#Bray Poor

[hodginspodgins]

[night-dark-woods]

ID. three digital drawings of elsie and eris. the first is fully painted, in the others they are solidly colored in light blue and light green, respectively. the first two show elsie hugging eris from behind, arms around her waist in the first and around her neck in the second. in the third eris comes up behind elsie to lay a hand on her shoulder, and elsie blushes furiously. End ID.

have some yuri. sharing my truth (clingy and touch starved elsie bray)

[thunder-and-void]

Poor Andal😂

He has to deal with the STUPIDEST bs from his Hunters. No wonder he's drinking a whiskey.

Hunter Vanguard job ain’t easy

[Ref]

===

OKAY, here we have:

Keep reading

[pangur-and-grim]

oh yay that's so nice! I think I hid it due to embarrassment, but I'll bring it back now:

CHAPTER ONE

Anna Stewart is changeling. Anna is not a human being.

In the first month of its life, the wrinkled infant produced by Mr. and Mrs. Stewart, with fists bunched and face red from crying, was taken from its bassinet and cradled in long, thin arms. If the Stewarts, sleeping in an adjacent bed, noticed anything, it would’ve been sleep-fogged relief at the sudden quiet. Birch-white hands left Anna in its place. Those same hands dressed it in clothing stripped from the infant. The pink rabbit onesie hung baggy on the changeling – perhaps the earliest indicator that human society would be a poor fit.

It did not cry. It did not complain. It simply stared with bright, alert eyes, and waited, its mouth puckered in ravenous anticipation.

The Stewarts did not notice the change, not at first, although within the week Mrs. Stewart had switched to formula.

And how could they notice? The changeling’s appearance had been shaped for them. Its teeth filed, its skin smoothed, its limbs condensed into uselessness. Throughout the years as it grew, its form strained at these boundaries, aching for expression, but the cocoon of humanity remained rigid about it. The changeling stayed a Stewart.

It grew up. It went to high school. It got into none of the colleges that Mrs. Stewart helped it apply to. It lost multiple jobs in a row, due to some inexact quality that it could not correct in itself, but that made dogs bark and humans curl their lip. It turned 22, with no money, and no driver’s licence, having failed to gain distance from its childhood bedroom.

And now it woke up.

Mrs. Stewart had friends over. Their high-pitched laughter pierced the morning quiet and invaded the warm nest of it bedding. It tried, futilely, to submerge back into dreaming, but another laugh sounded – a braying AHHhahahaha! 

It gave up and kicked its way out of twisted blankets and pillows.

The changeling staggered to the bathroom to perform it morning routines. It practiced a smile, showing only the upper teeth, not the lower. Then it walked out, wishing only to slip past the crowd, and grab whatever food it could from the kitchen counter.

Immediate failure – its carefully lowered foot drew a creak from the top step, and the humans turned as one. It froze, pinned like an insect by their stares.

“What is that on your face?” called Mrs. Stewart, too loudly. As though it did not descend the stairs each day slathered in lotion. Its delicate skin, better suited for the humidity of the Other World, did not agree with indoor heating. 

“Moisturizer. You know this,” it said, in its own performance. “I do this every winter.” It scanned the faces of the guests, to see how they’d take that information – that its mother had pretended not to know! That Mrs. Stewart had taken a stance against her own (supposed) child!

“Might want to rub it in,” said one of the women, and another laughed.

“You should rub it in,” said Mrs. Stewart. “Really, Anna” 

The guests, gathered around a coffee table in an array of plush seating, exchanged glances with wrinkled foreheads and twitching lips. With a sigh, it plodded back up the stairs. The lotion leant more moisture if it packed on thick and left to sit – and why not do so, in its own house? 

The betrayal also stung. All it had was its mother.

Mr. Stewart was not a factor.

He was, after all, the reason for its presence here. A deal made, a child promised – and wouldn’t you know, the cheap patch of land he had purchased churned out a fascinating amount of oil. 

But he hadn’t been able to live with the child that had supplanted his own. In a moment of drunken anger (directed not toward the changeling, but at her fled spouse) Mrs. Stewart had ranted.

“He couldn’t stop talking about your ‘black bird eyes,’ or how you never smile, or how you can’t put on weight” – pausing, Mrs. Stewarts’ eyes had glinted with a malice that had it bracing its shoulders – “he even suggested giving you up for adoption. Can you imagine? His own flesh and blood?”

Except that it wasn’t his flesh and blood. 

It had simply done its best approximation of a smile, nodded vigorously between her exclamations, and said, “What a bastard!” which seemed to satisfy, or at least amuse her. 

It never had the courage to ask if her feelings would change, if a link of blood did not, in fact, connect them. If it were simply a child raised by a mother, and not one born from her. If it would still, in that case, be an acceptable burden, or if she would snarl at all her wasted energy and finally cast it off. 

The changeling lay in bed with these thoughts. A tear slid down its cheek and was absorbed into its thick coating of lotion. 

“You are spiralling,” it said to itself, sternly. “You are self-indulging in negativity.” Likely exacerbated by its empty stomach. It always ate with a speed that hinged on desperation, though this translated not to fat, but to wiry muscles that wrapped its arms and legs. This might grant grace to another, but the changeling had the jerky, sudden movements of a lizard. 

It rubbed at eyes itchy with tears. Venturing downstairs in this state was not an option. Instead, it dressed for the outside world (wiping its face clean, and combing its long, lank hair) and opened its bedroom window. It stepped out onto the branches of a hybrid poplar, whose growth it had encouraged for this exact purpose. The young tree bowed under its weight, but the changeling whispered encouragement, and it held.

In summer, it grew sunflowers along this side of the house. They obscured windows with their yellow petals and granted privacy for its excursions. By early winter, these blackened and drooped and rotted. The changeling moved with great care, ducking beneath the corpses of sunflowers to avoid attracting gazes from the living room. Easily done; the guests seemed consumed by one another, enraptured by each other’s wit and company. Which baffled it, as on the few occasions it had joined them, when it was younger and smaller and possibly cuter, they had proved to be such dull conversationalists that it had bit the inside of its cheek to blood, and very nearly been moved to rage. 

Now it scampered down the curve of the ravine that its family home sat at the edge of. The frost that coated their shorn grass melted under the warmth of its bare feet. If it had left through the front door, Mrs. Stewart would have yelled at it to wear shoes, and almost certainly socks as well. 

