#Gideon's Trumpet

[kwebtv]

Nicholas David Pryor (born Probst; January 28, 1935 – October 7, 2024) Character actor. He appeared in various television series, films, and stage productions.

Pryor's most notable television role was that of A. Milton Arnold, the Chancellor of California University, in the television series Beverly Hills, 90210. Pryor's character, who appeared on the show from 1994 to 1997, was a widower and the father of one daughter, Claire (portrayed by Kathleen Robertson). His other television appearances included The Adams Chronicles (1976), Washington: Behind Closed Doors (1977) and Gideon's Trumpet (1980).

In 1964, Pryor was an original cast member of the new soap opera Another World, playing Tom Baxter until the character was killed off after six months. In 1973 Pryor was the second actor to play the role of P.I. Joel Gantry on The Edge of Night. For several years in the late 1990s and early 2000s, he played the role of Victor Collins on General Hospital and its spin-off, Port Charles. (Wikipedia)

IMDb listing

[zekkopunks]

Do u also sometimes get the thing where ur just sitting there listening to some video game music and suddenly you're like "THAT SPECIFIC SAMPLE/SYNTH IS USED IN THE MOTHER 3 SOUNDTRACK" and then u go back to doin what u were doin like nothing just happened

YES THIS HAPPENED EARLIER WITH EARTHBOUND LMAO I’ve been listening to a lot of mother fan songs lately and I get so happy when I can point out an instrument used

[queen-susans-revenge]

#ortus nigenad <-prev tag got me FUCKED UP

brought a poem to the gun fight

[dusttt]

this has to be the first and last time somebody has uttered this sentence

[fzjp]

AND ONE MORE THING (cuz i have more brainrot I didnt expect):

CROCALOR (aka the middle evolution aka the puberty stage of every 3-stage evolution pokemon)

(Not a single thought in his head. He's perfect. No notes.)

I can see this lil guy learning to play the trumpet and both Gideon and Kremy encourage him, they love their lil guy and his trumpet

Have this little gremlin in my head telling me "pokemon x ouaw crossover, coalecroux would have fuecoco"

I MEAN

SUCH A LITTLE GUY!!!!!

And when it evolves to Skeledirge it also becomes a Fire AND a Ghost type!!!

Kremh can have a shiny fuecoco so it will become a shiny skeledirge

Fabulous ✨️✨️✨️

[katakaluptastrophy]

I want to read more about people celebrating holidays in TLT.

No, not 'what if Gideon ran a Christmas tree farm and taught Harrow the true meaning of Christmas: lesbian sex with improbably good communication.'

I want to read about how people have to sit through two hours of church for Resurrection Day before going home to celebrations weirdly descended from whatever John particularly liked about Christmas.

Or enduring really cringe civil ceremonial for the Emperor's official birthday. The Junior Territorials are playing trumpet badly. The Cavalier Secondary to the head of House faints and face plants spectacularly while a choir of slightly wizened primary school children sing "He's got the whole system in his hands".

It's the anniversary of the foundation of our House and you know what that means: folk dancing and shots of a beloved spirit that was originally illegally distilled in old shuttle propulsion parts.

[corazondebeskar-reads]

live to rise - chapter eight

live to rise series

eight: ashes of another life (final chapter)

series masterlist | prev chapter

gladiator!Din Djarin x f!reader

word count: 4.5k

summary: your journey at the arena comes to an end.

chapter warnings: CREATOR CHOSE NOT TO USE WARNINGS. This chapter contains many very dark themes. I have omitted them as they are all spoilers. Please feel free to DM me.

Thank you all so much for joining me on this journey.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

When morning comes, it brings no mercy. 

Instead, it brings the trumpet of an all hands assembly as the suns rise. 

You and Eli have both survived the night and are awakened by the sounds as the full force of the arena staff and prisoners are gathered for the second consecutive day in the arena. It’s practically unheard of. 

It turns your stomach, and a tiny, resolute part of you wonders if it will bring you death. 

But once again, you’re reminded that Gideon will not show you that kindness. 

He has something else to show you, instead. 

Eli figures it out first. “Oh, maker. Don’t look,” he hisses urgently. “Don’t watch, don’t watch.”

But you do. 

You watch as the troopers line them up. Eighteen servants. Eighteen very familiar faces. 

Stellus. Hali. Sessa. The entire barracks staff—each caretaker and attendant on their knees with their hands behind their head. 

“Don’t,” Eli whispers. 

But you have to. 

There’s no showmanship. Gideon doesn’t ignite the saber. There are no cameras and no theatrics. 

Just a standard execution. The quick, sharp chirp of blasters and the thump of bodies on the sands. 

Eighteen lost souls whose only crimes were association. For sleeping in the same room, for sharing the same meals. 

It was no loss to the facility; they’d ship in new prisoners to fill the spaces left behind. And Gideon would sleep easy knowing the threat of anyone who might have dared to conspire or be inspired by either of you had been eliminated. 

Silence fills the arena when the firing ceases. It echoes in your ears. No one dares move or speak. 

