#TW: death

[christskitten]

♱ tw!,,smut,extreme dub-con,descriptions of blood,religious trauma,dacryphilia,unprotected p in v,voyeurism,corruption kink,virginity loss,manipulation,period sex,MDNI

♱ A/N.Hello y'all this is my first ever one-shot ever and i hope you guys can enjoy !

♱ Remmick with Nun!Reader♱

♱ Brief description.Sister Y/N has lit the last candle in the chapel, the flame flickering like the unrest in her chest. Night had fallen, and silence cloaked the monastery like a prayer—except for the soft thumping of the door behind her.From the hushed whisper of her name off his damned tongue,that fateful night the devil came knocking.

The abbey was carved into the cliffs like a wound in the world, where cold winds howled prayers no soul could hear. Sister Y/N walked its candlelit halls with soft steps and a bowed head, but tonight, the crucifix at you're throat felt heavier. Wrong.The wind had carried whispers all week — that something old had risen, that a man with eyes like garnets you have been getting glimpses of never left your mind.You slightly curse yourself after agreeing to you're superior sisters request to fetch the water from the well under the moonless sky that night.

The path to the well was steep and overgrown, a trail of crumbling stones and rotting leaves. Each step away from the abbey made the silence deeper, until the only sound was your breath—and even that felt borrowed. The trees loomed like sentinels, and the wind whispered your name like a prayer twisted into a warning.

you reached the old stone well, its mouth yawning open like a throat ready to swallow secrets.

Soft. Behind you.

A voice, smooth and low, like dark wine spilled over velvet.

"Does your God keep you warm out here, little lamb?"

You froze. The rope slipped in your grip. And when you turned, he was there—leaning against a tree, half-shadowed, the white of his smile gleaming in the dark.

He looked nothing like the saints in your chapel paintings. No, he looked like temptation dressed in sin—eyes that promised eternity and ruin, a sharp jaw carved in defiance of heaven, and black onyx hair that curled around his face like a shadow. His smile was pointed and almost boyish, the kind that made damnation feel like an invitation.

He wore only a thin, white sleeveless undershirt clinging to his frame, and wool slacks that hung low on his hips—attire more suited for fevered dream than the cold night air.Moonlight kissed the bare flesh of his arms, all pale tension and silent power.It seems he's carrying a banjo,a musician perhaps you questioned still put on guard by this stranger.

Your sisters warn of men like him,A look that stripped away layers with every second, and a voice like sin is twice as dangerous.

"Names Remmick Sister"He stepped closer, the crunch of dead leaves beneath his boots the only sound in the silence between you. The air thickened, colder and warmer all at once, like the moment before a storm touches skin.

You staggered back a step, the movement instinctive, defensive. Eyes that once welcomed lost souls with mercy now burned with warning, sharp as drawn blades.“It’s dangerous to creep up on strangers this late,” you hissed, voice low and laced with steel.

Remmick raised his hands slowly, a placating gesture—but one that felt more theatrical than sincere.“Forgive me, Sister,” he drawled, voice warm as whiskey but laced with something colder, older. “I only came lookin’ for salvation… in the house of the good Lord.”

The accent was curious—Mississippi-slick, but threaded with the ghost of something European. It curled strangely in your ear, like a song you didn’t recognize but somehow feared you knew.And though his words spoke of redemption, everything else—his eyes, his stance, the way his gaze lingered on your body a second too long—told you he’d come seeking something far less holy.

“Please, Sister,” Remmick said, voice like a prayer wrapped in a lie. “Let me into the chapel. I’m starvin’… like a dog left to wander. It’s been a long, lonely road.”

His tone dripped with false sincerity, but beneath it throbbed something darker—hunger not for bread or mercy, but for something far more primal.

You remained skeptical, your grip tight around the crucifix at your chest. But something in his voice—its lazy pull, its velvet weight—slipped past your guard like smoke through a crack in stained glass.

He took a step forward. Then another. Confident. Unhurried. The way a predator moves when it knows the prey has nowhere left to run.

He was tall—broad-shouldered, cut from shadows and moonlight—and now too close.

You didn’t realize you’d backed away until your spine touched cold stone. The well.

Trapped.

His smile deepened.

“Ain’t no reason to run, Sister,” he murmured, eyes flicking down to your parted lips. “Not unless you want me to chase.”

It wasn’t his words that sent a chill down your spine—it was Remmick’s eyes: unnaturally deep, stained the color of fresh blood, glinting with a cold, iron-like gleam.Heart pounding at this sight, you turned and fled into the darkness, you're garments catching on thorns as if the night itself tried to hold you back.

