#I enjoy backstory fics

[olenvasynyt]

WIP Wednesday: I’ve been working on this forever but I’m finally getting back into my Mor backstory fic. Calling it Exchange Your Blood For Wine. It’ll be split into 3(?) chapters where she gets her bleeding, is betrothed to Eris, goes to the Illyrian Camps and fucks Cassian, and is beaten and sent to the Autumn border where she is found by Eris. This is a snippet from when she goes to the Illyrian Camps. Idk if this is her first time there or if she hasn’t met Cassian before this but I’m going with both to make it more interesting.

She breathed in the chilly air, her lungs chilling. It smelled of cedar and snow and the subtle tang of metal.

Her first true taste of freedom—and her last.

She wrapped her fur-lined coat tighter around herself. The collar pressed into her chin and neck a bit too tightly for comfort, making her feel unbearably itchy. She stepped into the camp mother’s house and was relieved to take off her coat. A fireplace crackled merrily at the far end of the living room, but Mor didn’t feel much warmer. A strange sence of numbness chilled her to the bone, as if she was still standing in the snow and the freezing air. She felt herself shaking a little as she wrapped her arms around herself and stepped further into the living room.

“Morrigan. It’s good to see you again.” Lady Haniya’s eyes were a different color to her sons—a dark hazel instead of star-flecked indigo–but they had the same twinkling charm.

“Dinner will be ready in about an hour, but I have some tea on the stove if you’re interested. Nice and hot to warm you up on this cold day, huh?” She turned to her son and gave him a look that resembled reproach. “Cassian is still training, of course. I hoped he would be here to welcome our guest with me, but you know how he is.”

“He knows that we have a visitor, I hope?” Rhys asked, his lips quirking up in amusement.

“He does, I must have reminded him half a dozen times.” Haniya sounded annoyed, but she gave a chuckle, easing Mor a bit.

Rhysand laughed too. “Well, I highly doubt he’ll be late for dinner. He adores your cooking.”

“He can entertain our guest with his excessive burping and his adventure stories,” Haniya mused, rolling her eyes.

“Don’t forget his remarkable talent for drinking,” Azriel muttered.

Rhysand’s mother poured tea for the four of them. Azriel picked up his porcelain cup gingerly and took a small sip. His eyes stared into space as if he was deep in thought.

Mor took a sip of her own tea. It was extremely bitter, and it reminded her of something like pine. She must have made a face, because Rhysand’s mother chuckled. “It’s thistle tea,” she explained. “It’s an acquired taste. I’m afraid the Steppes doesn’t have the best assortment of teas and spices. No sugar either.”

“Doesn’t Father send you some?” Rhysand said, his voice carefully casual.

“He does occasionally,” his mother answered simply.

Lady Haniya was stern but warm, and carefully lead the conversation with casual topics like the weather, what the festival would be like, where Mor would be sleeping. She never mentioned the Hewn City, and she did not ask Mor any questions about her doomed future. It was quite obvious she knew of her betrothal though: it was obvious when someone knew something but avoided saying it.

What was her own marriage with Sinan like? They were mates, but the two of them always seemed…distant when she saw them together. Uncaring. Did she resent her mating with Sinan? Did feel trapped like Mor did? But no…she was free to go where she wished, she lived in the Steppes in this lovely house instead of in the dark Hewn City with her cruel mate. She had freedoms that Mor would never have in Autumn.

The front door opened with a bang. A gust of cold wind blew in along with a massive Illyrian male. With his long hair tangled around his face and his wind swept cloak, he looked like he spawned from the chilling wind itself. He stepped into the room, tucking his wings close. A very large bruise darkened his chiseled jaw, but the male seemed to wear it like a badge of honor, especially as he gave a wicked grin.

“It seems like Devlon(?) (spell name right) gave you a good beating, Cas,” Rhys drawled, nodding to the black and blue bruise with a smirk.

“What, this?” The male grinned, showing bright white teeth. “I let him give me this. He’s looking much worse, trust me.”

He was proud and wild and careless. He filled the room with an energy that seemed to brighten everything, even Azriel’s dark shadows.

“What’s for dinner, mum?” Cassian asked.

“I got some rabbit stew, turnip salad, and rye bread.”

“Rye bread? I can’t remember the last time we had such a delicacy. You bring that, Rhys?”

“This is the brute Cassian. Cassian, this is Morrigan.”

“Mor,” she corrected hastily.

The male grinned at her. A dimple formed on his bruised cheek. “A lady of the court,” he mused, bowing his head in mock formality. “The camp isn't used to hosting such esteemed females such as yourself. Besides the Lady of Night, of course.” He nodded to Rhysand’s mother, who gave him a look of reproach.

“You’ll do well to treat her like a lady, boy,” she said sternly. “She’s not just another wild bastard you can beat up.”

Cassian looked Mor up and down as if he disagreed. Mor waved a hand. “Oh it’s alright, Haniya. It’s probably hard for him to remember his manners,” she crooned. “I’ll be happy to teach him.”

Cassian quirked a thick eyebrow and laughed. “I’ll gladly give you a few lessons of my own, but I’m not sure a lady such as yourself would be interested.”

“I assume these lessons would be how to drink myself to death and get punched in the face?”

“She’s here for (insert festival name here), not for sword fighting lessons,” Azriel said quietly.

“There’s always after. Unless the lady has duties back in the Hewn City.”

“She does,” Rhysand said simply, a bit of darkness staining his voice.

An uncomfortable silence fell over them. Rhysand cleared his throat and added, “But in the meantime, we can celebrate. Relax and drink and listen to your tall tales and then enjoy the Steppes. Show Mor a bit of the ropes.”

[teawithghosts]

fellas is it gay to remember your lover as a corpse of the man he used to be?