“There will be no fights today. All staff are to return to their barracks under lockdown,” a Commander announces after Gideon has swept off. “Regular schedules resume tomorrow.”

An execution and a lockdown. Your mind races. Eighteen lost souls, and no meals or medical or anything for those who survived. 

You turn to Eli to share your distress and are startled to see a dangerous smile on his face. 

“What’s wrong with you?” You hiss. 

“He’s scared,” Eli says, his voice low and rough, nothing you’ve seen before. “Much more scared than he’d be if it were just the Mandalorian’s escape. That means something is happening out there.”

The hope from his revelation is undercut when you realize everyone has left the arena. 

The weight of the full lockdown sets in. They aren’t sending a cleanup crew. 

They’re going to leave you there with the bodies. 

Eli makes you turn around after a while but it doesn’t make a difference. The vacant eyes of your friends and comrades burn worse than the darksaber’s scars. 

He slumps more and more as the day creeps forward. The pain from his leg is wearing down his resolve but he still spares energy to try and bring you comfort. 

“This wasn’t because of you,” he says. “This is on me.”

You know he means well. But you find it doesn’t matter in the end. They’re dead, and your actions, direct or indirect, led them there. 

The next morning, the arena returns to life. The corpses are removed and burned, the sands are swept, and the fights return. It’s easier to look away down here than it was from the box. Easier to just turn enough that you can’t see. 

Eli stays awake less and less as the day drags on. You wait and wait for the same to come over you, for your body to pull you gently to the depths and let the current take you. You don’t want to watch him die, too, so you pray again for mercy.

It doesn’t come, but something else does.

In the silence of the third night, you think it’s a hallucination. After the oppressive heat of the long days, the high summer sun holding neither kindness nor cruelty but just by her nature scalding your skin, bodies withering without water, she comes. 

You blink slowly, the light of the twin moons making her armor spark and glare. It’s the strangest Mandalorian armor you’ve ever seen—which doesn’t mean much, since you’ve only seen the two kits. But it’s undeniably Mandalorian. 

It doesn’t matter. You lurch back away as they cut the bars with a laser and ease the metal quietly to the ground. 

They offer a hand, and you stare at it. 

“Look, I’m here for the saber, but I promised I’d try to free you. You can go wherever you’d like. If you don’t impede my mission, I’ll give you a ride—” She stops and assesses Eli for a moment, who hasn’t woken at the commotion—“But I’ll leave without you if I have to.”

“Where’s your ship?” you say. 

“Just follow me.”

“What about the rest of his armor?” 

“We’re not risking getting captured for that,” she says, starting to walk away.

“He’d rather have the armor than the saber.”

She sighs and turns back to give you the location of her ship. “If you’re not there when I leave—“

“I know,” you say. 

It hurts like hell to get up and even more to rouse Eli and loop his arm around your neck. The chances of getting him safely there are slim, but you’re fairly sure the guards will shoot to kill if they catch you, so there’s not really a bad option. 

Either path is better than shriveling up and wasting away in the cage. 

You leave him against a wall near the exit closest to her ship, and he tries to stop you before the pain overtakes him again. Dread fills you at the thought of finding him already gone when you return, but you have to do this.

It turns out, though, that you didn’t. The New Mandalorian is already there when you reach the lounge.

“You were right,” she sighs. “It’s one or the other.”

She ends up hauling most of the armor, which is good because you hadn’t thought about how you’d manage with one hand. She also dispatches the guards you encounter without breaking a sweat. 

On the ship, you try not to act surprised when she takes her helmet off. 

“Bo-Katan Kryze,” she says with an extended hand. 

The way she says it makes you think you’re supposed to know who she is. 

“I’m going straight back, and we’ll get him healed up enough for a new assignment. But we can try to arrange transport elsewhere for you once we’ve landed,” she tells you. 

“I’m retiring,” Eli groans from where she’s secured him to a row of dropseats.

“Unlikely,” she says. 

You sit with your hands folded in your lap. It’s not really set in that you’ve made it out. You have nothing to your name but the torn rags that hang loose and limp with singed edges that scrape against your skin. 

You can’t go home. You’ll be lucky if they haven’t killed or captured your family as it is, for the sin of knowing you. 

All you ever wanted was to protect them. That’s why you had paid their tariffs instead of your own. That’s why you consigned yourself to five years of slavery, of suffering the loss of life and loved ones daily for four kriffing years. 

And you risked it all for one man. 

And yet, it feels like more. It always had. You risked it for Din, yes, but also for his son and the green Mandalorian and the woman in front of you now, who risked her life to restore his reign, and you think of the hundreds of beings that gave everything in the name of this one man . 

And you’d do it again. He had confessed one night that he didn’t find himself deserving of the loyalty sworn to him, but you see it, she sees it, everyone sees it. 

The karking Rebel Alliance sees it. 

The galaxy needs the Mandalorians. Without them, the Empire will never fall.  And the Mandalorians need their king, their leader who would have sacrificed himself a thousand times over for them to survive. 

So you clench your jaw and square your shoulders and think of how to live. 