You bolted through the chapel’s mahogany doors, sweat beading at your temple as if you’d just glimpsed the devil himself. Your mind raced, struggling to deny the truth of what you’d seen. Breathless, you hurried back to your quarters, vowing never to speak a word of this night to anyone.

That night, you tried to sleep—tried to forget that, no matter how handsome he was, the stranger was still devil-born, a temptation wrapped in sin. But your body betrayed you. Each time your eyes closed, he returned: in dreams thick with shadow and silk, whispering promises of claiming you as his bride, of rough, reverent touch, and that same impish smile curling at his lips. You woke breathless, thighs slick, aching with a need no prayer could ease.

Each morning you awoke drenched in want, thighs sticky, your cunt pulsing with unsatisfied need. Shame curled in your gut, but still—your fingers found your swollen clit, furiously circling, chasing relief with breathless urgency. You bit your lip to muffle the whimpers, hating how badly you needed it… how easily you gave in.

“Forgive me, Father…” you whispered, even as your hips arched into your own touch.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t know—was that just beyond the stained glass, shrouded by ivy and moonlight, Remmick watched. Eyes glowing red. Smile carved with hunger.

He’d been waiting for the moment you would sin for him.

You knelt at the altar, day after day, night after night, clutching your rosary with trembling fingers, whispering prayers you no longer felt worthy to speak. You begged your God to save you—from the hunger burning in your blood, from the sinful ache between your thighs, from the devil wearing a handsome smile.The words he says with his southern drawl.

But guilt clung to you like a second skin.

No matter how long you prayed, you couldn’t forget the nights your fingers plunged into your soaked pussy, desperate for release. You writhed in your sheets, biting back moans as your hips bucked, chasing ecstasy that never truly satisfied—because it wasn’t his hands.

Remmick’s voice haunted your thoughts, dark and honeyed. “Let me show you what heaven forgot lamb” His promises slithered into your dreams, into the heat of your body, leaving you panting and soaked before dawn.

And still… you returned to the altar. Hoping forgiveness might come before he did.

A sudden, sharp pain knifed through your abdomen, cutting your prayer in half. You gasped, nearly collapsing against the altar, your hands trembling as a warm, wet sensation slid down your inner thighs.

Looking down, you saw it—blood.

Thick, dark drops pattering onto the cold stone floor beneath you, obscene in the silence.

“Shit—no, no, please…” you whispered, voice cracking as panic surged through your chest. You clutched your belly, fingers slick with crimson. “Please, God, not tonight… not like this.”

You looked up at the holy paintings lining the chapel walls—once comforting, now mocking. The saints’ eyes no longer looked kind; they looked judgmental, distant. Cold.

“What’s happening to me?” you whispered. “Is this punishment? Is this what I get for… for touching myself and thinking of him?”

Your breath hitched, tears welling up.

“I didn’t ask for this. I tried to be good. I prayed, I begged You,” you said through clenched teeth. “But he won’t leave me alone—he’s inside me. Even when I sleep.”

You curled in on yourself at the base of the altar, unsure if you were trembling from pain or shame—probably both.

“I’m scared,” you whispered into the hollow dark. “And I think… I think I want it anyway.”

A sudden knock echoed through the chapel doors, cutting through your spiral of pain and guilt like a blade. You barely had time to wipe your tears before footsteps approached—measured, deliberate.

Father Aldric.

His eyes fell on you curled at the altar, the blood at your thighs unmistakable against your pale habit. Concern flickered across his face—but it vanished just as quickly, replaced by a look of thinly veiled disgust.

“Compose yourself,” he said coldly, his voice sharp enough to flay. “Clean the filth from your body before you invite the Devil in with it.”

The words struck harder than the cramping in your womb. Your face burned, not from fever or agony, but shame—heavy and suffocating. You opened your mouth to speak, but no defense came.

He didn’t wait.

Brushing past you as though you were nothing more than a stain on the floor, he approached the chapel doors. The moment his hand touched the handle, his entire posture changed—back straight, chin lifted, voice honeyed for whoever waited on the other side.

The mask of piety returned. But you still sat on the stone—bleeding, trembling, and damned beneath it all.

Then you heard it—that voice. Smooth, Southern-drenched, and touched with that strange, foreign edge that never quite fit. It slithered down the chapel aisle like smoke.

