#I will remain vague until I can actually write up thoughts

[raifuujin]

Eventually I'll write my thoughts about stuff from the now long confirmed movie spoilers and manga events. Most of it would probably be summed up with ranting about writing (more because of the manga, but also a little because of The movie Thing), and a little bit of pros and cons of it all as far as my opinion.

But at the end of it all, it'll really only change fandom as much as you allow it. Some people are personally unhappy, and that's fine. Many probably won't let it affect their fanworks, no different from any other work with various tweaks or even aus. If people do start harassing for stupid reasons, get some block buttons ready. If the new information encourages new story ideas, that's great!

I personally like juggling possibilities, I just don't like Gosho's use of ideas nowadays, so. -sighs and shrugs- Same old same old, I guess. Even if this time caused a lot bigger drama than usual because of valid concerns.

[cherrys-muses]

WARNINGS; *please read before reading* — NOT a romanticized oneshot, manipulation (though not plainly stated, it’s clear that remmick is only trying to feed), mentions of spousal abuse — bruises, mentions of a k*lling, a body, and blood, a vague ending. MDNI — 18+ an; this is my first try with remmick, and i’m not entirely sure if i enjoy this or if i’ll actually do anything else with this character — but i love horror and i thought it would be interesting to try and write something horror. if you do enjoy this, and would like to see more horror based oneshots or anything, let me know!! again, im not romanticizing anything in this short oneshot at all!!! please be sure to read all warnings before proceeding. (this is also just so i can actually catch up on all of jack’s film’s before writing for more characters!!)

It’s something that you barely thought about — locking the front door that leads into you and your husband's home. The fire had been put out long ago, smoke swirling its way up the chimney and into the night sky. 

Living room and kitchen had been cleaned after dinner, your feet hurting from the long day and eyes heavy with sleep. Although, your mind still reels from earlier and the visitor you’d grown to know over the last few months. 

The man’s name was Remmick. He was charming in a strange way, words that could pull you into any type of conversation and never bore you. You’ve known him for four months — he’s realized many, many things, even if you haven’t voiced them. 

He’s harmless. Drinks ice cold sweet tea, loves lemon poppyseed muffins and blueberry biscuits with homemade icing. There is something strange about him though — how he requests the curtains to be closed, and how he wears thick coats in the middle of summer and how he tries to shield himself from the light of day, staying until the sun dips below the horizon just enough. 

You don’t ask questions. You’re just happy to have a friend, someone to listen if you ever need a shoulder to cry on or to speak about the heavy weight on your shoulders to remain perfect. 

He’s caught on with what happens behind closed doors — the way you jerk away from his gentle touch, or the way you pull your sleeve to your wrist — to hide something, a secret. It has something dangerous — primal — wanting to shed its shell and show its ugly form. 

“I could help you, you know?” 

It’s said in passing, making you flinch from his voice breaking the long stretch of the silence that had lingered after sharing a plate that had two blueberry biscuits on top, the icing dripping down to the sides. Your eyes flicker up to meet his. “What do you mean?” The laugh that slips past your lips is shaky, nervous. You begin to shake your head. “I don’t need any help, Rem. I’m okay.” 

You stand, trying to move away from him, the conversation. You reach down, fingertips grazing under the plate before his hand is wrapping around your wrist in a gentle hold. Your heart skips a beat, eyes immediately shooting over to stare at him.

He’s already staring up at you. 

His other hand moves slowly, tugging up the sleeve that hides away any deep purple and blue marks or fading yellow-green ones. Your cheeks flush, embarrassed, and trying to pull your arm away only leads him to tighten his grip slightly and pull you closer. “Remmick, that’s not—”

“You think you’re clever at hidin’ them, but you're not,” His eyes drop down to your arms. Goosebumps raise slowly as his fingers trail slowly up your skin, tracing over slowly. “Thinkin’ this is a type punishment is low for a man,” He shakes his head. 

You watch as his eyes trace around the marks, before his head slowly begins to lower and his hands gently cradle your arm in a soft hold as he lifts it slowly. His lips meet the skin, pressing a soft kiss against a fresh mark. 

You’re sweating now, chest beginning to heave slightly. You know you should stop him, but there’s just something so captivating about the man, the words die in your throat when you feel a slight nip from his teeth. The chair shifts under his weight when he stands, your body stumbling back slightly, pressing into the table from the way he crowds into your space. 

“Let me help.” He whispers, eyes darting down to your lips, then your neck. He watches as your pulse begins to pick up, the smell of sweat beading at the hollow of your throat. He relishes the moment, eyes flickering to yours once again. 

You swallow your spit — your throat feeling as if it was glued together with pins and needles. The thought is intoxicating. You’re not exactly sure how Remmick would help, but you know he would follow through on his word. 

His grin is dangerous, sharp, when you finally nod your head. It’s hesitant, but it’s still yes, help me. 

His hand is cold when he cradles your jaw, something that sends chills over your body, your spine straightening from the touch, and the hair on the back of your neck stands straight. 

“Leave the door unlocked tonight,” His voice is low. “I’ll be sure to not wake you.” 

You’re still awake — your eyes now wiped from the heaviness of sleep they were carrying. There’s something that’s different tonight, something in the atmosphere that shifts. You’re not sure what it is, or what it could be, but the way your heart pounded and fingers clenched at the sheets, you aren't sure that you enjoy the feeling. 

It’s distant when you hear the floorboard that squeaks outside your bedroom — you’ve gotten used to listening for it when your husband would come home at three in the morning. 

The door creaks open slowly, the sound of heavy boots making their way over. Your eyes squeeze shut immediately. The slow, tantalizing steps make your breathing hitch quietly, they’re coming closer to you. 

They stop. A finger slowly pushes away the strand of hair that had slipped against your temple, you try not to flinch. The touch is gone and the sound of his boots make their way around the bed once again before stopping. 

It’s sickening — the sounds. The bed jerks and a hand shoots out to grip your arm, but another is jerking his arm away, the sound of bone cracking has your hand pressing over your ear as you try to bury your head deeper into the pillow. 

The bed jerks once more, roughly, before something drops onto the floor with a heavy thud. Slowly pulling your hand away, your breath shaky with every exhale, you wait to move. 

It’s only a minute. Slowly looking over your shoulder, eyes burning with tears, the sight you’re met with is sickening — there’s deep crimson that stains the pillow case and blankets. Sitting up, you stumble to the ground, head banging against the floor. 

A sob leaves your throat and a sudden pounding against your temple has you feeling even more nauseous. There’s something warm under your hand and face, your cheek sticking to the ground. Slowly opening your eyes, you blink once, the grim reality of what Remmick’s help truly meant. 

Your husband's face is stuck in a scream, fear etched onto his face, the life from his eyes dull. Flaring your nose, you slowly lift from the ground, shaky hand lifting as you stare at the small red river that trails down your arm, wrapping around slowly before dripping onto your nightgown. 

A small sound leaves you as you turn your head, eyes lifting as a quick tear rolls down your cheek. Remmick stands by the window, the moonlight seeping into the room casting a ghostly glow over his body. 

“I told you I’d help you,” His voice is different now — deeper, gravelly. “Now, you help me.”

[waitineedaname]

I've decided to finally compile all my daemon au thoughts into one post instead of just flooding my friends' dms with them! I doubt I'll ever managed to actually write a fic for it because there's no way I can pull together a coherent enough plot so it would just be a series of vaguely connected vignettes, BUT. it's on my brain always.

Shen Qingqiu has a red-crowned crane. She felt Shen Jiu die when Shen Yuan transmigrated, and she was NOT PLEASED, which definitely puts a damper on their relationship at first, though she begrudgingly plays along with Shen Yuan assuming the role of Shen Qingqiu because the alternative is death and she will NOT let this fool's incompetence kill her. She eventually comes around to him, but she generally has Shen Jiu's rather acerbic and distrustful personality

Luo Binghe's daemon is unsettled at the beginning because he's still a kid. He usually chooses smaller, easier to hide forms when they're out in public, only choosing bigger forms when they're alone. Eventually, as he becomes more comfortable with Shen Qingqiu, he starts coming out of his shell more and exploring more forms around him -- a lamb bleating at his heels, a little lion cub tumbling around the Bamboo House's private training grounds. On one notable occasion he took on a crane form as an attempt to get in SQQ's daemon's good graces. She did not appreciate it.

He doesn't settle until the Endless Abyss. In PIDW, Bingge's daemon settled as a chow chow, a dog that looks soft and fluffy but is prone to, uh. aggression issues. In SVSSS, Bingmei's daemon settles as a Tibetan mastiff, an absolute unit of a dog that LOOKS intimidating, but is really just very protective

Shang Qinghua has a yellow-throated marten daemon! This is, notably, not the daemon the original goods had. Since he transmigrated as a baby, the original goods' daemon hadn't settled and was Also a baby, so he didn't end up with a grown adult's fully settled daemon like Shen Yuan did. Martens look very cute and nonthreatening, but they are fierce predators and will take down animals much larger than them! He usually keeps her hidden in his robes, but she wiggled out to screech at him to GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE when things started going wrong at the Immortal Alliance Conference, and her having a different form is what clued SQQ in that SQH might also be a transmigrator

Liu Qingge has a snow leopard and Yue Qingyuan has an Asian black bear. These daemons were chosen because Tibetan mastiffs were kept to protect monks from snow leopards and bears lol

Plot stuff under the cut!

SQQ's daemon is aware of the System, and therefore gets to learn things about SQQ's fate in the original novel. she is Not Pleased.

She remains reserved and guarded for a while, but it's hard to resist Shen Yuan's persistent charm, so she does warm up to him eventually. She's not wild about being touched, but she'll occasionally allow him to pet her feathers. She's also not wild about letting That Little Beast live in the Bamboo House, but she quickly learns Shen Yuan is just as stubborn as her A-Jiu was, so she allows it if only as a chance to keep a closer (suspicious) eye on Binghe

They definitely get much closer after the Immortal Alliance Conference, because she can tell just how much SQQ is grieving, and it pains her too. At this point, she's started seeing him as Her Person and not just a bodysnatcher

When they run into Binghe and his daemon again at Jinlan City, they both get to enjoy remembering the graphic descriptions of how in PIDW, Binghe's daemon had ripped SQQ's daemon's wings off as part of his torture. And oh fuck, his daemon settled as something even BIGGER this time?? Look at those jaws!!! Clearly the thump thump thump of his tail wagging against the floor at the sight of them is because he's excited to get his revenge. Definitely not because he's excited to see them again

On rare occasions, daemons of powerful cultivators can survive beyond the death of their person, usually only if the daemon is particularly strongwilled. She survived Shen Jiu's death once already. She's certain she could survive until SQQ gets into the back-up mushroom body. They thought it would only be a few minutes. They didn't expect it to take five years.

She is absolutely catatonic with grief during those five years. Binghe takes her survival as proof that Shizun's soul must have survived, certainly he will be able to bring him back if his daemon is still alive. He treats her with the utmost respect, the same way he treats SQQ's corpse. He never touches her directly since he knows she hates being touched. She never spoke much to him before, but now she doesn't even speak at all. She just curls up on the bed where he keeps the body, resting her head on Shen Qingqiu's chest

When Plantzun does finally show up and chaos ensues with the corpse hot potato, she confirms any of Binghe's suspicions about Shen Qingqiu's identity by swooping into the fray to peck angrily at the familiar stranger, some life and vitality finally returned to her and she scolds him for taking FIVE YEARS?? SHE NEVER WOULD HAVE AGREED TO THIS IF SHE'D KNOWN IT WOULD TAKE FIVE YEARS, HOW DARE HE. Shen Qingqiu is first so relieved to see her, and then terrified because she immediately broke his cover

After everything settles and the plot concludes and bingqiu get their happy ended, Binghe's daemon becomes SUCH a lapdog. Clingy rescue dog made of velcro type of vibe. They have to get a big enough bed to fit two grown men and a 150 pound dog. He LOVES Shizun headpats. SQQ's daemon does not ever join these cuddle sessions, but she always keeps an eye on them from her nest of pillows across the room because like hell is she ever letting Shen Qingqiu out of her sight again

[etheries1015]

Hellooo 1st I just wanna say that I love how you write! The fics you post almost always puts a smile on my face when I’m stressed and I just wanna thank you for that <3

Anyways I’ve been accidentally rizzing my friends up lately on accident with sweet words and I ended up thinking what would the biggest tsundere (literally) in twst do with an s/o who’s very generous with compliments and poetic with words and is shameless with how cheesy they can sound sometimes

I’m so sorry if my request is too vague huhu, have a good day! <3

THHAANNKK YOU *SMOOCHES* *GNAWS ON UR LEG* I LOVE U and may happier and less stressful times come ahead for you!

although you didn't specify which character...I picked who I believe to be the top three tsudneres of the game. Heuheuehu.

The prefects muse~

In which you find yourself utterly bemused by him, throwing out compliments and lines of infatuation that leave him a flustered wreck. How does he react to someone as valiantly passionate as you regarding your sweet words of honey?

Featuring: Idia, Riddle, Azul

Idia

Idia convinced himself you were just another introverted loser who had no care in your mind for other people, keeping to yourself, enjoying video games, and always open for degernate hours of playing video games.

what he did NOT know he was signing himself up for, was some sort of weird poet club bullshit. Yet there he was, sitting on the couch of the ramshackle dorm playing away at the new console he had gifted you he could feel your gaze burning the back of his head. Turning around slowly and almost with dread, your shit-eating grin blinded him with words of sweet-sweet cringe.