You feel the heat of her gaze before you see it, but when you look up, the woman is unabashedly watching you with a raised eyebrow. 

She looks you over, now that she has your attention. “Shand will be glad to know you survived,” she says, almost lazily. 

“Oh?” you say, forcing down the trace of disappointment. Yes, you had assumed Din was the one who wanted you freed. But any kindness is enough. 

“Yes, she said she grew quite fond of you.”

“Hmm,” is all you can reply. Fondness was not really how you had grown to feel, though the last two days had thrown you off track. 

Before that, though, you don’t think you could feel fond of someone who would own a being like that. 

But you don’t play her game. You don’t dance around the subject. “How is he?”

“He didn’t come back for you, and you’re concerned?”

“It would have been the stupidest move in the karking galaxy, and if you all are such skilled and legendary warriors, you should understand that.”

Silence falls in the cockpit. And then she laughs. “I didn’t expect you to have any bite.”

You don’t say a thing, but you do scowl.

“Well, I didn’t. He calls you kar’talyc. ”

“So?” 

“Do you even know what it means?”

“Of course I don’t, I’m not Mandalorian.”

“That didn’t stop your little message.”

Your head snaps back to her. “You saw that? Did…”

“Did he show an uncharacteristic lack of composure when you used a secret Mandalorian code to apologize to him for being tortured on live holo? Yes.” 

She succeeds in shocking you into silence. You sit and turn it over in your head.

“It wasn’t for that. It was for breaking.”

She rolls her eyes—like, actually rolls her eyes at you while you relive the absolute worst moments of your life in your head. “Everyone breaks,” she says. You didn’t know enough for it to matter.”

You can read between the lines. You didn’t know enough to matter. To her, anyway. Your feelings aren’t hurt, though. 

“It means you’re a bleeding heart. A sap,” she says, pulling you back into the previous conversation.

You sit for a moment with the new knowledge. “I’m going to take that as a compliment,” you say. 

She shakes her head with a hint of a smirk. “He certainly means it as one,” she says in the way of having known someone too well for too long. 

It’s near chaos when you land but you manage to go unnoticed. Bo-Katan is talking to three different people as soon as the ramp lowers, and you direct the medic team to Eli with your good hand, hanging back in the shadows. 

The feeling of hyperspace hasn’t left your bones. You’re adrift in the great cold darkness. Your skin feels cool to the touch, even in the blistering expanse of sand and suns. 

The docking bay is makeshift. Cobbled together from sandstone that’s already cracking under the weight of the ships and scrapyard rejects. 

The ebb and flow of bodies is endless. Humanoids, aliens, and Beskar blend together and no one pays attention to the lost little girl that you feel like, now. It’s like you’re stuck on the other side of a laser gate—all the cacophony blending into an overbearing hum and the movements all blurring and crackling beyond your reach. 

In the end, you sit at the top of the ramp and just watch. Maybe Bo-Katan will come back. Maybe not. But here, you’re out of the way. 

She finds you, in the end. Shand. You suppose you’re glad for a familiar face, especially now that the twin suns are drifting toward the horizon and a strange chill has taken over the desert. Not that you noticed. You’ve been shivering all day anyway.

She doesn’t say anything at first; just leans against the post at the end of the ramp and raises an eyebrow. 

“Hi,” you say cautiously.

“C’mon,” is all she says, jerking her head behind her and turning to walk away. 

You follow her without another word between you. The throngs of bodies part for her despite her small stature, which makes it easy for you to stick close. 

You’re surprised to end up in the medbay. You open your mouth to protest, and she gives you the most reproachful look you’ve ever withered under.

“The entire galaxy watched you get fileted, and you’ve clearly got an infection,” she says.

“I don’t want to waste—”

“Fett has a bacta tank. Don’t be foolish,” she says before turning you over to an equally strict looking Aqualish who doesn’t care to hear what you have to say, either.

Din’s there, somewhere, but you don’t see him. Well. You think he’s there. They mention him in a way that sounds like he’s just down the hall or around the corner, but you don’t actually ask. 

It seems better that way. Safer. Truthfully, you have little time to think of him anyway. 

But there are signs. 

The palace, which you learn belongs to the man called Fett, is massive. And it seems to contain half of the Rebellion, including the Mandalorian survivors who have been absorbed into the movement whether they like it or not. But still, you can go through countless halls without seeing a soul. 

You get put in a room by yourself on one of the upper floors. You know they’ve been converting the lower suites into bunk rooms. That those rooms are even considered more desireable, since being underground protects them better from the heat. 

But when you question it, the tall bald man who escorted you to your room just laughs and says, “I was told you were to never be stuck underground again.” 

“I don’t even know if I’m staying,” you protest to no one when he leaves. Or you think it’s to no one, but you jump out of your skin a moment later when Shand says, “You’re staying,” from behind you.

“I don’t know…” 

“I volunteered you for the medbay but they’d be happy to have you anywhere. The kitchens, the creche, the cleaning crew. You’ve got enough skills to have your choice.” 

“You have a lot of faith in me for being the person who just poured your drinks,” you say wryly.

