as much as i get the sentiment behind "make more bad art" there's gotta be a better way of communicating "you don't have to be technically proficient or hold yourself to a specific standard of practice" that doesn't sound as backhanded lol
$50,000 immediately dropped into my bank account wouldn't improve EVERYTHING but boy it sure would be a grand, sexy little start to a good, happy life path, don't you think
Actually making your selfinsert overpowered and friends with all your faves and a hybrid of the coolest species and in a relationship with your crush and the long lost sibling of the villain is called having fun and its cool as fuck
Fuck hostile architecture, I want unhostile architecture. I want benches to be designed to be as easy as possible to sleep on. I want little places for pigeons to nest to be purposefully put on buildings. I want people designing public spaces to think about what they'd be like to skateboard on. I want "Please loiter" signs. I want people to be kind. I want...
I'm not a gatekeeper so yall. the best thrift stores are the ones that look bad. do not go to cool trendy thrift stores with hot alt twenty-something employees. (I mean you can if you want but enjoy paying $40 for a fuckass shirt.)
here's what you actually want in a thrift store:
in a rich town
run by a church
staffed exclusively by little old ladies
most of the clothes will be butt ugly. but they will also be 1) good quality and 2) cheap af. the 70 year olds running the shop think a thrifted shirt should be $3 and they are correct. everyone else shopping there is over the age of 45 so you won't have to throat punch any depop resellers over a cunty little top. you will get hyped up by old ladies and if you frequent the same shop they may start trying to set you up with their grandkids. everyone wins and who knows their grandkids might be hot.
Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+.
Lyonel Baratheon x Wife!Reader
Masterlist
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms Masterlist
General Synopsis: Lyonel is horrified to discover what conditions his new wife comes from, and you are just as horrified to learn that things are not practiced in the world as they are within your father's House. A good wife is obedient, by correcting hands if need be. That is the philosophy you have been raised on since birth. A lady obeys. A lady agrees. A lady endures. Lyonel does not want you to endure, but some habits are so much harder break. (slow burn)
Content Warnings: emotional abuse (parental), child abuse (punishment), psychological conditioning, trauma responses, arranged marriage, anxiety, mention of first time intercourse, slow burn, angst.
AN: This fic won the vote! I promise that this is not all doom and gloom, but the reader has a rough go of it at the beginning. Lyonel has my entire heart in this.
** = smut
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight**
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten**
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve**
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen**
Chapter Sixteen**
Chapter Seventeen**
Fun fact: Egyptian gods do not have ‘animal heads’. The depictions of gods are meant to contain a duality, as is important in Egyptian Religion (life/death, red land/black land, chaos/order, human/animal). So when you see, say, Anubis with a man’s body and a Jackal head it represents both his human form and his Jackal form, meaning he might appear in either form. But never as a human with a Jackal head. That is only something you’d see on temple walls for the duality aspect.
But if you want a source, read: Silverman, D. (1991) Divinity and Deities in Ancient Egypt, In J. Baines, L. Lesko, & D. Silverman, Religion in Ancient Egypt: Gods, Myths and Personal Practice. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press. 7-87.
No worries! (I realise I put a full stop instead of an exclamation mark at the end of “this is literally my job” which might have sounded harsh, so I apologise!)
also I’m fascinated by the punctuation question here. Full stop means “I’m done with this interaction and not amused” whereas exclamation mark = hey no big, I’m happy to explain!
Our generation has solved an issue that written English has had for centuries and I love it.
author’s note: short and somewhat suggestive story inspired by ‘storms and dragons’ by @iydiamartinx which is my latest repost:) basically i just got really stoned last night and this is what happened
plot description: you hadn’t meant to give a handsome stranger your maidenhood during a night of drunken fun. now, you can’t get Lyonel Baratheon out of your mind, despite your attempts to take the night to the grave.
warnings: suggestive content and talks of sex, ya know, normal lyonel baratheon stuff
word count: ~2.5k
let me know if i should make a part 2! (smut obviiii)
Whenever you drank heavily, you always awoke with a start.