“Evenin’, Father,” Remmick drawled, easy and unhurried. “I’ve come to unburden my soul. Been carryin’ some real heavy sin in this chest of mine. Lustful thoughts, mostly. Real filthy things I oughta feel bad about.”

Your blood ran cold.

Remmick.

Your heart dropped straight to your gut. You dared not move, barely breathing as his voice curled through the air like incense—sweet, thick, and choking with suggestion.

“I figure confession’s the place for it, right? Can’t seem to get her outta my head… the way she moans in my dreams. The way her skin tastes in my imagination. I reckon I’m just possessed, Father.”

He gave a soft, theatrical sigh, every word laced with false repentance.

“You think there's still salvation for a man like me?”

From where you sat, still trembling and blood-stained, you could hear Father Aldric’s tight response—but you couldn’t take your eyes off the chapel doors.

He was here.

And somehow, you knew: he wasn’t just talking about any woman.

He was talking about you.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Father Aldric said stiffly, forcing a smile. “Come in, then. Seek salvation under God’s roof.”

He stepped aside, allowing the so-called stranger to cross the threshold.

Remmick entered like smoke slipping through a crack in stained glass—slow, deliberate, and far too at ease. His boots echoed against the stone floor, and as he passed into the chapel’s heart, his eyes found yours instantly.

They burned.

A slow, wicked smirk curled across his lips, not just smug—but triumphant. He was inside now. Inside your sacred space. And you both knew it wasn’t God he came seeking.

His gaze raked over you like teeth dragging across bare skin, lingering at the dark patch spreading down your inner thighs. His nostrils flared—barely, but unmistakably.

His eyes rolled back slightly, lashes fluttering, as if savoring the scent of you in the air.

“Mm,” he hummed, almost inaudible. “So that’s what devotion smells like.”

The hunger in his expression deepened—not just for your body, but for your ruin.

And yet… you couldn’t look away.

“Father, please—don’t go in there with him,” you begged, scrambling to your feet, your voice raw with panic. “He’s not human. He’s a monster. Look at him—look at his teeth!”

But your warning fell on deaf ears.

Father Aldric didn’t even glance back, his hand already on the confessional door, too blinded by pride—or faith—to see the danger standing inches from him.

Behind him, Remmick simply tilted his head, smiling wider, baring just enough fang to prove you right. The glint of them sent a chill down your spine.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

That amused glint in his crimson eyes said it all: your fear delighted him, your plea was a performance, and this man you tried so desperately to save… wasn’t worth the breath you wasted.

Alarms screamed in your mind, each second stretching unbearably as Father Aldric brushed past your desperate pleas. You stood frozen, heart pounding as the confessional door creaked open and the two men—one a priest, the other something far less holy—took their seats within.

The wooden partition between them might as well have been a veil between salvation and damnation.

You stood there, helpless, breath shallow, watching the scene unfold like a slow-burning nightmare. You could feel it—danger coiled in the air, thick and waiting. You could do nothing now but listen… and pray you weren’t about to witness the beginning of something irreversible.

A slow, dark pool of blood began to seep from beneath the wooden door of the confessional, thick and glistening as it spread across the stone floor. A faint, wet gargling sound echoed through the chapel—grotesque and unnatural—followed by silence that felt heavier than death.

You screamed, the sound ripping from your throat before you could stop it. Your hand flew to your mouth, trembling as you stared in horror, eyes wide and unblinking. The sacred space now reeked of iron and blasphemy.

The confessional bled. And you knew—Father Aldric would not be walking back out.

Your knees gave out beneath you, collapsing to the cold stone floor as fear rooted you in place. Breath caught in your throat, eyes locked on the confessional like it might devour you next.

Then—creak.

The wooden door groaned open, and a pale, blood-slicked hand—fingers long, clawed, inhuman—emerged first.

Remmick stepped out with unhurried grace, his long strides echoing through the chapel, boots leaving red, glistening prints along the once-sacred aisle. Blood painted his hands, his jaw, the whole of his mouth like a communion gone wrong.

He lifted his head, eyes locking on you like a predator spotting his trembling prey.

“Littllle laaamb,” he cooed in a sing-song voice, low and mocking, lips curling into something between a grin and a snarl. “Still praying?”

“His blood tasted like dirt,” Remmick murmured, licking a smear from his thumb as he walked toward you, boots squelching against the blood-slick stone. “But watchin’ the light fade from his eyes? That was satisfyin’. Just like the men who once spat the same holy words at me and mine… before I tore the faith right outta their throats.”