She snorts. “And managed a barrack and took care of an ornery Mandalorian.” 

“I don’t know,” you say again.

“Just think about it. You’ve more than earned a place here,” she says as she leaves.

You sit on the edge of the bed for a long time. It’s too soft, too endless. You think if you lay in it, you’ll sink in and drown. 

So you sit and force yourself to accept the way the sheets feel beneath your palms and the mattress dips beneath your weight and how the ground grinds beneath your shoes that you wear, now, for the first time in four years. 

You thought they’d feel safer, but they’re more like a cage. 

Everything is wrong. Your hand is healed, the bones settled back like nothing happened. The cuts and bruises and raw, flayed flesh are the same as the day you were born. The bacta erased almost everything.

Your mind doesn’t seem to have been blessed by the bath. It still ticks and clicks all wrong, stuttering over things that used to be effortless. You jump and twitch and stop your breath for any reason, for no reason. 

And you can’t stand droids. 

The first time a protocol droid speaks to you, you find yourself in a storage room two floors up. You don’t know how you got there and you don’t know how long you were gone. Its voice isn’t even the same, but something in you is irrevocably broken. The astromechs are worse. The whirring of their motors doesn’t send you fleeing. 

No. You just fall apart.

It’ll get better, you tell yourself. It has to. You can’t avoid droids, but you can certainly try.

One time, when you’re pulling yourself together after an unfortunately literal run-in with a probe droid, you find yourself in the lower levels of the sprawling complex. But you’re not alone. 

There’s someone running past the door as you exit whatever empty meeting room you have found yourself in. They trip and fall just as they pass.

“Hey kiddo, you okay?” you say, crouching down to the small child.

The little green toddler pushes back up to their feet, though, looks up at you with wide brown eyes, and squeals something unintelligible. 

“Oh, I see. You’re a tough one, huh? Good. Great job.” You hold your hand out for a high five, but they just gently press their tiny palm against yours. 

“That works too,” you assure them.

“C’mon, buddy,” an exasperated, foreignly familiar voice says from behind you. “I know you don’t—”

The little one, who, as your stomach sinks, you realize must be Grogu, babbles excitedly and grabs your hand to show you his father. 

You stand and let him, though you need no introductions. 

The Mandalorian stands before you in all his silver glory. You know that Din is the armor and the armor is Din, but it’s startling to see him this way. He’s not soft or dimpled or warm, now. 

But he’s still Din. You can feel it. 

Inexplicably, you’re being dragged back by an invisible hand, your worries manifesting into something with more control over your body than your hopes. 

You take a step back, leaning your weight on your heel for another. 

“Wait,” he says through the unfamiliar crackle of the modulator.

And then he does the last thing you expect in this moment.

He takes the helmet off. 

You stand, caught in his orbit, your mouth parted just so as you take in the face of the man you thought you’d never see again, one way or another. 

You blink a few times, uncertain.

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” he says in a rush. “Every time I try to find you, I’m too late.”

“You’ve been trying to find me?” Your breath catches noisily in your chest, interrupting yourself. 

“I… of course,” he says, brows furrowed. 

The way he says it is so blunt, so assured, so Din that you can’t believe you ever doubted. Of course. Even if it wasn’t for the things you shared, that’s just who he was. Of course he’d want to find you, to see with his own eyes that you were alive. 

Of course. 

You’re not sure who moves first. It doesn’t matter. The embrace knocks the wind out of you after you fail to account for the solid wall of beskar between your bodies, but you barely notice. His hands, while gloved, are clutching you to him, and he’s kissing you and everything is clicking back into place and tiny hands are… tiny hands are grabbing at your tunic? 

Grogu uses the leverage of your clothes to launch himself up. Din catches him easily, unsurprised by the tiny child’s dexterity. 

It should be strange, you think. This larger-than-life man and this tiny green baby. But seeing his son in his arms completes the portrait of Din that lives in your head. It can’t be strange, could never be. 

Din looks at you with those big, sad baby bantha eyes, and his softness seeps away. “Let me get the womp rat back to the creche. Then we should talk.” 

You don’t know what to expect, but he takes you to his chambers. The door slides shut behind you, and you blink against the heavy dark of the room.

“I’m sorry,” he says sharply, suddenly, but softens. “I’m sorry. Your parents. They’re gone.”

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You knew, really. You hadn’t wanted to, but you knew. 

“We sent someone,” he adds quietly. “It was too late.”

“Thank you,” you say, staring out the window for a moment, taking in the way the hazy orange sunset blends with the sands. Nothing like the divide of the wind and sea. “Do you know what happened? Or… when?”

He hesitates. 

You turn to him. “I can handle it.”

He grimaces and sighs. “You don’t have to.”

“Don’t,” you say sharply, and his shoulders slump.

“Troopers shot them,” he starts, hesitating to let you back out. When you say nothing, he gives in. “After the broadcast.”

It hurts more than you thought. “What are the chances—”

“I’m sorry.”

You can’t quite swallow it. “You were right. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Somehow, as always, he knows. “You would have wondered. And I didn’t want to lie to you, anyway.” He stands up and approaches you, drawing you in by your shoulders even though you don’t want to be held. 

