during the lann's day festival, the newly-wedded and pregnant myriam allyrion finally seeks out an interaction with the infamous devani toland.

it were impossible to not have heard of the name devani toland in recent months: her return shortly followed by the reveal of lord dante uller as being the one responsible for the death of her former husband, lord mors martell, seemed to mean that the lines blurred and responsibility was placed on the other. she did not know devani toland enough to dislike her, and whilst myriam's temper was known throughout dorne, she was also not one to look down upon another woman of dorne lest she make her own judgement of her.

the recent months had been blurry, as had devani in the faces of sunspear's courtiers - incident after incident seemed to occur, and she continued to feel a sense of burning pride in the face of jaehaerys targaryen's actions.

the last the rest of westeros had seen her, she had been the princess regent of dorne; standing before the dragon king, and their altercation had resulted in a greater conflict between dorne and the era of new valyria. she was a widow, a mother of a three year old princess with a new political landscape to learn - that had been what her life had been shaped for her as. myriam had all but set fire to the path that had been paved for her; not again, she remembered telling herself.

now, the continent saw myriam once again; newly wedded to the sword of the morning, and judging by the light swell of her stomach, reinforcing a permanent link between house martell and house dayne by making their heirs half siblings. she had tossed aside the expectations that a rouyal widow was not to remarry, and instead she were here; adorned in dornish outfits and gold in the conservative land of the west, her thick hair straight on either side of her.

she saw devani toland speaking to some westerman as she walked by her, and decided now would be the time she would finally meet with the woman of house toland. as she walked by her, they briefly made eye contact; and the princess mother pulled a slightly taunting face and lowered her thumbs in the direction of the man behind his back. she continued to walk, a hand resting proudly upon the curve of her bump; knowing all seemed to wonder how it was she was married and pregnant again.

[pixelly-sims]

THE FUTURE WIFE OF SIBERT HARKINS : Margery Whitfield Date of Birth: March 15, 1287 Place of Origin: Margery is from a nearby village called Winfield, located a few miles from Herefordshire. Background: Margery Whitfield was born and raised in Winfield, a small village known for its close-knit community and fertile lands. She grew up as the eldest of three children in a modest household. Her father, Thomas Whitfield, was a respected herbalist and healer in the village, and her mother, Agnes, was a midwife. From a young age, Margery was immersed in the world of herbal remedies and healing practices, learning the trade from her parents. Margery's upbringing was filled with the sounds of village life, the scent of herbs drying in their home, and the knowledge passed down through generations. Her parents' skills were highly valued in Winfield, and Margery took pride in their work, often accompanying her father on his rounds to gather herbs and assist in treatments. This early exposure to healing arts fostered a deep sense of compassion and a desire to help others in Margery. Tragedy struck when Margery was 17. Her parents succumbed to a severe illness that swept through the village, leaving Margery and her siblings orphaned. As the eldest, she took on the responsibility of caring for her younger siblings, using the skills her parents had taught her to support the family. Despite the hardships, Margery remained determined and resilient, continuing her parents' work as a healer. At 19, Margery married a young farmer named Alan, but their happiness was short-lived. Alan died tragically in a farming accident, leaving Margery a widow with no children. Seeking a fresh start and a way to cope with her grief, she decided to move to Herefordshire, where she heard of a family in need of help and healing. This brought her to the Harkins farm, where she offered her assistance and soon became an integral part of the family’s life. Margery’s background of loss and resilience, coupled with her knowledge of healing, makes her a compassionate and strong-willed character, well-suited to becoming a loving and supportive partner to Sibert Harkins and a nurturing figure to his children.

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