#IMPERIAL BUTT

[empressofmankind]

CROCTOBER 19/31 - "Dino glamping"

Gotta be ready at 5 AM to hear the brakes call to eachother to gather the herd

Inktober masterlist

[hor-wod-flir]

Did some say F pose Imperials?

[sbnkalny]

Conservatives are bad memes. It's joke 😭😭 this Kong's so strong, it isn't sexual, strictly confectional, Strictly medicinal..

[kimabutch]

Qven from Translation State and Nona from Nona the Ninth would be best friends I think. Also they would cause heretofore unimaginable chaos and destruction. As besties.

[auraeseer]

A flight at Etna Brewery.

[hag-lad]

Been trying to send 40GB of photos to my brother for like an entire week and it only worked when I promised on Bheem’s ass. NOT A COINCIDENCE!!!!

[revelboo]

Revel I cannot express enough how much your writing sparks a giddy feeling in my heart and stomach! You have such a way with words!

May I humbly ask for some mechs reacting to their little human crafting something as a gift for them? Your choice of bots/cons! I just think they would be fascinated at how our tiny fragile hands worked so hard to make something just for them :)

Thank you so much!

Making a Gift For Them Headcanons

Wheeljack

• Vocal indicators blinking when you triumphantly hold up the tray, he can’t help but smile behind his mask. You’ve got energon smudged on your cheek and staining your fingers. And sure, there wasn’t really a reason for you to take a cookie cutter as you’d called it to perfectly good semi-solid energon goodies, but he appreciates the effort. That you’d wanted to make him something special. Expression hopeful and uncertain, he takes the tray from you and sets it down, before pulling you into his arms. “Thank you,” he says, smiling at your puzzled ‘Don’t you want to try them first?’ Couldn’t care less about how they taste, all that matters is that you’d made them for him. Thought of him.

Starscream

• “You made this? For me?” Hooking an arm around your waist, he drags you into him. Doesn’t even care what it is, only that you’d thought of him and made a gift that’s only his. Not Soundwave’s. Not Megatron’s. His. “I knew you loved me best. Were loyal to me,” he growls, pressing his face against your neck.

• Face flushing as he wraps himself around you, there’s no point in bursting his bubble and explaining that you’d made new polishing cloths for all of them, painstakingly stitching their names on each one. He’s happy and that’s all that matters.

TFP Ratchet

• Venting tiredly as you bend over his hand, you’d insisted he mass shift and give you his hand. Has so many things he needs to get done, but hadn’t been able to say no to you. So his hand is in your lap, your back to him so he can’t tell what you’re doing, but he can feel you messing with his servo. “Okay, doc,” you say, grinning as you hold up your hand and he frowns at you. You wrote his name around one of your fingers? Lifting his own hand, he finds your name around his servo. “I figured your hands were too big for a wedding ring and if I did find one big enough, you’d just break it mass shifting.” Shrugging at him, it’s the wedding part he’s latched on to. Knows from talking to June that it’s a human bonding ceremony. And you’d laid your claim on him, marked him as yours, his spark warming. “Don’t worry, it’s not permanent. It’ll wash off eventually,” you add when he’s silent, shoulders hunching. ‘If I wanted it to be permanent?’ He asks, voice a gruff rumble and your face heats.

Tarantulas

• Lowering himself to his peds and bending when you imperiously wave him down, his extra limbs cage you as you attach the thing you’ve made to his chassis. Flowers? Knows you’ve been ranging away from his lair hunting some and that you’d given him an absolutely scandalized look when he’d suggested that there were plenty of fake flowers right outside. Apparently, you’d considered taking those grave robbing. “It’s lovely?” Doesn’t know what to make of this, but you’d thought of him. Made something with those soft hands for him when not that long ago you were frightened of him. And you lean up and brush your mouth against his mandibles. Freezing aside from one extra leg that hooks and taps against your thigh.

Constructicons

• “Oh for Primus’s sake,” Scrapper growls as Bonecrusher shoves him aside, hands cupped. And you smile up at him, leaning to lay the tiny, paper swan you’d folded in his palm. You’d made the thing for him, but it’s not like he has any use for it. But it’s the principle of the thing. You made it for him, not Bonecrusher. That’s his and he’s going to have it or die trying to take it. Seizing his much bigger brother by the wrist, Bonecrusher head butts him when he tries to take the swan. “It’s mine!” Barely aware of you retreating into your tiny habsuite with a disgruntled ‘I made you all one.’