But he knows. He always knows. And you fold, because you don’t want to, but you need to. 

And it’s easier. Easier to let him envelope you, to fill yourself with the soft slopes of his muscles and lose yourself in his musk. To forget, just for now, not for always, but for a moment. To steady yourself with having one person back from the list of the lost. 

You don’t have him, really, you know this. Can’t have him properly. Not the way you’d like. But you let him have you. 

Oh, and he does.

He has you sprawled on the chaise lounge before you register the movement, lowering you down as he kisses you, and you just following the press of his body. He doesn’t stay above you long, his mind far more focused on lifting up your skirt and helping himself to your cunt. 

He feasts and you fall. His lips and tongue taste every part of you. The difference this time is that he talks. In the stilted silence of the cell, neither of you had sweet or sultry sentiments but now, oh, now he never stops. Murmurs that fill your cunt, endearments kissed onto your clit, and growls sucked into your thighs, blossoming bruises that seep into your bones. 

You can’t hear much of it, but your breath hitches with each word you can snatch from the air. Sweet, he calls you as he speaks of his need and ache. You fall apart on his tongue when he calls you my brave girl. 

His. 

You hold onto that, rewind and replay on the lonely nights to come. Neither of you speak of it, of course, but he said it, he meant it, you heard it, you kept it. 

That night, though he doesn’t say it again, you believe it. He makes you believe it. With each kiss and caress and bite and bruise. He takes and you give and give and give. 

He doesn’t stop worshipping your cunt on his knees after you come. It’s not enough; he can’t be satiated. He drinks from you twice more before he can wait no longer, climbing above you and knocking your legs apart with his knee. He can’t be bothered to strip you of your clothes or him of his. Can’t be bothered to waste another second before he’s plunging the full length of him into your soft folds and gasping as if he’s nearly drowned. 

Maybe he has. Maybe he’s submersed himself so deeply within you that he can’t breathe. You can’t, so you’d believe it. 

He fucks into you somehow sweetly, though the pace he sets is unforgiving. His hands cradle you, though, and his lips find purchase along your neck. 

Din doesn’t say it again, doesn’t call you his , but he leaves his mark on every inch of flesh he can reach. 

He makes sure you lose yourself in two more orgasms before he pulls out to spill against your slit, rubbing the head of his cock against your puffy outer lips and clit. 

“Stay,” he pleads. 

So you do.

An hour later, you realize he hadn’t taken your clothes off not because he couldn’t be bothered, but because he was waiting for you. He was perceptive and kind as always, waiting for you to expose your scars. 

Not even the bacta could erase Gideon’s “art.” 

Din wouldn’t take that from you, wouldn’t make you, but you do it anyway. You bare yourself to him and he takes the offering with as much aplomb as you would have guessed. 

Nothing is said, but he pulls you down after, once you’ve fucked yourself full of him, to lay against his own bare body, and his fingers trace the lines with reverence.

He doesn’t say it again, but you hear it. My brave girl, his fingertips whisper. 

And you finally cry. 

When you’ve run out of tears, he holds you still, doesn’t let go just because the need is gone. 

Neither of you sleep that night. You can’t stop your hands and mouths and hearts from following the beat of each other. Like the quiet taps in the darkness of the cell, your bodies speak to one another and you can’t help but to listen, to answer the call. 

It’s nearly morning when you ask. He hadn’t wanted you to, if only because he didn’t like the answer. 

But he gives it to you anyway. 

Two days. He’ll be leaving in just two days. 

You knew he couldn’t be bound here, couldn’t be nestled in the safety of the palace while there was a war to wage. Knew he would never keep to the background, would never shy away from standing beside his people and doing what needed to be done.

He has a question of his own for you and this time, you have an answer. You couldn’t promise Shand that you’d stay, but it falls from your lips for Din like nothing. 

Where would you go anyway?

But stay, he pleads, so stay you will. Here, where he can find you. Here, where his son will be, for this is not the time for foundlings to flourish. No, there is far too much that will be lost in this final hour. And you know now that there’s not much you wouldn’t do when Din is the one to ask.

So you stay.

In the darkness of the early morning, the three of you stand in the hangar. It’s unsettlingly empty in a way that can only be intentional. Din removes his helmet and tucks it under his arm, tugging one glove off to cup your cheek in his broad palm. 

His soft lips find first your forehead and then your lips. It’s saccharine and short; a proper farewell. He hugs his son and kisses his little wrinkled head before placing him into your arms. 

The helmet goes back on, and the Mand’alor only hesitates once at the bottom of the ramp, nodding his head once. You hold his heart in your hands in every way that matters, and the two of you watch until the tiny dot of his ship disappears.

You think I remember you, so you are eternal, and hope it’s not all you’ll have left of him to hold onto. 

so long, and thanks for all the fish!

*title from "45" by Shinedown.

[liesmyth]

It's finally here... the fic that posits to answer the burning question: how are REVEREND BABIES made?

Featuring the breakdown of a longstanding marriage, small-scale genocide, a vengeful ghost of the MILF persuasion, and a normal amount of bones.