"Watching you play video games you can truly see how serious you are, it's adorable," Idia groaned with cheeks burning a bright shade of pink, burrying himself into the couch, "Ah~ I wish you would look at me like that, with such passion..."

"ugh..whhyy..." Idia murmured embarrassingly avoiding your gaze and remaining strong in holding himself together at your routine daily compliments.

"I can't help it!" You cried out theatrically, "Idiiaa...I can be like a video game. Play me, too!" That comment broke something inside of him that was supposed to be stayed hidden, his blue hair changing a bright shade of pink to signify the extent of his flustered state. You only giggled at this, as Idia attempted to hold in all self control by taking his hoodie, hoping the couch would just take him then and there.

Over time he became used to the fact that you would openly flirt with him, although that never stopped the second hand embarrassment that came along with it. What he wont tell you, though, that behind the rosey cheeks and tsundere display of dislike for your antics, was a heart that beat quickly and mind that secretly enjoyed your poetic and "old cringy" way of loving him.

Which just means your flirting is working, keep it up! <3 But maybe try to hold back in front of other people, he isn't sure how much more he can keep deflecting their raised eyebrows and teasing remarks...

riddle

Being someone who is well versed in the world of poetry and literature, he could often pin point where some of your lines may come from. His way of deflection is either correcting your sentences, or retorting with the next line. What he DOESN'T know how to deflect, is the string of compliments you give him on a day to day basis. At first he simply thought you were being kind in complimenting the way his hair shone in the sunlight- until Cater pointed out that your remarks were anything but the norm. That's when Riddle took more notice to it, realizing that your lines of poetry was not an exercise of the brain, yet an actual technique to flirt with him.

and it was working.

"Riddle~" You sang in the halls of heartslabyul, skipping much to his annoyance.

"Do not jump around in the halls," He chastised you, "What is it?" You gave him a mischievous smile with a toothy grin to match, clearing your throat and standing straight.

"My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite."

Silence reigned for a few moments as Riddle blinked a few times, squinting his eyes to give you his typical "poker face."

"Is this another one of your attempts to 'flirt' with me?" He asked, you leaning against the wall and running your fingers through your hair in a flirty and playful manner. You nodded eagerly, to which Riddle gave a sigh and walked past you to continue whatever he was doing prior to your poetic interruption. Your jaw slacked open and you skipped (again, to his annoyance) to catch up to him.

"I swear I saw a smile! Turn around and show it to me, Riddle! Was that one good? Did I capture your heart finally?" You giggled, seeing how Riddle was obviously ignoring your feeble cries of searching attention.

Yet you were correct, he couldn't help but find his cheeks as red as a rose and lips curling up in a bashful smile. He would not allow you to see how you affect him, however.

Riddle tends to just ignore your flirting, now that he has come accustomed to it. Even in front of people when you would openly compliment him, Riddle continued sipping his tea seemingly unbothered. Whenever he would get strange looks to find an explanation to your questionable behavior, he simply shrugged.

"Do not mind them, they are always like this."

But at night by his lonesome, he was repeating your words in his head a million times over, that same rose colored tint upon his cheeks and smile with a blanket hard on his grip. Perhaps giggling a time or two to himself...for he never met someone as brazen as you. Not that he was actually complaining, though.

Azul

Flirting with Azul was always a treat. His reactions were the most flamboyant out of the other tsundere boys, he never failed to get some sort of remark and complaint out of his mouth whenever you sang praises his way. He attempted to be calm and collected, but the blush that painted his cheeks betrayed his cool demeanor.

"Is that a new coat, Azul? Ohohoh you do look dashing, If I do say so myself. Did you style your hair? The way it frames your face really brings out your features-"

"Stop, stop stop! Why must you feel the need to shower me in complimets?!" He cried out, burying his face into his arms upon the deak. The pink on his ears was also unforgiving for the poor merman. You chuckled and sat next to him, patting his shouders.

"I can't help it! If I see something I like, I must voice it out. Is it too plain? I can try and be more poetic. Let's see..." You used your hand to pull his chin, forcing his gaze to meet with yours. You inwardly teased him at the vibrant hue of his cheeks and flustered face, keeping it in as you leaned forward to gaze deeply into his eyes.

"Your eyes," you started, "Shine far brighter than any I have seen, even the most silver and sparkly of diamonds pale in comparison to your-"

"e-e-enough! W-what is this?!" Azul pulled away, tucking his head back into his arms and groaning, "Just...go back to what you were doing before! None of this...diamond...and..." He trailed off, words failing him. Azul was not used to such praises from others, he spent his entire life believing the worst every moment he caught glance in a mirror with a life time of self esteem issues. So hearing you so openly compliment him always left the man flustered and blushing, cringing at every moment you tried to stroke his ego.

