#penrose blanket
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I was laid up half of last week with period pain - unable to sit upright or work, but thankfully able to knit.
And I've been marking off my progress on knitting a couch throw patchwork blanket for my sister, and the progress last week was tangible!
Boxing Day, 26 December:
New Year's Day, 1 January:
And now tonight, 9 January:
And that includes not getting any knitting done last Tuesday at all (but a lot of very pretty journal cover decoration)!
My deadline is 3 March (including washing, blocking and weaving in all ends).
I might even manage! Crossing my fingers and working hard to try!
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Don't answer this if the answer will be revealed later but I'm here questioning how much did Lock and Ed talk about this situation? We all know they both seem happy about Nel's presence but have they agreed on this? Or are they both secretly panicking about what this means?
My first thought was that yeah they talked about both of them liking Nel and wanting her to get involved but your tags about them all being idiots just made me question this...
Ok, I sat on this a bit but I've now got a coffee and I can answer properly :3 (thank you thank you thank you)
First off, they’re both absolute idiots in many respects, but they also talk about everything. Locryn is a gruff, brusque lad, but he talks with Edmund. About everything. So, when Nel starts showing up and the feels also start showing up, he's gonna talk to Ned about it.
I think the first time they talk about their mutual attraction to her is briefly after Ned’s near-drowning.
EDIT: I came back to this again even later. Because I wrote you the entire scene instead.
Locryn and Ned discuss Nel (very slight nsfw if you squint, mostly just soft and affectionate)
Content: fluff, reminder that Ned nearly drowned, shifting, and a bit of selkie and sea magic(?)
Wordcount: 2014
“Whuff, what a woman,” Locryn exclaimed as he closed the door to his cottage and shut out the whisking wind and the sight of Eleanor Bywater riding away like a queen atop that cheeky black mare. Somehow she still managed to look regal despite the fact that her clothes were soaked and covered in sand and her hair was a wild, wet mess. He didn’t like to think how she was going to explain that one to the Penroses, but perhaps she’d just say she fell off. It wasn’t very dignified, but at least it was more dignified than telling them she’d scrambled down the cliff like a maniac to haul a man from the sea. Scandalous behaviour for a young lady.
Locryn snorted a laugh at that, and scrubbed his hand across his face, stubble rasping against his palm like sharkskin.
When he looked up, his darling Ned was looking at him with a wry twist on his lips. “What?” Locryn grunted, scowling and feeling oddly self-conscious for a man who could turn into a fifteen foot long eel-monster at will.
“You think so too?” Ned asked. He had a wicked rasp to his voice from the saltwater he’d recently coughed up, and Locryn’s heart clenched at the thought of a selkie of all creatures drowning in the sea.
Ned was sitting up in bed, but he looked fragile and wrung out in a way he didn’t normally. Yes, his leg was weak, and yes he was too damned skinny, especially for a selkie, but he was wiry and tough and graceful, not weak and delicate.
“Come here,” Ned chuckled when he saw the look in his lover’s eyes, and he shunted himself over on the bed, still sitting propped against the pillows.
Locryn kicked off his boots and snagged Ned’s sealskin that was draped over a chair. He watched as Ned gasped and shuddered the way he always did when Locryn touched his sealskin, falling back into the pillows with a decadent, trembling moan. Locryn ran his fingers the wrong way through the fur, making it all stand up on end, and Ned tipped his head back with a broken cry, and he gasped and heaved, smiling through it.
“Not now, love,” he whispered, chest rising and falling like the sea against the harbour wall. “Just hold me and talk to me.”
Locryn laid the sealskin reverently across his lover’s lap like a blanket and then climbed in under the covers on Ned’s right. Being close to the skin would help Ned recover faster, connecting him to the magic, and to the sea that had spared him and borne him to safety. To Nel. He eyed the bruised lump on Ned’s forehead and scowled, pressing fingers carefully to the skin around it before dropping his hand to Ned’s bad leg and caressing the muscles there until Ned moaned and leaned his slight weight against Locryn’s massive shoulder.
“You like the lass as well then?” Locryn murmured after a while.
“Mmn,” Ned hummed. He was splaying his fingers idly through the silver fur of his sealskin, playing with the patterns of light and dark in it. It had no effect on him the way it did when someone else touched it, and he was just using it to ground himself. “There’s something about her.”
“Even her name.”
Ned paused and frowned. “Eleanor?”
“Bywater.”
“By. Water,” Ned mused. “You think it means something?”
Locryn shrugged. “Maybe yes, maybe no. I think the sea has a habit of bringing things together when she wants to make a point.”
“You think she brought Nel to us?”
“I think she brought me to you,” he said, thinking back to the first time he’d laid eyes on Ned when he’d returned so recently from his convalescence in Plymouth’s Naval Hospital. He’d looked like the wraiths that haunt the very deepest parts of the sea, but Locryn had dreamed of a drowning seal for weeks before he’d met Ned. “I don’t think it means we shouldn’t be careful, but I think… I think perhaps…” Locryn broke off with a huge sigh and looked around his tiny cottage. “Ahh, is there really room for three in here?”
“I think there’s always a way to make things work,” Ned said easily enough. Nothing ever seemed to faze him. He went with the current, seeing where he was taken and what became of it. Buccas were the ones who controlled the currents though. They didn’t like to drift; they like to steer. And Locryn liked to be in control. Ned liked it when he took control too, but really, it was Ned who guided Locryn’s hand these days more often than not.
As if he’d sensed Locryn’s frustration, Ned laughed and turned quietly onto his right hip, twisting so he could reach up to touch Locryn’s face with his left hand while his right clung to Locryn’s right shoulder for balance.
“Careful,” Locryn growled at him.
Ned just kissed him, and Locryn melted into it immediately. So much for controlling the currents, he thought as he let Ned do whatever he wanted with him. His hands found Ned’s sharp hips and narrow waist, and he kissed him until he heard the sea in his ears and pulled back. Ned was smiling, and the sound faded.
“What do you want to do about it?” Locryn asked, and Ned eased himself back to a more comfortable pose, back resting against the pillows, head on Locryn’s big shoulder.
With a shrug, he said, “We could let it play out a bit. I doubt she’ll be looking to form any kind of association, let alone attachment, with two people of our station though. She is part of the gentry after all.”
Locryn’s lip curled at that. “She can talk with a tailor, surely?”
“Tailor’s assistant,” Ned corrected.
“You finished your apprenticeship. Why you put up with that overblown piece of urchin shit, Fordyce, is beyond me. You could be your own master tailor.”
“Hush. I like it well enough. If I were my own employer, I’d have to travel and sort out all the fabric and orders myself. I like things the way they are for now. Gives me more time to come and see you too, love,” he added with a hand pointedly palming over Locryn’s groin.
He groaned and grunted, and shook his head fondly. Ned didn’t persist, but it left Locryn simmering all the same. There was something about this selkie that just got to him every time he looked at him and every time Ned touched him.
“Alright. Well, there’s the Lammas Dance coming up. Maybe you can see her then; talk to her a bit.”
“You’ll come too?”
“I hate people.”
“No you don’t,” Ned laughed, and it did Locryn a world of good to hear that bright laugh again, even if it was a little raw around the edges still. “You love people. That’s why you’re always out there, rescuing them.”
“I don’t have to talk to them though.”
“Please?”
Those big, beautiful brown eyes looked up at him though, and he was finished. “Alright, I’ll be there,” he said and thunked his head back against the wooden headboard.
For a long time, they sat in silence with the sound of the sea drifting up from the shore below the cliffs until Locryn spoke again, more to himself than to the man dozing and tucked against his side.
“You think she’d dance with me?” he murmured.
Ned didn’t respond immediately, and Locryn thought he’d slipped beneath the surface of sleep until he mumbled thickly, “If you aren’t a complete ogre when you talk to her.”
“Rude whelp,” Locryn snorted. “Go to sleep.”
“I am.”
After a while, his breathing evened out into a steady, healthy cadence, but something prickled between Locryn’s shoulder blades and he shifted. The sea was calling him again. Insistently. The shift was right beneath his skin, like a shadow racing along beneath a breaching porpoise.
Locryn sighed and untangled himself from the languid body of his sleeping lover, and from the blankets wrapped around them both, and he scooped his arms under Ned’s shoulders and his knees, sliding him carefully down the bed to rest better. He slotted a rolled up blanket under Ned’s stiff right knee to support it while he lay on his back, and then placed the sealskin atop Ned’s chest to keep him warm beneath the blankets. When he stroked the flat of his palm down it to smooth the fur out, Ned let out a long, sleepy sigh, and Locryn leaned over and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
“I need to shift,” he said, rolling his shoulders and feeling the call of the sea in his blood. “There’s a fishing boat getting into trouble out in the channel.”
“Mmm. Be safe.”
“Always. You sleep, and I’ll be back before you know it.”
At the door to the cottage, he looked back over his shoulder and his heart swelled like a spring tide. The sight of Edmund, warm and safe and sleeping in his bed, would never grow old.
As Locryn made his way carefully down the narrow cliff path, he saw the places where Miss Bywater had slipped and skidded, scuffing long ruts in the sandy path from the haste of her descent, and he couldn’t help but admire a young woman who would throw herself along so recklessly, risking injury to herself and a near drowning besides, to rescue someone she didn’t know.
His feet stopped just as the sea prickled again up his spine like a cold winter wave.
“The sea didn’t warn me about Ned,” he breathed, staring at the rolling waves in the cove below as the realisation struck him like a stray breaker. “You didn’t warn me?” he accused the empty, rolling ocean.
Did that mean Ned had never been in real danger despite what it had looked like, or that the sea had chosen to call someone else? Was there magic here or was it all coincidence?