Rated M, 10k, Canon-typical everything

Characters: Pelleamena Novenarius, Anastasia the First, Priamhark Noniusvianus, Various Ninth House Characters

Tagged: Worldbuilding, Pre-Canon, Ninth House Extinction Event, Necromancy, Mad Science, WOMEN'S WRONGS

“Harrowhark—you are a walking miracle. A unique theorem. A natural wonder.” You looked at God, and you said: “I have just told you that I am the product of my parents’ genocide.” Harrow the Ninth, Chapter 14

[gman777nogoose]

Gideon. I have acquired a trumpet

You have?!

Mind giving a demonstration?

[throwingbread]

10 fic for International Fanworks Day. Here are some fics from my bookmarks that need more love, in no particular order.

Those Who Come Closest (30325 words) by dagas isa Chapters: 11/11 Fandom: Final Fantasy X Summary: How do ordinary people become Fayth? It takes a certain amount of desire, dedication and desperation. These are their stories. Propaganda: You want worldbuilding? This fic has got worldbuilding out the wazoo.

Apprentice of the Beast (1651 words) by JetBlackKobold Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Summary: On their journey to the Disk of Cauthess, five men stop to rest and, bound in each other's company, talk a little. Ardyn is a strange man with a fondness for old stories, poems, songs, and rhymes. With a little prompting, he shares a story about a Beast and a Soldier whose good intentions are corrupted by power. Propaganda: Backstory, in Ardyn’s own words.

The Endlings (664 words) by TheBrightestNight Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022), The Sandman (Comics) Summary: end∙ling /εndlŋg/ n 1 the last known individual of a species or subspecies. Once the endling dies, the species becomes extinct. Propaganda: Extinct animal feels.

at the last trumpet (9830 words) by liesmyth Fandom: The Locked Tomb Series | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir Summary: the line of the Tomb-keepers demands an heir, no matter the cost. Featuring a small-scale genocide, the breakdown of a marriage, an angry ghost of the MILF persuasion, and a normal amount of bones. Propaganda: Yes more worldbuilding. Glorious cursed necromantic worldbuilding.

freedom so liberating that we call it magic (2566 words) by EtchJetty, FlaringK Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time, The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild Summary: People don’t talk about Sheik that much. It must have been hell for Zelda, to pretend to be a gender she wasn’t. Especially if she had done it before. (or: what if zelda was a girl?

Propaganda: TRANS GIRL ZELDA

setting sail, coming home (5989 words) by beaufort12 Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: Hades (Video Game 2018) Summary: In which Zagreus escapes the underworld, keeps running, and never looks back. Propaganda: Shameless fix-it fic.

The Moonstone (21266 words) by Vriah, gisho Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022)

Summary: Morpheus finds a way to avoid killing a vortex - he gives Rose his own heart, forcing her to take his place as Dream. The new Dream has to deal with a life she never expected and try not to repeat her predessor's mistakes. In the waking world, the people she left behind grieve and wonder. And when Roses's little brother Jed is offered the chance to switch from superhero to questing knight, with some help from an old friend, he leaps at the opportunity. Propaganda: My boy Jed!

Lampshades on Fire (5739 words) by ostreatus, stellarators Fandom: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018) Summary: Or, How Dr. Olivia Octavius Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Morally Unambiguous Nature of her Violent Actions. Summary A review of the scientist-to-supervillian pipeline, based on a longitudinal case study.

Propaganda: The villain origin story we were so cruelly deprived of in canon.

built a lot of castles (12055 words) by basketofnovas Fandom: The Old Guard (Movie 2020) Summary: In the eighties, Quynh is rescued by a marine archaeologist, and finds herself in an alien world with no easy way to contact Andromache - or even know she's alive. Propaganda: In which Quynh receives some much-needed comfort in the form of random human kindness.

Inferno Seized (14726 words) by MuseofWriting Fandom: Hades (Video Game 2018)Relationships: Asterius | The Minotaur/Theseus ( Hades Video Game) Summary: The monster went to Tartarus. The hero went to Elysium. Or, depending which storytellers you asked, and which songs you heard, maybe the Underworld got it backwards. Or maybe neither of them were monsters or heroes. Maybe they were just imperfect beings, tied together, messily, terribly, inescapably. This is the story of how they found each other. Propaganda: Look its the most eloquent Minotaur/Theseus fic I’ve ever seen.

[cryptographs-and-casinos]

Embrace today as if your town is going to be hit by a tornado in exactly three and a half years!

"Tatum Lovecraft, totally average employee at many casinos and clubs. Out of boredom and a lack of pay, I made this little baby of mine! Hope we can have a great time, darlings."

indie, semi-selective, iconless

(Tatum is an original character created by @simping-on-the-daily, your mod here, as a cringefail gambling Ciphertologist. Nobody stopped me, so I did it. Regret is dead and I am immortal.)

Rules, Information and Notes

Notes

Tatum is a morally ambiguous character and not all that nice. Their beliefs are not reflections of the mod's point of view. On top of that, Tatum is an unreliable narrator and can't be trusted to answer questions truthfully.