[necrotic-nephilim]

i personally have very complicated feelings on the Gotham Knights video game and the routes it takes with characterization. i think it has a charm to it and it goes in an interesting direction with everyone (especially within the confides of the plot of the game) but it does have certain moments that veer painfully fanon for me. (such as: the dialogue where Tim drinks too much coffee) it's an interesting story for what it is but i don't view it comics-based for characterization and therefore don't care to interact with it much for like. fanfic purposes.

that *said* though. i do have to give the game some kind of credit for giving one of the top five JayTim moments that lives rent free in my mind. every since i played the game, the cutscene lives in my mind daily. it's the specific cutscene where Jason and Tim are arguing about whether or not Jason's non-lethal bullets are too dangerous for the field, and the argument leads to TIm *standing in front of the target* Jason is shooting and telling Jason to shoot him. it lives rent free for me. i never stop thinking about this.

the absolute certainty Tim has that he is in no danger standing in front of Jason, who has a loaded gun pointed at his face. the way Jason *hesitates* for just a moment before lowering the gun. he thinks about it for just a second. Gotham Knights JayTim seem to get along very well and can rely on each other, but Jason still clearly holds a bitterness about his death and Tim that flickers through in some lines of dialogue under the guise of jokes. especially since this game deals *heavily* with concepts of Pit Madness causing an altered state of consciousness, i think it's believable that occasionally, Jason fights the urge to fight and hurt Tim for the feeling of being replaced.

i like their tension so much in this canon. they get along but you can *tell* Tim is afraid of addressing Jason's trauma or even addressing Jason head-on, and Jason leans into spooking Tim about it. which isn't very comics feeling in their dynamic, but it is an interesting way to place their dynamic if you're playing with a more timid Tim who's newer to the role of Robin. (which he seems to be in-game) he really doesn't want to offend Jason, or worse, piss him off. but he'll still face Jason head on for things like this, while completely aware of what Jason could be capable of.

and Jason seems very protective of Tim and respecting Tim as a Robin in typical Jason fashion. if Tim pushes, Jason *will* relent. he knows this is a kid who's proved himself and should be treated with equal respect, sometimes even more than Dick and Babs do in-game.

so for all that to culminate in Tim stepping in front of Jason's loaded gun that he *knows* is on the edge of being too dangerous, just to force Jason to listen? it's the most unhinged way Tim could've gotten his point across in this scene. he was literally daring Jason to hurt him and playing with a very dangerous fire. but he did it anyway bc he believed he could make Jason heel just at the thought of hurting Tim. and he was *right*. they're gay and i'm feral ty.

[scrimblyscrorblo]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61936033

Named after the song I associate with Poe a whole lot

Ranpo thinks of how his relationship to Poe has changed within six years and how Poe has changed the way he chooses to see the world. He ponders this after finding an old painting of his friend in an art exhibit, whilst on a case.

Also I added Oscar Wilde as the owner of the art exhibit. Why so there a Poe painting in an Oscar Wilde exhibit? Who’s to say? 👁️👁️

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for— (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: it's time for some more ✨trauma✨ time to learn ur own backstory tehe <3 feel free to let me know what you think or any future... predictions... you think might be coming...

word count: 3.3k

synopsis: Azriel leaves for Velaris. You reflect on old choices and everything that you lead you to where you are now— and realise it's been awhile since you had anyone to miss. fem!reader, mulan-esque au

—CHAPTER THREE :: COMPANIONS

There's a girl screaming in the middle of camp.

Anguish, a pure guttural agony, litters her voice. She's shrieking, screaming herself hoarse, tortured cries piercing the air as a piece of her identity is ripped from her forcibly. The scream that you know only follows a wing clipping.

Fear rolls through your body, seizing every nerve til your limbs lock up. Your stomach lurches, nausea swimming and threatening to choke up your throat. The screams dive beneath your very skin and make a home there, unbidden.

The screaming isn't stopping and you acutely notice that you're crying because of it, big fat tears rolling down your face as though you're the one in pain, unable to quieten her suffering, because... because...

Because the girl is you.

The girl is you and they had found out somehow and they had come, they had held you down and taken the knife between your wings and starting slicing through muscle and sinew and it fucking hurts, it hurts so much—

A ragged gasp rips from your throat at the slice down your back.

You wake you with a violent twitch.

Your dagger is in your hand in an instant, stored beneath your pillow, always within reach. The cool leather beneath it is a comfort as your senses search blindly for any threat. The rabbiting sound of your heart looms in your ears and you keenly strain your ears to try listen over it.

A threat? An intruder? You're looking for anything hidden in the darkness, while your senses are still swamped by your nightmare. The effects of it are melting away too slowly. Your breath comes too fast.

Shadows loom. You're not sure what is fear is still lingering from the dream and what is real instinct, kicking in to protect yourself.

Worse is, your suspicions are not at all unwarranted.

Around you, the space is still. Dead air trapped within your shelter.

Outside, the howl of the Mother's Kiss sounds again, the rattling wind against the windows somehow grounding you into your home. You're in your home. You're not out in the middle of camp, not held onto that horrid stained piece of earth where all the clippings take place.

You're tucked away in your space, hidden beneath your secret still.

Your chest heaves rapidly, dregs of panic still running through your system. You force yourself to inhale slowly, blinking slowly and letting your eyes adjust to the night. It's still dark.

It's nighttime and you've had a night terror and you're still safe, still just like any other male in the camp.

Behind you, you give your wings a little shiver, just to check.

Still there, still working in every capacity. The relief that pours through you soothes like a balm, heady and overwhelming. You release a shaky breath and curl your knees up to your chest, wings cocooning around yourself.

The nightmares, this nightmare, has been unrelenting for as many years as you can remember. Well, since...

Since twenty six years ago, when you had made a very difficult choice.

Perhaps the only time you'll ever be thankful for being a bastard in this camps is when it had granted you the privacy to make such a choice. Nobody cares if a bastard child dies, male or otherwise.

It had made you dispensable and therefore, unnoticeable.

Nobody noticed when one more begging child, one more hungry face, went missing. And certainly nobody paid any mind when one more turned up again — hair cut down to the scalp, bleeding in places from the shoddy cut, and a gritty determination in their eyes.