Kicking his feet into motion, he pulled his shirt off roughly over his head and bit back an animal growl. He slouched down the remainder of the path and across the short stretch of exposed sand before dumping his shirt on a rock that the sea never touched. He stripped his trousers, socks and boots off too, and stepped naked into the waves. The water was cold, but to him it was as welcome as Ned’s chilly fingers on his skin.
The water lapped around his ankles and sloshed up his thighs as he strode into the sea, and in the soft, liminal space between sand and open sea, he let the shift take him.
He thrashed in the water, sending up a spray of foaming sea as his legs fused and the magic took over that bound him to the sea as surely as the sea was bound to the moon.
Out there in the channel, a small skiff had been sucked off-course by a stray current and was drifting helplessly despite the efforts of the exhausted men at the oars and tiller. With a thrash of his own oar-like tail and a gesture of his clawed hands, he twisted a new current to take the little boat back to Polgarrack and waited until the men called out with joy and slumped while the boat bobbed away towards the distant harbour.
There amid the kelp, and with the fishermen heading confidently in the right direction, Locryn twisted like a ribbon in the breeze and dove downwards. Water passed through his gills and rolled across his tongue, and he tasted salt.
Whenever he tasted salt like that on his tongue, it meant a change in the currents. Sometimes the sea’s currents would drift and wander and drift back again, and sometimes it was a change that stuck forever.
He had no idea which one lay on the horizon, but whatever it brought, he and Ned would face it together.
That was one thing that would never change.
___
I tripped and fell and wrote 2k words because people are nice and engagement with stories is life. Thank you! I hope you liked it.
[full story here: Part One (sfw), Part Two (sfw), Part Three (sfw), Part Four (sfw), Part Five (sfw), Part Six (sfw), Part Seven (sfw)]
| Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar)
#laces for a lady#BONUS CHAPTER#selkie#selkie x bucca#polyamory#18th century#18th century romance#shifter romance#exophilia
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The Call
(read on AO3)
Rodney gets the call at three in the afternoon on a Tuesday, the phone on his lab desk trilling to life and interrupting his train of thought.
“I swear I’m just going to unplug this thing and make them get me a secretary,” he grumbles—one of the worst things about being back on Earth, working at Area 51 again while various world governments argue about the future of his city, is that he’s so much more reachable now. People who want something from Dr. Rodney McKay no longer have to know someone who knows someone who knows someone at SGC and can get a message into the Atlantis databurst; now every idiot with a minor security clearance can look up Rodney’s goddamn phone number.
“What?” He barks into the phone, scribbling down notations with his other hand.
“Dr. Rodney McKay?” says the voice on the other end, unfamiliar and female.
“Yes, what do you want?”
“I’m calling from Penrose Hospital in Colorado Springs—“
Rodney’s stomach churns at the word “hospital,” and when she says “Colorado Springs” he interrupts, chest tight.
“John? It’s John, isn’t it, he—“
The doctor—or nurse, or receptionist, Rodney’s not listening and frankly doesn’t care, because he’s waving down one of the grunts from the hallway and shouting that he needs to get to Colorado Springs now, is the Daedalus in orbit, or the Hammond?—is saying “yes, Mr. Sheppard indicated you as his next of kin, and…”
About fourteen responses flash through Rodney’s mind then, starting with “It’s Colonel Sheppard,” taking a detour at “I’m his next of kin!?” followed by “Of course I’m his next of kin,” and finally finishing on the important question, which he verbalizes: “Is he alive?”
“Yes,” the woman answers quickly, and Rodney lets out a breath, “he arrived in critical condition, however—“
“I’ll be there in…” Rodney says, snapping his fingers at the frightened Marine he’d flagged down, “fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”
And then Rodney hangs up the phone and gets on the radio to harangue whoever’s high up enough to make sure he keeps his word; and through a combination of threats, favor-calling, and good old-fashioned shouting, he finds himself running into the ER waiting room at Penrose Hospital.
The whole rigamarole leaves him with only about three uninterrupted minutes to think, during which he works himself into a pretty impressive spiral about what the hell John had gotten himself into—he was supposed to be on leave, for fuck’s sake, and as soon as Rodney’s certain he’s alive he’s going to kill him for making him worry like this.
The anger floods out of him, though, when he’s brought to the little curtained-off area where John is lying in a hospital bed, looking small and exhausted against the stark white sheets.
”Sheppard,” Rodney breathes out, heart hammering in his chest as he crosses the floor and throws himself onto the tiny stool next to the bed. “John.”
John looks wrecked, in a way that’s not wholly unfamiliar to Rodney: there’s gauze and tape across his nose and one cheek, remnants of blood flecked up into his hairline, and the arm that’s laid out over the blanket, IV tucked into the crook of the elbow, is marred by a series of contusions.
Rodney stares, rapt and anxious, as John blinks his eyes open, focusing on Rodney and giving him a dopey little smile.
“You came,” he says, voice soft and raspy.
“Yes, I’m looking forward to the lecture I’ll get from some uniform on not misusing important SGC resources, but what the hell did you expect, that I wouldn’t?”
Rodney wrings his hands, wanting to reach out and touch, reassure himself that John’s alive, heart beating.
There’s another long, slow blink—like the way that cats show affection, Rodney thinks, half-hysterically—and then John tilts his head, thoughtful.
“You beamed in?”
Rodney rolls his eyes. “Yes, keep up please? How else was I supposed to get here fast enough?”
John grins at him, white teeth and little spray of wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, and Rodney wants to strangle him, Rodney wants to kiss him, Rodney wants to wrap him up in fucking bubble wrap and lock him away somewhere safe.
“What the hell happened, Sheppard?”
John looks away, fiddling with the edge of the sheets, and Rodney suddenly knows this injury is the result of some sort of ridiculous extreme sporting endeavor.
“Well, I was on my skateboard…”
“I’m going to kill you,” Rodney growls, furious fondness fluttering in his stomach. “Did you break any bones? You’re not getting any younger, you know?” He breaks his self-imposed rule of not touching then, palpating across the expanse of John’s body, half self-soothing and half an attempt to catalog the damage. “You obviously hit your head, which, well, I don’t think I need to remind you just how many head injuries you’ve sustained already—or maybe I do, maybe the brain damage has already set in and that’s why you’ve done something so reckless, so idiotic that—“
Quicker than Rodney would expect from a man drugged to the gills on pain meds, John’s hand comes up, fingers tangling with Rodney’s and squeezing, hard.
“Hey, Rodney?” John says, and Rodney raises an eyebrow, waiting.
“‘M glad you came.”
Rodney flattens his mouth, looks down at their joined hands, and shrugs. “I’ll always come, you know that.”
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Last Monday of the Week 2023-05-08
oh right the fuckin mondaypost
I moved to another country hold on lemme get this. It's not a good one I've been distracted.
Listening: used the last of my iPod's charge to carry me through two flights, I'm formally recommending the entire album Sound of Silver by LCD Soundsystem.
youtube
S-tier album: North American Scum, Someone Great, Sound of Silver, New York I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down, and All My Friends.
I forgot to pack my 30-pin iPod cable so until I get one of those I'm stuck with my phone or my stack of hard drives I pulled from my desktop.
Watching: Absolutely nothing.
Reading: Nothing either
Playing: Nope.
Making: Absolutely not.
Tools and Equipment: You can buy these vacuum bag things that are ostensibly intended to help you save space in your cupboards when packing blankets and towels and stuff away. They're good at that, they're also good at massively compressing big fluffy stuff for flying. We condensed the entire queen-size Penrose quilt to the point where it fit in hand baggage with room to fit clothes on top.
They use a normal household vacuum cleaner for the suction.
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3 thoughts only:
1. Milfs staring at sergei fedorov in the pool
2. Penrose patchwork blanket
3. Need to run the dishwasher
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📷 Katheryn Winnick
Name: Constance Nelly Wayne
Fc: Katheryn Winnick
Family: Brigadier General Anthony "Mad Dog" Wayne, Mary Penrose, Elder sister Margaretta and Elder brother Isaac
Place of Birth: Pennsylvania
Gender: Cis Female
Pronouns: She/her
Sexuality: Straight
Personality: Quiet, tenacious, and diplomatic until provoked. Her fuse may be decently long, but when it is finally burnt out, it tends to be explosive. She tends to favor her father in facial features.
Backstory: Was summoned to travel with the Pennsylvania militia when the British took control of Philadelphia. Adjusting to camp life, especially in Valley Forge, was super difficult as it is far harder than living in a stable, safe abode.
Admittedly, when they fled their home for camp she had anticipated far better living conditions. She found herself angered when a soldier she had grown fond of froze to death because there was a lack of sufficient clothing, blankets, and shelters. Plus with deadly pestilences like influenza, typhus, typhoid, and dysentery it was NOT a wonderful time.
Constance really struggles with her father's SUPER imposing reputation and shadow. Even more so, Constance finds herself suffering extreme anxiety every time her father leaves for battle given how few and far between victories are.
#Constance Wayne#NPC#don't tempt me to start gaining more muses XDDa#answered ask#backedagainstthewall
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— Colorado Springs, CO —
Two in the morning - the side of the highway.
Her ribs were screaming, if they actually could - that would be how bad the pain was from being stomped on three times by the fugitive she had come to Colorado to catch. Bruising was definitely already formed, even under the vest she could tell -- and here she was ... lying across the back seat of her rental in agony. The last bit of her strength had been used to crawl into the car so she didn't end up run over when traffic picked up again. That was a few hours from now when people were leaving their homes for work … … and by the time she was found? Lourdes could easily be a goner … or slipped into a coma from the pain and the cold that was seeping into her bones from not turning the rental's heat on. Or grabbing the emergency thermal blankets she had bought that were in the trunk.