The trees greeted the changeling as they always did; with sways and creaks, and releases of chemicals that teased the bare skin of its face and hands. It replied, as it always did, with boundless affection. 

“I love you, I love you,” it said, ducking beneath outstretched branches, and bounding over roots. “Thank you, thank you!”

Slipping into the other world could be done in any forest, but it was particularly easy in the changeling’s ravine. All one must do is ask the trees, please, please can you shudder a hole in reality through which I might slip like a rabbit disappearing into its labyrinthian warren, and the trees say “okay!” and do just that. Ask this of them a hundred times, and then a thousand, and they will intuit your forward progress, and shiver up a hole before a request can leave your throat. 

And sometimes, horribly, if a tree is particularly friendly and obliging, they’ll extend that favour to anyone who passes.

This is what it found on that morning. 

It shrugged happily through a ripple in space and felt the cold winter slip away, the only evidence of it being the frost-nipped redness of its fingers and toes. It was about to merrily skip to its planted orchard, for a morning feast of its own succulent harvest, when it saw the footprints.

Or boot prints, rather, as these sole-blind fools had constrained themselves with footwear.

“Who the fuck…?” It said, and then put a finger to its mouth to gnaw at, anxiously. Don’t Spiral, Anna!

Most likely, the idiot tree that had opened the way for these intruders would repeat its trick if they wandered back along the same path. But would they think to? To duck under the same branch, touch a hand on the same trunk, all of them at once? For the changeling could see three trails of disturbance.

Boot prints pushed deep into the soft soil, advertising the passage of someone large and heavy. And there, a patch of moss scraped at by a hand. The height of the finger rakes implied someone smaller in statue. And the third – oh, it did not like the third at all. The third left a massacre in their wake, broken branches, plucked leaves, thrown stones, kicks and scores in the earth. Someone deeply under-stimulated, certainly, but also someone who failed to heed or appreciate the chemical screams of vegetation. 

It sighed. If this third individual caused sufficient offence, the trees might turn peevish and refuse to open the way back, even if they perfectly retraced their steps. This left the trio doomed to their fate. 

“Curse my gentle nature,” it said, and growled out its annoyance, before going through the breathing exercises prescribed by its therapist. It could never tell if they actually did anything physiologically, or if they simply provided a distraction, but regardless, it worked to soothe them at least one out of every three times. 

That done, it sighed in a performance that the trees lacked the capacity to appreciate, and started off down the very obvious, very messy trail, to save three unconsenting humans from getting trapped in a better world. 

[thewritetofreespeech]

pairing: Gwayne x fiancé reader

summary: Gwayne may have lost the tourney, but he gained a better prize.

tags: female reader, reader is from the Reach, heterosexual relationship, hand job, mentions of injury, subtle Gwayne daddy issues (not sexy, just Gwayne being Gwayne), Gwayne being a simp for his lady

-----------------------------♟️----------------------------------

When Gwayne told his father one day, at about the age of six, that he was going to take up the sword and learn to be a knight, all his father said was, “are you sure?”

His opinion on the announcement did not seem to sway one way or another, much like his opinion on the actual son. Their lady mother had given him an heir, a spare, a daughter, and Gwayne. His brothers would be learned men like their father, so Gwayne thought he could be useful by being a marshal man for his family. He was actually quite good at it too. All of his instructors said so. His training partners. The men of their House bannermen.

But no one would know that now as Gwayne was quickly unseated in the first round of the tournament. A lucky shot. Luckier still as it could have been fatal, but instead just a wound to his left side and pride. To fall in front of his father and beloved sister wounded him still.

Gwayne had taken what was left of his pride and limped off the tourney grounds. Making it to an awaiting sick bay as injuries in tournaments were more common than not. He had to be stripped out of his armor like a pleb. Been tended to like an invalid while he grit his teeth and let the maester wrap his broken ribs. Just the one, actually. But it was enough to knock him out of the tournament for the rest of the week.

He sighed and rested his head against the headboard. All he wanted was to show his family that his efforts had not been in vain. To show them what he was working so hard for while they were in the Capital. Now he would have to wait for the next tournament. If his father even bothered to show up.

“Gwayne?” The knight looked up from his self-pity musing at the door and found his fiancé there. In his pain and grief over his disappointing show, he had completely forgotten she had been in the crowd too. Wonderful. Another beloved to witness his failure. “Are you alright? That fall…it looked rather nasty…”

“It wasn’t ideal.” He winced as he tried to move his arm to pull his shirt on. Finding it immodest to be in just bandages in front of a lady. She came to his side instantly, helping him pull his arm through with as little discomfort as possible. “Sorry you came all this way to witness such a poor showing. Or waste your favor.”

“It is not a waste Gwayne. Do not say such things.”

Gwayne reached in his pocket and pulled her ribbon from his trousers. She had given it to him the night before, in private, wishing him good fortune & safety in the events to come. He had had it in his breastplate when the games started, and squirrel it away into his pocket after he was injured so it wouldn’t be thrown away. “You should give it to a better knight then I. I’m done for.”

“You fell off a horse Gwayne, not the edge of the world.” She told him. “And, there is no better knight than you for me.” She pushed her offered ribbon back at him with a stern look. “If you keep speaking this way, I shall have to give back your favor and return to the Reach.”

His eyes lit up in alarm. Knowing that she meant his ring, and he could not have that. “Alright. I’m sorry.” To lose the tournament was one thing, but to lose her. Gwayne couldn’t stand it.

She smiled at him. Seeming pleased that he had gotten the hint on not being so hard on himself, and looked around quickly before she leaned in for a kiss. “I know you’re disappointed. But you’re alive and relatively unscathed.”

“And handsome.” He quipped back as he was starting to feel in good spirits. “Do not forget that.”

“Oh, how could I.” His beguiling fiancé leaned in to kiss him again. Longer this time. “Thank the Gods for fine helmets.”

It took Gwayne’s brain a bit to catch on that her hands were moving around his waist band. Perhaps it was the loss of air from their kissing. Or that his bell got run pretty hard in the fall and he was still recovering. Or perhaps still it was simply just her. But he caught on just about the time the cool air brushed against his nether regions, and he sprung up. “What are you doing?” He asked. His back teeth setting against the pain of his sudden movement as he fretfully looked over towards the door.