This time was no different. All of a sudden, your body was thrust into consciousness, heart thumping, mind racing. It was rather jarring, especially when paired with a pounding headache, or a dry mouth, or, in this case, another body beside yours.
You were afraid to open your eyes. Gods, had you really had so much wine last night? Earlier that day, you’d promised your mother and father that you’d play the role of dutiful daughter at the tourney and allow them to introduce you to a few eligible men. You’d swallowed the bile rising in your throat when they discussed options at the dinner table as if buying a horse to breed with. Strong genes, they said. Good lineage. You didn’t care for strength or family name, not really. A silly dream had always lived in your heart that your parents would allow you to choose a man in a love match. Perhaps that’s why you’d broken your promise, spurred on by the drink. If it were to be your last few nights of freedom, might as well make the most of it.
A few of your handmaidens had accompanied you into the maze of tents set up on the tourney grounds. Ashford was scenic and pleasant, but the variety of wares and people from all across kingdoms was the most exciting enjoyment. Merchants and performers battled for your attention, which you eagerly gave. Differently colored tents indicated house colors, and you and your maids had wandered into a yellow one.
You remembered being served the wine well enough, and laughing far too loud for a lady, and dancing until your feet hurt… but the rest of the night was foggy. Too petrified to move, you racked your brain for a face, a name. Both escaped you.
It was only when you ran a hand across your own naked form underneath the sheets, and found yourself shivering from the sensitivity, certain parts recalling the night before. It remembered the thrill of being touched with wanting hands. A memory flashes of a dark head of hair above you, below you, around you. His words of praise echoed through your recollection, and your body reacted to each thought with familiarity.
Humiliation could not overpower your curiosity at this point, and you finally blinked awake, turning slowly to examine whoever lay next to you.
The memory of raven curls was correct, though you couldn’t see his face. The man’s snoring face was pressed into the pillows. He wore no shirt, and you blushed looking at his back. Scratches ran in stark lines down his back.
At that moment, he groaned and began to roll over. Realizing the position you were in, you scrambled underneath the covers, hiding yourself. Perhaps if he thought you were sleeping and left, you could slip away undetected. You may never know his identity, but it would spare you the embarrassment of knowing who it was you let dishonor you.
A minute or so passed. The movement on the mattress ceased and you thought he may have rolled over and gone back to sleep. That was, until the blanket was pulled back to reveal your cowering form. Above you, a face that sent even more memories flooding back — being summoned to the front table and examined by your handsome host, twirling around the dance floor with him until you were both too dizzy to stand, collapsing into his lap and pressing your lips against his…
“Hello,” he said, his smile composed. His eyes drank you in hungrily, and it occurred to you at once that you were naked. Which had been fine, when you weren’t sober, but now it was rather alarming. You sat up and grabbed the blanket to cover yourself. “Suddenly she’s so very shy.” The man teased, reaching out for you, but you grabbed his wrist to stop him touching you.
“This should not have happened,” you stammered. “I… I was drunk, I just wanted to have fun but I never meant to go so far…” But hadn’t you? The reality hit you that should anyone find out about this act of rebellion, you’d be ruined. He pulled his arm from your grasp and lay back on the pillows casually.
“I apologize if you regret our encounter, but I certainly do not. And you seemed to enjoy every moment of last night, why not allow it to be a happy memory?”
“Forgive me, Ser, but as a woman I am not permitted to seek pleasure so frivolously.” You snapped. He didn’t bristle at your challenge, he merely nodded pensively.
“You’re right. It’s a shame, really.”
“I’m to marry a lord,” you continued to explain, bringing a sheet with you as you crawled out of bed and began collecting the clothes sprawled around the room. A stocking on the dresser, your corset under the loveseat. “No one can know that I’m sullied.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” The man said. “Who are you meant to marry, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“No one, yet.” You hurriedly dressed, trying not to take notice of the fact that he was watching you studiously. “My parents haven’t decided. Not many lords want the meager offerings of our small house. Myself included.”