Notes from the mod will be signified by (______).

Blog contains mentions of violence and gore, though I refuse to give deep descriptions. If stuff ever needs to need tw'ed, just ask me and I'll follow through.

Rules

Basic human decency is required. Shocker, I know.

Mod is a minor, and while I will allow suggestive content, anything overly NSFW or sexual will be deleted.

Please don't start fighting in the replies, reblogs or inbox. It happened one time and it was a nightmare, so it's best to be on guard.

OC Information

Tatum is a liar and a gadfly. They cannot be trusted to be reliable or honest.

While not aroace, Tatum is against romance, and so, they won't be romantically shipped with other blogs.

Uses she/they, though insists that gender is dead and one of the most meaningless things in a life full of little meaning.

Is currently researching the events of Orchard Lake, Kansas in their spare time.

Tatum can play the saxophone and trumpet, and is currently learning the piano to assist in more musical endeavours at the club.

It's unclear as to how Tatum knows what she does. The leading thought are their Ciphertology connections, research onto people's character or divine assistance, but none of these have been proven 100%.

Will occasionally refer to Bill as the Lord of Codex.

Tags

cryptographs-and-casinos: posts made by the blog, discounting non-rp reblogs

meaning has no meaning: self musings that aren't in response to an ask or thread

the first cult in history that was right: any content about the cult of ciphertology

ive got them addicted: where all asks go

your privacy means nothing to me: anonymous asks

Character Tags

the birchtrees watch: art, fanfiction, pictures etc featuring silas birchtree

found family of freaks: any content regarding two or more members of the pine family (includes wendy, soos and waddles)

desperate to please eager to ego: stanford pines tag

gamble still going strong: tag for stanley pines content

i like your funny words magic mabel: content for mabel pines

he'll never be a big dipper: any content for mason 'dipper' pines

gopher man got questions: tag for soos ramirez content

cool like ice: wendy curdoroy tag

scholar lost to sanity's sorrows: old man mcgucket/fiddleford hadron mcgucket content

living ventriloquist dummy: content regarding gideon gleeful

it's just a phase: tag for robbie valentino

the famed platinumpaz: content for pacifica northwest

triangulum entangulum bring us a party to die for: any content regarding bill cipher

[artandthebible]

Gideon Overcoming the Midianites

Artist: Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577-1640)

Date: circa 1625-1630

Medium: Oil on Canvas

Collection: North Carolina Museum of Art, Raleigh, NC, United States

Gideon Overcoming the Midianites | Judges 7:7-22

In the Bible, Gideon led the Israelites to victory over the Midianites in a battle that seemed impossible. Here's a summary of the events: 

God commands Gideon. God commands Gideon to reduce his army from 32,000 to 300 men. 

Gideon's strategy. Gideon divides his army into three groups, gives each man a torch and trumpet, and instructs them to surround the Midianite camp at night. 

The battle. At a signal, Gideon's men smash jars, blow trumpets, and yell. The noise and light confuse the Midianites, who begin fighting each other. Gideon's men pursue the fleeing Midianites, capturing the kings Zebah and Zalmunna. 

Gideon's punishment. Gideon punishes the men of Succoth and Peniel for refusing to provide provisions. He also pulls down the tower of Peniel and kills all the men there. 

Gideon's victory was due to his trust in God, who confused the Midianites and made them fight each other. 

[kwebtv]

TV Guide -  November 16 - 22, 1963

James Grover Franciscus (January 31, 1934 – July 8, 1991) Film and television actor, known for his roles in feature films and in six television series: Mr. Novak, The Naked City, The Investigators, Longstreet, Doc Elliot, and Hunter.

His first major role was as Detective Jim Halloran in the half-hour version of ABC's Naked City. Franciscus guest starred on the CBS military comedy–drama Hennesey, starring Jackie Cooper, and on the NBC drama about family conflicts in the American Civil War entitled The Americans. CBS soon cast him in the lead in the 13-week series The Investigators, which aired from October 5 to December 28, 1961. He played the insurance investigator Russ Andrews, with James Philbrook as a co-star. Franciscus was also cast in the role of Tom Grover in the 1961 episode "The Empty Heart" of the CBS anthology series The DuPont Show with June Allyson. He performed in many feature films and television programs throughout the 1960s and 1970s, preceded by a minor role in an episode of The Twilight Zone titled "Judgment Night" in 1959, and a major role in episodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents: "Forty Detectives Later" in 1960, and "Summer Shade" in 1961.  (Wikipedia)

Dean Jagger (November 7, 1903 – February 5, 1991)  Film, stage, and television actor who won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor for his role in Henry King's Twelve O'Clock High (1949) 

In the 1960s, Jagger increasingly worked on television appearing in The Twilight Zone ("Static"), Sunday Showcase, Our American Heritage, General Electric Theater, Dr. Kildare, The Christophers, and The Alfred Hitchcock Hour. 