No, in fact, the only time people started noticing you was when you started tasting the mixture of blood and dirt, knocked down in a fight you knew you had no chance of winning.

You had started it. Pushed your way into the group of boys and shoved one, hard. Fought back as best you could with half formed fists that quickly got pushed into the mud and held there as the boy you shoved wailed on you, hit after hit after hit.

By the time he had been pulled off you, your mouth was a river of blood and your face ached in a way you had never felt before.

The very bone of your skull felt bruised. Your nose was definitely broken. You wanted to cry but even scrunching your face up hurt too much. It was impossible to think anything beyond pure pain.

The group of boys were sneering as they left you in a crumpled heap on the ground, kicking mud in your direction and hissing the word bastard.

But not one mention of you being anything other than that.

Just a bastard. No slighted comment at being a female, at not being worthy of a fight for that reason.

In the Illyrian Mountains, being a bastard gave you very little in the manner of food, things, and choices. If you managed to survive past childhood, that is.

If you could scrape around for food to fill a belly that never seemed to stop growling and manage not succumb to icy embrace of the winter in the mountains, there was very little waiting for you. Even less so, if you weren't a male.

Males, at the very least, could fight for a sliver of something better.

And wasn't that just the Illyrian way? If you can fight, if you can beat and claw your way to the top, it's worth something. It's the only way to gain respect. To earn it, even when you came from nothing.

For you? Living past childhood would mean getting your greatest love torn from you.

You had seen half a dozen clippings before the age of eight. It was said that other camps littered throughout Illyria tended to be more gracious. Did it in private. Healers on hand. No excessive force.

But you'd believe that when you saw it — clippings were brutal.

Females having experienced their first blood were dragged out into the middle of camp, some kicking and screaming, others a ghostly quiet. Everybody watched and nobody stepped in, no matter the pleas.

You, no older than eight years old, had stared at the bloody patch left on the ground til your vision had blurred. It was crimson, mixing with the dirt of the earth. Beneath it was this horrid scorched brown colour.

Old blood.

The final straw for you had been Adesi— Lord Mylind's own daughter. You're not sure when or why some part of your had become convinced that she might be spared. That because her father held rank and could bend certain rules, that she might escape the fate you so feared for yourself.

She hadn't. Lord Mylind had done the clipping himself.

And she hadn't cried or fussed. There hadn't been a struggle, just this soft weeping as she kept her eyes on the ground, every pained sound that passed her lips lined with a bitter resignation of knowing this was always coming.

It had stoked a simmering ember within you — a furiously upset flame that burned hotter and hotter, til you were trembling with the force of it. Forced to watch yet another girl stripped of her freedom. Polished up for breeding stock.

If Adesi wouldn't be spared, neither would you. The future, you could see, was growing impossibly bleaker and would continue down that path if nothing radical appeared to change its course.

You had cut your hair that same very night.

It was a shit job. Trying to get it as short as you could manage without a mirror or proper tools to do so proved incredibly difficult. The lack of proper shelter didn't help either.

Bandages you were stock-piling for Mother knows what were used to bind your chest. Then you spent the rest of the night time scouring the mountain-side for those bitter herbs on the mere hope that the rumour that they would keep you from bleeding held an inkling of truth.

The next day had been the day you got into your very first fight.

The first of many. Lord Mylind didn't take kindly to bastards, especially when you paled in comparison to the size of the other novices. You had been refused to be allowed to join training the first time you had tried, his cold eyes narrowed with a cruel curl of his upper lip.

But you had, perhaps, what no one else did.

No other way forward. No other choice.

Every part of you that yearned to keep your beautiful wings, to keep your freedom, your autonomy, was channeled into your intense drive. You would not be so easily dissuaded.

You trained day and night, working up weak muscles til they hardened beneath your skin. Without proper training, it was nowhere near as efficient as it could've been. There was no-one there to soothe the aches of your growing pains, nor the sores that came with hitting the ground time and time again as you honed the balance and fluidity of your body.

A season passed. Your drive did not falter— not when half a dozen more females got clipped in that same period. A wedge drove itself between your ribs, attempting to crack open your chest; a heavy guilt at what they experienced... what you could not yet prevent.

It pushed you to train harder than before.

It took seven whole months of solitary training before Lord Mylind reluctantly allowed you to join the ranks— forced to when you disarmed and wiped the floor with Brudam in the ring to prove yourself.

By that time, the list of clipped females had climbed to nearly fifty. You kept track of every single one, forty-eight notches carved into your soul for every person you failed to protect from a terrible fate.

It killed you having to bide your time.

To train alongside the males of the camp who detested you as they did any such bastard. To hear their uncaring jeers of the clippings as they flaunted their own wings proudly. There was no shortage of things to stoke the fire within you, fury burning through every cell in your body. There was no distraction from the ultimate goal.

But between Lord Mylind's abysmal training, geared specifically at you, the purposeful way other warriors wouldn't hesitate to kick you while you were down, and having nobody else in your corner, you had no other choice.

Routines formed. Train. Eat. Train. Scrounge for ingredients, for knowledge, anything on healing tonics. Fail miserably at making anything. Chew the bitter herbs. Train. Sleep. Wake. Train.

Loneliness became a familiar companion.

Every creak in the dark was a potential threat that came looking to see if they could knock the unwelcome bastard out of the ranks. You learned to not just how to duel, but how to brawl and win. To fight dirty. To come out as unscathed as possible.

Your first bleed did eventually come, bitter leaves be damned.

They had done a decent job. They had given you a few crucial years to establish yourself as a worthy fighter, not to be messed with, and enough time to build the shelter you now called home.

It had been a saving grace. If you had been out and exposed, if any of the males in town came sniffing for a fight and felt entitled enough to challenge you, the lie that kept you safe would've come tumbling down like a house of cards.

All those years turned to ash. Wasted. For nothing.