“Helping you relax.” She replied with some cheek. “I heard the maesters say you needed to do that and rest if you were to heal.”

“And you think undressing me in a room where just anyone could walk in is going to help me relax??”

“Well, no. Perhaps not that part.” Gwayne wheezed in a breath, as much as his battered ribs would allow, when she reached in and took hold of him. “But this part might.”

Gwayne knew not the touch of another, save his own hand. Though he took no vow like the King’s Guard when he became a knight, he had made a personal vow that he would be stalwart in his honor & practice. Dutiful to his House as to not sully it by laying Flowers at their doors. He does not ask how his future wife knew of such things. In all honesty, he did not want to know. All he could think about in that moment, after the shock and panic of getting caught, was how good her soft hand felt around his cock.

His member hardened quickly under her touch. Gwayne was still a young, virile man, with adrenaline still lingering in his veins, a strong breeze could get him up. He moaned quietly as his lady’s hand stroked him. Long steady pulls of her hand up & down. Watching as he was transfixed by this surreal experience that was happening to him.

“Does it feel good my love?” Gwayne nodded. His lord’s education failing him as he could not articulate in this moment how good it felt. “Good. I want to know how you like it, so I can prepare for our wedding night.” He moaned, or perhaps whimpered, at the thought. Just another 3 months. Just another 3 months and she would be his wife, and he would have her all to himself. Her body, her mind, her heart; though she had been clear that he already had the latter two. His hips bucked up at the thought of her beneath him and Gwayne let out a sharp cry that was crossed between one of pleasure & pain as his ribs were jostled again. Then he heard a flurry of scurried motion behind the door.

Panick set in, the fear of getting caught welling up inside him. Not just for himself but her as well. How would they explain such lewd behavior if they were caught? Her reputation would be besmirched. His father might call off the engagement in the face of such scandal!

Luckily his wife to be was not only beautiful but clever. Like all fine roses of the Reach. She quickly pulled a blanket over his midsection and placed their hands together over the spot where the obvious tenting would be. “Forgive me, my lady. I thought I heard his lordship call for help.”

“Such a steward of care you are, Maester Callen.” Her voice was sweet, complimentary, and hypnotic to Gwayne. “Just a twinge of the ribs from a sudden movement. The injury is new. Our silly Ser must have forgotten he had it for a moment.” Gwayne swallowed as her little finger brushed against the outline of him through the blankets. His jaw having to set as to not moan in a very indiscrete way in from of the maester.

“Are you sure he is alright?” Maester Callen asked. A curious look all men of learning seemed to get when they asked questions. “Your lordship looks feverish. There could be an underlying infection from the trauma—“I’m fine.” Gwayne barked quickly. His noble resolve hanging on by a thread thinner than this blanket. “I just need rest, as you said. Please,” ‘oh Gods, please, please, please!’ he thought as his lady continued to stroke him with just the finest touch to the point of madness this whole time, “leave us so I might finish my conversation with my lady and be about that.”

The maester seemed still curious, but asked no further questions. He bowed his head, then closed the door behind him as he left. “Good Gods….!” Gwayne hissed through his teeth as he writhed freely now that they were alone again.

“That was a close one.”

“You insufferable minx!” He hissed at her. That cheeky grin on her face was infuriating but also the vision from his dreams. “You nearly got us caught!”

“I’m not the one who inadvertently called him in here, now did I my love?” Gwayne had a few more sharp words for her but they all vanished as her hand pulled back the blanket again and stroked him fully.

His head tilted back with a moan. The fear of almost being caught, damning though it would be, had only heightened the sensation. He warned her that he was close, not sure if she knew what that meant, and let her swallow his final moans in a kiss as he came all over her hand and his linen dressings. She let him go, a soft kiss on his lips like a seal before she pulled away, and he slumped back against the bed like a witless fool.

“There. Now you can relax & rest completely, my love.” Gwayne nodded. Not sure what she was talking about right now, but rest sounded nice right now. “I shall come to see you tomorrow once they move you back to your quarters. We’ll have the whole afternoon to ourselves, since everyone will at the tournament.” Oh right. The tournament. He was supposed to apart of that. Showing his family & father how much he had trained for them. It suddenly didn’t seem all that important anymore. “Get better, my love.”

She kissed him one last time and then saw herself out. The picture of civility and the dutiful fiancé come to shower well wishes on her mate to be. No one knew, or would know, what had happened between them. Gwayne felt his spent cock twitch a little as he watched her walk away. Just 3 more months. Just 3 more months felt like an eternity all of a sudden.

[lebuc]

daylight savings

* spending all my savings on our precious daylight

in service of some flexing, some small measure of might;

in the very best way that i've come to know how so long as i never stand pat or kowtow to purveyors of prevailing privations or resort to any crude & shrill braying, delivering by quill amplitudes i've been spraying

of a particular mood, dispensing chez verses & rhymes like good ol' soul food, about the worst of these times

for those in need of a heart-healthy snack; should it not be sufficient, make sure you tack back.

though it's rough sometimes i must mention - i know that & ofttimes the best of blessed intentions can fall flat

but, like that fabled Timex watch of old i'll keep ticking in hopes that these messages, lit-massaged will keep clicking, sticking,

to help untie kinks in our systems pressing on most of us dear minions; by greed, poor thinking, not listening to the vox populi - boots on the ground, increasingly sound & surprisingly spry

when excited & engaged to keep fighting for peace;

& in our effort to ignite good factions, may we never, ever cease. * 3/24 - 3/25 - lebuc - daylight savings

[sammaggs]

3x02 Eclipse | Nightmare

Stay with me on this one: I don’t think Marcus Ellory ever shows up to his mother's grave in Eclipse.

As truepenny points out in her typically-brilliant meta, Eclipse is written in the style of the Greek theatre's katabasis, a journey to the Underworld (followed by anabasis, the return to the world of the living). You've seen Hadestown? You've seen a katabasis.

This is another playwright John Krizanc joint, and as other people smarter than me have meta’d, Ray’s katabasis sees our hero venturing to the Underworld (a literal graveyard/crypt/grave); solving the riddle presented by the Underworld's guardian ("There. Now it's broken and it's working." "Good man."); learning a fundamental truth about the cyclical nature of life or undergoing a symbolic death of the past self; and then returning to the land of the living as a new or newly-knowledgeable person.