He never truly get's used to it, only finds ways to ignore you. When you're around others and began to make a sly comment about how his hands look nice or how his skin looks that particular day, he closes his eyes and avoids anyone's gazes with a face full of color that even the coral of the sea could not compare. He often gets teased by his fellow classmates for this, but never actually speaks up in distaste to you. He could never admit just how much your persistent compliments thoroughly means to him, and how with every word he finds himself looking in the mirror with a little more enthusiasm than he once had.

~~~

yes I like to use the headcannon that Idias hair changes color when he has really strong emotions aosdjflkasdjf

[callalillywrites]

A Pocketful of Flowers (and a Bouquet)

I was recently playing an ask game where someone sent in a made-up title and you wrote a corresponding fic/idea that went with that title. Each of the titles I got for my other fandom also worked well for the Criminal Minds men, so I couldn't help myself in creating some what-if scenarios for them as well.

For Aaron Hotchner, I matched him with the original title, Pocket Flowers. This is what I'd write for him if I were to make a full fic for this title (well, amended title as shown above).

Aaron Hotcher x GN!Reader with Jack Hotchner

It's been a couple years since Jack and Aaron lost Haley. They both still continue to miss her, but the pain has dulled enough that Jack is determined to find someone for his dad, someone he might call 'Mama'. He's also pretty sure he's found her in you.

You're the music teacher at his school and one of his favorite people. Like his normal teacher, you're quite sweet but also single where his teacher is happily married, making them unsuitable for his dad.

Everyday at the end of recess, which you oversee, he brings you the pocketful of flowers that he collected while playing with his friends. He enjoys watching you turn them into a small crown or bracelet that you give back to him along with a quick side hug. It's all you're really allowed to give any of the students, but it's more than enough to let him know how warm and welcoming one of your real ones would be.

Now, he just needs to find some way to get you to meet his dad. Most parent-teacher nights end up with only his dad (more often, his aunt) seeing his normal teacher without the opportunity to seek you out.

His chance comes when the school hosts a little Halloween event where you can trick-or-treat by visiting each of the classrooms at his school. Each class has done their best to decorate each room, and your music room gets the same treatment. All he has to do is get his dad over there.

On the way, Jack asks Aaron to stop and pick up one of the small bouquets he always sees at the corner shops. Aaron asks him about it, of course, but Jack remains vague but insistent on Aaron holding it until the right time.

They visit all the classrooms and take time to admire the handiwork of each rooms' students. Both of them even pick up something small from the bowls sitting near the doorways on their way out.

It ends up being a blast, but then, Jack notices how close he and his dad are to your room. Nervousness blooms, but his certainty and determination don't falter as he pulls his dad closer.

You're waiting outside the room, greeting each of the students that pass. Your smile is quite genuine when you recognize Jack in his costume for the year. It doesn't lessen as you turn your attention to Aaron as Jack introduces you two to each other.

It's only when Jack nudges his dad to hand over the flowers that your cheeks are warming. The little scamp isn't as subtle as he thought he was, but you can't find yourself too upset as you find Aaron quite attractive, especially in the polo he's changed into for this little event.

Aaron, too, is a little disconcerted by Jack's antics, but you are pretty cute. He even soon realizes why Jack is so smitten with you based on how often you've come up in recent weeks at home. He's not about to ask you out in front of his son and the other kids as he hardly knows you. That's not to say he isn't attracted to you or doesn't find you interesting. Far from it. He actually wants to know more about you, see if there's something there. Maybe he'll find his chance soon and maybe even ask you out at the end of it.

*****

Wow, okay, that was a lot more fun and Jack-oriented than I thought it would be, but I really love it. I can totally see little Jack being a matchmaker for his dad if he's given the chance. All he wants is his dad (and hero) to have some happiness in his life that might extend to Jack, too.

Anyway, this entire exercise was fun. You can find Derek's what-if here and Spencer's here.

Aaron Hotchner Masterlist | Main Masterlist

[sleepyboywrites]

@justkeepscrollingscrolling

Hey all! In case you missed my last post Tumblr updates ruined my life and asks no longer allow you to save as drafts and then update them. Since I normally don't write all in one session I have quite a few in my drafts currently that I have to get creative in actually answering so that you all still get notified when I get around to your asks. Moving forward I'll just answer in one go but for older asks (ones before I noticed/before the update) will be answered like this! Also I haven't written in a while so I apologize if it's shit.

Save a horse ride a cowboy

Masky knew you were raised on a farm. His favorite, albeit slightly teasing pet name for you was 'Cowboy' or 'Farm hand'. He's seen you carry corpses of fully grown men in one arm since joining the proxies. He had confronted you on multiple occasions how and why and you had replied. "I've hauled hay when our tractor broke and carried a newborn filly to the truck to rush to the vet after she wasn't walkin'. I can hold my own Darlin'." And he had been oh so kind to remind you who you belonged to for your lip and sweet farm boy ways. Yet he still sometimes underestimates your strength and in all honesty it's your own fault.

Play fighting and rough housing was nothing at all new. Mostly because Masky suffers from cuteness aggression and you, farm boy, are sturdy enough to handle it as well as dish it out. You two did it so often that if you didn't people assumed you were fighting fighting. On top of this you had a bad habit of letting Masky win because he's just so cute all smug on victory and everyone likes to be shoved into the couch face first by their partner sometimes cause being manhandled is just as fun as manhandling.

That is until one day, a really busy one, you didn't really have the time nor energy to let him win.

Masky had been extra annoying today. Poking and proding and shoving and basically all over you. Normally no complaints whatsoever but you had a shit ton you needed to get done. The list of cleanup tasks you were assigned today was two pages long and with your boyfriend attacking you at every turn in some form of cuteness aggression taking over and possessing him the second he saw your face, you getting fuck all done. Cleanup from the cannibals of the mansion plus the targets of the main proxies (because apparently scrubbing the remains of EJ's lunch off of the kitchen walls for three hours wasn't enough to deal with) had made for an unusually large amount of work for the sole cleanup crew member, you, and you were over it. So as Masky tried to tackle you in greeting for the fifth time today hoping to instigate you to wrestle him and to in turn win and coerce you to get a little 'closer', you just held your ground picked up the corpse in one arm, pried his arms off with a "Hold on Darlin' I have work to finish and I'm running behind. Later." And walked away.

Masky had stood there for a moment with a confused look on his face before the realization struck and he remembered his view of you and your 'softness' was heavily skewed. But once the shock disappears he became determined to genuinely tackle you. Stalking, lurking, and hunting you as you attempted to finish your work as Cleanup. He had proven himself to be quite the pain in your ass as you avoided his attacks and eventually lost him all together getting to finish the long list of tasks you had been assigned. You took a shower changed clothes and were scrolling on your phone on the couch when you finally sensed him again.

His vaguely pissed off and irked in general aura slowly approaching you from behind. You pretended not to notice that he's approaching and place your arms over his as he hugs you, clearly mopey, from behind. "Hm... So we're doing angry cuddles now, are we love?"

Masky didn't reply shoving his face into your neck, you could feel his intrusive thoughts to bite you, his hesitation to do so. Masky begins walking away from you and into the kitchen.

Without warning you chase after him and pick him up as he shouts and squirms playfully trying to escape your grasp and flip the script, "Look, I'm sorry I was avoidin' you, 'm not angry at you darlin, I was just overbooked on what needed done. Now quit your moping." You explained as you threw and pinned him to the couch. Masky going fully silent and still as you pin him down, giving you an odd territorial and excited look. "What?" You ask as he stares up at you, an eyebrow raised.

"Save a horse..." He replied looking you up and down. As it slowly processes in your head what he's referring to and you scoff and chuckle as you shake your head.

[dreambigdreamz]

On Our Own | Éomer Éadig (part three)

Summary : The wedding night.

Rating : M, oral + consummation

Word count : 8,776

Author’s note : ahehehe. I have never written anything smut and rarely write anything physical-romance beyond eye-contact and that sends me into agony 😣 I know this doesn’t do anyone or anything enough justice. But I tried. Next up, our newly wedded King and Queen of the Mark has their first marital quarrel <3 Elfwine will simply have to wait until these two can sort their feelings out and that might take some time.

Part One Part Two

Hope you enjoy.

The ladies-in-waiting were getting Lothíriel ready for her first shared night with her husband, while Éomer was having to undergo a further round of backslapping ribaldry before his friends and companions escorted him to her door. The Princess had a heavy mind and was apt to drift away into distant thoughts but she did not let it show that the silence hung gloomy around the bride on her wedding night.

“He liked you,” one of the young women said as they were brushing out her hair. “He watched you very closely, he liked you.”

“And why should he not?” she asked back with the instinctive arrogance of a girl who was delighted with the result of her best efforts.

“Then, why were you ever nervous this morning about whether he would like you or not?”

Lothíriel only smiled sheepishly, looking at the mirror in front of her with a flutter in her stomach that reminisced again the rare smiles on the King’s face that had turned everything around for the wedding day. And she was immensely grateful for it.

But the day was over and night had set in, and what to say but that Lothíriel felt a new kind of dread?

She was then quietly put into her nightdress and her dark hair plaited by her ladies; Lady Saelwen kissed her good-night and gave her a mother’s blessing.

“Good-night, princess. Or rather,” Lady Saelwen looked up from her curtsey with a glow of matronly pride and smile on her face, “Queen Lothíriel.”

Lothíriel gave a slow nod, giving a small smile in return. It would seem she was trying to repress a beam of childish delight, already donning the grace and propriety of a queen — but rather, it was the nervous thump-thump in her chest that made her smile come out uncertain.

“Lady Saelwen,” the Princess — the Queen of Rohan — turned round to speak decidedly to the woman as the ladies were retreating towards the door. “A word, if you have a moment.”

The other ladies-in-waiting all looked with apprehension. There was an underlying tremor in the way the princess had ordered, and they were only too curious to know what she would have to say to Lady Saelwen now. But Lothíriel saw them standing around, and said coolly, “The rest of you may leave.”

Once the ladies had departed and only Lady Saelwen remained, Lothíriel stood up and walked briskly to her. The older lady waited patiently, though there was a look in her eyes that prompted the princess to voice anything she might have to say. After a few moments of silence while she processed her words and emotions, Lothíriel blurted out with as much self-command as she could,

“I do not know what I am supposed to do. I have tried to ask everybody I could, and nobody has told me what exactly I am supposed to do.” The words came out of her, first a bit composed and steady, but then increasing in speed as her vexation grew obvious and her trepidation took over, fidgeting with her hands and the strings on the front of her nightdress as she continued, “My mother says everything will happen by and by; but that is vague, and actually does not answer the question at all if you think about it, really. My aunt — oh Valar — my aunt says all that I need to do is obey my husband and make sure I do not sully our family’s honour in no way. Whatever in Middle-earth is that supposed to mean? What does she mean?”

At this point, Lothíriel was almost talking to herself incessantly, her voice growing wobbly with each word that formed from her anxious mind. Her eyes finally fixed on Lady Saelwen and with a regained composure and determination, Lothíriel said, “You must tell me. You must tell me everything.”

Up till then Lady Saelwen had observed the princess mildly and nodded with a calm countenance contrasting to Lothíriel’s very much disheveled expression. Now, she was nervous herself, biting her lip in careful consideration of a proper answer. “You are overthinking, Lothíriel. Maybe there is not an exact . . . description to tell you. Don’t let yourself panic, sweetling, it will go just fine and there is nothing to worry about,” the lady cooed in that motherly way of hers as usual, gently stroking Lothíriel’s hair to soothe her.

But this time the Princess — the Queen — was not to be satisfied.

“No. I must know what it is that might happen and what I should do then. I will not have my fears lulled in this manner, you know I never liked it. Nobody bothered to tell me about that ring-exchanging culture in Rohan, nobody bothered to let me know what might happen, and look how that turned out! I am sick of it! Lady Saelwen,” and then Lothíriel’s voice steady and her face grew stern, as if she was speaking to a servant or a lesser person that was not her beloved nanny since her childhood. In truth, Lothíriel’s good nature had given way to anxiety and then anger in turn that now she felt inclined to lash it out right now on anybody really. “Lady Saelwen, I command you to tell me.”

But the lady was not fazed a bit by this fey mood of the princess. She stood there all calm and proper, only pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “What exactly am I to tell you?” Then, with a little hesitation she added, “Why do you suppose I should know it enough to tell you?”

“Oh,” was all Lothíriel managed to say as her shoulders slumped from their tense posture, a few things dawning on her all at once, and she was quieted though her questions were not.  “Oh, okay, I am sorry.” But then why did not her mother or grandmother or other matrons ever told them anything? “But surely somebody should have told us,” she complained as a last resort.

Lady Saelwen only sighed, and they were both silent. Then she observed Lothíriel’s blank expression and tried to think of something to say, and choosing her words carefully, she said, “All that will happen is most probably a few . . . kisses, and then he would insert himself and it shall be done.”

“Insert himself? Insert himself where?”

“Your— where your moon blood comes from every month,” Lady Saelwen said nervously, wishing they could get this conversation over and hoping no more questions were coming her way.

Lothíriel stared at her. “Where— and, and that is also from where the baby will come out?” She had learned long ago the story about the storks bringing babies was simply untrue.

Lady Saelwen nodded solemnly without a word.

“So, it is true then?” There was almost a note of incredulity and disbelief in Lothíriel’s voice. “What Mylaela has been saying . . .”

“What has Mylaela been saying?” Lady Saelwen demanded.

“She told us very long ago that where everything goes in, is where the baby comes out,” Lothíriel gulped nervously. “So it’s true? I was hoping she was just being crazy like she always is.”

“You should not be discussing such kinds of—”

“Well, how else am I to know what it is that everybody wants me to do?” Lothíriel snapped viciously. “You send us out of the room when the conversation becomes inappropriate, and then you expect us to know what to do on our own. You think we already know about everything by the time we’re grown up or whatever; but most of us don’t, not unless we go around shamelessly prying and listening behind corners, like Mylaela does. Most of what she hears and says is appalling, but I think I have her to thank for right now!” 

The newly wedded queen stopped her frantic pacing across the room, rubbing her eyes in exhaustion and sighed. “I know, I know. I am getting worked up again, and this will not do. It’s just . . .” She raised her hands in a gesture of haplessness. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Lady Saelwen. Ariellë had her love match; Andrídha fell head over heels as soon as she met my brother; but what of me? What will happen to me? Nobody should be sent away to do something they haven’t even got an idea of what! ”

Lady Saelwen endured her anger not only civilly, but kindly. She took a step forwards, and rubbed Lothíriel’s side of the arm comfortingly. “I understand, I understand what you are feeling, my sweet princess. Be brave; you are strong, and you must be brave. You are a Princess of Dol Amroth and if he mistreats you in any improper way, king or no, you come straight away to me, understand?”