— You know what else was in the trunk? Flares, and a flare gun. She H A D T O get up. Gritting her teeth and muffling a pained scream through them, harsh breath puffed out like a bull ready to charge as she sat up. Slowly sliding across the back seat through the open door and keeping one arm wrapped around her ribs, certain that a few of them were at least fractured or completely broken. Staggering as she leaned against the side of the rental, Lourdes pressed the button on the key fob that unlocked the trunk and heard it pop open just as she rounded the tail light and almost fell in as a last resort. Shaking from both the cold and the blinding pain, she dropped a flare a few times back in the trunk before sliding it in properly and shooting it up into the air. "... One more just in case," She whispered out before firing another flare up into the night sky. Picking up both of the road flares, she walked as slowly as she could away from the trunk. Removing the cap from the end of the flare in order to strike it like a match, before dropping it on the road at least two feet from the driver's side of the vehicle. The pain was too much for her now, dropping the second flare under the car while staggering back to the trunk and tipping over the edge in a very ungraceful manner.
Lourdes did her best to open up one of the emergency thermal blankets, gritting her teeth and breathing harshly as she wrapped it around her … before the pain caused her to pass out.
— TWO DAYS LATER // Centura Penrose Hospital —
The steady beeping of the heart monitor and the pain medication wearing off is what caused Lourdes to slowly wake up. The nurse had just walked in to check on her and almost jumped out of her skin, " LYDIA ! LYDIA ! PAGE THE DOCTOR ! SHE'S AWAKE ! I'll get you some ice chips, there's some state cops who want to speak with you. " Without so much as another word, the nurse raced off as the other nurse behind the desk was paging the doctor who was in charge of Lourdes' care. Feeling around blindly on either side of the bed, she tested the rail buttons in order to ease herself into an upright position when the nurse and two state patrol officers came walking into the room. The nurse brought over the cup with the ice slivers and fed them carefully to her with a spoon. God, her throat was so dry and scratchy – she'd kill for some tea with lots of honey right now. These ice chips would do though.
" Ms. Rasmussen, we're certain you are fuzzy on the details of how you got here — a good citizen of this city saw both your flares and called it in. We arrived moments later and rushed you here. We returned to the scene to check the vehicle and found your bounty hunter's license and the file you have … on the fugitive you're chasing down for the lovely state of South Carolina. " One of the cops said while she was carefully sucking down the ice chips. " … I regret to inform you that your fugitive is still on the loose … and has murdered three more people. He is now … a serial killer – as his body count is more than three. "
Lourdes swallowed deeply, "... I need to get out of here. Right now. He is HUNTING down the son of the first couple…" She coughed hard and her throat was stinging like multiple wasps had stung her. ".... Because that kid is his legal son…" Breathing shakily, she rested her head back and took the cup gently from the nurse as the doctor walked in. "'ey 'oc — 'ad 'ews 'irst?" She said faintly while shoveling a few more ice chips into her mouth. The nurse looking towards the doctor as the two state cops moved into the hallway to radio dispatch.
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Knit Me Baby One More Time
This week’s @wackydrabbles 100 Week Challenge really spoke to me:
What wacky habit, hobby, or interest does your MC or favorite character have? You have 500 words to tell us about it! Bonus prize: @sirbeepsalot will try their hardest to make an edit of our favorite one!
This is based off of current, real life events. I recently went through a once a week pregnancy announcement period, I now have 3 blankets to complete by like September. It seems pretty daunting for me and my ‘I don’t actually have a life’ schedule, so I can only imagine how hard it would be for the literal Queen of a country to make time for it.
Word Count: 485
Warnings: Suggestive talk and lemony innuendo.
No pre-readers, so it is what it is. Enjoy it or don’t. I couldn’t care less, I have to get back to knitting.
Liam’s eyes fluttered open, he reached to his left to pull his wife into his arms, but the bed was empty next to him. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand to check the time, 3AM. Confusion, and a touch of concern washed over him as he got out of the bed in search of Riley.
Upon entering the dimly lit sitting area, he saw her sitting on the couch looking down in deep concentration. “Riley?”
“Hey Liam.” She spoke as she continued moving her fingers at a furious pace.
“Love, what are you doing up so late?” Liam approached and sat down next to her.
“Knitting, duh.” She held up her work briefly, to illustrate her point.
“But why are you knitting at 3AM?”
“Because none of my friends can keep it in their pants.” Liam chuckled slightly, waiting for her to continue. “I feel like the only news I’m getting from my friends back home is that they are all pregnant. I have to make three of these in the next 4 months.”
“Why don’t you just buy them blankets? It would save you so much time.”
That statement is what got Riley to stop working, she lowered her work in progress and looked up at her husband in disbelief. “Because I love to knit, and I never have anyone to knit for. Chance is going to run away if I make one more Corgi sweater, and Olivia has made it very clear that she has plenty of hats, scarves, and mittens to make it through the Lythikos cold. I have people to make things for now, I’m not going to just go out and buy them something.” She replied incredulously, before returning to her work.
Liam began placing soft kisses on her shoulder, trailing toward her neck. “Love, why don’t you put that down for tonight so we can go try to make a baby ourselves?”
“For what? Just so I can add another blanket project to the list?” She continued to focus on what she was doing.
“No, so that I can do that thing that makes you scream my name.” He continued to kiss her neck as one of his hands slowly started making its way up her thigh, he smiled into her neck as he noticed her hands starting to slow down.
“I mean, first babies are notorious for being late. I probably do have a little more time than I’m giving myself.”
“Mmhmm” Liam groaned before taking her earlobe in between his teeth and tugging gently.
With that, Riley threw her project onto the coffee table and turned to Liam, straddling his lap. “Ok, I’m done for tonight.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply. He stood from the couch, lifting her with him, her legs wrapped around his waist, and he placed his hands on her backside as he rushed into the bedroom.
Permatag:
@anjanettexcordonia @athena-penrose @bbrandy2002 @chemist-ana @choiceskatie @cordonia-gothqueen @cordoniaqueensworld @emkay512 @gabesmommie1130 @gkittylove99 @hopelessromanticmonie @iaminlovewithtrr @jessiembruno @kat-tia801 @khoicesbyk @kingliam2019 @lucy-268 @marshmallowsaremyfavorite @mile9213 @mom2000aggie @pixie88 @queenrileyrose @secretaryunpaid @sweatyrysconnoisseur @tessa-liam @theroyalheirshadowhunter @twinkleallnight @txemrn
One Shots:
@bebepac @darley1101
Liam x Riley:
@jared2612
Liam:
@amandablink @yourmajesty09
#wacky drabbles#choices#choices stories you play#pixelberry#trr#trh#trr/trh#choices trr#choices trh#liam x riley#liam x mc#trr fandom#trh fandom#trr fanfic#trh fanfic#the royal romance#the royal heir
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5 Creative Manipulation Images From Different Artists.
25th January 2021
Elizabeth Lee Miller - Dead Nazi Soilder
Elizabeth Lee Miller/ Lady Penrose was an American photojournalist of World War II, she was also a fashion model in New York City during the 1920s, she then located to paris where she then became a fine art photographer.
During the war she was a correspondant for Vogue, she covered on events such as the London Blitz, the Battle of Paris and the Conscentration Camps in Buchenwald and Dachau.
What i like most about this image is the effect the ripples have on the soiler face as he is floating in the water it makes the photograph look almost like a surrealist painting.
https://medium.com/the-collector/lee-miller-a-woman-who-took-60-000-wwii-photographs-and-also-bathed-in-hitlers-tub-the-day-he-b7f04f07c137
Kyle Thompson - Burning Head/Self Portrait
Kyle Thompson is a American self portrait photographer from Chicago, Illnios. He is best known for photographic work in conceptual surrealism photography and self portraiture
I like this image because of how it has been digitally manipulated to make it look like the blanket tied to the head is on fire, i think it communicates the themes of anxiety, depression, mental torture and that the world is a dark and cold place.
https://fstoppers.com/video/surreal-self-portraits-kyle-thompson-4893
Man Ray - Half Beard/Self Portrait
Man Ray was an American surrealist photographer who spent the majority of his photographic career living in Paris, he was also a photographer who was part of the Dada movement as well as the Surrealism movement. He also worked with a verity of media but he mostly considered himself as a painter.
His photography work was mostly Fashion and Portrature based, he was also known for his work with Photograms which he called “Rayographs” which was a reference to himself.
I chose this image because it looks like we could be seeing two different sides to Man Ray which could be both light and dark i think that his bearded side makes him look more sinister.
It communicates themes of light, dark, good and evil.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Ray
https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/336151559658298884/
Dora Maar - Self Portrait
Henriette Theodora Markovitch aka Dora Maar was a french photographer, painter and poet, Dora Marr was the subject for many paintings by Pablo Picasso she was also a romantic intrest for Picasso.
Dora Marr began taking photographs in the early 1920s using a Rolleiflex Camera while on a cargo ship which was going to the Cape Verde Islands.
Her paintings remained unrecognised up untill the late 1990s when they were put up for sale
This is a self portrait taken by Man Ray in 1936 i think it explores the themes of beauty and inner self.
https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-surrealist-photographer-picassos-muse
This is double exposed self portrait by Dora Maar in 1936. The double exposue makes the photograph itself look very much like a surealism painting.
https://www.artsy.net/artwork/dora-maar-untitled-double-exposed-portrait
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dora_Maar
Brassai - Graffiti
Brassai was a french born hungarian photographer, sculptor, medalist, writer and filmmaker. He was one of the hungarian artists whose carrer developed in paris during the time between world wars I and II.