Ray Kowalski is tormented by Marcus Ellory as a symbol of his life up until this point. The two defining features of Ray Kowalski's life up until he meets Fraser are 1) Stella, and B) being a cop. "The point is, I mean, my whole life, it all starts and ends with this one guy."

But that part of Ray's life is over.

To make this a metaphor for queerness (as someone who personally married a man before coming out as a lesbian around Ray's age), in our mid-30s we're often forced to deconstruct the narratives of our lives that we've been so devoted to until this point. Have we been living for ourselves, or for other people? Has doing what society expects of us made us happy?

If you're closeted, the answer is usually going to be no. And that means you have to burn down your entire life to start fresh (the house, if you will). It means you have to grieve your past self—the one who had a heterosexual spouse and a house in the suburbs and did what society expected of you—in order to make room to rebirth your authentic self.

In the Underworld, and in the graveyard, Ray buries the man who wanted a wife; the man who wanted revenge on Ellory; the man who was a con job.

He's revived a man with a new partner, no longer motivated by vengeance, and who knows he's a damn good cop because he is.

So now that we've established all of that, let's get back to Ellory.

Ellory doesn't show up for his mother's funeral; by the time the mourners are leaving, he's still not there. "You know, Ray, I'm pretty sure he'll come," says Fraser, at 4:30PM. "We have time." But after Fraser gives Ray his own history back to him, Ellory still hasn't showed. They decide to leave, and Ray throws his dream catcher to the wind... where it's caught by Marcus Ellory.

"It's a dream catcher," says Fraser. "It tangles up bad dreams."

It tangles up bad dreams.

Ray puts on his glasses; he can't really see Ellory clearly. Then, once they end up together in the grave, no one else ever sees them. Fraser never sees Ellory. By the time Ray is reborn anew after the eclipse (literal darkness into light!), Ellory is nowhere to be seen. Suspicious!

I think the casting choice here, too, is deliberately made to make Ellory an allegorical figure as opposed to a literal one. Peter Bray, the actor, is 6'7". He's huge, and lying in the grave next to him, Ray looks even smaller than usual.

That's because we are seeing Marcus Ellory the way twelve-year-old Stan Kowalski would have. Huge, imposing, feet taller than him; essentially a cartoon villain. Ellory is exactly the same here as he is in Ray's memory, unchanged but for a little grey, even though twenty-three years have passed.

And then he disappears.

Ellory is the final boss of Ray's katabasis, his eclipse-fueled nightmare, tangled up in and cleansed by the dreamcatcher Fraser made him—just like Fraser's recitation of Ray's citations tangles up and cleanses Ray's own poor consideration of himself.

But it’s not about Ellory, y’know?? It has nothing to do with Ellory, not really, and everything to do with Ray’s own perception of himself and the story he tells himself about his own life. In this way, I think it’s more powerful a read if Ellory is not there; it’s all Ray. Just Ray, letting go of the man he thought he was and choosing to become the man he wants to be.

For me, Ellory’s just a bad dream. He’s a larger-than-life demon of Ray’s own making. He’s probably in hiding or dead, but Ray doesn’t actually need the real Ellory to exorcise that demon. He just needs the right angel.

Ray Kowalski dies and is reborn (like due South!), at the end of what I consider to be the two-part opener of Season 3.

Happy 27th birthday, Eclipse (Sept. 21, 1997)! You're one of the all-timer episodes of TV.

[aldisobey]

WIP Wednesday Thursday

Game Night

I was tagged by some of the loveliest folks I know. Such sweet words of lusty delight they write. Muses both of you

@ollypopwrites @heylittleriotact

WIP work remains an interesting thing. So I’m giving you fresh character work instead. I enjoyed writing this and decided to take a look at how an evening might look from lich perspective. Consider this ‘work in progress’ character work for what I’m always gettin at.

———-

Rook was yelling. Johanna had that effect. The cheerful sort of shout. Easy enough to tell the difference when mortal. Easier still with undead sight coloring the emotion of the moment. Emmrich watched the triumph spark, an overbearing pride lash towards the skull at the head of the table.

“You can’t cheat here boy, I know you’re out of spells.”

The dining table was clear of dinner. Dishes away and a detailed map laid out and littered with various miniatures took their place. Snacks to nibble, wine to sip, a lonesome whiskey bottle sat untouched. The lich kept to the darker quiet corner couch. Table before him littered with notes, questions, Bellara had left lists if he had a mind to indulge the endless probing.

“Ha! See!! Page 103, you know the necromancer class best, I can use that spirit to power it!” Worne crowed.

Emmrich kept mind there, written questions ignored, watched irritation rise like pride off the half-lich leading the game. He tilted his head that way, could feel Johanna’s attention flick against his briefly before the shouting started again.

“Fool. You could do that. But you lack the proper alignment.” Hezenkoss sniffed. Sounded almost as if she could lift her chin from table in emphasis.

“What?! But Eric is chaotic evil! Says here…” Worne sputtered, flipped still in the book for another marked entry.

Johanna started laughing. Loud mocking braying that shook the table and players gathered. “Should have thought of that earlier! Change it to chaotic neutral.”

“What?! No! He’s evil!”

“Rook.” Lucanis spoke this time. Voice slow and tired. “Last scene Eric gave all his money to a beggar.”

Taash groaned in agreement, lifted their head from where it lay on the hard surface, empty beer in hand, “You shouted ‘bangles for the bangable.’”

“That was purely selfish!! Who cares about money with an ass like that around?” The rogue snapped the book shut, slammed it to the table for dramatic effect. Johanna’s description of the NPC had been too savory for ‘Eric’ to ignore.

“Uuuuh. I hate to mention. But…Eric also saved that kid from a blood mage.” Harding raised a hand from rubbing Taash’s back.

“Evil vs evil!” Worne looked hurt. Betrayed. This was his party, they should have his back here.

Davrin crossed his arms and snorted. “Eric could’ve healed poor Barnacus.” He gestured at his toppled miniature, “but he flirted with that hobo using an illusion instead.”