“Thank you, but I do not think he will, rest assured.” And Lothíriel only smiled, not adding how Lady Saelwen’s words had felt quite useless and brought no real comfort to her actual dread of the night. How could she let the woman know what was truly making her nervous, when she herself could not materialize that fear itself into words? “So, is it going to be very painful? Like childbirth?”

“More or less, I suppose. I would not know of either, now would I?” Lady Saelwen tried to brush away the embarrassment; watching over the princess for over two decades had not prepared the spinster for this.

“Would I . . . die?” She held out tightly for the older woman’s hand.

“Heavens forbid, no! What makes you say that?”

Lothíriel struggled with herself to bring out the words. “I don’t know, maybe the fact that women often die in childbirth? Mylaela also told us that the man lies on top of the woman in bed, so isn’t it possible that she might suffocate to death? And in any case, you said—”

The door to the chamber opened to reveal Éomer King standing there. Lothíriel turned abruptly and stared with wide eyes, and let go immediately of Lady Saelwen’s hand that she had grown to clutch in desperation. It probably did not strike as a regal pose, and she awkwardly tried to straighten herself and take a step back to be standing independent on her own. And then in her best attempt to sound calm and normal, she said very slowly, “If that is all, you may leave now, Lady Saelwen.”

The lady curtseyed and made her way out.

Once her lady-in-waiting was gone and she left to herself, Lothíriel promptly invited the king to sit down at the table; all the while his eyes fixed on her meaningfully.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Lothíriel asked not too composedly, still trying to recover from the shock of having to receive him so soon, hoping desperately he had not heard anything.

“The ale, please. And one for yourself too.”

“I . . . don’t like ale very much.”

“This is different,” said he with patience, as if he understood the cause of her uneasiness. He was too skilled with women to ask her what was wrong. He knew very well what was wrong: the impending sense of fear added to the loneliness, and homesickness natural enough in a young woman. But she would show none of it, nor would she accept sympathy for it. So Éomer remained silent on the subject. “They call it wedding ale. It’s sweetened with mead and spices. It’s for courage.”

“Do we need courage?” Lothíriel found herself draping herself in cool lightheartedness, chuckling to mask away the uncomfortable, disquieted feelings attending to her.

He was emboldened by her smile and got up to pour her a cup and handed it towards her, saying with the slightest curve of his own lips, “I should think we do. It is only a tradition, and traditions merely exist to impart courage at times.”

She took the cup of hot ale from his hand, noting the gold band on it, and dared to look up at him standing next to where she sat. The candlelight had enveloped his figure in a golden frame, and the expression on his face was an unreadable one. Lothíriel lowered her head in confused turmoil of her emotions and sipped the heady drink. “Oh, this is nice,” she remarked with quite a delight in her face and took a few more sips eagerly this time.

It soon became apparent, however, that she was going through the ale quite fast as she poured herself another cup and finished that one as well. Éomer quietly watched her from across the table, enchanted by the flawlessness of her being. He drew a heavy breath, at last, and stood up and walked to her as she was pouring another time. Lothíriel glanced at him, her cup of ale held in her hand. Gently, he took the cup from her and she looked on in silence, her face a blanch-surface of calm but her eyes were indignant, curious and resigned all at the same time.

“Even the best of ale should not be taken in excessive,” he said with a small smile, polite but firm as Lothíriel’s head drooped.

“Should I now leave for you to retire?” Éomer added.

“L-Leave?” Her eyes widened at his unexpected words, her confusion hardly concealed. And on top of that was worry bordering on alarm. “But is there not something we are supposed to do?”

He hesitated a moment, before saying slowly, “I shall be honest now as you asked me before: I do not wish for you to be brought to bed positively terrified and unprepared for what will take place when you hardly know what—”

“I know what must be done.” She had stood up abruptly in indignation, her reassurance had come out haughty, and then she covered her mouth in an apologetic way, and she added a bit more composed, “Or at least, I would be willing to learn. Whatever the case, I shall not skimp my duty.” Saying so, Lothíriel willed herself to look up at him with utter determination though she felt like her knees would give away anytime.

It was Éomer’s turn to speak out hastily this time. “Is it always going to be duty, for you?”

“I do not understand . . .” she was taken aback, was quite perturbed, to be honest. But she knew better to let it show, waiting for him to clarify what he meant, but her heart was beating away quite violently at this very unexpected change in his behaviour.

“I am sorry,” Éomer started again. “But I would not wish for you to be forced by your duty to do something unwillingly. I would not wish for you to be unhappy because of our marriage.”

“I am not unhappy,” Lothíriel tried to put up the argument calmly but with precision.

“But you are uneasy,” Éomer countered with a docility of his own.

“It is only the wibber-gibbers, the heebie-jeebies.”

“And quite drunk,” Éomer added, and a smile threatened to pervade his countenance.

His bride gave a scowl, “That was only my third cup that you took away.”

There was a long while of silence, as both of them strove to deal with the different emotions. Éomer looked on the lady standing in front of him with quiet apprehension, unable to keep from admiring every thing about her, while she looked down at the floor, trying to collect herself wisely and keep the situation in control. But she hardly knew what she needed to be doing! All she knew was she needed to make him understand, she needed to let him know that it was all right with her and they somehow needed to get this done and so she needed to make him stay. Then what? What next?

Lothíriel bit her lip in thoughtfulness, finally deciding on being equally honest to him as he had also asked her before, going through her words carefully as she said, “I thank you, for caring about me. But you are a king and you also have a duty to your people. You need an heir for your country, and it is my duty to help you. I would be honoured to be your friend, partner, and comforter. I shall be perfectly honoured to be your wife.”

“And what of happiness?” The King of the Mark lifted her chin, making her look into his dark eyes filled with a thousand concerns and questions that she understood but did not know how best to answer.

“That too. I believe I shall be a happy woman married to you.” Then she tiptoed to kiss him.

This time, despite the drink and the pounding of her heart, Lothíriel was fully aware of the touch of his lips against hers: it was soft, warm and his beard brushing lightly on her cheeks. She knew she had done one thing correctly at least as he responded to her and deepened the kiss that grew passionate; his one arm round her waist, drawing her body closer to him, and the other caressing the side of her face as she stood there, quite rigid, the warmth spreading through her from where he touched her body over her nightdress.

She had never even been kissed before today, let alone to have known how it felt like to be touched this way by a man.

When they parted, Éomer saw her face flushed as her ruby lips and the glimmer in her large, grey eyes. He gently ran his thumb across her smooth skin, taking in the sight of her as if mere memory could never be enough. The slightest look of sadness crossed his face, and Lothíriel saw it in his eyes as if his heart was breaking from some kind of pain—with a sense of the situation, she grasped the meaning of that look to be something of love, and that was when Lothíriel’s instinct brought her to hold his hand that was against her cheek, and her eyes spoke of earnestness.

“My dear lady wife,” Éomer said softly, dropping his hand from her face and holding her hand in both of his. She felt soft and gentle, her small hand fitting into his rough, calloused ones like they were meant to be fitted for one another perfectly. Lothíriel, in turn, laid her other hand on his, trying to get out of her shell to reassure this kind man who was now her husband.

But she glanced at the bed behind her, and steeled herself to ask him awkwardly, “Would . . . would you like to undress me, my lord?” The warmth in her cheeks grew fiery, her eyes cast down on the floor, unable to meet his eyes again in the embarrassment of what lies ahead.

“You shall call me Éomer, when we are on our own.”

Lothíriel dared to look up at him and quickly looked back down again, feeling very much like blushing and giggling and running away all at the same time. 

A soft sigh later, he reached out, nimbly caressing a lock of her hair between his fingers, before his fingertips grazed her cheek, trailing down her neck. Lothíriel could feel her breath quicken at the feathery touch, as he wordlessly continued to trail his fingers down to the neckline of her dress. He paused there and looked her in the eye, his silence telling her there would be no going back once he started. As he found her face unwavering, he deftly pulled on one of the strings at the front of her nightdress, and soon they came loose and Lothíriel held her breath, as Éomer lifted it up from the hem of the dress and over her head. She raised up her arms, making sure her plaited hair did not get messed up.

When she stood there in front of him, unclothed and uncovered by anything, a great wave of emotional instability hit Lothíriel then. She felt like sinking into the floorboards, she felt like sobbing and telling Éomer honestly that she could not do this. She had never dreamed of having to do this; she would willingly have gone through the world without knowing about this; she would have died before ever imagining herself this way in front of a man, husband or no. This was utterly appalling!

But despite the strongest urge to drop all courtesy and run and dive under the bed sheets, or to even just try and cover herself with her hands, Lothíriel stood still. She could not bear to meet his eyes, but she willed herself to do it with all that she had in her entire being. She was a Princess of Dol Amroth and she was not meant to show fear or uncertainty. She was now a Queen of Rohan and there was a country and people to lead.

She brought herself to look up at Éomer, and saw in his face the usual, unreadable expression of a vague scowl. Like he was displeased. Or just a very intense gaze. Lothíriel could not be certain.

Something like disappointment washed over Lothíriel this time, and she felt the emotions constricting in her throat — she looked away, hiding the vulnerability in her gaze, her silver-glazed eyes facing the quivering flames of the candles in the room.

“Are—are we not supposed to blow the candles out?” she asked in a small whisper.

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Isn’t that what’s normally done? In the dark?” Lothíriel said innocently, her words trailing off on a high intonation that indicated her uncertainty.

“Who told you that?”

“No-one!” She had looked at him in alarm, not wishing to come off as the kind of girl who ever discussed these things. Though only earlier she was bitterly resentful of not knowing, it was still hard to shed off old ideals that had been ingrained in the ladies’ minds that it was horrifying to know of these matters.

She saw a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and her stomach turned a somersault again. She loved and hated what he did to her feelings, so entirely what she had never been used to.

Éomer replied slowly, “Not exactly. Not always, no. But if you wish . . .”

“I do,” Lothíriel affirmed and there was a tiny quiver in her voice. She was thinking, while Éomer went to put out the flames one by one, that it was better to not have to see his face at all and for him to not see hers if he did not wish to. And he obviously did not wish to. Maybe? But Lothíriel stole a quick glance at the sight of her husband walking round the room, bending to blow out the candles, the light reflecting off through his golden hair. She would mourn in silence to herself the loss of having to see him; but as one candle remained lit at last, Éomer turned to her.

“May we not leave just this one?” Her blank face of confusion made him add more hesitantly, “It would be a shame to miss seeing you in the darkness.”

Oh, what does he mean, was the question racing through Lothíriel’s mind in a frenzy as she found herself nodding slowly, like a little puppet whose strings of control had snapped suddenly. She so longed to know what he meant!

“But if you do not wish . . .”

“Yes. I wish, very much.” She told him quickly, and forced the slightest of a smile through her shocked expression for good measure that he was assured of her willingness. Then she added in a flustered manner, “I mean, I only thought . . .”

“You thought?” Éomer asked as he came back towards her, his eyes fixed on her face.

Lothíriel lowered her head, shaking it slowly.

They stood in front of each other, untouching, and after a few moments Éomer said, “Your hair . . . will you allow me to . . .?”

She glanced behind her shoulder to realise that he meant to undo her plaited hair, and awkwardly but clearly she replied, “Oh, yes, certainly.”

When he moved nearer to her, and got behind her back, it was overwhelming how the warmth from the proximity of his body seemed to radiate and envelope her. But Éomer kept strictly to his word alone and touched nothing but her hair that he had asked; he undid the plait of her hair gently, his hands combing through the dark mass of it and, as it got loose and flowed down her shoulders and past below her back, Lothíriel felt soft prickles all over her skin at his barest touches. She turned to look at him, and his eyes met hers with a steady gaze that made her flustered.

“What is it?” he asked, soft and courteous but his voice naturally gruff.

“Nothing. I—” there was something insistent in the look of his eyes, something of undoing all her stone walls, that Lothíriel allowed them to crumble and herself to wither away, and told him plainly but shyly, “You are not upset with my hair?”

The wonder that came into her husband’s eyes could only be described as incredulous and shocked, as for a momentary pause his sternness melted. “No . . . why would I ever . . . your hair? What do you think could be wrong with your hair to make me—upset?”

Lothíriel was left stunned and at a loss for some of her usual quippy remarks as she tried to process the way he had just said what he just said; for she was almost shocked as himself to have this brief glance of him being uncertain and the way he struggled for the proper words, and how he had said them in so uncomfortable a manner, especially that last one. His brows were furrowed and that was not unfamiliar, but now there was real confusion in his eyes and he looked, why, he almost looked like a mere pageboy trying to understand something incredulous. It left her throat dry. Moreover, it left her frustrated because she could not pin down on why it made him so endearing in her eyes and heart. He was still the self-same King of Rohan, tall and proud, very regal and so utterly dashing in his roughshod manners, and yet the distant formality and ambiguity. But here there was this small side within him that was looking at her with wide eyes as if she had said something labyrinthine. It drove her insane.

“My hair . . .” she started uncertainly. “Is it not . . . well, dark and foreign and . . . and so very . . . I don’t know . . . dark.” Lothíriel heard herself saying this and tried to justify the emotions but immediately decided it sounded stupid in the end. She lowered her head, in a struggle that went beyond words or comprehension of men.

She felt, no, she knew, that what she was trying to do was a useless attempt to re-summon the wild uncertainties she had faced earlier in the morning. These were beginning to be cleared away gradually somehow with each passing moment now, but she still wanted to keep room for these doubts just in case, just in case she was hoping too high and above the blunt reality that often fell into the lot of women before her. A high-born lady married to a stranger for convenience or alliance, that case had two scenarios and an uninteresting in-between; and she was well aware which was the more probable oft-times. And just like most young ladies, she entertained this doubt and hope at the same time.

Éomer stared at her for a long moment, during which Lothíriel was on an earth-shattering brink of suspense, then he blinked. “It is beautiful,” he said slowly, caressing and bringing all of her hair onto one side of her shoulder. “And, and I love it.”

A thousand things happened all at once; and it was all in Lothíriel’s mind.

When her heart seemed to have recovered from the momentary pause and air breathed into her lungs once again, when the exploding fireworks in her chest had quietened down and herself had run happily across the length of Middle-earth there and back again in her mind, when her legs had regained steadiness and her ears had stopped to ring with the singing and shouting of her own voice and celestial bells, then Lothíriel’s lips quivered into a smile, grateful and relieved, and she murmured a little “Thank you,” still heaving breathless from what he had just said. If only he knew. Oh, the Valar be praised, if only he knew.

He gazed at her face, from her eyes to her lips to the slender curve of her neck, and asked, “Would you mind if I . . .” His hand, thick and roughened by years of war, softly traced the side of her face. The sensation brought Lothíriel to meet his eyes, and though he did not specify and she longed to know what it was that he meant to say, she nodded, saying,

“Not at all.”