This is a photograph taken from Brassai’s Graffitti series which were taken between the 1930s and 1960s.
This image is of a face carved onto the branch of a tree like the simplicity of this image and the lighting, the carvings were not created by Brassai, they were objects/carvings which he came across and there were many graffiti carvings on walls and trees, he would often seperate one singular carving and photograph it up close, emphasising its detail by photographing each individual carving up close this allowed him to make them appear more abstract.
https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artists/brassai-11259
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brassa%C3%AF
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So this is the next little part of that earlier George Warleggan fic in that Dwight rescues him from the asylum AU - because it’s a thing I keep adding onto and I figured I would post some of it for y’all to enjoy. Also enjoy some Caroline/Horace content because this is my AU fic and I make the rules 😤 Going to tag @ticketybooser , @forcebros , and @upstartpoodle because y’all are all wonderful! (And might get something out of this, who knows). Leaving under the cut for angst + length!
Dwight was sure to sit on the same side as George in the carriage, the one that moved in a forward facing direction. The last thing he needed was to feel more disoriented than he already was. George leaned his head on the side of the car, his eyes looking out of the window without much focus. The midday light reflected in his pale eyes. Dwight sat with an impatient air, rolling his ankle around, then switching to the other and repeating the motion. The sooner they could get George off the road, the better.
Dwight’s patient looked nothing like his former self, almost to the point of him becoming unrecognizable. He appeared more like a poor, working miner than a former member of Parliament or one about to be given a knighthood. His coat was tattered and worn, and whatever could be seen of his shirt underneath was also in rough condition. Dwight himself was wearing what he had been wearing the day before when he had taken George out of the hospital, and was looking tired. A little worse for the wear, but not as bad as George had been. The night before had been long for the both of them.
It was what made Caroline feel all the more out of place as she sat on the other side of the carriage. Even as she wore what she felt to be a rather modest gown for the journey, there was an air of awkwardness about it. She had decided to come along for the sake of the occasion appearing as a normal outing rather than a discreet attempt to return a former asylum patient back to his family. If a passerby saw her from the carriage window, there was no reason to question. Dwight had reluctantly agreed, knowing that her presence would probably help in the long run, but he could feel how distanced George was from them.
Perhaps it was Horace in her arms that made it even worse. A young heiress holding her little dog as she sat across the most wretched looking soul she had ever laid eyes upon - quite the image. Horace had been quiet for most of the trip, occasionally sustaining a low growl when George shifted a little. The dog had scared George, with its beady eyes and barking. The sharp noises were like being beaten. With every sound, George shrank further back into himself. At every turn of his head, he feared Penrose. It produced an odd stiffness in him. However, he soon forced himself to tolerate the presence of the creature. Fear would be punished- a phrase his aching bones knew by heart.
“We’ll stop at Killewarren and stay the night,” Dwight said softly, both to Caroline and to George. “George needs a break from travel and I will need to pack for a stay at Trenwith,”
“You’re staying at Trenwith?” Caroline questioned.
Dwight said nothing, only gave her a look that prompted her to look once again at George. She then gave her husband a slight nod before turning her head to gaze out of the window.
George took the opportunity to study her in her moment of distraction. He slowly turned wild blue eyes over towards her, deciding that he liked her dress, which was a light blue with cream colored floral patterns. It was the kind of dress Elizabeth would like. All too quickly, however, his eyes met with the black, shaking marbles of Horace’s eyes. The dog let out a sharp bark and George nearly jumped out of his own skin.
“Horace!” Caroline turned back to the dog, shushing him, though he continued to growl.
George said nothing, and it was almost as if he had forgotten how to speak. The only words he could readily remember were ‘no’, ‘please’, ‘don’t’, and ‘help’. Other words came out by chance, but those four he knew with a quick and ready mind. There was Elizabeth of course. He would never forget her name, but he found he could no longer speak to her as he once had. Whatever he did say was far too incoherent. Now, as he stared at this woman’s dog, he found that he could name neither. She looked familiar, but he made no attempt to try and figure out who she really was. It exhausted his brain to think. Even the doctor who had taken him from that prison seemed unfamiliar. George had overheard enough to guess that he was ‘Enys’, and he left it at that.
Now, he was frustrated that he couldn’t speak, that he couldn’t express his fears about the dog in front of him.
“Give him to me,” Dwight said, noticing that George was near panicking. George kept his eyes on Horace until the dog had settled in Dwight’s arms facing the opposite window. At last, he let go of his vigilance with a ragged exhale.
“I’m sorry,” Caroline said, looking at George as she said it, her eyes deep and tender. “He’s only not used to you yet, you see. Horace can be a fickle dog. You mustn’t take his barking to heart,”
“Yes,” Dwight said, a note of bitter sarcasm in his voice as he scratched the dog behind the ears. “Because he is spoiled, no doubt,”
George blinked, slowly recognizing the words. It was the first time he had heard an apology in years. A real one.
He took another ragged breath, and as if a light had flickered in his brain, he remembered another string of words.
“It’s alright,” George could barely get the phrase out. But he said the words as an acknowledgment. Forgiveness. Not as a phrase to falsely soothe, or to order into submission. The words were kind. More words came together. A name. “Caroline,”.
She smiled without showing any teeth, a slight upturn of the lips more than anything, sad, sympathetic. George then realized how exhausted he was, even though he had only been sitting in a carriage. His whole body ached and his eyelids felt exceedingly heavy. It might have embarrassed him some years ago when he was a prideful man, but now he could not find the strength to worry. There was still a desire in him to stay awake, for vigilance sake. The people in the carriage with him were kind, he knew. He had nearly forgotten that kind people exist. Still, a threat loomed in the shadows of his mind.
When George was next conscious, the carriage was pulling up to Killewarren. It was nearly dusk. The winter sky blended in blues, pinks, oranges, all frosted over by the cold air and incoming night.
George had fallen asleep, and as he had awoken he noticed that the doctor’s coat had been draped over his small frame like a blanket. As for Dwight, he truly did not mind being so cold as they rode, so long as George was kept warm and comfortable.
The carriage finally came to an abrupt halt, jerking George into an alert state. It had been like that at the institution. Sometimes he lapsed in and out of consciousness so that when he woke, he had little knowledge of where he was or how much time had passed since he was asleep. After a while, it no longer mattered. It was always night. It was always Hell.
“Come on, George,” Dwight began, calm as he rose a little from his seat next to George. Before the wish for him to move could be addressed, George’s eyes snapped in wild motions, scanning and searching for the dog. Horace was again in Caroline’s arms, barking and letting out short little howls. As the door opened, George carefully began to slide out of the car, though found himself to be shaky. He wasn’t watching where he was placing his footing, for the entirety of his attention was on that dog. George was pulled back the instant before he might have fallen, Dwight’s arms wrapped around his chest from behind.
“Here,” Dwight let go of George with a slow and gentle motion. “I will get out first,”
George let a new panic surge through him. He began to tremble, for he did not like the rough touching around his chest. Slowly, he turned his head to look down at the less than comfortable looking distance between the carriage and the ground. He tried to steady his breathing. This man had saved him from falling out of the car. It was a labored process of thought. Again, his mind could think of no words to speak, which only agitated it more.
Once Dwight was on the ground, he extended a hand to his wife. She took it as she made her short way down the steps, more as a sign of her affection rather than means of assistance. When their hands met so did their eyes, and they gave one another a reassuring nod. This next phase of their lives would not be easy, but it was the right thing to do.
Caroline made her way into the house, Horace in her arms. Even with her companion, even with her husband at the house for the night, she could not deny a feeling of loneliness brewing in her heart. She knew that he would not come to bed with her tonight. He would not converse with her at length like they would when they were younger and had come home again. At the same time, perhaps the ache in her heart was for George Warleggan. Despite his cruelty in a past life, he did not deserve to be brought to this. No one did. She turned her head back again over her shoulder to see Dwight helping George get out of the carriage, the former nearly having to carry his patient. The latter’s legs were unsteady, his gaze distracted. She turned away. If Elizabeth could somehow see just how her husband looked now, it would break her heart. It broke her’s, and she knew, most of all, it broke Dwight’s.
#legit how i write tumblr fics: just one long continuous notes app page that I copy/paste from#it’s bad how long it is#brotp: i was there#poldark fic#poldark au#poldark s5#(or something like it hehehe)#i’ve got more to add onto this#which i will do eventually#hehehe
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2023 crafting & creativity round-up
2023 was a very low output year for me in terms of number of finished projects, but that's partly because of the sheer size of the projects I worked on.
I finished a cotton top for myself that I have yet to photograph or wear, the Ballson tee (in silver grey mercerised Egyptian cotton with turquoise green lace trim). Perhaps that can be a treat for myself in the new year.
Then I kept working on a blanket for myself, an octagon and mitred square patchwork modular knit that's about halfway through.
I'm using the 'Tree of Life' octagon from the Contexta blanket expansion pack, along with a simple mitred square.
But it got parked because next was a baby blanket for a colleague... except that I have a terrible tendency to get a bit oversized when it comes to blankets, and the baby blanket turned into a double-sized bedspread 😅 Thankfully the colleague loves it! And hopefully bub will get years of use out of it.
I used the Cartesian Blanket pattern, with a modified Thompson blanket applied border.
Then I tried to knit a shawl for myself, which has now been frogged multiple times. First I nearly completed the Fortune Cookie shawl... but had chosen a lovely nude pink, and the cookies looked, well, decidedly anatomical. Oops 😅
(It’s a gorgeous and really well-written pattern that I definitely want to make at some point... in a yarn that isn't flesh-toned...)