“Well…” the hurt faded, shame replacing for a flicker, but that never…

“Worne. Eric has been acting neutral all game.” Neve’s calm voice settled the matter. The shame settled. Rook’s face red for once. Neve shrugged, kept glass in hand and hovered over near Emmrich.

A hushed “Fuck…” settled over the table as Worne looked over their fallen minis before the horde. “Dammit. Is that a party wipe again? Where’s Bellara?”

“Her character died an hour ago, Rook. She left to work on that archive.” Davrin said with a bemused brow. Stood from the table then to take leave, “And I need to see Assan.”

Johanna cackled. Rook seemed the only one in distress. The rest had been resigned to such a fate from the start. Were clearing out like Davrin. Some to the library for book club, others perhaps to bed.

Worne remained and bickered over smaller matters from earlier in the game. Emmrich could catch pieces. Johanna argued she kept to the party’s CR. This was practically the module. Worne was checking the balance of dice again. Johanna proclaiming the enemies weren’t idiots. Of course they’d execute someone making death saving throws.

The rest of the beleaguered players exited the dining hall. Gentle talk of night’s last activities and farewells and ‘thanks I guess’ to the game master. Neve still hovered a moment.

“Emmrich. Joining us tonight?”

He leaned forward. Looked up to meet her gaze. Swirling green in skull could see the pity sprites clinging about her. A choking concern he didn’t care to stomach. The lich sighed. A mere sound lacking previous warmth.

“No.” He inclined his head towards the dining table. It had been cleared of its previous game. A new one was already taking form with terrain in place and numerous miniatures arrayed as army. “Johanna still requires some supervision. What holds her can weaken with transportation.”

A small untruth. It could weaken, but he had seen to the matter, reinforced it all before game start. Hezenkoss was as secure here now as she might be on the table in his quarters. He found it less impossible to get something past Neve these days. One couldn’t count on countenance for clues when they spoke with a skull. Still. Her brow rose. Emmrich wouldn’t have moved the half-lich at all if he considered it a danger.

Her smile and voice were soft, “Don’t let them yell too much. Alright? They’re still sharing space with you.”

Emmrich huffed. An echoing noise. Neve only laughed.

“What would the other lich lords think, hmm? You letting those two bully you?”

He’d honestly love to see them try and manage the pair. Doubted they would fare better. Might end up breaking oaths to get a moment’s peace.

Worne was already lining up his scouts. Johanna was holding back, muttering something about reserve and proper deployment tactics being key. Continued on about knowledge of enemy positions and fog of war. Worne was ignoring her and humming. Simply placed scouts along the edge of the map. Quiet enough for the moment.

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Emmrich replied. “Your concern is noted Neve.” He did his best to sound thankful, pleasant, but in the moment he wanted her gone. Nascent spirits swirled especially strong within Fade, even bubbled as they were, and he felt something close to nauseous when he glimpsed the worry sprouting around her.

“Slee…” she bit her tongue, “Have a good night Emmrich.”

“You as well. See that you do sleep.”

“You got it Professor.” Neve chuckled light, kept the smirk in play as she took her leave. And the dining hall door clicked shut. Only Emmrich, Johanna, and Rook remained.

“WHAT?!?” Emmrich flinched at Johanna’s rage. Could hear Worne’s laughter rumbling beneath it, building in strength.

“Games over.” Rook had his hands on his hips. Smug grin beaming as he caught Emmrich looking his way and winked, “I win.”

“I could crush your scouts with a single unit!” Johanna sputtered. Emmrich could practically hear her thoughts turning in air. Rook was motioning him over now. Delight dancing around him and seeming to pick at the utter frustration he’d caused. The rogue let Hezenkoss think on it awhile. Then leaned in close to the half-lich skull, his eyes still locked on Emmrich as the towering mage approached, and whispered.

“Deploy then…”

Johanna was silent.

Worne reached a hand out to Emmrich as the lich drew close. Fingers grasped at the edge of coat, pulled the necromancer in by his cloak. “I’ve caught the judge. You trust Emmrich with rules right?” Rook smirked. Leaned up on tiptoe and pecked the point of chin bone.

Emmrich gathered his wits. Suddenly awash in the enveloping warmth of Worne’s mirth and blooming adoration. Spirits so strong shouldn’t be so easy to gather. But the moment Rook had Volkarin in hand, less than that, the moment his thoughts started turning towards the mage Emmrich found it overwhelming to be near.

Needed more practice with all of this…sense. But was it so bad to drown in all consuming obsession? The love might smother, but he no longer had need of air.

“Fine.” Johanna snapped. Emmrich’s head tilted, spied a tiny thought of resignation. He made a clearing noise for a lost throat.

“What happens to be the point of contention?”

“She can’t deploy. I win.” Worne giggled, swept a hand over his scouts lined along her side of the board one after the other.

“Pah!”

Emmrich knew that noise. Felt Worne’s mischievousness catch. Assessed the board state a moment…

“You…” he had played plenty with Johanna years ago, read the updated rules weeks past…Emmrich barked a laugh. Loud and full, piercing and flinching, but Worne was joining him. Smacking Emmrich’s back, hugging him tight a moment as tears filled his eyes.

“Emmrich told me plenty about your ‘deployments’ Johanna. I wondered when you’d try it.”

“Incorrigible brat!” The half-lich spit in sound. Further growls following. “Another match! That was hardly fair play.”

“Now Johanna.” Emmrich cut in. Dropped a hand when he realized he’d raised it to wipe a happy tear that would never appear. “Rook won fair and square. The rules are very clear. You have to deploy from your side.” Her growl grew in strength, “and you can’t do it so close to enemy units.”

Simple scouts covered where she might play. Deployment impossible. An entire army in reserve. Useless. The growls ended in the sound of a gnashing bite.

“And Emmrich promised me rewards if I could finish a game fairly and without fighting.” Worne leaned over triumphant.

“I…” the lich had no memory of such a promise, but now that the thought occurred…no he wouldn’t correct it. Rook was carrying on anyways.

“So we’ll be off. I’m done for the night. Do enjoy the fresh view until morning?”

“A relief to be free from your vicinity.” Johanna’s voice coated in loathing. Rook laughed at the sound. And Emmrich spied again a separate delight. Not quite pride, but joy of some kind, and perhaps fondness? She was delighting in thinking of a new way to play.