He was still dressed in the same worn undershirt and wool slacks from the night you first met him—but now, they were soaked through with gore. Streaks of crimson marked his chest, splattered his gold chain, and painted his skin like a macabre blessing.

And still, he smiled—as if violence were just another kind of worship.

“Please, Remmick—leave me alone!” you cried, voice cracking with terror. “In Christ’s name, I beg you!”

Tears streamed down your cheeks, hot against your chilled skin, your hands clutching the crucifix at your throat like it might still mean something—like it might still protect you.

You squeezed your eyes shut, praying—pleading—that this was only a nightmare. That when you opened them again, he’d be gone. That the blood would vanish. That your soul might still be saved.

But the silence that followed was not the silence of mercy.

It was the silence of something drawing closer.

Remmick let out a deep, boisterous laugh, the sound bursting from his fanged mouth like a crack of thunder in the chapel’s hollow air. It echoed off the stone walls—mocking, feral, hungry.

Then, without warning, he dropped to his knees with unnatural grace, crawling toward you like a wolf playing with its prey. You scrambled back instinctively, only to feel the cold bite of the altar steps pressing against your spine.

He followed—relentless—his pale, lean frame caging you in, arms braced on either side of your trembling body, his blood-slicked chest brushing yours with every breath.

“My sweet little lamb,” he cooed, voice thick with wicked delight, “you’re so precious when you beg.”

His crimson eyes gleamed inches from your own—savoring your fear… and your confusion.

“Mmm… how could I ever let a sweet little thing like you slip away that night?” Remmick purred, his voice low and syrup-thick. “I should’ve taken you right then and there—pinned you to the well, made you mine beneath the moonlight.”

He leaned in close, burying his face in your hair, inhaling deeply like your scent was a sacrament. His breath was hot against your temple, and you felt it—the way his body trembled with restrained hunger.

His hands began to roam, fingertips dragging through the tears on your cheeks and streaking your skin with blood, smearing it across your jaw, your throat—marking you.

“God, you smell divine,” he whispered, voice nearly a growl. “So ripe… bleeding and trembling for me.”

You gasped as his hand drifted lower, his eyes locked on your body like a starving man eyeing his first meal in centuries. Every breath you took made your chest rise against his, every second more dangerous than the last.

Despite your desperate prayers, despite the trembling words you whispered for him to stop, your body betrayed you. Shame burned hot beneath your skin, but so did something else—something darker. You hated the way his touch made your breath hitch… hated even more how your thighs pressed together in response.

His blood-warmed hands kneaded your breasts through the thin fabric, rough and reverent all at once, sending shocks of pleasure down your spine. You bit your lip to stifle a moan, but it slipped out anyway—soft, broken.

Remmick chuckled against your skin, low and sinful.

“There she is…” he murmured.

His lips found the curve of your neck, kissing it slowly—almost lovingly. Then his tongue flicked along your pulse, followed by the sharp scrape of his teeth, not quite biting, just enough to make your breath catch.

“You taste like heaven tryin’ to pretend it don’t wanna fall.”

Piece by piece, he stripped you—each garment peeled away with care, almost reverence—until only your underwear clung to you, wet with arousal and fear alike. The cold air kissed your bare skin, but his hands were fire.

And you… were no longer certain you wanted to run.

Remmick’s gaze darkened as he took in your pert nipples, their hardness sharpened by the cool night air. With deliberate hunger, he leaned in, his lips closing over one, sucking softly at first, then with increasing intensity. The mingled taste of blood and saliva coated his mouth as he moved to the other, his tongue flicking over the sensitive skin, igniting every nerve with fire.

You were a moaning, panting mess beneath him, every nerve alive and trembling—proof that those forbidden dreams were spilling into flesh and bone, becoming dangerously real.

“Remmick,” you gasped, voice thick with want and disbelief, trembling as waves of pleasure pooled deep inside you, pulsing hotter with every touch.

He smiled, low and dark, lips brushing your ear as his breath feathered against your skin.

“That’s right, my lamb,” he whispered, voice dripping with promise and possession. “Feel everything… surrender to what you’ve been craving all along.”

“Now… to claim what I want,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous.

With careful, deliberate hands, he slid off your soiled garment, revealing your trembling flesh beneath. A sharp gasp escaped you as his mouth made contact—cool, demanding, and utterly consuming.