Then I frogged and began using the same yarn in an adapted top-down triangle version of the Orange Tulip shawl, but had bought yarn from two separate colourways and the difference is obvious enough that I needed to frog back a third of the shawl and by that time I was just too grumpy with the whole thing, so I parked it in the naughty corner.
And now I'm about one-quarter to one-third of the way through another modular patchwork blanket, this time the Penrose blanket for my sister, as a couch throw. I'm aiming to finish that for her birthday at the start of March!
But while my knitting accomplishments might feel a bit underwhelming, I have also:
Written over 1,300 pages in daily long-form journalling
Helped care for my father (now in a care home with rapidly deteriorating dementia)
Unofficially officiated my sister's third, final and largest wedding ceremony (she and her husband had one unofficial in Ireland with his family, the official one here at the marriage registry, then a final unofficial one) and helped her celebrate a magical day with her husband
Managed my ageing cat's increasing kidney and digestive problems and brought her back to a happy and stable state of health
Kept up my job, balanced budgets, paid my bills and generally managed the various tedious parts of adulthood when living alone
Managed my own health scares and issues and even took some steps towards general improvement of fitness and physical activity
So all in all, I think I've achieved a lot this year!
And I'm looking forward to the crafting and creativity of my year to come!
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Evens for the WIP meme ask? Thank you! ❤️
Hi, thanks for the ask! Since the number of WIPs I have are well into double figures, I’ll probably just choose a bunch of random ones for these out of the ones I’ve got on my computer.
2. Post a line from your WIP without context.
Once they had returned home, he had wanted nothing more than to head up to his room and hide, but his uncle’s iron grip on his upper arm pulling him into the drawing room had thwarted that wish. He hadn’t dared fight against the man. Uncle Cary had made it quite clear upon his arrival back from school that he expected to be obeyed in all matters, and George knew his future was far too uncertain to risk provoking his only remaining family member with displays of defiance.
4. Describe the setting of your WIP.
Hmm, I think I’ll go for my JS&MN AU for this one, an extract of which I have posted here. So this is basically an AU set in the universe of the novel Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell--for anyone who might be unfamiliar with it, it’s a book (and a pretty decent TV adaptation) set in a regency England where magic was once frequently practised but has declined after the Raven King, a medieval magician who conquered the north of England with a fairy army, left his kingdom behind to return to Faerie. The fic is set in Poldark’s s1 timeline, so about fifteen/twenty years before the events of JS&MN canon, featuring Dwight, Ross and Francis as magicians, George as a fairy nobleman from a neighbouring Faerie kingdom, and Elizabeth as a magician’s wife whom George ends up taking an interest in.
6. Search for the word “dream” in your WIP. If you find it, paste the line and explain the context.
I haven’t been able to find it in any of the extracts I have on my computer, but I’m sure it’s probably there somewhere in one of my notebooks. Unfortunately the majority of those are in a box over three hundred miles away so I can’t really check through them ha.
8. What is your biggest challenge?
Actually getting anything finished. Honestly, it depends on the individual fic but for a long time it’s been writer’s block. My undergrad dissertation took a lot out of me and I wasn’t really in the mood for writing for a long time afterwards. S5 airing gave me a bit of a kick up the arse writing-wise though, so I’d say my biggest challenge at the moment is trying to figure out where everything goes in my super long post s5 AU where George gets shot by Hanson. At the moment I’ve just got loads and loads of random bits with only a vague idea of what order they go in and how they join up to each other, and it’s getting to be so long I just keep putting off planning it out properly. Also finishing that last chapter of The Cornish Way damn I can’t even remember when I last updated that I feel so guilty about it ha.
10. How would you describe your WIP’s narrative style?
Well, as I’ve already mentioned I have a whooole bunch of WIPs, but I always write in 3rd person (1st person grates on me, both reading and writing, for some reason--I don’t know why). I’ve got several multi-chap fics in the works, some short, some long. Most of my shorter multi-chap fics tend to alternate between Elizabeth’s POV and George’s, but my long post s5 AU will feature the majority of the characters’ POVs at some point, depending on when they’re needed, though since the fic is George-centric, his perspective is the main one. When it comes to my one-shots, they’re usually either from George or Elizabeth’s perspectives, sometimes both if it’s a particularly long one. I tend to lean towards using Elizabeth’s POV for one-shots for some reason, but there’s a fair few from George’s as well, and a couple of angsty ones told entirely from Valentine’s perspective.
12. Which character do you have the least in common with?
Since my post s5 AU includes Merceron, Hanson and Dr Penrose, I’m glad to say that I haven’t the slightest thing in common with any of those three. But if we’re talking about a main character, I’d say probably Ross. The only thing I have in common with him is a tendency to get fed up at parties ha.
14. Have you chosen birthdays for any of your characters? If so, when are they?
Not really--tbh, I’m not sure how many of them, if any, were given birthdays by WG. I tend to headcanon George’s birthday as being in October, but that’s about it.
16. What would your characters be for Hallowe’en?
Well, I’ve got a couple of WIPs set in the modern era which this could work for, but since one of them is a modern witchcraft AU (in which Elizabeth, Caroline, Demelza, Morwenna and Verity live together in Truro as a secret coven of witches, Francis is a melancholy ghost who haunts the building and they’ve never been able to exorcise, and George, their landlord’s nephew, is their baffled neighbour who only puts up with their weird shenanigans because he has a soft spot for Elizabeth), I guess that’s appropriately Hallowe’en-y ha. For that AU, I reckon Elizabeth would probably dress up as something kind of classy, like as an Ancient Greek lady or a medieval queen, something like that. Caroline would dress up as a witch, I reckon, for the sake of irony (Horace, of course, would have a complementary costume :P). Verity, I think, would make a cute angel, and one of those wood nymph/woodland fairy costumes would probably suit Demelza. Morwenna might dress up as a Hogwarts student or something like that, and Francis insists that since he is an actual, literal ghost, there’s no need for him to dress up. George, on the other hand, absolutely does not do Hallowe’en, but they still manage to drag him down from the flat upstairs, put a pair of little Devil horns on him and make him watch scary films with them. Which he hates every minute of. Absolutely. Totally.
18. What’s easier, dialogue or description?
It depends, but I generally find description easier than dialogue. When I have dialogue-heavy scenes to write, I generally write them out in my notebooks basically in script form so I can figure out where the scene is going and once that’s out of the way, I find it much easier to add all the description in around it rather than having to constantly stop to figure out what the characters are meant to be saying to each other.
20. Post a brief excerpt.
So there’s a whole load to choose from, but I’ve decided to go with this one, which is from a ghost Elizabeth AU I’ve been working on ever since the end of s4 and have been really struggling to get on with because there’s so much bloody angst in it ha :--
The days leading up to Christmas dragged slowly on, and with each long hour that passed, George found himself regretting his decision to allow their initial plans for the festivities to go ahead with ever increasing certainty. The Blameys were neither unkind nor insensitive—quite the opposite in fact; their presence seemed to restore some faint but much needed cheer to Geoffrey Charles, and the company of another boy near his own age had restored Valentine to a fraction of his usual liveliness—but he, who had never been a friend to Verity, and was not well acquainted with her husband or stepchildren, felt the constant pressure of their scrutiny, alongside the horrible awareness of his own inadequacy as their host, whenever he found himself in their company. Verity, in particular, had taken to sending him at frequent intervals, whenever she saw him decline a meal, or else stumbled across him staring up at Elizabeth’s portrait hanging above the mantelpiece in the drawing room, what he had come to refer to in his mind as Looks. Verity had always been a kind and well-meaning soul, but there was a distinct pitying quality to those Looks which he had come to both resent and despise. He could have far more easily borne it if she had scorned his conduct. Her pity, however, wounded what little care he could summon for his pride in the wake of Elizabeth’s loss—he had no need to be reminded of the wretched creature he was fast becoming every time he met her gaze.
Finally, after what seemed like an age, the morning of Christmas Eve came. It had snowed once again during the night, and upon seeing the unblemished blanket of white through the window upon waking, Valentine and young master Andrew had rushed outside, accompanied by the Blameys Senior and Junior and Geoffrey Charles, in order to enjoy it. As the young Esther, whom it had not taken George long to discover was somewhat reticent in nature, had elected to break her fast in her room, that, unfortunately, left he and Verity alone together at the dining table, save for little Ursula, who was playing quietly and contentedly with her own feet in her cradle beside his chair. At barely a few weeks old, however, she was not quite an accomplished enough conversationalist to distract Verity from engaging with him. With a barely audible sigh, George reached for a slice of toast despite his lack of appetite in a vague hope of fending off another Look which he was sure was on the verge of rearing its unwelcome head above the horizon.
“I am glad to see that the boys have regained a little of their usual cheer,” she spoke up suddenly, causing George to pause halfway towards taking a bite out of his unwanted toast; a glance her way confirmed that, despite his best efforts, he was being treated to what could only be described as a Look. “It is a terrible thing to lose one’s parent, no matter one’s age, and certainly not a burden one should face so early in life.”
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Mr. Fatal
Outside the ice started to form on the windows of the homes in Hollow, the day sky all but gone, and inside the little Holites called to their parents for a story of old to fall asleep to. The stories of Hollow seem dark to those of Earth, stories no children should hear, but are fairy tales young Holites are brought up on.
The father of twins ran his hand through his hair, trying his hardest to think of a story not heard by tiny ears tucked in bed.
“How about the story of Penrose?” The father asked with a grin.
Both the children looked at each other rolling their eyes, “No, you told that one a lot, a new one.” Before the father could make another suggestion the young boy spoke out. “We have heard, Penrose, The Window Walker, The Wanderer, The Nightmare man and his Nightmare Hounds, and the Big man.
The father scratched his head once more, trying to scrape a story from his skull.