“Best of luck next time Johanna.” Emmrich chirped. Checked in a glance that wards remained in place. Felt the tug on his arm as Rook led the way out. Couldn’t help but join the rolling chuckles. Worne’s voice a growl as he opened the door for them both, “I’m gonna cuddle all those bones…”

“Darling,” the door shut behind them and Rook was latching on again. Wasted no time in making his declaration truth, hands, fingers were winding into rib. Feathering a touch on clavicle. He drew in still bright and smiling, then dipped his head down low near Emmrich’s waist. Peered up into the hollow where heart once sat.

“Crawl into that ribcage…”

Emmrich sighed and pulled Worne out and away with ease. The lich paused, glanced at his hands after the action, surprised at the strength. The flicker of concern disappeared as familiar scared skin covered the linen, callused fingers entangled in the gilded and pulled the bones along. “C’mon now Lord, your beloved is owed a reward.”

The lich stumbled a moment as Worne sped off with his hand entwined, but an opening of stride kept him even with the faster yet shorter. Emmrich almost felt a ‘breathe’ enter as they hurried back together.

[kick-a-long]

I am happy to attend my husband's family Christmas this year. my husband's family this Christmas are his immigrate Chinese grandparents, Chinese American mom and his half Italian/half Chinese lesbian sisters with their WASP girlfriends. none of the people in attendance are catholic or ever have been. Septe Peche is the roman catholic celebration of the feast of the seven fishes. On Christmas eve Italians traditionally cook and consume 7 forms of fish including shellfish. My husband is the last person continuing the Septe Peche tradition. This year he will get to Septe Peche at 7pm, after a full day of work, and have to cook 3 of the dishes with me to keep the tradition going.

I am a secular jew who has recently gotten really into my jewish both to spite the rise of antisemitism and because I find enormous peace by jewish practice. The conflict for me this year is minor. I am fighting the urge to procure herrings and cream, a fish dish that is exactly what it says on the tin, raw herring preserved in salty cream with cream pickled onions. I have never yearned for in my life before last year. It was a staple of jewish holidays for my family because my jewish dad would eat it to the horror of all us kids.

'This is a fish dish' my brain whines, 'They should love it! plus it's preprepared so they can eat it right out of the tub. How convenient and lovely!' But this is a lie. Herrings and cream is advanced jew shit. this is a deep cut of jewish culture. This is dangerous to reveal to a goyish family in a goy space on a goy holiday. Why do I want it this year so badly? Why is it something I now crave?

But the urge continues to bray and grows stronger as the 24th draws near... "provide the raw cream fish and they will rejoice. the jews of history demand it." constantly rings in my ears.

Hashem, help those two poor wasp lesbian girlfriends... they don't even know anyone who willingly eats fish eyes. They might die simply knowing herrings and cream exists.

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 53

Ignore how this should've gone up yesterday, I was super fucking tired

HAPPY FIRST DAY OF PRIDE!

(it's not the first any more) Geralt owns a horse ranch, whether it's an au where he was never a witcher, he's retired from witchering and has a lil home (ala Corvo Bianco), or he just has it on the side of his witchering is up to you, dear It's filled with horses presumably only named Roach, because Geralt is Geralt. There was extra hoof tracks near the back of his barn. Hmm. Either a runaway horse or a wild hors is interested in his stables. It'd be safer for the poor horse if Geralt were able to catch it and make sure it's healthy. So he leaves the door open one night, and stands off to the side, pulling an all-nighter. The second he hears the clipclop of hooves walk in, he shuts the door. He expects the horse to spook and start braying in a panic, but instead he hears a man gasp in surprise. Geralt wonders who would ride their horse into an unknown stable, and holds up his lantern, only to see.... A centaur? A starving, scared centaur, with a messy flop of brown hair, and bright blue eyes. Does- Does he want hay or like... Roast lamb?

[omegastation]

I'm heading to my parents' place for Christmas Eve but first I wanted to start the Omega DLC. So right now we disabled the defense system and are headed to the rendez-vous point.

This piece of dialogue makes me laugh:

Line delivery in Mass Effect makes everything chef's kiss.

Poor Bray has seen it all, he's like, what else are you going to tell me Aria? What else?! They're going to drop biotic snakes on us soon?How fun.

And Shepard is going along, with an enraged Aria constantly yelling TELL YOUR BOSS I AM COMING FOR HIM AAAAAAAAAH, like, this isn't how we plan our own mission. Right? Right???? followed by flashbacks to Mako driving, Hammerhead heading into lava, James crashing his shuttle on Mars, and even more shenanigans with the Normandy crew................

At least they always have stories to tell :D

[circeswhore]

It was a simple arrangement. You always did accuse bustier women of having "more tits than brains" so being able to exchange one for the other seemed reasonable. And you were clever! You had a mind that actually worked, that wasn't filled with hot pink bubbles and rotted out with platinum blonde hair dye, so you figured that you could trade away some of your intelligence and still be reasonably smart and add a little bit more to your bust. It was a win-win. Your thumb hovered over the button on your phone, a small wave of apprehension staying your hand, relying on a deep breath to push through it. As soon as you push the button, the world shifts around you.

The changes are subtle. You don't feel any less intelligent, though you know from experience that it's a hard thing to gauge on your own. You glance downward and your eyes go wide, not only shocked that you're sporting a pair of wobbly C cup tits, but you're actually wearing something to show them off! Nothing in your wardrobe was like this before and even your new bra is frillier and fancier than the plain, beige A cups society forced you to wear. Your knees come together as you give your breasts an experimental squeeze, their sensitivity far beyond anything you could have imagined. It feels incredible. For the first time, you feel sexy.

And the button still sits on your phone screen.

Your heart thunders in your chest. If one push did this, what would another one do? Or one after that? Your IQ doesn't seem to have dropped that much, so you could probably afford another push or two. Maybe even three.

Of course, the dumber you get, the harder it becomes to stop yourself. Your boobies just keep growing, pushing past DDs and Gs and Ms, your bra turning to lavish patterns and colors back to simple designs as your choice in bras becomes limited by size. As your brains shift to your tits, your wardrobe shifts, too, showing off more and more of your boobs to highlight the center of your personality. Your clothes become skintight and in bright, simple colors. Even your hair grows out, long wavy strands in a bright, dyed blonde. Other parts of your body plump up, too, mainly your ass and your lips, your face covered in make-up to advertise yourself as the bimbo you are.