He lavished attention on you, his breath hot and ragged as he explored every sensitive curve, his tongue flicking and pressing with possessive hunger. The world shrank to the sound of your ragged breaths and the fire igniting deep within you—where pleasure and pain mingled in a dark, irresistible dance.

His fingers slipped deep inside you, moving with slow, deliberate rhythm that sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body. You moaned and writhed beneath his touch, caught in the storm of sensations unlike anything you’d ever known.

“Yes,” he growled, voice thick with possession. “Scream my name, little lamb. Cry out all you want—no god can save you now.”

His thumb circled your swollen clit in slow, teasing spirals until you shattered into a jaw-dropping climax. Lost in the tremors of your release, you failed to notice the soft, ominous sound of a belt being unbuckled. But by then, it was already too late.

“Now, lamb,” Remmick murmured, looming above you, eyes burning with hunger, “are you ready to pray? Because I’m the only god you’ll ever kneel for now.”

You looked up at him, tears streaking down your cheeks, your lips trembling with silent, desperate pleading.

“Please… don’t,” you whispered, voice barely audible—more hope than command.

He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear, his words cold as iron.

“You don’t have a choice.”

Then came the pain—sharp, burning, undeniable. Your body arched, instinctively rejecting and receiving all at once, as something sacred was broken.

Remmick let out a dark, satisfied breath, as though he’d claimed not just your body—but your soul.

He moved with a relentless rhythm, each thrust deep and punishing, the kind that promised soreness long after the night ended. It felt as though his hunger wrapped around you—thick, unseen, suffocating everything but him.

At first, your fists clutched the sheets, knuckles pale with tension—but need overtook restraint. Your hands found his back, raking up the ridges of his spine, desperate to anchor yourself in something real. His muscles tensed under your touch, a coil of strength drawn tighter with every breath, every movement, every sound you gave him.

“Damn… worth every second of waiting,” he growled, voice thick with strain and satisfaction.

His tongue dragged slowly up your cheek, licking away the tears you’d shed—born from overwhelming pleasure, not pain. The intimacy of it sent another shiver through you, making your breath hitch.

Your mouth parted in a soft, helpless “O,” euphoria crashing over you in waves. Thought slipped from your grasp, your mind hazy and sweetly blank as your eyes rolled back, body trembling beneath his.

A brutal snap of his hips stole the breath from your lungs, forcing a gasp that caught in your throat. The sensation was overwhelming—like being split open, carved in two, but not with pain. No, it was something divine. As if his body was chiseling into yours a sacred ruin, marking you with every stroke.

You whispered half-formed prayers between moans, clutching at anything—God, mercy, salvation—but all of it blurred beneath the weight of him.

“Please,” you gasped, not even sure who you were begging anymore.

Remmick was above you, groaning low, his control unraveling as quickly as your own. His cock pressed deeper, harder, as his hand slid between your trembling bodies. His fingers found your aching clit again, rubbing and pinching with cruel precision until your vision blurred with tears.

“Say my name,” he growled, breath hot against your neck, “and pray to me this time.”

Your lips parted—not to cry out for God, but for him.

Each of Remmick’s deep, relentless thrusts drove your breath into ragged whispers—pleasure blooming hot and wild inside you, threatening to burn through everything you thought you believed. The chapel air was thick with sin, sweat, and the unholy rhythm of your bodies.

You clenched your eyes shut, hands gripping the cold altar steps as your lips moved in trembling prayer.

“Forgive me… please forgive me,” you whispered, each word broken by a gasp, a moan, another thrust that made your back arch. “God… I didn’t mean to… I can’t—”

But even as you begged for salvation, your body betrayed you—rolling your hips to meet his, clinging to the ecstasy that pulsed with every stroke.

Above you, Remmick laughed low, dark, wicked.

“That’s it, lamb. Pray. Cry out to your god while I ruin you for him.”

His hand covered your chest, pressing you down as his other thumb found your clit again, sending lightning through your veins.

Your prayers faltered into moans—devotion collapsing into desire.

You chanted his name over and over again praying to him in your cock-drunk state"oooohh Goddd,ugh, please forgive me-" you try to complete your prayers but his mean thrusts keep silencing you.

He's getting desperate to chase his release as you already climaxed at least twice from him.Pace getting faster and faster the sinful noise of skin slapping against skin echoed through the saints halls.Overstimulated by this you are reduced to a moaning mess.

“Come for me, little lamb,” Remmick growled, his voice rough with need, hips slamming into yours in a frenzied rhythm.