And the only thing that terrified you more than that was... what you were certain they would inflict upon you if they ever found out.

In some of your worst nightmares, they do much worse than just clip you. They take them from you— saw them from your back, splintering bone and tearing muscle, not caring if you cry or scream — not caring if you die.

Around you, your wings give a shiver as if they could feel the ghost of pain that still lurked from your nightmare. You curl them up tighter around you. A blanket of softness, of warmth, finally breaks the chill on your skin.

Routine was easy. Your terror was manageable based on the familiarity of your life. The fact that you had nobody to lean on meant everything, every pillar of comfort, of tough love, of the extra push when you needed it, came from within.

Slipping away from training to deal with the excruciating agony of your cycle was a necessity, even if it pained you to do so. Avoidance of the Blood Rite was born from that too. It was too great a risk— too much time spent that you couldn't ever be sure wouldn't overlap with your cycle.

Besides, you already had the biggest target on your back — the label of bastard giving you more than your fair share of enemies.

They would hunt you down on the first night. That you had no doubt about. The killing would be slow and merciless. To you, the Blood Rite was just another brand of nightmares.

All this dread had become second-nature, stitched into the fabric of your angry and miserable life which seemed to exist against all odds. You were cursed with an ambition that would not let you rest. A compassion that drove you to keep training, to help others more than just yourself.

You were singular. A lone ranger who relied on nothing but your own instincts to keep getting you through the day.

You were solitary. You were lonely.

And yet, within the last month, something else had barrelling into your life and altered its course.

A Shadowsinger.

A Shadowsinger with hazel eyes that dance with mirth and a rueful smile that comes out far too easily for the battle-hardened soldier you know him to be. He's a conundrum. A mentor and a damn hard-ass when it came to training but also someone you could trust.

Calling him a friend felt too close.

A tenative ally, perhaps. A companion, even.

And the fact you can trust him — the fact that you do trust him — is perhaps the biggest change of them all.

All of your routines have been suddenly altered.

Because now, unlike ever before, there's someone there in the morning. Someone to notice your absences. To come looking when it takes longer to drag yourself out of fitful sleep. To comment on the circles under your eyes and roll back the punches accordingly.

He brings the things you need, a sudden plentiful stash of ingredients you wouldn't have dreamed of affording. The good stuff that makes a difference in the potency of a healing tonic. In turn, your feeble attempts at concocting have begun to produce far more useful results.

He brings food too.

No point in all this training if you look like your bones will snap. He had said, almost dismissively as he summoned the abundance of food from within that pocket in the shadow realm. You had been too startled by that alone to question how much he had brought with him.

A fucking feast. Enough food to last you at least half the year, if you stretched it.

Some withered, bitter part of you had shriveled up when you saw it. Your mouth watered and your stomach ached and yet still, you couldn't help how you snapped at him.

I don't want your pity.

Azriel had leveled you with a stare, his shadows roaming about his shoulders like wisps of smoke. He tilted his head to the side an inch, as if trying to pick apart the reasoning for you being so standoffish.

It's not a handout. It's part of our deal. Like I said, there's no point training you if you're starving all the while.

You bristled as his tone, even if there wasn't a hint of condescension to it. It was strong and sure.

When you still hadn't moved, Azriel had spoken once more. It's okay. To eat. I understand that generosity is not something you are familiar with but not eating will not help any of them. Getting stronger will.

He had spoken as if he knew that exact reservation on your mind — the sheer unfairness of having a platter served up to gorge yourself sick on, when so many others... So many others had nothing.

Eat. Azriel had murmured, turning for the door. He had paused just like he had on that first ever night, one scarred hand on the door. Please.

A particularly loud whirl of the Mother's Kiss outside shakes you from the memory.

You blink hard. Your wings twitch and curl in even closer as you realise you've been looking at the door. Looking at where he had stood all those nights ago.

That conversation had been in the first week of knowing Azriel. Back when you were still so wary it was impossible to not raise your hackles when he came knocking at your door, no matter how friendly he had seemed. Friendly, but not harmless you knew.

It took time to stop being constantly on guard around him. But if your lack of trust and general frostiness bothered Azriel, he never let you know.

And now... now you've known him for nearly a month.

A month of routine with him in it. With sparring in the morning, tiring yet rewarding drills beneath the winter sun, and quiet conversations in the evenings, his hazel eyes competing with the crackling fire with how they set your heart ablaze. A month of companionship.

A month, the first month in years, not spent entirely alone.

In the cool night air, knees pulled to your chest, something tugs at your throat at the knowledge he won't be back in the morning.

Last night, after an evening spent in comfortable company where you finally heard him laugh for the first time ever and nearly melted at the sound, he had told you he would be returning to Velaris.

Temporarily, he added on hastily at the flash of surprise in your eyes.

Business with the High Lord. Reports and assessments to deliver. I's to dot and t's to cross.

He assured you he would be back in a day or two, certainly no more than three. He had left ample food and generous tonic ingredients, with all the assurances to continue practicing during the evening.

With no Azriel, you had no reason to avoid training with the rest of camp.

Maybe that was why this particular nightmare had plagued you tonight. Something curdled up in your gut at the thought of returning to your old routine— another part relishes in how you will get to stand your ground as a better, hardier warrior now. To prove yourself worthy of the specialty training you were receiving.

You huff out a small sigh in the dark.

There's no telling what time it is. You force yourself to sit back, easing back into your bed gently til you're lying back under the makeshift duvet you have. It's moth-eaten and seen better days. You snuggle beneath it anyway.

It's been a long time since you've missed anyone, you think forlornly.

The thought surprises you. Staring at the ceiling, your brows furrow and you close your eyes but the truth of it rings clear throughout your very being. Undeniable.

The Shadowsinger has somehow wiggled into your life, burrowed into your routine and has begun to mean something to you. And when he's gone, you... miss him.

Your eyes flash back open, glaring up at the ceiling, and you huff as if that will change that fact.