By the end of it, you still don't feel dumb, but mostly because your sense of self-awareness has all but vanished. Your thumb is stuck between your plump lips, partially because it's comfortable and partially to keep yourself from drooling into your cleavage. You're a bubbly bimbo without a care or a thought in the world. Some of the words are a little tricky when you look at your phone again, but you manage to make out what it says: "Button makes boobies bigger?! Hehehe, okay! Like, whatever you say, Mr. Button!"

When the world settles down around you, things are very different. You're not wearing clothes at all, save for a headband on your head with two little horns. You're on your hands and knees, your massive breasts hanging beneath you, resting on the cold ground. A large and growing puddle of milk spreads out around you. You want to call for help, but your lips are full and clumsy, letting out instead a sound that sounds dangerously like a Moo! After a few moments of braying, the door in front of you swings open. "What is it, Lilac? What is it, little cow? Oh you poor thing. Did the suction cups come undone again?" The nice lady (who smells amazing) leads you back up to a place where you can lean forward, resting your arms and your knees against padded supports, your huge udders hanging beneath you. The milkers are a bit cold when they first grab hold of your nipples, but the temperature warms up quickly, watching as your milk races down the tubes. "There we go, that's better, isn't it?" Your owner sighs as she scratches behind your ear and under your chin. "Sometimes I wish you were smarter, Lilac. Maybe you would have been a real person like me instead of a cow. It's like being this busty left you with no brains left at all! Ah well. I'll be back to change out the canisters in a little bit."

💕💕💕

[labete-du-gevaudan]

The Lütoulang, or Donkey-Headed Wolf ( 驢頭狼 ) is said to roam the wilderness of China. It is typically described as having a wolf's body, a donkey's head, and clawed paws. It is said to either make the bray of a donkey or the howl of a wolf. The lütoulang is a predatory animal that is reportedly unafraid of humans. When its typical prey is unable to be found, it will hunt livestock or smaller human beings that it can overpower. They can reportedly run incredibly fast over long distances to chase down prey.

Some researchers, like biologist Liu Minzhuang, believed that the lütoulang was a surviving chalicothere. Cryptozoologist David C. Xu disagrees, pointing out that chalicothere were herbivores. Xu simply believes that the lütoulang was a wolf seen under poor conditions that lead to its odd appearance. Others offer hyenas or a kind of surviving Amphicyonidae.

[gay-disabled-characters-showdown]

LGBTQ+ Disabled Characters Showdown Round 1, Wave 1, Poll 13

A character being totally canon LGBTQ+ and disabled was not required to be in this competition. Please check qualifications and propaganda before asking why a character is included.

Check out the other polls in this wave here.

Jedidiah A.A. Martin-Camp Here and There

Qualifications:

refuses to label his sexuality but BOY does he like men (looking at Mr Sargent for this one :3) also has ADHD! but its not known how attention deficient or hyperactive he is

also is a stupid cringefail loser who I want to push down a slide that's been fermenting in the sun all day during summer <3!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Propaganda:

Raised in a religious yet wealthy household, Jedidiah Abraham Adonias Martin--also known as "Jed", "Jeddie", "The archivist", "The clockmaker", or various misspellings and mispronunciations of his name--refuses to label his sexuality, but BOY does he like men (looking at Mr Sargent for this one), and also has ADHD! He may have dropped out of medical school and is "too repressed to write poetry", but he's still one of the camp nurses, alongside Sydney October Sargent! After talking to a bunch of birds, we found out that Jedididididiah will die on a Thursday (not a spoiler as of writing this). It has also been confirmed that he has a photo of Sydney on his desk (aww) and he plays D&D. Oh, and he's terrified of all things shelled. Would you like a snail as you think about voting for this loser? (affectionate)

Submitted by @spud-the-stupid

Ballister Boldheart-Nimona (Film)

Qualifications:

He has a boyfriend (and then they have a sort-of-breakup but they're back together by the end) and he has a prosthetic arm.

He’s gay and missing an arm.

He’s explicitly gay, in love with a man. He loses his arm then builds himself a prosthetic while on the run like a badass.

His boyfriend cut his arm off :( he uses a prosthetic now. His arm got chopped off after being falsely accused of killing the queen, he spends the rest of the movie with a prosthetic metal arm. His arm was also chopped off by his lover, Ambrosius Goldenloin, during said false assassination.

Canonically has a boyfriend and built his own prosthetic

Qualifies by both being canonically disabled (amputee) + canonically gay

Propaganda:

Please plz plz vote for him

His boyfriend cut off his arm. He made himself a prosthetic. He used his arm to block someone’s sword. He kissed his boyfriend. He has sad wet cat eyes, which isn’t relevant but still. He has them.

He’s so GOOD even though he’s having like the worst day ever (specifically talking about movie but webcomic also applies). He has the biggest wettest eyes how can you not root for him????

People love him! He kinda looks like a sad, poor little cat. A real soggy wet kitten man.

Let's see. He and Ambrosius are lovers, or at least boyfriends, from the moment they're introduced. Ballister gets his arm chopped off by Ambrosius during the false assassination. Ballister spends the rest of the movie trying to convince Ambrosius and the kingdom of his innocence, with a metal arm replacing his missing one. It originated the phrase "Arm Chopping is not a love language!" Did I mention he's a main character too?

Is a science nerd, built his own prosthetic arm with his non-dominant hand, accidentally adopted a trans chaos demon of a 1000yo being

A knight, Nimona's best friend and father figure of sorts, but the plot mostly revolves around him- Ballister is framed for murder and has to hide while trying to figure out who framed him and how to prove he's innocent. Nimona becomes his sidekick (he didn't want one, she just showed up at his place one day like a very chaotic stray cat) and together they form a great duo against the corrupt government. This is complicated by Ballister's ex Ambrosius, who accidentally cut off Ballister's arm and is a bit brainwashed by government propaganda. Oops. You should watch Nimona it's great 💞🦈

Submitted by @foulfirerebel (fifth person) and at least 7 others.

[brandwhorestarscream]

TFP Reincarnation au

Today i'm not in the mood for unhappy endings. How about the ending being like the one in " megaop twins au"?With the war ending positively for the Decepticons?