“Ah, I know one you have not heard. I am going to tell you the story of Mr. Fatal.”
The children’s eyes lit up as the snuggled down into their bed, waiting for their next journey into Hollows past.
“It all began in Opeos, but this story is well before our town grew to such an enormous size.”
The children’s minds followed the words as they danced out of their father’s mouth, turning each one into a small piece of the mental image he was painting.
Their minds were cast back to a small rustic town in the cold southern reaches of Hollow, where but a few buildings stood within a crude wooden wall, covered in ice from the arctic winds, freezing anyone too slow to escape its frigid embrace. Inside the walls was a tavern where most would hide from the cold winds of the outside world, indulging in the comforts of the alcohol that warmed as it went in.
The only noises to be heard within where the creaks and groans of the tavern as the harsh winds rolled over it, further draining the energy and souls of all that sat and drank. Each day it would be the same, up, work, drink, sleep. There was no motivation to live a full life in Hollow, let alone the cold south where even less could be achieved. One day however on a particularly stormy night the door blew open, the candle light inside allowed a silhouette to stand in the doorway being battered by cold winds. A tall and lanky man stepped through the door closing it behind him, everyone in the bar had a hand on a weapon ready for whatever this “man” could do.
They watched as he shivered at the door holding a strange contraption in one hand and himself in the other.
“I am the, the, Fatal..ties. I am h-h-here to s-si-sing.”
No one in the bar knew what to do as the pale man shuffled his way to the front of the central fire place. He placed down his strange box and pressed a button, to everyone’s surprise music came out.
“But Daddy, why is that a surprise? We have music boxes here.”
“Back in these days no one could afford to make music, no one was willing to pay, so no music was ever made.”
The whole tavern lowered their weapons as they waited to see what was to happen next. The man tried to sing but he could barely speak, he was so cold that he could barely say a single word before collapsing unconscious.
Days past as the deathly singer laid in a spare room on dirty laundry, no one knew what to do with him or his music box. The owner of the bar had to quickly hide it away before any of the patrons tried to take it for themselves, she hastily hid it under more dirty rags and towels so no one could see it. Four days in and the stranger finally awakes to a musty dark room where he could once again feel his limbs in the damp but warm cloths he was laying in.
A small light was strung up above him giving a dim light to his room, his eyes were not fully adjusted so he laid back onto the nearly comfortable rags staring up into the ceiling. As his vision started to adjust to the room he noticed things hanging from the ceiling and surrounding shelves. Dozens of animals strung up like marionette dolls lining the walls, he stood to get a closer look but his legs would not allow him, he started to panic and shout. The more he moved and yelled the more light headed he felt, the door swung open as he begun to fall unconscious the last thing he saw being a pair of legs before he fell back into the black.
A blanket of warmth laid itself upon the singer caressing him awake. This time as his eyes opened he was in a warm room with a stone ceiling, turning his head he noticed a fire roaring only meters away, it felt like life filling his body once again. The smell of cooked meat crept into his nose as he slowly turned his head the other way, before him laid a roast meal and a tall tankard with sweet smelling cider. He started to roll his body in desperation barely able to move any of his limbs due to starvation, he managed to roll over landing his face right next to the plate where he ate the food like an animal from a bowl. He could feel the heat of the food as it travelled down his frigid body, warming his insides with every bite. He was still too tired to be able to drink the cider so he once again fell back into a sleep.
Day after day he would awake to food and drink, and with each passing day he would feel stronger and stronger till he was able to walk once again. Finally, he sat happy in front of the fire eating his meal, and sipping on the sweet fruit cider when the door to the room swung open by a woman in a tan apron.
“I see you are making a fast recovery Mr. Fatal.” she said as she started to clean her hands.
“I am thanks to you, but why are you calling me Mr. Fatal?”
“Why that is what you said as you entered my tavern, I am Mr. Fatal then you tried to sing but collapsed next to your music box. I like it, it suits you.”
“Well my name is n…” Fatal jumped from where he was sitting and started to look around the room in desperation.
“Where is my music player?”
The owner smiled as she dried her hands, “I hid it upstairs it is safe, my name is Addison by the way.”
They both smiled at each other adoringly, “Hey Addison, I mean like I ate all your food I can pay you back, I could sing in your tavern maybe, I don’t have much money so…”
“Playing in my tavern is more than fine, I look forward to it.”
“Daddy are they going to kiss like you and mommy?”
The man took a moment to grasp at rings around his neck, “Maybe, you will have to wait to see.”
They both walked out into the tavern where people were sitting in silence grasping at their drinks, Fatal walked to the centre fireplace and set down his music player for a second time. He smiled at Addison and pressed play, music started to sound from his box as he announced himself.
“I am The Fata… I am Mr. Fatal and I want to play my songs for you.”
“What was he going to say? Why did he change what he was saying?”
“He was going to say his real name, but stopped because a pretty girl said she liked his other name.”
Everyone was turned and watching as the music built up, their faces started to grin as he started to sing.”
♪♪I’m afraid that I’ll drop dead
Or I’ll die in my sleep while I’m safe in bed
Cause of death: something I did when I was ten♪♪
…”
As he sung everyone seemed to loosen up, there was finally some form of life and it was beginning to feed the souls of the poor drunk bastards within.
Mr. Fatal stayed at the tavern playing every day as well as helping with all the chores to help Addison and to pay for a bed to sleep and food to eat. Weeks went by and everything seemed to be just perfect, till one day Addison approached Fatal.
“Hey so have you found a way to make money to pay me back yet?”
Fatal was highly confused as he stared at her, “I thought my music and my chores I was doing was paying for me.”
Addison laughed, “Oh fuck no, your chores pay for a bed but why the fuck would anyone pay for music? I mean if I don’t get something of value from it, it is worthless.”
“I, I, I don’t know how I can…”
“Maybe you can pay me back in other ways.” Addison grabbed his hand and lead him downstairs, the room was warm and well lit. She laid Fatal upon the table that had clean rags covering it, slowly she started to remove his clothes, piece by piece, as each piece was removed he would swell with excitement. Smiling, Addison walked into the next room, “Let me slip into something more, comfortable.”
Fatal laid there as he could hear Addison getting changed in the next room,
“Close your eyes Mr. Fatal, I have a surprise for you.”
Fatal closed his eyes smiling in anticipation, Addison’s hands caressed Fatal’s torso as she covered him with oil. She gingerly tied his hands to the edge of the table, incapable of holding back his curiosity to the strange smelling oil, or what Addison was wearing, Fatal opened his eyes.
Addison was wearing a full apron with gloves and a mask, before he had any chance to react his feet were fastened down leaving him fully tied in place.
“Typical men always thinking with their dick, I mean the first time you did not see what was in this room I understand because you were nearly dead, but surely you should have noticed once you felt better.”
Fatal looked around the room, there were more puppets but not only of animal’s life sized dolls piled in the corners of the room. “What the fuck is this?”
Addison grinned ecstatically, “Why this is my workshop I build puppets from living things, then I sell them to rich who pass through here. This is something that makes me money, not music.”
Fatal’s face dropped unable to comprehend what was happening.
“Oh, my god I fucking love this part, you are too stupid to see what is happening, I kill people and turn them into puppets. But, but, how could you Addison, you are too sweet. Well even that is a lie my real name is not Addison it is An-Didos, the Conductor gave it to me.”
Addison started to dance around her workshop as she started to gather a plethora of tools.
“At first I had no idea why the Conductor gave me my name but then he told me what it meant and I lost my mind, literally.” She continued to cackle as her tools were placed upon a tray next to Fatal.
“It took a lot to get me here, and now I feel like going home.”
“This is your home now sweetie, unless I decide to sell you on to someone else to pay for all the food you stole, but don’t worry you will be dead soon.”
Fatal stared at the ceiling, his eyes started to fill with tears, “I don’t want to die.”
Laughter once again spilled from An-Didos, “I try and I try but I can’t help but lie, you are not going to die, I am going to use crystals to keep you alive mentally so you can watch out of your eyes for eternity as I puppet you to sing.”
An-Didos started to place crystals around and upon Fatal, then she started to cut into him. He laid back staring at the ceiling tears in full motion down his face, incapable of feeling what was happening but shifting with each cut An-Didos made.
“I feel funny in my chest, maybe I need some rest, or maybe I am dying.”
“I told you, you won’t die. You are going to be my puppet forever. Always consciousness incapable of doing or saying what you want, but your ghost will be alive stuck in your body.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Then to you, you are going to be dead.”
Hours of cutting and sewing as An-Didos made Fatal into her art. Then later that night she made a special stand for him in the tavern where she strung him up ready for the next day’s audience.
Ever since Fatal was strung up into the tavern it became more and more popular, bringing in visitors from the surrounding areas. Singing multiple songs on repeat.
“Look Mr. Fatal I guess you were right, music did bring me money. I feel pretty stupid now, guess I killed you for nothing, well I mean I don’t have to pay you so I guess I did it for something.”
An-Didos went back behind her bar and started to slam on it to get the attention of her crowded bar. “Everyone for the first time ever Mr. Fatal will be performing a new song never heard.”
Everyone cheered then hushed as the music began to play.
♪♪
Every day is the same
It’s like groundhog day
Got a feeling that I’m still living in yesterday
Everything feels strange
And it won’t go away
I’ve got a bag of my apologies I’m gonna throw away
‘Cause it’s too late
Every face is the same
I don’t know your name
Got a lovely personality, that’s what they say
Every day is the same
With each one more lame
Every time you try to speak to me i don’t know what to say
And it’s too late
Every day is the same
It’s like groundhog day
You could call me Bill Murray but I’m twice as lame
Every day is the same
And everything feels strange
Every day is the same
And everything feels strange
Every day is the same
And everything feels strange
And everything feels strange
And everything feels strange
And everything feels strange.