He hummed thoughtfully, then finally joined you out of bed, wearing only his thin underclothes. You watched your own feet as he approached, reaching out for you again. This time you didn’t stop him. His finger lifted your chin to meet his eye. Abruptly, his name blinked back into your mind. Lyonel.
“I think any lord would be lucky to court you.” Lyonel said. The sincerity of his words startled you.
“Well… Thank you.” You said stiffly. “Let’s keep this between us, please?”
“Of course, my lady.”
You spared one more glance at him before you rushed through the entrance of his tent. He was smiling at you confidently, as if he knew something you didn’t. It was disarming. As you navigated through the grounds trying to look as invisible as possible, your thoughts kept easing back to Lyonel. Morning air gave your mind more clarity and it was easier to remember how soft he had been with you, how gently he had kissed you and lain you down on his bed. He’d allowed you to boss him around with enthusiasm, but completed each order with practiced efficiency. It was making your head spin, flushing at the memories of your escapade with both humiliation and satisfaction.
By the time you snuck back into your own tent, your handmaidens were worried sick. They flocked you with where have you been’s and who were you with’s, but you just waved them off and asked for a bath. You couldn’t tell them, even if you longed for their advice and comfort. It was a secret you must take to your grave. What if your husband found out you were impure? How would you fake your maidenhood on your wedding night?
Such quandaries made you contemplate drowning yourself in the bathtub.
You’d lain low for the remaining days of the tourney, skipping out on the Baratheon’s tilts. Strangely, your parents had been rather accommodating to your isolation. They were quiet about marriage propositions. Instead they asked on your enjoyments; your reading, your embroidery. It was odd, since they usually only pestered you about duty. Meanwhile, the entire tournament had fallen into disarray, apparently, and would now be a trial of the seven. At first, you were almost grateful for the chaos since it made your plan to avoid suspicion much easier, until your parents insisted that you join them for the trial.
Although you had tried to avoid news, the whispers of your handmaidens made it to your ears. Lyonel would be participating in this horrid contest to defend a hedge knight. When he appeared in the arena with his stag helm, a sense of dread coursed through you. Even though his death in combat would make your secret much easier to keep, the thought of anything happening to him made you feel sick. You imagined the body you’d felt warm and writhing beneath your hands instead cold and stiff. When the horses began stampeding across the field, you couldn’t watch. Despite your parents’ protests, you fled the stands.
Once you were alone in your tent, you cried like a babe. You could still hear shouts and jeers from the trial, and every gasp from the crowd frightened you. Bedding Lyonel may have been a foolish decision, but you couldn’t bring yourself to regret it. And here you were, shedding tears and prayers for a man who you’d never speak to again. Part of you regretted drinking so much last night if only because you wished you’d been able to enjoy the generosity of his love with a clear head. Weeping to the point of fatigue, you fell into a fitful slumber on your bed.
You dreamt of Lyonel.
When you awoke, it was evening. The air had chilled, and you heard the bustle of people outside among the tents, no longer congregated to watch the trial. Part of you wanted to seek out news of Lyonel, but the other part knew that you shouldn’t dare. He was to remain only in your memories. However, knowing if he was alive or dead in those memories was logical. Without even glancing at yourself in the mirror, you marched into the night.
What you did not expect to find on your doorstep was Lyonel, occupying a wooden chair. His head was cradled in his hand, as if he were dozing off. He was facing out towards the people stumbling drunkenly by, but you would recognize those dark curls anywhere. Especially since you’d just dreamed of them.
“Lyonel!” you blurted. It came out sounding almost like fury. He jumped, startled by your intrusion, then moved to stand, failing to make it all the way up before landing back in his seat with a thud. You scurried to his side, kneeling to look at his face in the dim light. He was intact, for the most part, with a nasty gash above an eye that was completely blackened. “You look terrible.”
“And you look beautiful,” he said, still smiling despite it all. “It’s all just a few bumps and bruises. And the broken leg,” he attempted to raise the splinted one with a groan.
“Why join in on that nonsense?” you murmured, scanning him for any other injuries he hadn’t mentioned.
“It felt like the right thing to do.”