The touch of his fingers, so calloused yet gentle, trailed over her jawline, and then down her neck and landed on her bare shoulder, smooth and glowing in the golden candlelight. They continued down across the length of her arm, leaving behind the feel of goosebumps on her skin and the silent yearning for more of that heat from his touch. When he reached her hand, he held it to his lips and placed a kiss, looking at her and taking in with much awareness of how her lips had parted a little and she looked on with suppressed anticipation in her eyes.

“You . . . are . . . flawless,” Éomer said quietly, almost to himself, and a shuddering breath escaped him before he pulled her towards him in a kiss of effusion, placing her hand over his chest. Lothíriel only had a moment of a small gasp before her lips crashed into his and she found herself kissing her husband again, this time more passionate and desirous as she felt his hands on her back, pressing her body against him. Their lips seemed to move in synchronisation to a dance of desire, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to do away with all space between them as she felt the burning fire inside, longing to feel his body all over hers.

For a moment there, a thought passed her mind about the propriety of how she was behaving and feeling. It left her confused and stopped short her responding, but half a second later Lothíriel had pushed away these chastising thoughts away from her mind and returned to the warmth that was growing inside her at the touch of his skin or the taste of his lips.

He appeared to have understood her mind, or at least taken notice of this new fervour of her kissing, and brought up his hand to tuck away the loose strands of hair away from her face. Then it slowly travelled down her neck, and this time to the side of her breasts where they lay pressed against his night tunic, and making him hard down below. He cupped one of them, gently squeezing it, and earning another small gasp from her as she stopped their kiss to look up at him with widened eyes. Éomer moved his hand away, asking with some gravity,

“Do you not like it?”

His wife batted her lashes bashfully, and her throat bobbed up and down as she swallowed with some nervousness, and shook her head to say quietly, “No . . . just surprised, my lord . . .” She struggled with herself to get the right words out, then emboldening herself to look at him straight in the eye, she said, “Please, continue.”

Éomer’s mouth went dry and parched, but he assumed a small smirk and replied, “It will be my pleasure.”

They recommenced their kissing, and he placed a firm hand over her breasts, softly kneading the flesh and running his thumb back and forth over the tips that grew stiffer with each of his strokes. Lothíriel was by now trying so hard to hold back letting out any improper noise, and no longer was she able to respond properly to his kisses when his touches on her sensitive buds were making her head go wild and her breath go shallow like she couldn’t get enough of air, enough of him. Her one hand served to push against his strong chest whilst her other hand was on his tunic collar, pulling him in desperately than ever.

The painful ache of her breasts grew unbearable over time under his administrations, building up like waves but without any rocks to crash on and release, and Lothíriel, eyes squeezed shut, gave in at last and let out a small whimpering moan into their deep kiss. The sound seemed to affect Éomer greatly, arousing him ever more and driving him to nip at her lower lip with a grunt, and his hand moved downwards across her abdomen, before stopping suddenly.

“Gods,” he swore loudly, breaking off the kiss to look at her basked in the light, a vision of his dreams every night turned real into flesh. He had his brows furrowed in great seriousness, or rather frustration, before he took in a deep breath and asked gruffly, “Bed?”

She nodded, with a blush of shyness now accompanied with the twinkle of eagerness in her grey eyes.

Slowly Éomer led her to the great white-covered bed of mattresses, and sat her down on the edge of it, with his arms on each side of her. She held his face close to hers, observing every chiselled detail from the lines on his forehead to the way his beard was trimmed above and around his lips and small, dark moles across his cheeks.

He was utterly handsome.

It wrenched Lothíriel’s heart for some reason to realise this and the poignant joy that came with the realisation of how fortunate she was to end up with him, to actually have her fate entwined with his. She felt like she could stay in this moment for ever, to have his eyes on her and never stir again. But of course, she also enjoyed the way his touches left her skin burning like there was nothing more holy than the way he’d hold her in his strong arms.

Their kiss changed a different kind as Éomer tenderly placed these tokens of affection all over her face, trailing from the one side of her temple down her ear to the crook of her neck where his head lay buried and covering with gentle, firm kisses, sucking and grazing at her skin in turn. Lothíriel then pushed his shoulders back and asked in her equable, quippy manner, “Why am I the only one undressed here?”

“And do you consider it unfair?” Her husband asked back with amusement in his eyes but barely a smile on his lips.

“I would think so, yes,” she answered honestly, and it was then that a smile overcame his stern features and he took her hands to place them upon his tunic. Lothíriel took hold of it by the hem and raised it up over his head and arms, and she took in the full view of his body, his well-toned muscular front, the light curly hair on his chest and the two dark areoles, and the visible tightness of the muscles packed in his shoulders and arms up to his hands where the veins could be seen underneath the roughened layer of his skin now enveloped in golden yellow. She reached out an arm to lay her hand on him, feel the touch of those muscle-fibres of an experienced warrior that made him look so god-like in her eyes. When her skin touched his revealed chest, she took a nervous gulp to quell the drumming of her heart, whereas Éomer visibly took a sharp intake of breath, still locking her eyes in his.

She delicately trailed her way down across his midriff, touching him with just the slightest tips of her slender fingers, the heat from his body grazing over them and coursing throughout her own. When she reached to the top of his trousers, and made to work on the string, Éomer seized her wrist then, startling her with the fierce gleam in his eyes. But he said softly, albeit what sounded in a low, threatening whisper, “Not yet, my love.” 

The words sent her into a spiral, a love spiral of fluttering warmth in her chest. It caused her to sit still, breathing heavily in anticipation, as her husband, her love, ran his hand through her hair and leaned in to kiss her, gently pushing her down onto the bed. Lothíriel fell back against the soft, white mattress under her, their kiss unbroken as she wrapped her arms over his shoulders, pulling him down the same and he followed suit. She could feel the sheer weight of him above her, though he was standing on his own and just leaned over the edge of the bed. But his body pressed against her bare skin, with nothing between them no more, was making Lothíriel feel like her whole being was on fire. And she wanted more.

Éomer started to move his kisses down her neck, and on her collarbone, and then lower between her breasts down to her abdomen, slightly below her navel. When his kisses ceased, Lothíriel, who had been conscious of everything while having her eyes closed, opened them and looked at him, face slightly flushed at the sight of having him so near her private parts.

“Allow me?” he asked gruffly.

“Anything,” she breathed.

Without breaking their gaze into one another’s eyes, Éomer parted her legs slowly, first placing his hands on her knees then moving up her thighs from the inside. Lothíriel could not tear her gaze away; to feel his hands on her skin, but to see them as well, made her heart go up into her throat where she felt the painful sensation of waiting. 

Éomer’s hand reached and touched at her nether lips, eliciting a shaky moan from the Gondorian princess who felt both pleasure and shock at this act. To say she was mortified would be saying less; but she would not be questioning her lord husband’s intentions, especially when she understood he was nothing but considerate. 

She felt his fingers deftly rubbing over the sensitive regions of that part of her body, going over them in circles at some times and back and forth at others. When one of his fingers was easily sunk into the wetness of her folds, Lothíriel let out a small gasp of pain. But it soon subsided after the first initial shock, and then she began to find it quite dizzying as he started on a perfect rhythm of thrusting it in and out. 

 It became hard for her to keep a level head, and she sank back onto the softness of the mattress beneath as she felt the steady pleasure travel through her body, making her weak. However, Lothíriel had sealed her eyes and mouth close shut, determined that no improper noise should escape her now, lest she became too loud and those waiting nearby the rooms should hear her indiscretion.

But, as said before, it was hard to keep a level head.

She turned her head this way and that, hands clasped tightly onto the sheets as something of a new sensation built up inside of her. All the while, Éomer had taken several notches up the stage, and was kissing those nether lips of hers, as yet untouched in any way even by herself. He was surprising her at every twist and turn; and she was responding to his administrations with hardly suppressed moans and whimpers as he flicked his tongue over her sensitive pearl.

“Are you quite all right?” he asked, pausing to look up at her from below, and found that he enjoyed this view of her just as well. 

“Yes. I do not know what you are doing, but I would like you to keep doing it,” she replied, eyes still shut, and need dripping in every syllable of her usual sultry accent. 

“As my queen wishes.”

He continued whatever he was doing before, and Lothíriel returned to it with a stronger sense of gratitude and relief and she sighed shakily as she felt his finger enter her again. Soon, he was pacing it faster and faster, and Lothíriel’s grip on the sheets tightened and her knuckles grew white in need of a release. Her back was arched barely from the bed, her breathing shallow and everything seemed to be mounting into something great and fragile, until she felt the long-awaited for release overcoming her body in a rush of ecstasy, the tightening knot in her stomach gradually easing as it seemed to flow out of her, leaving her a mess, but a happy mess. 

Her eyes were blurry as they opened up to the wooden ceiling above, her breaths heavier now and panting for more air, when she felt Éomer’s lips kiss her down there and she realised the fire hadn’t been extinguished. 

“Was that it?” was what Lothíriel found herself asking despite all her internal remonstrations. She tried to keep away from her eyes whatever thoughts could betray her, but knowing she probably failed this time.

“No,” was the subtly amused answer her husband gave her, and a smile. “If you wish.” He paused, and came up towards her and brushed aside some strands of her hair soaked in sweat, and asked, “But tell me. How . . . was that?” 

She could only look up at him, blushing furiously but unable to contain her smile. “I— um, it was . . . it was invigorating.” She saw, at the approximity of their faces, that his lips and a few hairs around were still glistening with the wetness between her thighs.

“I am happy to hear that,” he said, staring into her eyes, and she chuckled nervously, absolutely in love with the way he had said it so genuinely like a young boy who was just as nervous as she. 

He bent down to kiss her cheek, and then a little nib at her ear, asking her with a soft growl, “Are you ready then for the rest?” 

Lothíriel eyed at him shyly and answered, “Surely, you do not need my answer to know.”

“Yet I would hear it. I love your voice,” he said, making her head toss into a spin, as his hand trailed down her body.

“Yes,” she moaned softly under the drug of his touches. 

He pulled himself up straight, making Lothíriel wonder in half-alarm and half-curiosity, and started undoing the string of his pants. She sat up then, too, and helped him with it, keeping her eyes fixed on his that she would not waver. She got it loose and he let them fall onto the floor in a pile, leaving him as naked as the day he was born. Just as she was.

Lothíriel’s eyes, involuntarily as they were, travelled down to his lower body, to where his manhood lay erected and hard as a rock. She swallowed embarrassedly, not wanting to be rude as she stared, but she could not help doing so; blinking a few times, maybe, but it always ended up on his throbbing member, with its pink tip glistening in the light. 

“May— May I?” she asked timidly, something out of courtesy than curiosity as she thought to make it up to him fairly as how good he had made her feel. Well, perhaps the curiosity was also a large factor. 

Éomer, eyes still intent on her face, took her hand in his and brought it to his crotch. From there she slid down, touching him there for the first time, and taking back her hand in timid surprise initially. Then she placed it firmly against it, bringing her hand around the shaft of it.

“It’s . . . it’s,” she bit her lip, trying to think of something to say but her mind having gone blank. So instead she looked up at Éomer, her mouth perched, as he guided her hand to rub up and down the length of him. She took it up quickly, and started to murmur, “Well, it’s —um, hard but soft at the same time . . .” and he chuckled at that, a deep sound that came from his chest and reverberated throughout his body and to hers. 

She noticed he was losing composure, and his fingers were straying from her breasts, when at one point he grabbed her hand and said gruffly, as he pinned her down onto the bed, “That’ll be enough, my lady.” Then he got down to her thighs again, and spread them gently apart, telling her, “Now this may hurt a bit at first, and you must let me know if you wish for me to stop immediately.”

“Yes . . .” Lothíriel answered nervously, worried now as to what he meant and coming to realisation on her own. 

“I promise I won’t let you be in pain if I can help it,” Éomer said again, visible concern filled in his gruff countenance.

“‘Tis all right,” but she bit her trembling lips, gone pale for fear of standing on the brink of the unknown.

“Just... try and relax....it’s not so much painful as when your body is tensed up.” Then, holding her shoulder gently, Éomer looked into her eyes, golden-brown meeting stormy-grey ones with unspoken words of trust. “Do not be afraid.”

“I am not afraid,” said his queen. “I have never been afraid of anything.”

Men, like her father and brothers, had to fight their way in open warfare to secure their kingdoms. Most women, like her, had to endure painful ordeals in private.

As he placed himself at her entrance, and Lothíriel’s heart beat so loud it deafened her ears, Éomer traced circles on her thighs to ease up her muscles. And when he penetrated slowly inside past her warm folds, she turned her head aside, covered her mouth with her hand to muffle the cry of gradual pain. He then stayed still for a while, and she started to breathe slowly, getting herself adjusted to half of his length being inside her. It was a searing pain, and though he was gentle it still hurt her much; but eventually when it seemed she had gotten used to it, and every vein in her body seemed to be pulsing in rhythm with his, she gave a small nod, signalling him to go on.

He began moving his hips against hers, slowly at first as he inched himself forward with each thrust. As his pace quickened, and Lothíriel grew used to the friction of having him thrust in and out, her body too caved in to the pleasure albeit being painful. Her white-knuckled grip on the sheets loosened, and her hands went to his shoulders as he propped himself above her on his elbows. The knot that was tightening in her stomach grew, and there seemed no other way of satiating the sinful desire in her as she buried her hands in his hair, wanting to pull him down into a kiss, but her conscience was not yet too far gone for this.

At last, her determination gave in to the strong urge and moaned softly his name, “Éomer,” which spurred him on to continue faster and eventually led to both their releases, like waves meeting the shore, crashing onto ocean rocks. He too groaned out her name, over and over, as he filled her with his warm seed, his face buried in the crook of her neck. 

He collapsed beside her, their pantings heavy and fast, the only sounds that were heard in the dimly lit chamber-room. Lothíriel had fixed her eyes on the ceiling above, thinking over to herself what had just been done.

The pain was no worse than she had expected. Her cousin Ariellë had said it was not as bad as falling from a horse, and she had been right. Andrídha, her sister-in-law, had said that it was paradise; but Lothíriel could not imagine how such deep embarrassment and discomfort could add up to bliss—and concluded that Andrídha was exaggerating, as she often did.

But when she turned her head to where Éomer lay, his golden hair sticking in sweat and his body glistening, Lothíriel felt inclined to admit, at least a little bit, that the experience had not been entirely distasteful. He had been kindest, gentlest, and most considerate that any woman in her place could have wished for. 

He caught her looking, and smiled and said, “Yes, my lady?” 

She flushed, but quickly regained herself to correct him, “It is only Lothíriel to you, my lord.”

He let out a deep chuckle, closing his eyes for a moment. “That is right.” Then he turned himself to her and kissed her forehead, saying, “Lothíriel, my queen.” 

He got up, and a thought passed her mind in dismay that he might be leaving. He seemed to catch the alarm in her eyes, and told her gently, “I am only getting a towel.” 