♪♪
The father kissed both of his kids on the head and started to leave the room.
“I love a happy ending.” His daughter said, “me too sis.”
The father smiled, turned out the light and closed the door behind him.
.
.
.
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Last Monday of the Week 2023-04-17
Mined Craft
Listening: I have had a bunch of The Longest Johns stuck in my head including Wild Mountain Thyme and John Paul Jones is a Pirate.
They've got those particular clear vocals that are just a nice sound to listen to even in absence of meaning.
Reading: Children of Time by Adrian Tchaikovsky, the one about the planet of uplifted jumping spiders. Love every minute I get to spend with the current generation of Portia, a book that uses the phrase "girls will be girls" to describe female spiders descending into the slums to hunt males in their teenage years. Perfect book no notes.
Watching: Half-watched and did not quite finish The Grand Budapest Hotel, because the power cut a few minutes from the end. It's a Wes Anderson show alright, that style is so endearing. I watched it last when it came out and I had more or less forgotten the plot, I especially forgot that the bulk of the plot occurs like four framing devices deep.
Playing: Minecraft 1.19. As previously mentioned I used the Oracle Cloud free tier to host a 1.19.4 server and I'm now screwing around in there. Only one other person thus far has taken me up on the offer to use it, so if you're reading this feel free to hit me up so I can add you to the whitelist.
I've been watching the Loading Ready Run Minecraft Through The Ages season these past few months, where they spend an episode or two in each version of Minecraft since 1.0.
youtube
Really fun to watch, and it's made me want to build a few farms to feed more endgame equipment than I usually get to. Normally I scrabble together a handful of diamond and barely touch "endgame" gear, so it'll be fun to do and besides, 1.18+ really strongly encourages enchanting and repairing as a core game mechanic.
Also now that I'm no longer quilting I need something to do with my hands while I listen to podcasts.
Making: Embroidering patches for the penrose quilt: start and end dates, a maker's mark, and a song lyric, in the tradition of the other quilts my mother has made in the past. Still in progress, again due to power outages, blanket stitch is finicky enough when you can see what you're doing clearly.
Tools and Equipment: In the event that you have used superglue as threadlocker, you can weaken the superglue with heat if you ever need to separate those parts again.
I had to fix a door bolt where the screw holding the bolt to the handle mechanism had backed right the hell out over the past few months and fallen apart inside the mechanism. I glued the bolt back onto the screw with normal superglue as threadlocker, only to realize the next day that I had not put the spring that holds the bolt in position back correctly, so I had to hit the bolt with my lighter until the glue liquefied so that I could disassemble the thing.
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Whenever I think of great friendships in ASOIAF I forget Davos and Salladhor Saan. Their exchange in Davos II of ASOS is evidence of what good friends they are.
When he saw Davos he stopped suddenly. “Is it pepper stinging my eyes, or tears? Is this the knight of the onions who stands before me? No, how can it be, my dear friend Davos died on the burning river, all agree. Why has he come to haunt me?”
“I am no ghost, Salla.”
“What else? My onion knight was never so thin or so pale as you.” Salladhor Saan threaded his way between the jars of spice and bolts of cloth that filled the hold of the merchanter, wrapped Davos in a fierce embrace, then kissed him once on each cheek and a third time on his forehead.
“You are still warm, ser, and I feel your heart thumpetythumping. Can it be true? The sea that swallowed you has spit you up again.”
Salla is truly happy to see that Davos lives, so happy that he intends to give a reward to the captain who saved Davos.
“I swam beneath the chain and washed ashore on a spear of the merling king. I would have died there, if Shayala’s Dance had not come upon me.”
Salladhor Saan threw an arm around the captain’s shoulders. “This was well done, Khorane. You will be having a fine reward, I am thinking. Meizo Mahr, be a good eunuch and take my friend Davos to the owner’s cabin.
Fetch him some hot wine with cloves, I am misliking the sound of that cough. Squeeze some lime in it as well. And bring white cheese and a bowl of those cracked green olives we counted earlier! Davos, I will join you soon, once I have bespoken our good captain. You will be forgiving me, I know. Do not eat all the olives, or I must be cross with you!”
He’s also worried also about Davos’ health, as a friend should be. Davos is alive, but he’s still very unwell.
Salladhor Saan appeared not long after. “You must be forgiving me for the wine, my friend. These Pentoshi would drink their own water if it were purple.”
“It will help my chest,” said Davos. “Hot wine is better than a compress, my mother used to say.”
“You shall be needing compresses as well, I am thinking. Sitting on a spear all this long time, oh my.”
Salla’s concern is in stark contrast with those who look down their noses at Davos. Salla knows Davos, but not just as a pirate knows a smuggler. He knows what Davos cares about most, what’s important to him, like his fingerbones. Salla values Davos, because unlike many of the highborn who are preoccupied with birth and see Davos as being umpjumped, Salla sees Davos as a person with excellent qualities and skills.
He gave Davos a sharp look. “You are unwell, my friend. That cough... and so thin, I am seeing your bones through your skin. And yet I am not seeing your little bag of fingerbones...”
Old habit made Davos reach for the leather pouch that was no longer there. “I lost it in the river.” My luck.
“The river was terrible,” Salladhor Saan said solemnly. “Even from the bay, I was seeing, and shuddering.”
Salla is the one who breaks the news to Davos, confirming the deaths of his older sons, but the survival of Devan. The good news is important to Davos, and Salla knows this.
“The Mother is merciful. I must go to him, Salla. I must see him.”
“Yes,” said Salladhor Saan. “And you will be wanting to sail to Cape Wrath, I know, to see your wife and your two little ones. You must be having a new ship, I am thinking.”
“His Grace will give me a ship,” said Davos.
The Lyseni shook his head. “Of ships, His Grace has none, and Salladhor Saan has many. The king’s ships burned up on the river, but not mine. You shall have one, old friend. You will sail for me, yes? You will dance into Braavos and Myr and Volantis in the black of night, all unseen, and dance out again with silks and spices. We will be having fat purses, yes.”
He’s even offering Davos a ship, so that he can see Marya and his other children. Salla is also offering Davos another option, success rather than failure, because Davos was an excellent smuggler. But Davos won’t go backwards, and he won’t turn away from Stannis, his king, even though he’s really not well enough to be serving anybody.
A sudden racking cough bent Davos over. Salladhor Saan moved to help him, but he waved him off, and after a moment he recovered. “No one?” he wheezed. “What do you mean, he sees no one?” His voice sounded wet and thick, even in his own ears, and for a moment the cabin swam dizzily around him.
“No one but her,” said Salladhor Saan, and Davos did not have to ask who he meant. “My friend, you tire yourself. It is a bed you are needing, not Salladhor Saan. A bed and many blankets, with a hot compress for your chest and more wine and cloves.”
They are close enough to one another that Davos feels able to reveal his plan to Salla, without fear that Salla might turn him over for planning the murder. His friend is on Davos’ side, thinking of what will happen if Davos does this deed and doing his utmost to keep Davos near, to have him looked after until he is well.
“These are dangerous talkings, my friend,” Salladhor Saan warned him. “I am thinking you are still sick from the sea. The fever has cooked your wits, yes. Best you are taking to your bed for a long resting, until you are stronger.”
Until my resolve weakens, you mean. Davos got to his feet. He did feel feverish and a little dizzy, but it did not matter. “You are a treacherous old rogue, Salladhor Saan, but a good friend all the same.”
The Lyseni stroked his pointed silver beard. “So with this great friend you will be staying, yes?”
“No, I will be going.” He coughed.
“Go? Look at you! You cough, you tremble, you are thin and weak. Where will you be going?”
“To the castle. My bed is there, and my son.”
“And the red woman,” Salladhor Saan said suspiciously. “She is in the castle also.”
Then when Davos won’t be dissuaded from seeing Melisandre dead, Salla goes as far as to offer to hire somebody to do the deed, to spare Davos. That is how much he cares for Davos.
“She killed Cressen and Lord Renly and a brave man named Conray Penrose, and she killed my sons as well. Now it is time someone killed her.”
“Someone,” said Salladhor Saan. “Yes, just so, someone. But not you. You are weak as a child, and no warrior. Stay, I beg you, we will talk more and you will eat, and perhaps we will sail to Braavos and hire a Faceless Man to do this thing, yes? But you, no, you must sit and eat.”
He even suggests he’ll help hire a Faceless Man, despite the enormous cost. The next passage is touching. Salla is angry with Davos for putting himself in such danger, and he points out what the aftermath will be. The proposed actions Salla would take show how close their friendship is.
Salladhor Saan pushed himself to his feet. “You are no true friend, I am thinking. When you are dead, who will be bringing your ashes and bones back to your lady wife and telling her that she has lost a husband and four sons? Only sad old Salladhor Saan. But so be it, brave ser knight, go rushing to your grave. I will gather your bones in a sack and give them to the sons you leave behind, to wear in little bags around their necks.” He waved an angry hand, with rings on every finger. “Go, go, go, go, go.”
Davos did not want to leave like this. “Salla -”
“GO. Or stay, better, but if you are going, go.”
He went.
Thankfully Salla won’t have to go to Marya with such dire news, but the fact that he would speaks volumes of his respect and regard for Davos. More people should value Davos highly, but he is not without friends and this friendship is one bright spot in Davos’ storyline that’s filled with people judging him as less when he’s actually so much more than most.
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Yo man, I hear that the Blackfyres and their supporters were Conservative, sexist, brutish usurpers who couldn't stand to see a feminist king on the throne but here you are, an honest to God bra burning, women's lit thumping feminist unironically supporting the Black Dragon. In this entire fandom you're the only person I've found openly supporting them. If you don't mind me asking, why do you like them so much?