Rolling over, you pull the duvet in closer, your arms tucking into your chest snugly. Your bed is a bit too small for someone with wings and they ache because of it. Sleep trickles back into your system, dragging your lids down.

As you fall into sleep, some part of you realises, faintly, that you haven't had anyone to miss in a long, long, time.

This time when you dream, it’s of hazel eyes.

[NEXT PART: FRIENDS]

—

tags below!

@strangerstilinski @janebirkln @itsswritten @mischiefmanagers @hnyclover @waytoomanyteenagefeels @idkitsem @illyrianbitch @jeweline16 @fightmedraco @iamjimintrash @maeandering @spideytingley @aneekapaneeka @cassianswh0reeee @viciane @astarlitsoul @mybestfriendmademe @archiveofcravings @reputaytionn-13 @bionic-donut @chessebookgirl @itseightbeats @littleblackcatinwonderland @twsssmlmaa

[the-dynamite-truck]

HEADCANNON - POTENTIAL JOULE BACKSTORY

This still needs to be properly fleshed out but was playing around with ideas on a backstory for Joule/what their life was like before working for Electra so have this little idea, don’t know for sure if it’s what I’m going to with as the backstory for my portrayal of her but wanted to write it all out while it was still fresh in the brain/before I go to sleep and loose it all

---

Prior to their employment with Electra, Joule did compete in races however they weren’t official competitions, these were no holds barred street races of some kind (at least as close as they can get to this being trains? haha)

With little to no rules and limitations, it was common for these races to get dangerous; and Joule LOVED this, it really satisfied the adrenaline junkie in her.

It wasn’t long until Joule gained success and a reputation within the community. Her flashy style, feisty personality and love of pyrotechnics and pushing things to the absolute limit meant that if you saw them race you would be getting a god damn show, something which the crowd loved.

They would end up meeting and partnering up with an engine who she would quickly grow quite fond of however, unbeknownst to Joule, he was just using them to bolster his own fame and success.

Deciding he no longer needed her, he ended up uncoupling her right before a race thus leaving them humiliated and furious. Despite this, Joule opted to still compete with someone else, determined to beat their now ex-partner as a form of revenge.

 Though this would ultimately prove to be a mistake, as in their unfocused, rage filled state, they would end up making a mistake that would result in a highly damaging crash.

Now damaged, Joule would be found by the components; though at first she stubbornly refuses help, Wrench ends up repairing them.

Once her repairs had been completed, the components informed her that their boss Electra had their eye on them for some time now and wanted to employ her, despite her screw up in the recent race.

At first, Joule vehemently rejected this notion, though they would later end up settling on the deal that if Electra joined them for the upcoming big race, and they were able to defeat (and thus humiliate) her ex-partner, then she would work for them.

Long story short, the pair end up winning the race and thus Joule joins the components in working for Electra. It's also during this race that her adoration for Electra begins to develop, and it's not long until she comes to actually care for them and the components as much more than co-workers (even though she often refuses to admit just how much she cares aloud)

[bibuckagenda]

Buddie fic where in an ambiguous earlier season (before bucktaylor?) Eddie is hanging out in his kitchen while he watches Buck cook. They’re having a good time, laughing together, when something sparks an unease in Eddie. A phone call? a visitor? A comment he just remembered? That makes him feel like he’s taking advantage of Buck by always letting him cook for them. That maybe it might be nice if Eddie actually learned to cook a dish or two to better balance their dynamic.

And he obviously thinks about going to Bobby or his abuela, but he can feel his chest tighten in embarrassment and Eddie doesn’t like the feeling nor does he want to examine why he felt too seen when he thought of going to the people he cares about, so he signs himself up for some beginner cooking lessons.

He tells no one and he feels incredibly uncomfortable when the entire class is filled with older women (think 50-60s). He’s incredulous at first because all of these women seem to know more than the basics and they spend a lot of the class gossiping about people he doesn’t know. He doesn’t mean to get sucked into the drama, he’s here to learn to cook!, but then Debra mentions her daughter getting into a fight in a Denny’s parking lot and Eddie feels like he’s listening to a bad telenovela and he can’t stop himself from opening his mouth and piping up with his thoughts.

At first he’s terrified as the entire group looks at him, but then Colleen, Midwest accent and one of the more sarcastic women, nods at him and goes on about how he’s right.

Soon Eddie gets dragged into this group and while he does learn some things about cooking, he realizes that he made friends. With people he doesn’t work with!

Eventually why he was there gets brought up and he gets clocked as being in love with Buck so fast that his head spins. He wants to freak out about it, but Georgia pats his hand and smirks at him before asking if his Buck is handsome. The others all cackle when he blushes, but after they see a picture of Buck after a work out and one with him cuddling Chris, all they can do is gush at Eddie.

He loves it. He won’t ever admit it, but he loves it.

So he spends two nights every week learning what a ragù is and teaming up with Paula in an attempt to convince Pam that she’d spent two decades too many on her deadbeat husband.

(And if Buck is surprised when Eddie cooks them pasta on a rare night Chris is with his abuela, and he blushes a pretty pink color that leaves Eddie lightheaded, well that just means he has something to tell The Girls tomorrow evening in between making pie dough and trying to get Lottie to admit she thinks Mr. Harris, her upstairs neighbor, is handsome.)