Earthspark Soundwave

• Growling as he vents, his servos flex when you lower your hands and your little offering. And for some reason your disappointment bothers him. Can’t even figure out why you’d make him something to begin with. Hasn’t he made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want you here? That you’re only an intruder and a nuisance? “Yeah. Nevermind,” you mumble, turning away and now his cassettes are staring at him. “It was silly anyway.” He might as well have kicked you with the way Frenzy is frowning at him. Even Ravage looks unhappy with him. Snarling, he leans and pinches the back of your shirt between two servos and tugs you back. ‘Give it here,’ he demands as you shoot him a surly look. Apparently not wanting him to have his gift anymore. ‘Now.’ What is he even going to do with this? And maybe it is sweet that you’d thought of him and wanted to make him something, but he’s not admitting that to anyone. Let alone you.

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ludos Imperiales III

Summary: Saving your mates may cost more than you bargain for, but how far are you willing to go to save them?

Content Warnings: Branding; Mentions of Slavery/Abuse; Vomiting

Pt 1 / Pt 2

----------------------

Fables had largely been forbidden in the Empire, starting in the early reign of my Great Grandfather Hybern II. Fables and fairytales had no use in the practicality of his Empire. Stories and fables gave people ideas, it made them hope and dream of better worlds than this one. The Empire could not thrive on the backs of dreamers. And so books burned in the streets, and the oral traditions of many people died in the following years. Schools taught with books written by Imperial Scholars, all edited and fact checked by the Emperor himself. The world became what he saw fit to shape it as. 

To him, the fairytale idea of mates was a weakness. He declared all mated pairs cursed by the Mother. A bond was a manifestation of a weak will. If you could not thrive on your own without needing another to carry you, then you were not fit to be in the Empire. He removed all mated pairs from service, both within the palace walls and in military service. Mated pairs were not allowed to own land within the Empire, Temples were not legally allowed to recognize or perform a marriage ceremony. They were shunned as lepers and regarded as subpar beings. The bond made them loyal to each other first and foremost, and that was an allegiance torn in his mind. He made sure everyone else saw it that way too.

Father would not have such an obvious weakness. In his earlier years, he’d scoured the Empire, searching every village he ravaged and town he conquered for signs of that supposed weakness. He’d felt a pull, to a small ocean village in Elfhaven, and that pull had led him to a healer’s cottage, tucked into the ocean cliffs. He’d stood on the threshold of her doorway, cursing the Mother, cursing whatever weak will he had managed to leave unchecked, and then, he’d tossed her into the sea. His father had thrown a city wide celebration in his honor. Finally, a son who could master himself and his weaknesses. He used to tell me that story at bedtime, when my Mother tucked me in. Love was for children. Mates were for lesser beings. Mother had never argued with him about it either, this was simply a fact in their marriage. Theirs was of convenience, a mutually beneficial contract, and I often wondered if that story was also a means to remind her that she too could be disposed of if a weakness revealed itself. 

But, I had been a lonely, and curious child and would often sit with the Nymphs that lived in the bubbling brooks and streams around the River House, and would ask them all the questions I was afraid to ask my Father. They whispered their own tales of mates between the bubbling rocks and rolling waves and I’d latched onto their ideas of a bond so strong it could bridge a soul together. Perhaps it was my loneliness, my need for affection I couldn’t easily find at home, but I clung to that little piece of what everyone else swore was fiction like my life depended on it. It became my lifeline. I’d pray to the Goddess every night for something like that; for someone who could love me beyond reason.

A dream that slips through my fingers as I step into that cell.

Cassian, chained against the wall with a gorsian collar around his throat, spits at my feet as I enter. I’ve seen hatred enough in my lifetime to understand the fire that blazes in those hazel eyes.

All the air in my lungs leaves in a rush, as if he’d thrown a fist directly into my stomach. He hates me. Hates me for what I’ve done to him; hates me for what I allowed to happen in that arena. Hel, judging by the way he sizes me up next to Father, he hates me purely because I look like him in the eyes.