You were already trembling, your body wound so tight it felt ready to snap—and then it did. White heat burst behind your eyes as another powerful climax overtook you, your body arching into his as waves of ecstasy rolled through you for the third time that night.

His movements grew erratic, desperate—driven by something primal. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself fully inside you, groaning as he spilled into your womb, his release hot and claiming. You felt it—every pulse, every throb—as he marked you from the inside out.

You lay beneath him, shaking and overwhelmed, the air thick with sweat, sin, and something far more dangerous: surrender.

A/N: hope you guys enjoy i feel like it was a lil lack luster on the period part but i will do a drabble soon.

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧

[die-auster]

@boromir-week, Day 2: Son of Finduilas, Maternal Family, Grief and Loss

[doodlewrist]

Oh Allah, end their suffering. Ease their hearts. Be with them. Help them.

20 May 2025.

Daily scenes in Gaza.

A wounded child bids farewell to both his sister and his mother who were in martyred in an Israeli air strike in the Gaza Strip.

This is what Israel stands for. This is Zionism.

(source)

[charmfamily]

CORVUS CROSSING: A CHARM FAMILY STORY. CHAPTER II "REQUIEM FOR THE WOMAN IN RED." PART XI. Transcript Beneath the Cut.

The Chanting Song of the Bloodstone: In Aeternum Vivus… Perpetuis Semper Ubique (Eternal Life. Life is always constant everywhere.)

VLADISLAUS: [He bends forward, face to the ground, to tenderly and reverently kiss the mound of disturbed earth marking Bella's grave.] In three days, you will awaken to a new world, beautiful one. Rest well until then.

[hwang-gung-ho-bros]

Maybe I've been missing it because I've got a popular squid game tag blocked, but is anyone talking about the possibility of Gihun turning on Junho? Like, I've seen speculation about Inho or Junho ultimately turning on each other, but I haven't seen much with Gihun and Junho.

I feel like the potential is there, right?

I mean, Inho has been pushing and pushing, trying to break Gihun and, more specifically, to devastate his moral conviction and his faith in other people. He's done this largely by lying to and manipulating him, and by being instrumental in the death of several people that Gihun cared about.

Gihun is likely to discover that his friend, Oh Young Il, is actually the Frontman around the same time that he discovers that his friend, Junho, is actually the Frontman's devoted brother. That he was raised in his brother's image, has (to Gihun's mind, potentially) embodied his values by lying to and manipulating him, and is also, incidentally, the one person on earth whose suffering or death would make Inho feel a fraction of the world-shattering grief that he's inflicted on Gihun...

Idk, I just feel like there would be a kind of awful cinematic poetry in Inho finally succeeding in shattering Gihun to the point where he's willing to hurt/kill a (good) man for revenge, and it ultimately shattering him too.

You get it, right? Gihun's good-will destroyed. Inho's evil, uncaring exterior destroyed. Junho's efforts to do right by both/either of them coming to nothing...

So everything is awful and nobody wins! The perfect set-up for a ✨classic tragedy✨.

... Right?

(if I AM just late to this discussion, would anyone mind directing me to somewhere I can read more about it, please?)

[trentonsimblr]

Princess Eliana, Princess of Westburg c.1824

This portrait was commissioned to commemorate the investiture of Princess Eliana as the Princess of Westburg over her younger brother, Prince Ephraim. Historically, the heir presumptive was named Prince(ss) of Westburg shortly after their twelve birthday. Eliana's investiture was delayed until she was sixteen and Ephraim fourteen. This was not due to King Emmanuel's lack of faith in Eliana, but his inability to decide between the two. The decision was ultimately given to the people. Eliana won the vote by a landslide.

In 1827, Eliana married Lord Gianmarco Merrill, the fifteenth Duke of Alder. House Merrill is one of the oldest families in Trenton with roots in the nobility of ancient kingdom of Alder. King Epidarius named Gianmarco's ancestor, Adamo Merrill, the first Duke of Alder as a thank you for his support during Epidarius' conquest.

Eliana died in 1829 shortly after giving birth to her only child, Princess Juliana.

[kimmiessimmies]

Answers (23/34)

“Hello,” she said, “I think you are Dante, yes?” She spoke with an accent but was clearly understandable.

“Y-yes… I’m Dante...” he stammered.

He could just in time balance his feet, when Luna all but threw herself at him, wrapping her arms firmly around his waist. Dante looked at James in utter confusion, and James shrugged, the surprise clearly visible on his face as well.