Jagger achieved success with the television series Mr. Novak (1963–1965), receiving Emmy Award nominations for his role in 1964 and 1965, as well as the California Teachers Association's Communications Award, along with star James Franciscus, in 1963 for his portrayal of high-school principal Albert Vane.

Jagger's appearances in the 1960s included episodes of The F.B.I. and The Fugitive,  as well as the TV filmm The Brotherhood of the Bell (1970), with Ford, and an episode of The Name of the Game.

He had a semiregular role on the series Matt Lincoln (1970) as the father of the title character, and parts in Vanishing Point (1971), Bonanza, and Incident in San Francisco (1971).

In 1971, Jagger appeared on The Partridge Family. He played a prospector named Charlie in the Christmas episode "Don't Bring Your Guns to Town, Santa".

In his later career Jagger was in The Glass House (1972), Columbo, Kung Fu (Jagger appeared as Caine's grandfather, who wants little to do with him, but starts Caine on his series-long search for his half-brother Danny), Alias Smith and Jones, Medical Center, The Stranger (1973), The Delphi Bureau, The Lie (1973), Shaft, I Heard the Owl Call My Name (1973), Love Story, The Hanged Man (1974), The Great Lester Boggs (1974), The Lindbergh Kidnapping Case (1976), Harry O, Hunter, The Waltons ahd Gideon's Trumpet (1980)

He won a Daytime Emmy award for a guest appearance in the religious series This Is the Life.

His last role was as Dr. David Domedion in the St. Elsewhere season-three finale "Cheers" in 1985.  (Wikipedia)

[beyondtheciouds]

Oct. 1914

Thomas Lightwood could not sleep.

The dreams plagued him day and night; consorts to his daily life. Friends that would never leave his side; Christopher's never ending screams an outlying nuisance coinciding with Alastair's heavy snoring and the whistles of the late night trains. He reluctantly rolled over on the stained mattress, his cool body only comforted by the familiar sounds of his lover; the hot breath on his back. The blankets had been tossed off Thomas in his restlessness; his long legs and big feet shaping the shadows off the wall of the small bedroom beyond the large bed frame.

The world was changing as he knew it would; the pain of death still fresh and present like a knife in his heart. This life he had found-- felt like a calling; here Thomas was unbound by the rules of the Clave and ungoverned by society. Here, they were not afraid of falling in love.

Here, they were free to fail as they had all failed Kit.

Thomas, unnerved by ghosts of the past, eagerly glanced at the old, worn raggedy chair in the corner; his olive army issued jacket draped over the arm-- the white band with the red cross still glistening with the copper scented mundane blood. The medic bag, open, medical instruments tossed on the floor without a care. His pants, still muddy and torn hanging off the back. His boots stiff by the door.

The trumpets would be sounding soon. A call that could not remain unanswered. Thomas was lucky, he did not have to live in the cold, canvas tents set up along the river bank.

Upon arrival, Alastair had smartly secured a room in a closeby boarding house and a job for himself serving food and ale to the soldiers.

Sophie was proud her son had chosen his own path; Sona too. Gideon was torn; he was ashamed Thomas had withheld so many secrets. So many things about his son he had not noticed.

Thomas didn't know if he could ever face his family again. He wasn't sure if the Lightwood name would die with him or Christopher.

Perhaps Alexander would carry it on for their parents. Do right by their heritage.

Thomas looked down; his internal clock destroyed by this insomnia as the sun rose beyond the yellowed curtains. He couldn't think about his little cousin without thinking of Kit and Anna.

All he had left behind.

His enormous hands were still stained crimson from the last man he had tried desperately to patch up before the last bomb had gone off, sending the two of them flying across the charred grass. The man's blood seeped into the seams of Thomas's skin despite the continuous scrubbing in the hours afterward. He could still hear their angry cries when he closed his eyes---tormented grown men begging Thomas to end their lives as the sirens blew in the town beyond the broken grain fields. Gunfire echoing in the groves of apple trees as horses trampled the cores and corpses. The cracking of the covered bridge reverberating like a whip. Blasts of heat and metal raining down on the already wounded. Limbs torn and ripped like branches oozing with red honey.

Screams. Screams. Screams.

Thomas had chosen to leave; he had chosen to help the mundanes in their war and the selfless act had cost him dearly. His mind was starting to unravel; his truths expelling from the depths of his soul.

How could he ever repay Alastair for leaving with him?

[biboocat]

Great male heroes of Victorian literature that I have encountered:

The Reddleman - The Return of the Native

Gabriel Oak - Far From the Madding Crowd

Kester Woodseaves - Precious Bane

Gideon Winterborne - The Woodlanders

Captain William Dobbin - Vanity Fair

George Warrington - The History of Pendennis

Walter Hartright - The Woman in White

Jem Wilson - Mary Barton

Dr. Allan Woodcourt - Bleak House

Fitz Jarndyce - Bleak House

Dr. Wilbur Larch - Cider House Rules

Mr. Weston - Agnes Grey

Trumpet Major John Loveday - The Trumpet Major

To be continued

[tchaikovsgay]

not to project my own traits onto my blorbo or anything but you can’t tell me Gideon would play anything other than the trumpet or trombone