My chest aches like it just might crack open and spill my heart out onto the floor.

For the slight, one of the guards slams the butt of his spear directly into Cassian’s gut, knocking him to the floor.

Despite the obvious malice, I have to physically lock my knees to keep myself from moving towards him; have to bite the inside of my cheek to not tell them to leave him alone. Maybe it’s not his fault he hates me. Maybe I deserve it.

“Charming as ever, Cassian,” Father says.

Cassian glares through the locks of sweat slicked hair falling over his forehead, “Fuck you!”

The butt of the spear slams into his temple and it takes every ounce of training not to let the dark, obsidian power trying to unfurl from my clenched fists turn the guard to ash. It would be so easy, a mere flick of the wrist and the only evidence that he’d ever lived a bit of dust left to mingle in the dirt coating the floor. I want to. Damn me, I want to splatter all of them across the dingy walls; hear the last, sharp intake of breath gurgle out of their chests for putting their hands on my mate. There’s a possessive, ugly thing that rises in my chest, threatening to choke the life out of me if I don’t move, act, on this base instinct. The bond rattles against my rib cage, a beast in its own right. It demands action, swift and immediate. It demands blood.

“You sure you can handle this beast, daughter?” Father sneers.

Cassian regards me with the disdain of someone who stepped in shit while wearing new boots. 

“I’m sure,” I say with more confidence than I feel, but I’m too much of a coward to look him in the eyes when I say it. My gaze flicks to the others instead, hoping against reason that I will not see the same hatred on their features. 

Azriel remains tucked in the corner, where he can use his body to shelter his broken wings. There isn’t the same malice in his own hazel eyes, but there is a cold indifference that cracks me open just the same. His earlier appraisal must have told him enough, because there is no lingering curiosity, only apathy. I am not asking him to throw himself into my arms; hell, I don’t even need him to smile, I just need something, any hint that my name alone hasn’t ruined this before it even starts! But there is nothing.

I try to keep my shoulders back, try to stop my body from curling in on itself. I want to curl up on the floor and wait until the old stones absorb me.

“I am curious,” Rhysand says, the s slurred like he bit his tongue when he hit the wall. “Why keep us alive?”

“Why let you be a martyr?” Father counters.

Rhysand studies me, violet eyes--glassy from what’s certainly a head injury, especially with the blood still flowing freely from an inch wide gash across his temple--rove over me slowly, starting at my hairline and working down. His head tilts quizzically when his gaze reaches my cheek. He shouldn’t be able to see anything in this light, but I find myself shifting my stance just enough to block the view all the same.

He frowns as his study goes lower, to the singe across my skirts, and the dirt stains from my stumble down the stairs. 

“I’d rather be dead than dragged around like a dog!” Cassian spits.

Rhysand won’t stop looking me over, like he’s calculating something. Not exactly the acknowledgment I want, but I will take the intrigue of his study over apathy and hatred as if it is. Curiosity is better than nothing. 

“You will honor your word, and send aid to my people?” He asks.

“If anyone is stupid enough to bet on you,” Father counters. “And if it makes it past the highwaymen and looters that have been waylaying my caravans. Your people might have more food if they weren’t attacking supply lines.”

My stomach twists. So Rhysand hadn’t been lying then, things have truly become that bad? Or have they always been that bad, and the sheltered nature of my upbringing had kept me from truly seeing it?

“Do you have supply lines that run through Illyria?” Rhys counters, not rising to the bait. “I can’t recall.”

“You will be branded,” Father says, jaw ticking as he doesn’t get the results he wants. “You will remain in chains and fight when called to fight. Any attempts at escape, and I will drag your people into the arena in droves. They can’t all be as adept at fighting wargs and Giants as you.”

Azriel’s gaze darkens at the threat.

Cassian’s lips pull back in a sneer, teeth flashing.

But Rhysand nods, gaze still on me, like he’s deciding something. I can’t, for the life of me, figure out what.

“Keep your end of the bargain, Highness, and we will keep ours.” He says.

“Rhys!” Cassian seethes. 

“Quiet,” Rhysand returns. Briefly, his gaze leaves me to go to Azriel, and the other male nods, just barely. 