You scoffed. “How righteous.”
“Well, it’s not always righteous when I do what I feel is the right thing.” he admitted, and you felt his gaze on you harden. He was waiting for you to look at him, to ask what he meant. You fought it, examining the cane resting next to his chair. His hand came to your chin, directing it upwards, forcing you to meet his eye. “Sometimes I can be very selfish.”
“Is this another apology for taking my maidenhood?”
“I didn’t.”
You blinked. “Yes, you did. I woke up unclothed in your bed with an ache between my thighs. Don’t lie.”
“I am many things, but not a liar,” Lyonel chuckled, “and although we satisfied each other in countless ways that night, I never fucked you properly.”
You thought about it. One memory that had never returned was of him… Well, perhaps he was telling the truth. Straightening, you picked up Lyonel’s cane and handed it to him. “This is a conversation that should be happening privately,” you commanded, “come into my tent.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to help me, love. I’ve only just had this bone set.”
You rolled your eyes, but helped him out of the chair and into the privacy of your chambers. You led him to a couch and left him there, moving away to pour some wine. “Why’d you come here then? Seeking some bedside comfort after your silly trial?”
“Are you offering?” he joked, but you glared in return.
“Must you attempt to ruin me at our every encounter?” You spat, your frustration building with every quip he delivered. You brought him a cup of wine and sat on the adjacent chair. “My parents could discover us!”
“They know I am here.” he responded calmly, sipping from the goblet you’d given him. He looked around the room at your scattered books and sewing projects. You were rather messy, but you obviously hadn’t expected a guest.
“Well, I’d like to know as well, Lord Baratheon. Why are you here? Why wait outside my tent when you should be with a maester? Why—”
“Oh, why, why, why,” Lyonel interrupted, tired of your questions. “Because I want to marry you, woman.”
Suddenly you had no more questions. Only answers. Your parents had lessened their incessant pestering about marriage because they’d found a match. Or, a match had found them. Their questions about your interests, likely to feed to him. Their insistence on your presence at the trial.
Lyonel could see that your mind was racing, because he reached out and took one of your hands. “I had to survive the trial first before asking for your hand,” he rubbed a calloused finger across your knuckles, “wouldn’t be fair to make you a fiancé and a widow all in one week.”
“You’re asking me?” You never considered that you might get a choice. Not a love-match, not yet, but a choice at the very least.
“Not just because I feel sorry for taking advantage of you,” he said hurriedly, “Because… Because I’ve never felt the way I do when I’m around you. I’ve never… Yearned for someone’s touch like yours. This past week was Hell, all I could think about was you, even during that damned trial. And after it was over, I looked up into the stands and you weren’t there. So I had to come here, so you’d put me out of my misery.”
The thought of marriage had always felt sour in your mouth. But in front of you was Lyonel, and his dark eyes were locked in yours with veracity. His hand felt so warm cupped around yours and he was so easy to be around, good-humored and alluring. A life with a man like that instead filled you with giddiness, thinking about waking up next to him again. It was becoming difficult to contain your smile.
“I see you smirking. Don’t let my confidence waver for another moment, my dear, please.” he begged, and you laughed. Yes, this was something you could live with.
“I’ll think about it tonight,” you finally said, but your voice was low and sultry. You slunk out of your chair and onto his lap, straddling him. “I’ll think about it long and hard, and bring you an answer in the morning.”
“May I… May I still continue to plead my case?” Lyonel was breathing heavily, eyes glassy and unfocused as you settled your weight on him comfortably.
“Until sunrise,” you promised, beginning to rock slowly against him. “How much begging can you do in that time?”
“Just enough.” Lyonel groaned beneath you, his arms snaking around your hips as he surged upward and captured you in a kiss. It wasn’t like the sloppy, drunken make-outs you had the other night. It was a promise and a question. I promise to love you. Will you love me?
far too old to care about fandom opinions i am an adult with a *sees a take* hm. never mind actually. i am in fact so blessed to have a huge brain and correct inconsequential opinions on fictional characters. there but for the grace of god go i
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