[hey-heigo]

oh yeah i saw your reblog of togami fun fact and i think i followed you because you chew on him so well. do you have posts of your thoughts on togami's backstory? (you can answer privately btw)

i straight up don't remember if i've ever posted in length about my byakuya backstory headcanons (if i ever did they'd be catalogued under '#my thoughts' probably, that's the tag i use for my fandom posts) but! just for you i will list a few that i have off of the top of my head

i liked the concept of the togami novel and ended up perceiving the heir struggle as like. not a necessarily organized competition (what with heir prospectives trying to assassinate each other or otherwise blackmail, threaten, or force each other out of the running) but more a survival challenge with occasional tests of cleverness, strength, etc. and byakuya managed to win by manipulation and sheer force of will, and doing things that might be considered 'underhanded' or 'shameful' (see: polaris p polanski) -> testament to ambition

byakuya says something cringe in thh like 'im perfect in every way. wits, ability, and body' which always pissed me off but as a result i ended up seeing him as like. above average in athletics, maybe good agility and reaction time? and capable of self-defense, but definitely nowhere near professional levels, and not in a way that's obvious from looking at him

re: physical ability and 'perfection', i don't think he's an 'ultimate' anything aside from 'ultimate progeny'. like he's not the ultimate stock-broker or the ultimate viola-player, but he can do both things pretty well. more of a jack-of-all-trades master-of-none kind of talent. maybe that eats at him a little, the fact that he won't ever be truly outstanding in one single field until he becomes togami head

also re: physical ability, he gets his blue eyes from his mother's side, so he's more sensitive to light. but his mild near-sightedness and need for corrective lenses is from his father's side. he doesn't know this though, so he blames his mother's genetic for all of it

he was planning to get lasik after becoming head of the family but. well. lol

he's half-french. his mother is french. i dont think ive ever posted about mamagami but ive definitely made mention of her in my fic, though at this point she's more of an oc than anything since there's like, no canon info about her at all. but she's a french sculptor who did not want a child and does not want any relation to the togami family other than having them as like. art clients. a cool lady very dedicated to her profession and could have been the ultimate sculptor, but kind of a emotionally neglectful mother ngl

there probably is some more canon info on papagami , aka kijo togami's character but i haven't really bothered looking for it. instead i made him into a sad little man who kind of hates his role as togami head and would've preferred a more mundane life (like as an architect - i actually did make a post about this somewhere), but he won his generation's heir competition because he felt like he had to, not because he necessarily wanted to. for reasons yet unsaid

byakuya spent the first part of his vulnerable youth being emotionally neglected at his mother's villa/art studio in france (hence the bilingualism hinted in the canon). when he left to join the heir competition after one too many assassination attempts he got one of his mom's business partners and former exes (a guy named 'polanski') to shelter him

byakuya's impressions of his parents: his mom sucks (fair i suppose) and his dad lacks real ambition and isn't suited to his role. or at least, he could be surpassed very easily. byakuya plans to make himself the greatest heir ever seen because of his shit parent combo

byakuya's known pennyworth the butler since birth. i have this idea that each togami kid gets just one togami family servant to help shape them into their roles. pennyworth happens to be the oldest of the roster but also the most experienced, and is kind of a shifty old man (i.e: very cunning and more loyal to the family than the child he's been assigned to, though that changes as byakuya gets older)

byakuya's also probably a girl and bisexual but he''s trying to take over the world through his shitty family's conglomerate and then survive a murder game apocalypse so she doesn't really care about that rn

[aurae-rori]

“DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH”

— this is written in the same universe that my fic 'a heart, embark, a beautiful star' is written in - except this is diamond's backstory.

— involves character exploration as well as kind of explaining how diamond came to be the person that he is today

— mm character study

— diamond's relationship with the devil that he's contracted to and how it came to that point :)

— i might post a second chapter to this after i finish the csm au in its entirety as to not spoil some things that will be mentioned as diamond climbs the ranks. but for now, just one chapter and 6.2k words!

featuring artworks done by my friends of diamond's canon design!!

done by the wonderful @nicoarts69

and!!

done by @cococosplay113 !!

thank you guys sm <33

[baddybaddyadardaddy]

a knife in the dark

[adar/oc]

This is a slightly unhinged WIP AU for my longfic, Awake, Arise or Be For Ever Fall'n. Highly recommend (ask/beg/implore) you to read at last the first like, 8 chapters of that first or you'll be... um... maybe a lil confused? PREMISE: Erenyë is reembodied in Valinor, but Mandos shrouds her memories of Utumno, hoping to spare her pain in her new life. But she is restless in Aman, sensing that something is missing... She boards a ship heading for Middle Earth, hoping to discover just what that is. [DON'T @ ME ON REINCARNATION MECHANICS, THIS IS PURELY A NONSENSE DRABBLE THING THAT WILL HOPEFULLY EVENTUALLY LEAD TO SMUT BUT MORE REALISTICALLY WILL JUST BE A LOT OF RIP-YOUR-HEART-OUT ANGST BECAUSE APPARENTLY THAT'S ALL I DO HERE. 🫠 ]

She makes her voyage on an elven ship that is nearly empty.

Why would you go across the sea, the other elves ask her, mouths agape, in the days before her departure. Bliss lies here in the West—you will find little comfort on the shores of Middle Earth.

Erenyë cannot answer them, cannot explain why the eastern expanse calls her so. She has heard many among the eldar who made passage home from the Hither Lands speak of the sea-longing that precipitated their journey—but this feels like something even stronger, a yearning for a place, yes, but something more… something that she cannot name.

Whatever it is, she surmises it must be the reason she has never felt quite at home in Valinor, even surrounded by her Noldoran kindred, the ones who had remained after the terrible kinslaying of old.

As she watches the waves pound against the sharply angled bow, wind whipping through her hair, she speaks a silent promise to the waiting horizon: I am coming.  

...

The tides of fate flow, and the sea is treacherous.

Their vessel is beset by perilous storms that rage by day and night, and no prayer to Ulmo seems capable of assuaging them. Their instruments fail, and the gale proves too powerful to hold their northward course to Lindon.

She asks how far off course the storm has flung them.  

Toward the Southlands is the answer.  

...

They make port in an abandoned Numenorean harbor that the captain calls Pelargir, and it is here that Erenyë takes her first steps into Middle Earth.

The landscape is lush and green, and different from Valinor—for it strikes her as more rugged and wild than the place from which she’d come. The climate is temperate and the air is moist, the trees here are massive, with thick trunks and sprawling branches, growing as they do only in Oromë’s woods across the sea. The forest calls to her—as all forests do—and she wanders eagerly toward the treeline, ready to lose herself in this new world.