He came back soon with it, soaked in warm water, that he started dabbing over her face to wash away the grime and sweat from their labour. Lothíriel looked on with wonder in her eyes, never failing to be awed by his being such a gentle person despite his stern looks. Both remained in silence, the good kind where words are unnecessary, until he reached down to her lower parts, and she, realising the blood and mess down there, embarrassedly told him, “Oh, I’ll do it.”

But Éomer looked at her with a meaningful look in his dark eyes, saying, “I insist.” She then felt it out of her power to keep arguing, and quietly acceded. It was such a strange matter for her, that he would be touching her even after, well, their duty had been performed. But no, it had been more than that. 

“By the way,” he said, bringing her out of her reverie. “I love what you always say. Won’t you say it again? Say it for me again, my queen, say you are not afraid.” He raised her chin, studying the flawlessness of her face in the candlelight. 

She leaned in, half-giggling into their kiss like a schoolgirl, “I am not afraid of anything, not anymore.”

When morning came, Lothíriel woke up in the arms of her husband, wrapped around her like strong walls of safety and happiness. The warm sunlight streaming in from the window fell onto his face, serene in sleep, softening the stern features and transforming into a picture of all that Lothíriel ever wished to love.

He went away with a small nod, bidding her good-morning and a quick kiss, very much aware of the pink glow in his wife’s cheeks as she avoided his eyes in the first waves of embarrassment renewed by daylight. The men greeted him with cheers outside the door, and marched him in triumph to his own rooms. Lothíriel heard him say, vulgarly, boastfully, “Gentlemen, this night I have been in Dol Amroth,” and heard the yells of laughter that applauded his joke. For a while, she lost her breath imagining everything that would come, and felt distressed by the prospects of having it known and teased by everybody, when it was a special thing she wanted to keep only between the two of them. 

But there would be no avoiding the ceaseless questions and inquiries, she knew, now that she was the queen and her top priority was producing an heir for the House of Eorl. Lothíriel mentally braced herself; she would brave through it. And, well, with Éomer, it didn’t seem so terrible.

Her ladies came in with her gown and heard the men’s boisterous laughter. Lady Saelwen raised her thin eyebrows to heaven at the manners of these Rohirrim.

“I don’t know what your father would say,” Lady Saelwen remarked sullenly.

“He would say that words count less than my happiness, and my happiness has been secured,” Lothíriel said firmly with a smile.

 Sincerely Snow

8 July 2024 — 29 August 2024

tagging : @konartiste @celeluwhenfics

this turned out much better than what was on the previous post … unfortunately, no toads from amrothos.

[haru-dipthong]

Ep 12 of my Utena fansub is out!

私たちも今までいろいろやってきた、疲れたわね

We've been so busy the last few episodes. I'm pooped.

A juicy little indulgence on my part here - the fourth wall break here by the shadow girls does not actually exist in the Japanese (explicitly). I’ll explain why I added it.

Here’s a very literal translation of the individual words above with no thought given to context or adjusting for grammar.

We (also) | until now | various different things | have done up to this point

I believe いろいろやってきた (lit. we’ve done various different things up to this point) is referring to their various performances in a sort of meta way. If we take each appearance of the shadow girls as a semi-in-universe mini stage play, this line is referencing the presence of previous plays within the current play. They’ve played pirates, plate spinners, cowboys, an educational program, and more! Acknowledging these things is tantamount to a performer acknowledging the fact that they’re an actor rather than a character while on stage, so the fourth wall break felt appropriate.

Anya was also happy with the fourth wall break and added that it emphasises the episode as a turning point and helps close out the arc, which I really agree with!

-----

また黙秘するわけね。今のウテナってかっこ悪いよ。何か取られた腑抜けみたい。なんだかわからないけど、取られたら取り返しなさいよ！

Are you clamming up again? You look pathetic right now. Like you let someone steal from you! I don’t know what it was, but if someone took something from you, take it back!

Couple of little things to discuss about this line:

かっこ悪い is often translated as “uncool” or “lame”. This can sometimes be accurate, since it’s the opposite of かっこいい (lit. cool), but in this circumstance those words don’t hit hard enough. This かっこ悪い is more barbed than usual, so I kept the barbs by choosing a different word: pathetic.

“Clamming up” was an off the cuff choice because I felt I’d used “be quiet”, “not talk”, etc too many times in the previous scene to reuse them here. I think it fits with Wakaba’s personality and the current situation pretty well! 黙秘 is defined by jisho.org as “remaining silent; keeping secret”.

腑抜け means “coward” or something similar. I tried phrasing this line a few times to get that word in somehow, but in the end the whole rant just read so much better without forcing it in. Also cps (characters per second) was a concern here.

-----

元気な友達がいるね。

Your friend has quite the personality.

元気 (genki). What a word! Often translated as “energetic”. So often in fact, that even before I checked, I knew that the ohtori.nu translation would have used it, and sure enough!

Your friend is very energetic. (from ohtori.nu)

Along with “eyesore” and “confession (of love)”, this might take the bronze medal for common Japanese words that consistently get translated into very uncommon English words.

Of course, 元気 can literally mean “having a lot of energy”, or simply “well” (as in the opposite of “unwell”). But “energetic” is just such a bad translation for it 90% of the time. I wish I could convey why in words, but in most contexts, the word 元気 and the word “energetic” just feel so different.

Anyway, 元気 has quite a positive nuance, which emphasises the passive aggressiveness of Touga’s comment. The intent with this line is that he’s giving a vague compliment to Wakaba, indirectly (talking about her as if she’s not there), and making it clear that he wishes she wasn’t around. Everything else about the line should be secondary, including the specific meanings of each word.

I think this is emblematic of my general approach to translation — to identify the author’s original intent of a line/scene/work and then write it in a different language with the same intent in mind. Every line, every scene, is trying to do something — I believe it’s the translator’s job to identify what each line and scene is supposed to be doing and preserve that, so media literacy is very important. Sometimes that line is doing exposition, in which case a literal translation of each word is often ideal. Sometimes that line is trying to evoke a feeling, establish a character, or make the audience remember similar experiences, in which case the individual words used matter much less. In this case, the line is attempting to invoke memories of similar experiences of passive aggressive, dismissive comments. And frankly, “Your friend is very energetic” does not do that, so I consider it a poor translation.

-----

Thanks as always to my ride or die @dontbe-lasanya for their awesome editing this episode (and every episode!)

Make sure to follow the blog for episodes as they're released. Go here for all previous episodes:

[healingagoddess]

Have you seen that picture of the cast that's like "gay high school kid hanging out with the entire english department during lunch"? well I kinda thought of this when I saw it but I'm shy...

-

"Miss Harkness?"

Agatha made sure to draw her head up and lean it against the back of the chair. She flicked the page of her magazine letting it fall slowly (drama queen). "Yes...William."

But he took no offense. He anticipated the needless display of annoyance, could even take it for what it was--all show. "I made those copies you wanted and delivered them to the bio lab."

Miss Harkness gave him one more drawn look before lowering her feet from the coffee table, slapping the low heels of her boots on the laminate flooring. "And you want your next mission, I assume."

The young man slid the rest of his lanky body into the teacher's lounge. Despite being told he was allowed - while he was shadowing her! - he still held a respect for the space that was not his as a student. "Miss Kale told me to come find you."

Miss Harkness rolled her eyes. "She didn't have anything for you?"

He shook his head. "She told me to tell you to stop 'using the children as your personal gophers'."

Agatha finally rose form her chair, letting her magazine fall to the floor without a care. She had the time to mimic the cadence of the words with a high, whiny voice as she dumped out what he presumed was an old, forgotten coffee. "Fine, Teen, back to the dungeon."

She meant her classroom at the other end of the building. Miss Harkness famously referred her classroom being the furthest from the teachers' lounge as banishment. She would sing a little song about walking the witches' road on her way.

It did kind of slap.

William kept pace with her. She walked with a fierceness to her, but she was actually shorter than her body language would say. She swung her legs ahead of her, hands in her pockets. "And how are your other classes going?"

"Good, I think," he volunteered readily. He kept his hands half balled into fists at his sides. "Miss Calderu said she liked my last report, although I think she forgot what book it was on."

"Sounds like that kook," she laughed under her breath. A roaming pack of younger students bustled past them, jostling each other loudly. She didn't turn her head but snapped her fingers, "watch it!"

The rowdy kids gave her a look but ultimately did calm their movements as they continued on. William turned his head from them and back to his chosen mentor. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Get them to listen to you," he gestured vaguely behind them as they continued their walk to the stairwell. "Every time I see Miss Gulliver say something they kind of...don't listen to her."

"Wu-Gulliver is young, and she's too nice." He wasn't so sure that was a bad thing, but Agatha continued. "Respect is one thing, but you really want these hoodlums to listen, they need just a little bit of fear."

William tried not to let it show that he wasn't sure how the 5'5'' and slight woman beside him was scary. He'd heard her yell, sure, it was a thing to behold. But scary?

"Don't blow a gasket thinking so hard, Billy-Boy," Agatha laughed fully, snorting a little in the middle of it. "You don't need to look tough to be scary. Even a divine being such as myself can earn a reputation. Look at Miss Vidal."

Now, that, was intriguing. William did his best to seem uninterested. "What about her?"

Agatha remained quiet until they were able to walk past the devil's classroom in question. It was decorated for Halloween, despite it being November. It was just always decorated that way.

There was still some time left for lunch hour, but she was watching over some detentions; Miss Vidal always had the highest number of disciplinary cases. And she struck true, genuine fear into anyone unlucky enough to catch her eye.

Even with the door closed, it was easy to hear her slap her desk and bellow, "you talking? You little rats utter a single word while you're in here and I'll have you write each other's eulogies."

William tried not to squirm. Miss Vidal was on the younger side for the staff, and in the beginning of the year, most tried to take advantage of that. But she immediately proved that she was not to be pushed around. "How does she get away with saying stuff like that? Aren't there, like, rules about what teachers can say?"

Agatha shrugged, watching through the door window as the teacher within found it necessary to get up from her desk and walk over to her wards. "Yeah, but it only really matters if a parent complains. And she's got a stack of complaints as high as you, bean pole."

William rolled his eyes just to himself. "If she's got so many complaints, why is she still teaching here?"

Again, Agatha shrugged it off, But she adjusted herself to watch as much of the show as she could, positively glued to the back of the Spanish teacher with her eyes. "None of 'em stick. She's new but she came here from the district. She's not exactly out on her ass even if the school does fire her just for the public optics."

So, she had less to lose, could risk more. That actually made sense. Miss Calderu had been at the school the longest, and she was always nice to the kids. Miss Kale was a teacher for a day job, but she always talked about how she ran a skincare business at the weekend markets and online and stuff. Miss Gulliver did her best as the music teacher, even for kids not interested in it, but he was pretty sure her mom was famous or something.

"What do you have to lose?"

Agatha got this wild kind of look in her eyes. He could see a hint of that scariness she kept mentioning, but there was something else in there. He could see something kind of sad, fragile almost.

"I-I-I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"What?!"

William jumped out of his own skin as the door whipped open without any warning whatsoever. He hadn't even heard her walk towards the door. "I-I'm sorry Miss Vidal!"

Agatha didn't twitch. She didn't blink, she didn't move, she didn't breathe. Her hands were still in her pockets, and this grin came over her. "Come on, Rio, I came to show the kid the way real teachers get it done."

Miss Vidal's eyes were scary. She was completely blank in expression, like if he tried to read her mind it would just be haunted house screaming. "Leave him with me if you really want him to learn what it takes to teach."

William blinked as he found himself being pushed back. It was only an inch or two, but he looked down to find Miss Harkness had put her forearm up to lean on the door frame, putting herself between him and Miss Vidal, even just by a hair. It almost seemed protective.

"Easy, Tiger," she smiled at the younger teacher, "I've still got stuff to get in his head. You can have a go at him later--if he asks."

Miss Vidal shifted as well, looking at him with wide eyes. It reminded him of when a cat would stare into his soul. It seemed innocent, but there was something menacing about it. "Fine, but I'll get my hands on him eventually, Agatha."

"Hm," Agatha pursed her lips at her before leaning up and away, somewhat elbowing him back with her. She put her hands back into her pockets, "te veo."

The Spanish teacher looked impressed, and maybe entertained. She put her hand on the doorknob again, nodding cordially as well, "Querida."

William followed Miss Harkness, once again on the 'witches' road' to her classroom. He was almost 100% completely, totally sure that he had witnessed some hardcore flirting happening. But that couldn't be, because that would be insane. Miss Harkness and Miss Vidal?

"Whatever you're thinking, think it quieter, Kaplan."

The sharp and biting remark was much more what he expected. So much so, that he was able to shake off the odd exchange and smile again. "Why did you agree to let me shadow you?"

Agatha, like before, made sure to inhale really long, and exhale even longer. She needed him to know how annoyed she was by the question. "Why didn't you ask to shadow Mommy-Dearest?"

He gave her a look. She gave it right back to him. "Being teacher's pet is different. I wanna learn."

"You can learn from any of the bitches in here, kid. Teachers love a little pet--makes the rest of them easier to manage."

"Why?"

"Because you become a traitor to them, that's why," she interjected sharply. She clapped her heels together on the floor, angling her shoulders toward him. The light caught on the brass of her locket. "They resent you for it. But if you want something, then you pursue it, doesn't matter if the masses think differently of you, understand? If you're smart, if you're sharp, if you're talented?--the world recognizes stuff like that. And you should take your handful or someone else will take it from you. Am I clear?"

Okay, maybe she was a little scary (just a little). "Yes, Miss Harkness."

Her eyes changed again. That shiny shield she always had ready at a moment's notice receded again and her eyes took on a warmer hue. It was this change that always reassured him that he had chosen the right mentor (no matter how much she had discouraged him at first).

"Down, down, down the road," she mumbled mildly as she started walking again.

"Agatha!" Missus Davis - who Agatha constantly called Mrs. Hart by mistake - poked her head out of her own room. "Stop saying 'bitch' around the students!"

"Tend your own flowers, Sharon!"

I'm sorry it took me a moment to respond. I've had a lot of work lately. 😭

But thank you so much for blessing my ask box with this masterpiece. I love me an english teacher. I'd also want to be Agatha's pet. This is so good. Don't be shy, come on out and share your ideas with everyone. Your writing is also really good. You'd have a fan (me) if you do decide to post sometime.

I love that you added Sharon into this, I was so excited to see her on the show. Everybody was perfect. How did you like it?

[gumnut-logic]

Lego Volcano (Part 5)

Alexander Sweetapple series | Lego Volcano - Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

It has been some time, and some of this fic has been sitting on my hard drive waiting for attention since May (wow) but tonight I finally started writing more of this. Writing muscles are still a bit rusty, but fortunately I know mostly where this is going. There is more written so hopefully I can post that soon, too.

I also feel that some fo this might be a bit familiar as there have been a lot of WIP Wednesdays since May and I have the vague feeling I posted some of this already, but there is new stuff here as well.

This one continues to be @idontknowreallywhy, @sofasurf, @womble1 and @sailing-on-a-puddle and other wonderful Thunderfam peeps' fault :D