“How noble,” Father sneers.

“We will do what we must to save our people.”

Father waves the guard at the door in. Another follows, holding a glowing hot branding iron in his gloved hands.

“On your knees!” The doorman barks.

The contents of my stomach rise in my throat. I can’t let this happen! I can’t let them do this to them!

Rhysand kneels first, well technically, Cassian’s still down from the blow to the stomach; Azriel follows, grimacing against the pressure it puts on his wings.

I cannot beg for them. I will give myself away. I will doom all of us.

I can’t let this happen either. I can’t stand here uselessly!

“You’ll do it,” Father says to me and my panicked train of thought slams to a screeching halt. What?!

The guard holding the iron snorts out a chuckle. “Doubt she can hold the damn thing.”

Father turns to fully look at me and I do my best to keep my chin up. I have to keep the mask up; I cannot let him see. 

“You wanted this. You’ll do it.” He doesn’t think I have it in me; that much is obvious. He thinks me weak and spineless and meek, unable to do what is necessary. I have always known it, but I have never felt it so clearly as I do now.

And maybe he is right. How can I do this, even for the sake of protecting them? How can I raise a hand to my mates?

I swallow the lump in my throat. If I reach out to take that iron, my hands will shake and give me away. If I stand here and refuse, I give myself away. There is no winning; how did I think I could play a game like this? He wins; he always wins.

Not today, a voice whispers in the back of my mind. My body moves without my consent, as if I’m a puppet on a set of strings, being moved by an invisible hand. When I reach out for the iron, my hand doesn’t shake, even though it feels like every part of my body is trembling. The iron is heavy and warm in my hands, I have to use both to lift it, and though I should struggle to keep a grip on it, the invisible grip on me holds it steady.

Two guards move to grip Rhysand by the shoulders, pinning him in place, even though he offers his right arm willingly. His right arm that’s shredded from elbow to wrist from the wargs, blood still trickling onto the floor. The wound is deepest on the outside of his forearm, with enough space above the inside of his wrist to mark. This is cruel enough as is, but to add further to the injury…

One of the guards grabs the torch to reheat the rapidly cooling metal and my stomach is once again back in my throat. I can’t do this to him!

Don’t let him win, the voice whispers again.

My body is still not my own, still moving despite my best efforts to not. It feels like I’m watching myself from outside my body as the iron is pressed to his skin. I can’t even gag against the horrible smell of burning flesh, like someone locked the ability to react behind a wall of adamant. 

Rhysand, to his credit, doesn’t even wince, just draws a sharp breath in through his nose. He holds eye contact with my Father the whole time in another silent challenge and I cannot decide if he is the bravest or stupidest male I’ve ever met. 

The guards reheat the iron as my body moves away from him, and I’m sure they make some sort of snide comment, but it sounds like I’m hearing it from underwater as I take in what I’ve done to him. The blistering skin forms a perfect circle, with the Imperial emblem stamped in the center. It will be a crude scar and hard to hide. My heart clenches painfully in my chest. What have I done? 

The guards move to hold Azriel next, and if I was unsettled before, I’m downright ready to throw myself on a blade now. The apathy has left his eyes, replaced now with barely concealed panic. He pinches his lips together, trying not to make a sound as I approach, but his chest rises and falls rapidly, scarred hands clenching and unclenching in front of him. Shit those are burns on his hands and I’ve got something on fire held out to him.

“What’s the matter?” One of the guards leans down to hiss in his ear. “Scared of a little fire?”

“You motherfucker!” Cassian shouts, trying to stand to get to Azriel. He’s quickly knocked back to the floor with the butt of a spear again. 

“Do it!” Azriel hisses at me.

My body is still not my own as it moves to comply. The whole cell reeks of burnt flesh and it is by the sheer force of whatever will moves my limbs that I haven’t heaved up the contents of my stomach on the floor. What kind of mate am I?

Gods I am as bad as my Father! Cassian knows it too; when it’s finally his turn, the look he gives me is one I’ve seen thrown at the Emperor a thousand times. There is nothing but venom and hatred there and the bond in my chest feels raw and thin, like it has been scraped and worn down to a single, solitary thread. And yet my legs still move and my hands still hold the iron steady.