“I’m so happy to meet you,” Luna said, her voice muffled by Dante’s shoulder. She let go as suddenly as she had grabbed him and clasped her hands to her mouth. “Oh! I’m sorry!” she spoke with rolling Rs, “I didn’t even introduce myself!”

Dante couldn’t help but smile. Her enthusiasm was so unexpected but so welcome.  “You're Luna,” he said. “I’m happy to see you again.”

“Again. Yes,” she said, her face suddenly clouding over. Oh no, that wasn’t the right way to go...

Read this chapter from the beginning by clicking here

[ridleymb]

I was impressed by Rich Cheese cookie so I wanted to draw something about her

I drew this last month

[dduane]

Peter Morwood

I am so sorry to have to tell you all about this. None of you, I suspect, will ever have any idea how sorry.

I am in utter shock and terrible pain to have to inform everyone that our friend, my dear husband and creative partner of nearly forty years, Peter Morwood, passed away suddenly early this morning after a brief illness that as late as yesterday (when his doctor saw him) had seemed to be on the mend.

I'm not in any position to say much more about this situation now, as you'll understand my current mental state is not up to the task. (I keep expecting to wake up from a bad dream, but it shows no sign of breaking.) I will let people know more about this in coming days.

There will be a postmortem shortly to determine the exact cause of his death. I'll share what details of this are appropriate as they become clear.

Meanwhile in the short term I'm very much going to need assistance with the expenses that in the days that follow will inevitably surround what's happened.

ETA: Those expenses are now handled.

And I want to thank EVERYBODY who so incredibly generously has stepped up to assist. You are all, every one of you, in my heart right now... not least due to the many, many kind things you've had to say about Peter. Current events mean I'm going to be backed up on the thank-yous for some days yet. Please bear with me.

For those who feel inclined, the Ko-Fi account here is naturally open as usual for those who might simply want to drop something into the pot tagged "GNU Peter Morwood." I'm looking into notes about his preferred charities so that I can split all such donations in those directions. (For example, P. lost a beloved cousin very young to childhood leukemia, so I'm looking around for appropriate cancer charities. ...But more of that later.)

My love will wait for me, I know, however long it takes. He's never minded waiting. (the saddest smile) My job now is to make sure he's not forgotten while I go on.

Meanwhile, can I just say to all of of you: I thank you all ahead of time for all the support and fondness for Peter that I know so many of you will express. He'd blush over it, I know. (He always did.) Please forgive me for being unable to do much in the way of answering messages, just now, in the wake of having to get to grips with this sudden and awful change in my world.

But also let me say, so urgently: Hug your loved ones now, while you can. Eventually a day will come when, expected or not, your opportunities end.

Thanks, friends.

--DD

[dewthorne]

Vale of Tears Alice: Madness Returns (2011) dev. Spicy Horse

[doodles-by-noodles]

No Surprises.

This is my final fit / My final bellyache with- /No alarms and no surprises / No alarms and no surprises / No alarms and no surprises ... please

Local lyric comic artist makes another lyric comic after years of silence.

Honestly, I don't know how to talk about this comic. I drafted it in 2020 when I still enjoyed Radiohead and was in the throes of my Danganronpa obsession. I picked up working on it again in October last year and have been chipping away at it ever since, just finishing it this past weekend.

It's surreal to see this finished, and I'm really proud of it. This song felt very fitting lyrically, and I had a lot of fun depicting ch 5.

Anyways back to the pit with me 💙

[charmfamily]

CORVUS CROSSING: A CHARM FAMILY STORY. CHAPTER II "REQUIEM FOR THE WOMAN IN RED." PART X. Transcript Beneath the Cut.

NIKOLAI: It is done, Master. The lady has been properly buried with a bloodstone placed atop the grave. All that is left is for you to finish the ritual.

VLADISLAUS: That is excellent news, isn't it Alexander? [He chuckles, tickling the baby's foot and making him gurgle happily.] In a few days' time, you'll be reunited with măma-tii, and you can see her after she's been fed well and is feeling more… herself. [He stands, carefully and slowly, nodding toward Nikolai.] Watch the boy while I tend to her — and when I return, you and I need to discuss an expansion of staff.

NIKOLAI: [He grimaces worriedly.] Master I assure you, you need no other staff. I might… I might have been useless against the raiders that ransacked the estate a couple centuries ago, but My Lord… with but a drop or two of your blood I could be strong again. I could take care of everything.