But she is stopped by raised voices as a party of men emerges from the woods with warning. They are downtrodden, starving and traumatized, bearing the scars of war and disaster. In due course she learns that they have fled their homeland, several leagues to the east and over the mountains.

With terror-laced voices, they speak of a fire mountain, lately awakened, belching fire and cloud so high that it swallows the sunlight, rendering the land a waste, overrun by orcs. They answer to a single leader, the men tell her—a villain who calls himself Adar.

....

Adar.

It is a perplexing name for a servant of darkness, an elvish word.

She ponders the mystery late into the night, after the newly established encampment falls still. The elves had wasted no time in offering aid to the refugees, and Erenyë had done her part, though the forest still calls to her, insistent.

She considers going off alone, but the threat of orcs roaming the hills seeking captives to return to this Adar gives her pause. She knows enough of orcs to understand that the safest time to move through their lands is in daylight, and though she has never encountered one, memories of the stories that had reached her ears in Valinor, and the accounts of the Southlanders strike a deep chord of fear within her breast. She passes the night restless, yearning to roam.

At dawn, a small party of elves from the ship sets off toward the mountains, and Erenyë accompanies them eagerly, taking up a sword and dagger from one of the men who had not survived the night. The elven leader, Telemnion, tells them they must discover as much as they can about Adar and his legions so that a report can be sent north with all speed to High King Gil-glad.

They set a northeastern course that takes them up steep hills as they near the borders of the Southlands. As the day wanes, she catches the scent of smoke upon the air—ash and scorched pine, the smell of instantaneous destruction. Without warning, she doubles over, bracing herself with one hand against the nearest tree, retching.

“Are you well, Erenyë?” Telemnion hurries to her side, his eyes wide with concern.

In truth, she cannot say why the smell affects her so—she only has the keen sense of having experienced it before.

Her mind is filled with visions of ruined land—even before they emerge from the trees on a high precipice just before nightfall and see the blackened remains of the Southlands for themselves—and she knows that the visions are not simply abstractions. They feel like memories.

But it does not make sense—there had been no destruction of that kind in Valinor. Yet as they stop to rest, she cannot shake the sensation of touching ruined ground: of trailing her fingers over blackened, hollow trees, over the bleached bones of dead animals, over ash-laden earth.

As day gives way to night, she watches the skies above turn color. It is not the natural, blue-black of a peaceful night, but a wicked orange glow, cast by flames and smoke. It is yet another strangely familiar sight, and it fills her with blackest dread.

...

Several nights later, they are attacked by a band of orcs.

They are far outnumbered, and Telemnion cries out to them, telling them to run. With a pounding heart, Erenyë flies as fast as she can through the trees. When she’s confident there is enough distance between herself and the skirmish, she climbs, seeking for the safety of the upper branches of a great oak tree.

In the distance, she sees torches gleaming, and the sound of orc horns pierces the night air. She hugs the trunk of the tree, pressing her body close as though hoping it might open and absorb her into the safety of its bark as the orc army presses closer.

They are chanting something in unison—something that sounds victorious—and it is not long before they are close enough for her to understand it.

Adar… Adar… Adar…

The orcs continue their advance toward her tree. She considers climbing down and fleeing, but the chant soon falls silent, and the flickering torches stop moving.

A new voice fills the air.

It is low and husky, speaking the guttural language of the enemy. She cannot understand a word, but she tips her ear toward it, for there is something, some phantom quality about it that she cannot place. The trees are close in the glen, and with great care, she makes her way from one to the next, sidling toward the voice.

The orc army comes into view, and she can see their leader standing before them. His back is toward her—she can see only his silhouette against the torchlight. He is tall and slender—strangely elven, compared to the other orcs, the majority of whom are stooped and stocky. His presence is commanding, though he does not raise his voice beyond what is required to adequately fill the clearing.

He finishes his address with what is clearly a command for the uruks to set up camp, for they break out into groups, busying themselves with assembling tents and unfurling bedrolls.

Adar, for his part, watches the flurry of activity, then retreats into the shadows of the treeline. He is outside the torchlight now, but Erenyë follows his shape in the dark as it moves deeper into the forest. Keeping a safe distance, she scrambles down from her tree, closing her hand around the dagger she carries. Her heart begins to thrum again, pounding with a mixture of intrigue and terror.

He weaves gracefully through the trees, making no sound. There is something about his bearing that seems ancient, as though he is a part of the old forest itself and she creeps closer, fearing that at any moment, he might be swallowed by the trees, absorbed into them.

Dawn is breaking when he pauses in a clearing, and she realizes that the trees around them have started to thin, their leaves charred. The scent of smoke is stronger here, and with a soundless gasp, she discovers that they have reached the line of the fire-mountain’s destruction.

He kneels down, and she is struck by how suddenly small he appears. The sight of his silhouette stirs something in her—something that originates from that same place of strange recollection.

Why, her heart cries in anguish, does he seem familiar?

Without a thought, she steps closer.

He is crouched beside a green sapling that the fire had somehow spared, fingering the delicate leaves with a reverent—almost loving—tenderness.

She takes another step, disturbing the ground in her wake. A twig snaps beneath her foot; his head whips around toward the sound, and she flies at him, unsheathing her dagger with a cry.

They collide, tussling in the ashes. Erenyë scrambles and struggles with all her might until she lands on top with a dagger to his throat, gasping to reclaim the wind that was knocked out of her in their skirmish. His face comes together in her field of view: grey, mottled skin, covered in scars, thin lips, and shockingly deep, green eyes. She loses herself in them for a moment, as she steps seemingly out of time itself, spellbound by their depths. Her heart accelerates, threatening to batter itself out of its cage within her chest. She leans closer, bearing down on the dagger that is still pressed against the flesh of his neck.

He draws in a sharp breath as the blade bites into his skin, drawing a few drops of black blood. His eyes close, and his exhale is a soft moan, she presumes of pain, but she recognizes it as excitement, somehow. Pleasure.