It's because i want Orion having a life with his bf and they multiples sparklings? Yes. SS and SW having healthier frames so the can have they little ones?too. I have ideias for others like Tfp Prowl, for example? yeah

So... consider. In this situation, Orion isn't turned back into Optimus Prime. Not permanently, anyway. The autobots manage to steal him back from the cons, nabbing his firstborn reincarnated bitty as well. They get the recently recharged Matrix back into him, but something is Wrong™

Mainly that the baby's health takes a turn for the worst. They've been screaming and crying ever since Optimus returned to them, and the Prime himself has no memory of his infant. It's very clearly his child, looks just like him, but he has no recollection of ever being sparked, no knowledge of this tiny baby. And the poor kid is spiraling: they're so, so little, and Orion's spark is distinctly different from Optimus. They are functionally different people. The baby cries and carries on fir hours, days, until they run out of energy and wilt. They're limp and unresponsive curled up in a little ball, wracked with fever and shaking, vents shallow and wheezing. All they do is whimper and cover away from anyone who approaches them, and brays mournfully at his mother-not-mother whenever Optimus gets too close

Ratchet's the only one qualified to diagnose the issue, but they can all tell the sparkling is dying. Suffering from a shattered maternal bond, and he's so little it's killing him. He's doomed to a slow, painful death as his spark dwindles without support and his systems shut down one by one

Optimus can't stand to watch it happen. He knows the sparkling will die if they continue on this way, and... he doesn't have it in him to let the little one extinguish. There's only one thing to do, and he removes the Matrix from his chest late at night while watching over the bitty in the medbay.

When Orion returns to consciousness, his last memory before everything went black was that group of strangers abducting him and his son, and he's horrified when he sees what state his baby is in. He grabs the kid, straps them into his alt mode, and peels out of the base as fast as possible. Hailing Megatron on his comms, saying he's escaped and mini-Orion desperately needs medical attention. Thankfully, they're able to stabilize the baby with an energon infusion and close spark-to-spark contact with his mother. Crisis averted

Idk exactly how going about achieving peace between them all would go, but. Nyeh. It's not important and I'm lazy. Perhaps Orion discovers his true calling as a diplomat, maybe the decepticons succeed with the Iacon Database and are victorious. Whatever works

Point is, Megop get to go home to Cybertron as equals, and start building a proper life for their bitties together. All's well that ends well

As for Starscream and Soundwave, it's not so much an issue of their bodies not being healthy, but rather their bodies not being the right size. As I mentioned before, their Aligned designs are much more streamlined than previous iterations, sleek and made for extreme speed rather than physical combat. It's not surprising they'd struggle with babies that are chunkier akin to their previous iterations. If they were to get caught in the reincarnation loop, there's no way the carrying cycles would be undiscovered, and they'd likely have to undergo cesarean.

[ahamkara-apologist]

savathun is cartoonishly evil and I love her because she's just a funny (not) little bug lady who likes playing funny tricks like trying to murder you for no reason. and even she is more redeemable than clovis bray because she was also explicitly victimized by the witness- she also just had the ability to forcibly break out of its control because she's a god and had the backing of the traveler itself. eramis was one single person who had the choices presented to her to either die or save her people from the apocalypse she probably didn't even know she was going to help work towards.

ABSOLUTELY, like Savvy is such a fun villain that even with all the horrible shit she did to Osiris (my fav human character) and Saint I still absolutely adore her. She's this perfect blend of 'someone who is a deeply selfish and absolutely horrible person' with 'person who does love and loves very deeply and was tricked into becoming who she was' that's absolutely delicious. She's billions of years old and has ended countless civilizations and feels no regret for it, only hatred for what it made of her. She's the god of trickery and lies. She speaks like a southern grandma. She puts the guardian through gauntlets of death for her own amusement. This is an act of genuine affection. She's just...such a good example of that charming trickster character that imo its impossible not to love her, no matter how horrible she gets, bc she's just so fun. And because, compared to Clovis Bray, her actions are not entirely selfish, or born in the arrogance and fear of an obsessive narcissist- she genuinely does act out of a desire to do better by her siblings and her people. It's just that she's extremely self-serving, so as soon as you lose your uselessness, oops, off you go! Good thing that we're all her blorbos in her own personal telenova

Eramis's situation was more of a deal with the devil thing I feel, where she wasn't aware of all the terms and conditions before she seized the Darkness. Like, she very much knew that she was making that sort of contract, but the vibe I got from Beyond Light when I replayed it was that she believed that she was taking the weapons of the enemy to use for her own gain, not realizing that it was the bait in a snare before it snapped shut on her. And, because she's not paracausal like Savathun is, once she was in that trap, she couldn't get out. I don't think it's a coincidence that when she accepted the Echo, she explicitly said that she has conditions of her own before she fully took its power- she learned from the last time she grasped something with such paracausal significance. Grasping blindly for power is what got her enslaved to an entity that she would have fought tooth and nail against if she actually knew what it wanted- that's why the Witness had to trick her into joining it like it did with Savathun. She made all the decisions that led her to that fate, sure, but overall I'd say that Eramis's arc is what is to be expected when you put someone in a situation of extreme stress, desparation, starvation/malnutrition, and constant fight-or-fight mode for god knows how long, make them responsible over a shitload of other people, and then trap them in a corner. They choose badly! You can force people to make worse choices with less pressure, and I think that when people bitch and moan about her being 'irrational' they forget that element of her story, or refuse to understand it. Kinda like a 'poor people are drug addicts because they're lazy' issue, where something is seen as a moral failing instead of a response to an environmental problem that wouldn't be taken if better options were availiable

But yeah, I fucking love Savathun. She's not my blorbo, but she's just an absolute gem of a character. Like, I know that this is sad for the Hive fans, but deadass part of the reason that I'm glad she'll never get a redemption arc is because that would mean that all her shenanigans would end. Like, fuck all the xenocide, idgaf about that, I like that she's a selfish bitch and a terrible mom who's playing us all like pawns on a chess board so that she can get a better future for her species. Like #slaaaayyyy, #girlboss. Everything she does is fascinating and funny. Please continue to put me into your little experiment chambers Aunt Savvy I'll gladly play your lab rat for you as long as you keep this game enriching