He won’t ever forgive me for this. Even if I can get them out of the Empire, even if I can save them from dying in the arena, it will never be enough. I’ve ruined my chance before it even had a chance to start.

Cassian growls when the brand touches his skin, but he doesn’t scream. None of them did. This displeases my Father, who frowns, even when it’s done. At least he is not proud of me; that would be the final nail in the coffin. 

The invisible hand still won’t let go of me, I feel it holding me upright, like it knows, given the chance I’ll crumple to the floor and never get up again. How could I have done this?

Father turns to the guard closest to the door, “Go ahead of her to the River House, make sure the place is secure. Post extra guards.”

The elven male bows with an exaggerated flourish and disappears. I suppose I should feel relieved that we are almost out of this godsdamned arena, but dread settles in my stomach. It is not like my Father to make this quick, not for a convicted rebel, and not for anything I’ve shown an interest in. Taking them home now feels too good to be true and I am not inclined to believe luck or mercy have ever been on my side. 

“The arena will have to be fixed before we can proceed with the Games,” Father muses. “I expect you to bring your new toys with you to entertain our guests at Amarantha’s celebration tomorrow.”

They’re throwing her a whole parade for her exports over Illyria, of course she’d want them there to see it. I doubt they’ll be the only Illyrians in attendance.

Cassian growls at that. I’m inclined to share the sentiment. 

“As you wish,” I say instead. Hopefully, if I can manage to not let the guilt clawing its way up my insides to consume me, I can remain upright long enough to find us all passage out of here by the morning. This will all be a terrible dream. Even if we have to part--the bond roars in my ears at the thought--at least I will have saved them. It might be the only thing I have to give them.

Father leaves first. I don’t let myself look at my mates as I follow. The guards untether them from the wall and push them out after me, keeping a guard in between us, just in case they attempt to attack while my back is turned. I wouldn’t blame them if they tried; I’d attack me too.

I can’t get the smell of their burnt flesh out of my nose. Every time I blink I can see their blistered skin behind my eyelids. I branded my mates. 

The way out of the tunnels beneath the arena is a blur, it doesn’t even register that we’re out until the sudden flash of harsh summer light sears my eyes. 

There are horses waiting, and a wagon. At least he’s not forcing them to walk behind my horse, as some of the lords and councilmen make their sponsored champions do. 

I don’t remember swinging into the saddle. I don’t remember urging the horse forward, or when my caravan of guards split off from my Father’s. We rode together until we didn’t. Starlight, my childhood horse, does all the directing, taking me home on instinct. The house I grew up in, the house I sequestered myself in with the curtains drawn for months and months looks foreign. The staff coming out to greet us swim in and out of my vision. I must answer their questions, because they move things around for our new guests, instructing the guards to take the wagon around to the back of the house, where there’s a guest wing turned into a cell for them. All this sounds like it happens under water. 

I hear the wagon roll that direction, and even though I feel eyes on my back, I don’t allow myself to turn. I cannot bear what I will see.

Someone helps me to my rooms, holding me by the elbow, telling me I look pale and sick. I feel like I’ve stepped outside my skin. The tether in my chest feels raw. What have I done?

The sizzle of the iron on skin echoes in my ears. I can’t stop seeing the smoke. Can’t stop thinking about the panic in Azriel’s eyes. I hurt my mates.

I hurt my mates.

Whatever invisible force had been holding me together in the cell gradually releases me. Inch by inch I become aware of my body again. And I make it to the toilet just in time to hurl the contents of my stomach up. It’s the wine first. Then breakfast. And the acidic burn of bile out my throat and nose. 

After Mother’s execution I hadn’t been able to stop crying for days. I’d laid in my bed with the covers over me, hiding in the dark where no one could hear the ugly sounds of my wrenching sobs. I’d thought I’d never weep that hard again. I was wrong. This is far worse.

When I no longer have the strength to hold myself up over the edge of the toilet, I curl into a ball on the floor, the tile cool and smooth against my flushed cheeks. The tears won’t stop flowing and the thing in my chest coils and tightens until it feels like a rock. What have I done?