VLADISLAUS: [He scoffs, his expression completely deadpan.] While your eager willingness to serve earns you your keep, I highly doubt vitae holds the power to make you a suitable wet nurse, you buffoon.

NIKOLAI: Oh— Oh. [He laughs awkwardly.] Right. I shall um, I shall try searching among the Ravenwood peasantry! Surely there's a maiden who would be willing to part with her milk in exchange for her life?

VLADISLAUS: I make no promises to spare her; it is foolish to offer any sort of protection with a freshly risen Kindred wandering the house… Tell the girl otherwise, of course, there's no need to deviate from the script. I just want you to be prepared to dig more graves if necessary.

NIKOLAI: Yes Master, I understand.

[batwynn]

I know a lot is going on in the world right now but this kind of loss of art is breaking my heart in two.

The Valentino’s Costume Group in Hollywood has lost everything after the death of their co-founder, the pandemic, strikes, etc. and is now being forced to do a very quick liquidation sale before having to send all of their years of hard work to be turned into rags. (Yes this is a real thing)

These people have crafted thousands of costumes over 20 years to rent to everyone and anyone who needed one. They’re sex worker and queer friendly. They’re also being accused of being “fast fashion” while being one of the few places in this world actively working against fast fashion with their work. They don’t want to have to turn their hard work into rags. It’s the only option for them with the enormous amount of costumes/fabrics they have to remove from the building very quickly.

So, Californians and anyone willing to travel to Hollywood: YOU can save a costume! (or two?) YOU can save someone’s art from being destroyed! YOU can own pieces of Hollywood! YOU can save so much sewing supplies and fabrics!

Where: 5535 CAHUENGA BLVD, N. HOLLYWOOD

Phone: 818-427-5248

Special hours for Influencers: May 20-30th 9:30am-4:30pm MON-SUN

What: Vintage, designer, menswear, historical, specialty, children’s, shoes, jewelry, vintage hats, show packages, racks, fabric, etc!

Important note: Please be kind and patient with the folks managing this sale. There’s maybe 2-3 people working at the most, and they all just suffered the death of someone close to them and the loss of their dream.

Please, please signal boost this. Their hard work should not go to waste and this terrible loss is already hard enough on them.

[lavenderprose]

ALSO Emmrich Volkarin is in the prime of his life so jot that down. His lifestyle is healthy as hell, he's wealthy and a MAGE. There's lore, iirc, that mages live longer than most on average. What I'm trying to say is that my man is going to live to be 110. Running circles around people half his age the entire time. He teaches until he's 90 and then he and a 70-year-old Rook go on the Thedas equivalent of one of those year-long cruises where they just go to a different major Thedosian city every week. Every year on his nameday he pats his grandchildren on the head and tells them that, while it may be his last birthday in the realm of the living, he's so glad he got to spend time with them. He gets weapy about it. He does this until said grandchildren are well into their twenties. Emmrich dies quickly without much malingering of some sort of fast illness, or maybe goes quietly and painlessly in his sleep, at WELL OVER 100, I cannot stress this enough, and then they pop him in his sarcophagus and his ghost haunts the Necropolis for a few years, unseen but felt by the sudden rushes of warmth and affection his family will sometimes feel on rainy days. Rook goes at a similarly advanged age and as the world fades out, Emmrich's face fades in--smiling, beautiful, looking exactly as he did when they met. Because Emmrich at 52 is in the prime of his life, goddamn it, and I will die on this hill.

[genericcharacter]

Powerplex: "Invincible,, you have to stop killing people"

His infant son:

[galaxymagitech]

Bruce’s Favorite Batkid…according to the Batkids (aka the most biased narrators possible):

Dick: “Well, Bruce adopted Jason first, and hit me over his death, so Jason, obviously.”

Tim: “Bruce nearly killed people and himself over Jason’s death…he just used me as a guilt trip.”

Jason: “Uh, the Golden Boy, obviously. *cough* KGBeast *cough*”

Steph: “I mean, he only revived one of us…so it’s gotta be Damian, right?”

Duke: “Can you guys stop competing over whose death he reacted the worst to? Anyway Barbara’s so useful with the tech and also kinda scary, so it’s gotta be her.”

Damian: “Drake is most similar to Father and inherits his company. He is clearly in the favored position.”

Barbara: “He remembers literally every problem you guys have caused; Duke just hasn’t had the chance to cause as many problems yet. No offense, Duke.”

Cass: “Me. He thinks…I am him. He is wrong.”

No one thinks Steph is the favorite.