@onereyofstarlight has been her usual amazing self, even rereading this whole thing from the beginning and helping me out with some of her specialities as well :D Thank you so much for your wonderfulness :D

This is Alexander Sweetapple so the fic is m/m. If that isn't your jam, this isn't your bread. Though I will admit, there is very little of that in this bit as Scotty is the one who is having a hard time this time :D

As always, so many thanks to Thunderfam for being the amazing kind fandom it is ::hugs the lot of you::

I hope you enjoy.

-o-o-o-

Being ever so competitive, all the Tracy brothers knew how to get to any part of the villa in the shortest possible time.

Gordon availed himself of that fact the moment John called him.

He had been putting on his swim trunks ready for his morning foray in the pool. Moments later saw him leaping a Lego volcanic island and landing smoothly enough amongst the bricks to slide to Alex’s side.

“What happened?”

Alex had laid Scott in the recovery position. “He has a fever.”

Gordon ran through vitals without thought.

Scott groaned and attempted to shove him away.

“Yo, Scooter, you’re on the floor clocking a temperature somewhere in the hundreds. Give yourself a break.”

His brother mumbled something and tried to roll over and get up.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Gordon grabbed him as Alex scuttled out of the way. “You are staying put until Grandma gets here.”

As if summoned by her callsign, their grandmother hurried into the room. “Scott, honey, what happened?” She stepped lightly over the Lego scattered across the floor and knelt down beside her grandson.

“I’m’kay, Granma.” Scott pushed himself into a sitting position.

Gordon growled at him, but placed a hand on his back, not convinced he wouldn’t fall over again.

“Looks like you’ve picked up Virgil’s flu, honey.”

Scott swore.

“Gordon, please find us a hoverstretcher.”

And that was how Gordon found himself dragging an obstinate and complaining, cranky big brother up to the infirmary and tucking him into a bed. The protests were of legendary proportions until Grandma brought them to a firm halt.

“I’m fine, Grandma.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’ve got work to do.”

“You’ve got resting to do.” She switched off the scanner and turned to put it away.

“Gordon, stop fussing!” And yes, his hands were swiped at.

He took a step back. “Fine, oh great Commander, tuck yourself in.”

And there it was, his feverish and ill brother trying to be big brother but running out of resources and struggling to hold himself up. Wet, blue eyes attempting stoicism and failing. Damnit, Scott, why do you do this?!

“International Rescue, we have a situation.” John popped up by the bed.

Oh, for the love of-!

Scott sat up, ramrod straight in the bed. “Go ahead, John.”

“We’ve got a cargo freighter foundering off the Great Barrier Reef.”

Gordon exploded. “What?! How the hell did they even get near it? Those are sanctuary waters!” Goddamnit! The remains of the Great Barrier Reef were a World Heritage Treasure. The Supreme Barrier Reef was an attempt to save the ecological system. What little was left of the actual reef off the coast of Australia was ever so precious. How the hell had they ended up in those waters at all?

John, as usual, was calm, but his expression said everything. “Investigating as we speak.” In other words, both he and Eos were out for blood.

Gordon let out a breath. Damn it was good to have a family to depend on.

“Thunderbird Two and Four responding. Get Alan down here. I need transport.”

“Gordon!”

He turned to his beloved eldest brother who was radiating heat like a blast furnace. “Alan and I have this, Commander. You’re staying in bed.” Moving towards the door, he almost collided with Alex. Stumbling, he gestured with a firm finger at Scott. “Make sure he stays put.”

Gordon tore out of the room at a run.

He had a reef, and possibly a few people, to save.

-o-o-o-

It had all happened so fast.

And Alex had no idea what he should be doing right now. He stood beside the door, not sure what to do with his hands, feet, or any body part really.

From the moment he caught Scott, events had just happened around him. The Tracy family responded smoothly and well-practised and before he knew it, Gordon was out the door, and Alex was left in the infirmary with a weak but literally vibrating Mr Tracy.

Mrs Tracy had looked at her watch and cursed. A firm finger and quiet word with the bed ridden man and she was hurrying out the door as fast as her grandchildren had moments before.

But she did brush her fingertips across Alex’s shoulder as she passed, catching his eyes enough to reinforce Gordon’s wish to keep Mr Tracy where he was.

How the hell was he going to do that?

In the distance, Alex heard the roar of Thunderbird Two as she launched from the Island.

Virgil was not going to be happy.

He let out a breath. That’s where he should be now. Virgil would be clambering out of bed. There was no way he would not respond to that sound.

A rustle of sheets and Mr Tracy was sitting upright again. “Thunderbird Five, give me comms.”

“Negative, Thunderbird One.”

“John-“

“Thunderbird Prime’s orders. You’re on sick leave, One.”

Mr Tracy swore dirty, very much not the calm, cool professional Alex was used to.

“Rest, Scooter. We’ve got this.” And the line cut out.

The man on the bed deflated like a balloon, falling back onto the mattress almost as limp as when Alex had first caught him.

An arm came up over his eyes and a barely discernible whisper crossed his lips. “Goddamnit.”

-o-o-o-

Mr Tracy lay there like that for enough time for Alex to think he had fallen asleep.

Should he leave or go? Both Gordon and Mrs Tracy had asked him to stay…really ‘ordered’ him to stay. But Virgil…

Virgil needed Alex to give him permission to relax. Virgil needed Alex to drag him back to bed to stop his headlong run into work and exhaustion.

Yet Virgil was reportedly the level-headed brother.

Virgil had often described Mr Tracy as the embodiment of his Thunderbird - fast, impatient, determined, and consequently ridiculously prone to working himself into collapse.

In Virgil’s case, it was a pot and kettle situation, but after tonight’s demonstration, Alex had first-hand experience and there was the distinct possibility that Mr Tracy would do exactly what Virgil predicted.

As if the thought was permission, Mr Tracy rolled over in the bed and pushed himself into a sitting position.

Alex blinked. “Do you really want to do that?”

The man jumped, tired eyes latching onto him and widening. “Alex?”

Stepping forward, Alex held up a hand. “I’m sorry, Mr Tracy, Mrs Tracy said you need to stay in bed.”

Those blue eyes blinked once sharply and then again but slower. “There’s a situation.” His words were running into each other.

Alex took another step closer. “Mr Tracy, you need to rest.”

He looked away, mumbling something.

“Mr-“

“Alex, my name is Scott.”

“Sorry, sir.”

That drew those eyes back to him, if only for them to roll as Mr Tracy let himself fall back onto the bed. “Augh, Alex.”

“Sorry, s-“

The man grunted.

“-cott.”

A more positive grunt and he shifted on the bed, pulling the covers over himself before fixing his eyes once again on Alex.

Those eyes had so much power.

“So, Grandma has you sitting guard.” It wasn’t a question, more of a challenge.

Alex straightened his spine. “I guess so.”

There was steel in that tired blue, but Alex held on.

Just long enough for Mr Tracy to sigh and relax back into the bed and close his eyes. “Fine.”

There was silence after that. If Alex was working for any other employer than the Tracys, he might have been afraid that he was throwing away his career future.

He wasn’t.

The silence stretched on and Alex resisted the urge to fidget. But then a soft snore wafted up from the bed.

It was followed by another.

Oh, thank god.

Alex wilted where he stood, suddenly aware of exactly how early in the morning it was. A chair beside the bed beckoned, so Alex edged over as silently as possible and curled up.

He watched the bed covers move evenly up and down as Scott slept.

Up and down.

In and out.

Up and…down.

His eyes dropped closed.

-o-o-o-

Next

[techramonic]

WHAT is the lore of smartschoolboy9 i'm curious now

I will make an in-depth deepdive of this soon but to sum it up into an informal consumable hunk of lore, basically:

smartschoolboy9 is one of the many instagram accounts used by a man named David Alter, a middle-aged man in the 50's age range residing in London. He has other accounts such as stephanieschoolie, truthsticks, and many others.

From how I see it, he treats these accounts like his alter-egos, writing as if he is the child or parent themself by talking about mundane things like their school-life, interests, and others. He builds up on these characters and even creates extensive descriptions and narratives for them. This effort extends to him branching out some sort of community ir a world of his own, where he lets these characters interact by commenting on posts of his accounts.

All of these accounts had three common themes: children, uniforms, and high-heeled mini boots.

In his truthsticks account, his content mostly consisted of him calling out supposed child predators that were pretending to be children. This was eerily aligned with his behavior because he did the exact same thing despite numerously calling out other accounts that were allegedly also made by himself.

People speculate that this is either to gain trust from innocent parents/children coming across his feeds or that he's projecting because he is quite literally very self-aware of his harmful and dangerous thoughts, desires, and behavior that he guiltily is self-indulgent of.

His smartschoolboy9 account sticks out the most because it's actually him dressing up as a schoolboy. Unlike the other accounts where he uses ai to grotesquely mimic children, he dresses up as one. This can confirm that he does have some sort of fetishes directly linked to children or being a child. While some people speculate that this may be an ageplay fetish, he has other posts that may allude to something more sinister.

This is one of the more tame photos I I found on reddit, you can check more for yourself if you wish to see more of his content—however, this is all I'll show because I might get termed. Despite the content being blurred, it's still uncomfortable to look at because of the graphic nature.

He started using ai to create these images of children often propped up in suggestive and poses, some having child-like faces cropped unto adult bodies. He tends to sexualize these children who are his "alter-egos", often in weird forms of poetry that he posts online (i.e. one of his alter-egos was a little girl who liked writing poetry and she wrote a poem containing innuendos and a description of her uniform and vaguely her... underwear)

He also has this very odd connection to uniforms. He would post on numerous occations regarding how uniforms are valuable for prestige and all kinds of reasons on why kids should wear it instead of casualwear. His interests in this are so extensive that he has even published some papers on local news regarding how much he believes that uniforms should be implemented in British educational institutions.

It's hearsay but some people on reddit have mentioned that he had been doing this since the 90's and had been under the radar since. There are some who said he has been jailed once for stalking a girl when he was younger but there's no solid evidence of him having a prison record.

No one knows whether he had already committed a grave act to satiate his unusual fantasies or thoughts. The police have been actively trying to find him and gather clues, however the case still remains open until today. No one really knows where he is at the moment but he is seen as a potential threat or being a child predator.

He also would go to parks and take pictures of unsuspecting children. There was also a video where he was chasing a child (the child seemed like he was laughing, I'm unsure however because most of the video was covered by emojis and thick texts but there was some cheap audio and small crevices where hou could see what was going on) and no one knows the context.

He had also shared morbid interests on child sacrifice and cannibalism on one of his accounts. While this may just be something to add layer to his character or alter-ego, it's not really a strech since he's already prone to self-projection–it might as well be true.

He's a very weird yet interesting rabbit hole to dig up. He was obscure before rising to recognition recently and more unfortunately, it's on tiktok. It would've been better if it was somewhere like on reddit but tiktok is the worst place to make these criminals famous using braindead content.

Personally, I don't like the sensationalization they actively perform on his case because they don't realize how this behavior just makes it more difficult to investigate because they're providing him more attention which can either be good (if used correctly in navigating his location and whereabouts, his history, etc.) or bad (they praise him even if satirical, which enables his behavior—or criticizes him which sends him into a worse mental spiral)

I really think they need to mentally evaluate him once they find him because he clearly has issues and illnesses that he copes with in a very harmful manner to not just him but also others.

He's a very weird yet interesting rabbit hole to dig up. He was obscure before rising to recognition recently and more unfortunately, it's on tiktok. It would've been better if it was somewhere like on reddit but tiktok is the worst place to make these criminals famous, especially with these no-brainer consumerist content.

Nexpo and Nick Crowley made great videos talking about his case if you wanna know more!

[blackjackkent]

OK, continuing the adventures of Rakha in what might not be considered her WORST day, but is pretty high up there and is certainly her WEIRDEST.

It is, legitimately, going to be a big challenge to figure out how I want to write Rakha going forward, given she has now had the beast aspect of her personality forcibly ripped out of her. This is a BIG change, fully on par with figuring out how to write Caden after [REDACTED FOR MASSIVE SPOILERS] in BG2.

The good thing, though, is that Rakha doesn't know how to deal with it either. So that at least simplifies things.

Her friends can definitely notice the difference almost at once. She's... quieter. She's always been quiet, of course, self-contained and inward-turned, but there's something softer about it now. Gentler. They're all used to Rakha's serrated edges and it's distinctly unnerving seeing her look around without any trace of restrained rage.

As if moving in a dream, she begins to go through the motions of exploring the rest of the Bhaalist temple.

Sceleritas is carrying a hat which, ironically enough, is actually really good for Rakha:

I'm not sure I can bring myself to make her wear it under the circumstances though.

Within the pile of gore that was once Orin, she finds other interesting things - particularly her weapons, and most particularly the dagger, Bloodthirst, which contains Orin's netherstone shimmering in the handle.

As she places a hand on it, a highly unwelcome voice echoes abruptly into the new silence in her mind.

"You are born anew. Cured of all distraction. Good."

The Emperor does, in fact, sound pleased. Perhaps it thinks that with the beast gone, the threat she poses to it is gone as well. Perhaps it thinks it will be forgiven for what it has done to her, how it has used her.

It's an interesting thing actually, that anger. For the first time, in this moment, she feels an anger that is purely and unmistakably hers, without even a trace of the beast urge lurking asleep and vengeful at the back of her mind. She hates the Emperor, purely her and no more.

It's a deeply unsettling feeling, counter to every past experience she can remember.

"Orin's Netherstone is in our grasp," the Emperor goes on. "And now we must look ahead to the other. Gortash."

"We should pay Gortash a visit," Wyll agrees grimly. "Let's see if he keeps his word."

"Seek him out," the Emperor instructs. "He is all that stands between us and the Elder Brain."

Rakha examines the image of Gortash in her mind.

Before, when she thought of him, it was with a strange sort of regretful longing. Not for him, but for what he represented - a state of certainty, where all the broken bloodthirsty parts of her were needed, wanted, part of a whole. A plan where there was no need to fight, but simply to surrender to the Urge and tear the world to bloody strips of flesh.

But the Urge is gone now. She feels cold, like ice is running in her veins.

Gortash is no use to me now, she thinks vaguely. He thinks we are allies. But the part of me he wanted is dead. The part of me that wanted him is dead.

She does not know what remains. Looking at herself, she sees bits and pieces that she recognizes, but no coherent form. Until now, the beast has overshadowed everything. She shudders inwardly, remembering the images of blood and death; only the fragmented part of her that was horrified remains to look at them.

Let's see if he keeps his word, Wyll said, but Rakha already knows she will not keep her own. The alliance will not hold.

Good riddance to it.

[teddypickrwritings]

Okay actual request, Emil x(?) Luca, maybe trauma bonding? Idk if ship or not, maybe with caring Ada sprinkled in

A/N: This is my first request! thank you, bestie!! I apologize if this is poorly written/OOC. This is my first time writing something IDV-related.

First Friend - Luca x Emil (platonic)

genre: fluff with a bit of angst

CW: discussions of trauma, mentions of death/murder

“Ada, I…I want to ask something…”

Ada looked down at her lover in her lap. His eyes were closed, but his brow was slightly furrowed with worry. “What’s wrong, my love?” she said softly.

Emil’s hands trembled slightly. “Are there other people like me?”

“Oh, Emil. I’ve already told you, I could never love someone as much as I love you,” Ada said reassuringly, gently stroking his hair.