She squeezes own her eyes shut, striving to steady herself, for it seems as though the ground itself is now swaying beneath her. She feels it again—the familiarity, the certainty that she has heard that sound before—no, not just heard it, she has been the cause of it.

He is no longer struggling—his body is languid beneath her, boneless. She clenches her teeth, confused, weighing her next move. He is the enemy; he and his army are responsible for the fire-mountain, for the destruction of the forest, for the torment of the Southlanders. She should let the dagger finish its work—drag it across his throat, spill the rest of his black blood here upon the ashen ground.

He murmurs something, something in a language that sounds like elvish, but it is older: an archaic form—one that she has only ever seen preserved on ancient scrolls. A dream, this is a dream, he rasps over and over, in that same low, husky tone that sends a shiver rolling down her spine, but not one borne entirely of fear.

The sound of the ancient language comforts her. Inexplicably, she thinks of stars, and the sound of water falling gently over stone. 

She feels him shift and opens her eyes, preparing to defend herself. But he does not attack—instead, his hands seek for her hips, sinking softly into her flesh as he drags in another quaking breath. He wears an iron gauntlet on one hand, and it digs into her side, stopping just on the edge of pain.

Her stomach roils at the sight of this creature, this thing, this orc touching her, but her skin tingles beneath his fingers, even through her tunic.

She lets the dagger drag another quarter of an inch across his throat—she isn’t sure if she intends it to be a warning or an invitation—and he groans again. Tremors roll steadily through her body now; she feels she is dancing on the edge of a dangerous precipice, and she does not know whether to seek for safety or let herself fall into it.

He opens his mouth, and breathes a single word:

“Erenyë…”

Fear wins out—the sound of his name upon her tongue sends an earthquake through her body and she moves automatically out of shock and terror. With a strangled yell, she yanks the dagger into the air. He tries to rise, but she is too quick, slamming the butt of it against his temple—hard.

He falls back, unconscious, and she clamps a hand over her mouth to stop the scream that threatens to break free.

tagging @catz4ever @toddthekiwibird @eowyn7023 HERE YA GO MY FELLOW BADDYDADDY BRIGADERS

Read part 2 | part 3

[demaparbat-hp]

For the Spirits—

Chapter IV: To Be Human.

To feel like crying, but say you're fine

To think you're losing all the time

To never truly know your mind

Just to breathe, and to bleed

Is how to be human

—How To Be Human by Amber Run

.

The Painted Lady hummed, “I was beginning to think you’d pretend I wasn’t here.”

“Are you?” he muttered, leaning over the rail. She tilted her head.

“Am I what?”

Zuko turned to face her.

“Here.”

[a-gay-bloodmage]

Never Have I Ever Sucked a Cock

(Thom x Mallory Trevelyan)

With the Iron Bull now a tal-vashoth, Blackwall revealed to be a murderer, and the Herald of Andraste now an open cross-dresser, the Inquisition in dire need of a morale boost. Thankfully, Sera knows just the drinking game to get everyone's mind off of the less fun secrets.

What's this? A "Keep Reading" divider on one of my fics? Insane!

First off, I'd like to extend a special thank you to @stenshale for spurring me to commit to re-doing this fic! I'm so glad I did! Hope you enjoy, beloved mutual!

I thought it'd be fun to include a list of all the questions played in the game of Never Have I Ever, mainly because I'm so curious to know how many drinks other peoples' characters would have had to take!

Never have I ever... 

1. ... fucked a girl  2. ... gotten kicked by a horse 3. ... vomited after drinking  4. ... knitted  5. ... had hair longer than my nipple  6. ... gone more than a week without a bath (including streams, so long as there's soap) 7. ... been to the opera  8. ... pantsed myself on the battlefield  9. ... gotten challenged to a fight in the middle of a piss  10. ... been picked up and dangled by a Qunari  11. ... instigated a tavern brawl by slapping a man on the ass  12. ... pissed myself  13. ... fisted someone  14. ... sucked a cock  15. ... faked my identity  16. ... slept with a man  17. ... accepted coin for sex  18. ... stripped in public  19. ... bottomed for a bas 20. ... had sex drunk  21. ... worn a dress  22. ... slept with a mage  23. ... slept with a dwarf  24. ... had sex in a barn  25. ... watched two unknowing people go at it  26. ... taken it up the back entrance  27. ... used a sex toy  28. ... been eaten out  29. ... slept with an elf  30. ... been tied up during sex  31. ... fucked a shem 32. ... had my cock sucked 

[egginfroggin]

Really, Stan should have just stayed out of it. “… You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered, and she cocked an eyebrow, lifting her chin. “I’m not, actually –” “A teenager,” he continued over her, shaking his head and wincing at the sting of his headache. “I got taken down by a damn teenager.” This was just embarrassing.

I have no excuse and words

Sure was fun to write though

[lepeltge]

Hopefully this uploads with good quality bc this was a BEHEMOTH of a piece (mainly bc I made my file size too big lol). Anyways, here’s my rendition of @nnnnnnnothingtoseehere ‘s pirate/mer ateez au!!! I REALLY enjoyed their fic and highly suggest it!!

Admittedly, I got a bit carried away with this and have wayyyy too many pirate pictures saved to Pinterest and my phone, but alas! I will never escape my love for historical clothing (with some anachronisms for aesthetics of course).

I thought way too long about colors and outfits, but it just goes to show you how in depth N’s writing is (thanks for the extra answered questions)! I kept on finding myself having so much fun thinking about the why behind the outfits lol.

Lastly, this is my first fanart in a while, and moreso, my first fanart of Ateez ever!!! I tried to do them justice but if you can’t tell who’s who, well… my bad 😅 Hope y’all enjoy bc I know I sure did!!

[aliemboyfriend]

just a girl and her 14 page fanfic outline document against the world

[sysig]

The brainworms are winning, clearly (Patreon)