Hey dude, you’re asking me to talk about sexism, fandom hypocrisy, and my Blackfyre love in an inflammatory way that could result in getting me in trouble with the fandom? I probably shouldn’t be answering this, but ok. This has been sitting in my inbox for a week, and let no one say that I leave any ask unanswered. Wankery found under the cut:
Eyy dude, what if I told you that the perception of Blackfyres as sexist, brutish usurpers in fandom is largely due to some prominent people’s intellectual elitism and projection of neoliberal political views? Aspects of GRRM’s writing like the unreliable narrator, villains-are-heroes-from-another-side, and history is written by the “victors” are given no credibility in favor of condemning the Blackfyre supporters as racist, sexist, and ableist (?) in fandom. I’m extremely annoyed that no one seems to be asking the sort of questions or making the sort of connections that I have due to this blanket ban on Blackfyre sympathy. I’ve answered your broader question on why I supported the Blackfyres in an earlier ask (they were more honorable, less absolutist and cruel than the Targaryens, even demonstrated some meritocracy, and most died horrifically) so I will try to answer based on the sexism angle: How come I like the Blackfyres so much and support woman’s liberation at the same time?
First of all, you come into my askbox and tell me that Daeron II was a feminist king? Nah bro. A real male feminist ally in a position of power would’ve passed laws to ensure his father’s predatory behavior would be banned. He would’ve been trying to apologize for the way he and his father treated the Bracken sisters and actively sought to make amends instead of making the situation worse. He could’ve given widows a pension or granted certain protections to mothers with illegitimate children. He could’ve opened up exit shelters for prostituted women wanting to learn a trade, as Empress Theodora did back in sixth century AD Byzantium. Why does fandom think he is so Feminist™ when he did so little for women? Are they referring to him having Princess Elaena as an unofficial advisor while her husband Ronnel Penrose was Master of Coin, a man who could barely string two numbers together? (Which really undermines the claim that Daeron was a reformer who chose wise men as councilors, since he selected an incompetent based on his own family status) Might I remind everyone that Daeron arranged Elaena’s second marriage in the first place, a woman 3 years his elder who had been locked in prison for 11 years by her brother, bore illegitimate twins by her cousin, forced to wed an old man by her uncle/Aegon, and may have been forced into sleeping with the horrific Aegon IV? You’d think after enduring so much at the hands of her male relatives, the Kind™ Daeron would’ve backed off, but she has to pay for his son Aerys’ failed marriage by sacrificing her hard-won independence. How feminist. But I guess it’s OK, because after Ronnel died Daeron generously gave his blessing when she wed someone she truly loved! I can’t imagine she felt much affection for this entitled shit. But maybe the Great Fandom Minds™ are referring to how Daeron treated his wife Myriah, who is a blank slate in terms of personality and political actions? I can’t even think of any other names of women Daeron might’ve canonically “empowered”, so how exactly is he a feminist? And why does thinking he was a self-serving politician who treated all of his family members except his sons like expendable trash make me sexist? Do tell, Fandom Minds who know so much more than I.
By contrast, how does liking Daemon Blackfyre and thinking he’d be a better king than Daeron make one sexist? Eustace Osgrey said that he hung out with warriors rather than septons and women, but GRRM himself said that Daemon did have female followers (some we know even participated in the Second Blackfyre Rebellion, like Ladies Vyrwell and Smallwood. Not to mention the cause owes its continued strength after Redgrass to Queen Rohanne) who were “drawn to him.” There’s the rumors that Daemon thought that he could marry Princess Daenerys and Rohanne of Tyrosh, but even the biased Maester Yandel said that claim only developed long after the wedding from a few Blackfyre supporters, which is a few steps removed from the original source. I believe that version of the story was an attempt by the Westerosi Blackfyre supporters to acknowledge Rohanne of Tyrosh’s invaluable contributions to the cause of the exiles while still maintaining the romanticism of a Daemon/Daenerys forbidden romance. It absolutely blows my mind that Daemon gets more flak for what he might have said at fourteen than Daeron does for helping a teenaged girl and her two-week-old son get banished for something her father said. Because Daeron is called “the Good” and thus incapable of doing wrong, obviously.
But outrageously, the fandom has to headcanon abusive behavior on Daemon to make him look like a villain. Seriously, I’ve heard people claim he was an abusive father to Daemon II, cheated on or never loved Rohanne, would have killed his nephews, and tried to rape Princess Daenerys based on no canonical evidence (in fact, the evidence goes against the honorable father of at least nine presented in canon). Even a Daemon-hater like Yandel had to concede that Daemon’s love was for the mother of his children to whom he was married for 12 years. Daemon died protecting his son Aegon from the Raven’s Teeth arrows; he’d never hurt his children. As for the children of others, his faction during the First Blackfyre did not kill children (in fact, Quentyn Ball spared Lady Penrose’s youngest son, some say on Daemon’s orders), especially not those too young to fight. The fandom’s portrayal of Daemon as a vicious monster really serves to emphasize how little evidence they have that Daeron II was a truly good person; the man with grudges against two of his father’s underaged rape victims isn’t a hero, so they have to make his rival an even bigger villain despite it being complete nonsense in canon? Can I have at least a balanced depiction of a Daemon who loved his wife and kids, even if they do think he was an ambitious reactionary?
An especially infuriating piece of fandom hypocrisy is that to make Daemon sexist, they have to demonize or erase all of the female influence in his life. Example one is that for his first 12 years, he was raised as the son of Daena the Defiant, who GRRM said in an SSM raised him alone in the Red Keep. Some people in fandom claim she was an ambitious woman who wanted a son so she could be Aegon’s Queen over Naerys, which is a claim so insulting in its wrongness (Daena could’ve been Queen in her own right, having an illegitimate son actually hurt her chances of queenship and a stable future, she referred to Daemon as hers alone so she never wanted to acknowledge his father, she never agreed to wed a man after Baelor, etc) I’m shocked the people who make it can call themselves feminists with a straight face. Others are kinder toward the Daena-Daemon relationship, saying that Daena must’ve died before Daemon was four so she couldn’t pass on her ideals of honor and self-sacrifice for one’s children; this completely ignores what GRRM said about Daena “raising” Daemon alone, meaning he knew her well enough to remember her. Both these ideas about Daena either demonize one of the most beautiful mother-son pairs in Targaryen history (she loved that kid so much she put him ahead of her own reputation and chance at being Queen. I cry.) or they take away her influence in order to claim that Daemon had no female role models growing up. A mother like Daena, strong-willed, independent, a sportswoman, would’ve doubtless have shaped Daemon’s opinions on women, and especially on mothers of bastards. He may have grown up knowing a woman didn’t necessarily need a husband to be happy, that she could shoot and ride as well as a man, and that a princess could with smallfolk and minor nobles on her own. She was far away from a submissive woman and was Daemon’s sole parent until he was 12, and you mean to tell me her son was a raging misogynist? Nope, I don’t buy it.
Fandom also erases Daemon’s other important female figure: Rohanne of Tyrosh. Elite Tyroshi women are most similar to elite Dornishwomen out of all the ladies of Westeros; I say this because the Archon’s daughter was to serve as a cupbearer for Prince Doran without having been betrothed to Quentyn, indicating that they are valued as political actors for their families outside of marriage alliances. Tyrosh is a mercantile society where the elites don’t like to fight, which traditionally equalizes roles between the sexes. Rohanne was the reason the Blackfyre cause survived for so long; she didn’t need help from Bittersteel escaping to her own fucking country, rather the landless Blackfyre supporters needed her protection after they lost everything at Redgrass. Without her giving them a stable base of operations (and certainly using her dowry to pay for their accommodations), they wouldn’t have been cohesive enough for Aegor to create the Golden Company. I realize that Rohanne has very little canonical characterization, but neither do Princess Daenerys and Myriah Martell, and that doesn’t stop Fandom from writing fanfics and meta on these two while ignoring Rohanne. On a similar note, prominent meta writers claim that the Blackfyre cause is obviously based on the Jacobites (no, Daemon Blackfyre was based in part on James Scott the Duke of Monmouth, who was staunchly anti-Jacobite. Just because these writers don’t know about British history in depth doesn’t mean that they can make spurious claims), and use this comparison to make headcanons for how the Blackfyre court in exile operated. For some Unfathomable reason, these headcanons never include the invaluable contributions that the female Stuarts made to the cause; Queen Mary and Princess Louisa were much more popular than the charmless James II and the drunken womanizer Charles III, having great relations with the French court and funding the education of the daughters of Jacobite exiles (it was said that even Queen Anne wept when Princess Louisa died, for she had hoped to wed her son to him). For a fandom who loves to make headcanons about minor female asoiaf characters, and loves to show off its (rather one-dimensional) knowledge of history, I see no such fics and metas for the female Blackfyres. I guess Feminism™ can’t be wasted on the wives and daughters of “traitors.” Just ask Sansa Stark.
To conclude, Daeron II was not a feminist king who raised the status of women in Westeros; in fact, he used his power as prince and king to banish Barba Bracken and wed Princess Elaena off to an ally. Daemon Blackfyre was raised by a strong single mother and was successfully married to an older foreign woman, and enjoyed female support for his cause, so calling him a misogynist seems like a leap to me. I’d make the argument that it’s Fandom with the misogyny problem, as they ignore the suffering, contributions, and characterization of female characters they don’t like in order to prop up a “sexism” narrative that contradicts canon. Just because other people bleat about how sexist, racist, and ableist Blackfyre supporters like me are, it doesn’t mean it’s true.
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