His lips curled up in a small smile, but his eyebrows didn’t relax. “I meant, um…are there…other broken people?”

“There are people with conditions that affect their behaviors and actions, but not in the same way as yours,” Ada explained. She pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t use the term ‘broken’…”

Emil opened his eyes slightly. “I…kind of want to talk to them,” he said, almost in a whisper.

That was a bit surprising to Ada. But she felt her heart swell with hope; was this a sign he was improving again? “Of course, Emil. I can arrange a group therapy session,” she said happily. “Although, perhaps we should start out talking to one person first.”

“Could I talk to them myself?”

Now, that was shocking. But Ada was so overjoyed that she couldn’t help but lean down and give him a kiss.

“A-Ada!” Emil gasped, cheeks turning red. “Does that mean yes…?”

She nodded, beaming with pride. “Yes. I will go around and talk with the others to see if any of them would be interested,” she said.

Emil’s smile grew. He caught her hand and kissed it. “Thank you, Ada…”

Most of the people that Ada talked to were either disinterested entirely or only vaguely interested. She was worried that she would end up disappointing Emil, until a certain former prisoner agreed to sit down with him.

So now, Emil and Luca were in a secluded spot in the manor where nobody could bother them. Ada remained within calling distance, but she wouldn’t be able to hear their conversation.

“You wanted to talk with people, quote, like yourself. Is that correct?” Luca asked.

Emil nodded, not making eye contact.

“Your lady was quite persuasive. It was a bit scary, actually,” the other man continued. He tapped his chin in thought. “Can’t really remember what else she said…”

“Oh, I can’t remember things either!” Emil blurted out. He fiddled with his grappling hooks. “My brain is…spotty.”

Luca seemed pleased. “That’s what mine is like. It’s unfortunate for an inventor like myself, but I think I’m making progress.”

“Inventor…what kind of things do you make?” Emil asked.

The prisoner’s eyes—or rather, eye—lit up. “I’m glad you asked! Now, how familiar are you with motion machines?”

Emil stared at him blankly.

Luca launched into a brief but detailed explanation of basic physics and machinery. Honestly, Emil didn’t really understand half of what he was saying. But he was…impressed? Maybe?

“…and that’s that! Any questions?” Luca finally finished with a proud sigh.

Emil hesitated. “How did you get like this?” he asked.

“Get like what?” But it was clear that Luca knew what he was talking about from the way his fanged smile faded.

“You said your brain is spotty too, but you remember all that machine stuff,” Emil said cautiously. “I think I’m asking…how do you remember? And what happened?”

Luca was quiet for a few moments. Emil’s leg anxiously bounced up and down. “I can’t remember what happened to me,” he finally admitted with a small shrug. “All I remember is flashes of lightning and maybe an argument. When I was jailed, they kept saying I killed my teacher. But is that true…?”

Emil knew that that question was not meant for him, but he had a reply anyway. “It’s hard for me to know what’s true too, sometimes,” he said carefully. He looked down at his scarred hands. “I don’t know my past either. I swear that I remember something involving dogs. Ada’s treatments helped for a bit, but…”

The prisoner smiled sadly. “I would go looking for answers myself, but I think maybe I’m scared of the truth. I…I don’t want to be a murderer.”

“Ada says there’s people like that here…you’d fit in,” Emil said bluntly.

Instead of feeling offended, Luca burst out laughing, making the patient jump in his seat. “You’re pretty funny!” he exclaimed. He wiped tears from his eyes as he caught his breath. “Sorry. That kind of made me feel better, strangely enough.”

What was also strange was that Emil felt…relaxed? Luca was undoubtedly odd, but he was nice to talk to. Maybe it was just initial relief from confiding in someone other than Ada for once. But Emil liked the feeling.

“Listen. Let’s be friends,” Luca said. He had a slightly mischievous grin. “I’m not experienced with romance. Or maybe I was, I don’t know. But I’m sure you and Ada need time apart sometimes, right? And you don’t have anyone else to go to?”

Emil bit his lip hesitantly. He was right, but… “How do I know I can trust you?”

“I think you already do,” Luca said knowingly. “Weren’t you the one who initiated this meeting? And you seemed comfortable opening up to me just a bit ago.”

The patient tried stammering out a reply, but couldn’t.

“Eh, what do I know. I’m just an inventor with his brain scrambled,” Luca said with a shrug. He held out his hand for a handshake. “D’you wanna be friends, anyway?”

Emil stared at the hand almost a bit too intensely. This is what Ada wanted, right? No, she never explicitly told him to make friends with this man.

He realized that he wanted to be friends with Luca all on his own. So he shook his hand with a tiny little smile.

His first friend.

[spiderh0rse]

with all the alan wake posts you make and reblog, i thought i had a pretty good grasp of what it was about. and then you reblogged the ghoulish imp corpse post saying "alan wake" and i need to know.

WHAT THE FUCK IS ALAN WAKE ABOUT.

normal writer has normal time (actual explanation under cut)

alan wake is in fact A Guy Who Writes. games are named after him. his whole deal is that he accidentally (Dr. Malpractice lied to Alan's wife mostly) ended up next to an evil lake that makes nearby works of art into reality. if it. likes them enough. Cauldron Lake is a strange strange beast. at any rate the lake, in the form of a dead woman, kidnaps/kills (it is vague) Alice. whom is Alan's wife. then it kidnaps Alan and halfway mind controls him into writing a horror story that will let it take over the world, with the promise that doing so will get Alice back. Alan escapes that a single page away from the story being complete with the help of the Bright Presence, whom is an inverse of the thing in the lake, basically. but he STILL has to get Alice back somehow, and has entirely forgotten the week under the lake writing. the first game's overall story can mostly be glossed over, but the point is that he works out how to change the story to get Alice out, does so, but his whole gambit is essentially to swap their places. so HE is in the lake, and Alice is out. this remains the state of things for thirteen years.

alan wake's american nightmare is mostly disposable unless you REALLY like it for whatever reason (like i do) but the important thing to know is that it takes a really unclear thing from the end of AW1 (Mr. Scratch) and makes him a full-fledged character. essentially he's Evil Alan. a little less essentially he's like. the public perception of Alan combined with the parts of Alan that he doesn't like to acknowledge? i think???? it is NOT clear and Saga in AW2 claims a lot of things about Scratch and basically none of them are wholly accurate but they muddy the water a lot

Alan Wake 2. this is where the ghoulish imp corpse comes into play. you begin the game as a naked man (unless you turn on the nudity censor. then you have underwear!) crawling out of Cauldron Lake. then you are ritually murdered by a cult. the naked man is not alan dw. we DO know him but not for a while. the main thing about AW2 is that you have TWO protagonists you can play as! not counting lakeman. Saga Anderson, an FBI agent investigating the murdercult around Cauldron Lake (and her partner, Alex Casey, who shares a name with the protagonist of Alan's crime novels and doesn't like that fact), and Alan! You don't get to play as Alan until a bit into Saga's campaign, when she's started performing strange supernatural rituals at the behest of assorted pages that describe the future. that DECLARE the future. we see some of these pages in aw1 but,, the air with those is different. these pages aren't cleanly typed. scratched out in places, more written in the margins, so on. point is. we find alan washed up from the lake. he freaks out about something he can't explain well, we drag him up to the sheriff's station (the sheriff was eaten by the darkness except not really a little while ago) and he explains the first game and Lake Purgatory. to the belief of basically no one. saga reads his mind about it (she can do that.)

not going beat for beat, Saga's campaign is dealing with Alan having written Yet Another Horror Story (what the fuck man) and trying to keep everyone alive and figure out what the fuck with up with, in no particular order, the murder cult, why her daughter isn't answering the phone/why her husband, David, sounds really upset with her for some reason, the assorted people in the area claiming they know her, and her supposed grandfather + great uncle in the area.

alan's story is,, weirdly placed on the timeline. i should not say more. he is dealing with trying to write a story that will let him out of the lake without dragging more people IN, and Scratch editing his story as he goes through it. additionally there are just straight up other people in the lake. which looks like new york city, now. there's Tim Breaker (sheriff of Bright Falls, the eaten-but-not one), Warlin Door (runs a talk show), Thomas Zane (fruit) (has alan's face) (not his voice. someone else has his voice.) (poet-filmmaker-poet-filmmaker-diver-diver-diver), maybe-Alice (we see. video diaries. i can't talk about them for too long without actually crying over them.), and Ahti!!!!! Ahti my friend!!!!!!!! The janitor!!!!!!!!!!!!!! he's from Control :D. but yeah Alan is just in Lake Purgatory until the very end.

If you want to watch a playthrough of either main game, I would recommend The Librarian, on Youtube. if you wanted to watch American Nightmare,, there are few good commentated playthroughs. watch a longplay. I beg of you. that is all. i will give you back your dream now /ref

[rocksanddeadflowers]

OH OH OH okay I have a silly idea for this AU that I want to start by saying there's no need to impliment it into the actual canon of this AU unless everyone just really likes it, cause it was mostly a silly fun daydream idea I had while I was doing mindless work.

I watched Red Shoes and the Seven Dwarves a while ago out of curiosity (it was super cute and was on a free streaming platform somewhere? maybe Tubi). Thinking specifically about the "dwarves" curse- where they remained like, little green guys? The whole time except for when no one was looking at them (the root of the curse was another "judging looks by their cover" thing so that's why). So I thought it would be funny to impliment that onto the staff of the castle during the curse (idk about Jonny though, I feel like the curse effects him very differently compared to the staff since he's the target etc).

Cons: - might undermine the musical's thing I really like where characters lose themselves in being the object they're cursed as until they lose sentience and become only that object (that's a BIG con for me) - def could change a lot of details that would kinda be hard to remember when writing if that makes sense

Pros: - characters not being limited by their curse only when alone/not in view (being tall again and grabbing something, better at fighting/defense, maybe Lyf can control their magic only in original form, etc) - the comedic value (see above- trying to do something in one form and immedtly shifting into the other form unpromted and having to start over) - drama (can catch glimpses of themselves or others like a faint distant memeory or some shit) - specifically a scene where Marius passes out from sleep deprivation and Aurora catches him and notifies Lyf who comes to check on him but now that no one else is looking Lyf in full human-fae form gets to be near him in their original form eventually resolves to carrying Marius to bed and tucks him in and maybe gets stuck staying with him otherwise his sleep would be restless and useless so now Marius has vague dream like memories of human-fae Lyf and it only solidifies when he feels that form of Lyf snuggled in bed with him as he wakes up but when he actually looks at Lyf they're still a clock so he thinks he made it all up - sorry no more ideas still thinking about lyf and marius

So yeah this is silly and just for funsies :)

[fyeahnix]

Been thinking about Sevika a bit and I had some thoughts.... Vander included as well.

First off I'm leaving this untagged because I don't want the wrong people to get a hold of this but you can reblog if you want.

Second, to be clear, I have not seen/read/consumed any leaks about anything related to Arcane out of choice. I wanted to see this series unfold on release days and enjoy being unspoiled with most of the rest of the fandom. Nothing I say here regarding theories will have anything to do with leaks. If they do, I promise you it's coincidence or I'm just good at reading the tea leaves. That being said, please for my sake and the people reading this post, don't be an asshole and say anything related to any leaked content, vague mention or not. Actually if you read any leaks related to this, I'd really prefer if you kept any and all comments to yourself. This is primarily for folks like me who are just theorizing for fun until we get more officially released info.

Anyway let me start..

Life and Death

As I've said before, I am still fearing Sevika's death. That remains true even after Act 1 of the season has concluded. We know from the teasers and trailers that Sevika is getting a wardrobe update and a new look for Act 2 and beyond. But I still fear what will happen. I do think her situation can either go one of two ways:

Sevika Lives

I haven't had a chance to actually write this out in a fic yet but one of my headcanons for Sevika is that she'd heavily reconsider the real fight for Zaun if she met someone who she really and truly grew to care for and love. And not because she's flaky or Zaun doesn't matter. But because these life and death situations are incredibly more difficult when you have people in mind to protect. What happens if you die? Who will protect them when you're gone? Is it worth setting them up for heartache by putting yourselves in the line of fire? That's a lot to consider.

Season 1 showed us that Sevika thought Vander was weak for not taking the fight to Zaun a second time. But what she didn't understand was that he had loved ones to look after—kids. Would it be worth making them parentless a second time for Zaun's liberation? Who would look after them? That's a tough question to answer. And I think the rest of this season will build up to Sevika coming to the same realization that Vander and Silco did before her—is putting my home and life in danger worth risking losing my loved ones or my loved ones losing me?

I hate that now I just look like a damn copycat if this ends up coming to fruition but that's just the stress of being a slow ass writer. Oh well lol.

In any case, since it looks like Jinx is gonna be the real deal when it comes to taking the fight to Piltover, I'm willing to bet that Zaun will win their independence. It looks like they have it now in the current (now old) League lore so I don't think that outcome will change. If that wasn't the case, I'd say Sevika would probably give that fight up and live or straight up leave Zaun to go elsewhere.

Sevika Dies

I can see Sevika's death happen one of two ways:

1) Killed by Enforcers. This is obvious. Unfortunately it happens to a lot of Zaunites. I can see this happening to her either by getting caught somewhere unawares or protecting either Jinx and/or Isha.

2) Warwick*. This is...a tricky one. Most of us who know the absolute bare minimum of League lore know that Warwick is a genetically modified werewolf created by Singed but outside of that, I don't think we ever got his full identity (I know Riot has a short story for him but I haven't read it). It's pretty obvious by now that Vander is becoming Warwick. The big question is going to be what does that mean for the rest of the characters and Zaun? And how much of his memories will Warwick retain from being Vander?

If he does retain flashes of those memories, I can see him being pissed about what he may see as a betrayal and decide to kill Sevika for supporting Silco.....

More On Vander/Warwick

....HOWEVER....

I think it's also completely possible that Warwick retains some of his memories BUT encounters Sevika while she's with Jinx and Isha. And his memories of Jinx stop him from killing Sevika which would be VERY INTERESTING for two reasons. One, I think it would mean a lot to him to see his kid being protected and accepted by someone he felt betrayed him. That maybe he thought wrong of her because this kid he once knew as sweet and innocent likes her. And two, Jinx says to Smeech right before their fight that people close to her usually end up dead. Well what if Sevika ends up alive when confronting Warwick because she's around Jinx? That would be an interesting flip from last season and that statement overall.

Second point here. About Zaun's liberation, what if Warwick ends up being a key weapon to helping liberate them? The Chem Tanks attack on Piltover was devastating and if it wasn't for the Noxians, they would have caused quite a lot of destruction. Warwick's abilities are unknown right now and it doesn't even look like he's fully completed his transformation. The Enforcers hear about a giant ass wolf man monster roaming the streets of Zaun or too many die at his hands and are like "actually nvm they can fucking have their independence."

I'm almost sure the creators have said it's possible for more Arcane characters to become Legends in League so maybe Sevika could become one at some point? Idk

So yeah I am still bracing myself for the worst but ultimately just enjoying any screen time we get with her. According to the intro sequence, she ain't important enough to make a main character, so it's possible she's doomed OR she might be one of the characters who has their story expanded in a future League universe work when Arcane ends, which I'm almost sure will happen with Ambessa.