Eventually the tears run out. The thin slit of a window in the wall bathes the room in varying shades of orange, then pink, then purple as time passes by, uncaring to my turmoil. I still can’t bring myself to get up, even as the heat of the day turns to a cool, evening chill. No amount of cold could move me now, a little suffering is what I deserve. 

Someone knocks on the bedroom door. I don’t remember closing it behind me.

I shut my eyes against the noise. All this crying has given me a headache, the echo of the door against the tile makes my head throb. Good. I deserve that too.

Another knock, more insistent this time.

Why should I answer it? I should just lay here until the earth swallows me. 

Another knock, followed by a muffled, “Highness?” Anise, my maid. Anise had come with my Mother, a gift from her father as she travelled here for the wedding. Mother had freed her from her servitude and Anise had asked to stay as part of the staff. She loved my Mother like she was her own; I have always thought of her like an Aunt.

“Don’t make me kick the door in!” A grumpy Aunt, granted, but her temper is always warranted. 

Shakily, I manage to maneuver myself onto my knees. She really will kick the door in and her joints are old and worn, she’ll likely break an ankle, or a hip, trying. It’s for her health that I manage to get up and get to the door, not because I feel well enough to get up.

She pushes her way in as soon as I turn the handle. “You look awful!”

I feel awful. “Thanks.”

“What the hell is all of this?” She demands, waving a hand towards the hallway. She’s half Dryad, her skin like tree bark, her graying hair made of vines and leaves. Though she is old and weathered, her emerald eyes are still bright and shining. “And why are you so distraught over it?”

She paces as she speaks, not letting me get a word in as she wrings her gnarled hands together. “What’s with all the guards? And those… winged males? They are strange and gruff and I don’t like the looks of them. Which reminds me, why the Hels are they asking for you?”

My heart skips a beat in my chest. “What do you mean, Anise?”

She stops her pacing to come take one of my hands, a gesture for a Dryad that is closer to a hug. Her other hand pushes some hair off my cheek to see the yellow tint of a blooming bruise. “Did they hurt you?”

I’m going to be sick again. “No, Anise, they didn’t.”

“You promise?”

“Trust me, if anyone did any damage, it was me.” And I’ll never forgive myself for it. 

She nods. “Ok, then, I will tell you.” Dryads, like Ents, are known for their long winded conversations. They never know when to get to the point. I am used to her extra long pauses and rambling tangents. 

I am not, however, prepared for her to say, “Well they were brought food and a medic, as the guards ordered, but they refused it.”

Why the hell would they do that?! Was this some kind of hunger strike? By the Mother did they think I was trying to poison them?

“They said they wouldn’t touch it until they’d spoken to you.”

I think the heat has gotten to me. Did she just say they asked to speak to me?

“It’s very strange,” she continues. “Males in that bad of shape usually fight for a chance to see a medic, but they said they wouldn’t let anyone touch them until they’d talked to you alone.”

Alone? They wanted to talk to me alone?

“Are you sure that’s what they said, Anise?”

“They were very adamant about needing to see you. Rude if you ask me. Who demands to see the head of a household like that? They’re trouble, I’m telling you now.”

“They didn’t say why?” I ask.

“No. They wouldn’t say it around the guards either. I don’t like this, Highness. It’s a bad omen if you ask me. The winds have been whispering all day. Bad, very bad things will come of this, mark my words.”

Bad things had already come, couldn’t she see that? They were not the issue; I was the issue. This whole damn Empire was the issue. We ruin everything we touch. They knew that better than anyone, so why ask for me? What did they want? It certainly can't be the bond.

I absently rub my knuckle against my breast bone. The bond feels like a bruise. No, they can’t be asking about the bond. If they know it’s there, they’re not tugging on it. There is no curiosity, only pain. I’ve ruined the chance for anything more, of that I am certain. 

This has to be something else, but how can I face them? There is only so much I can bear.

“You’ll make them wait, won’t you?” Anise continues. “You certainly should. It’s improper for a host to be asked for this late into the evening.”

They need medical attention. Their wounds have to heal. And they need to eat. They have to be starving, I doubt they were given a last meal before being thrown into the arena. Raw and damaged as it is, the bond still prompts me to move, even if I’d rather hide from it for the rest of my life.

“No,” I might as well rip the bandaid off. Maybe they need to tell me to my face that they hate me and never want to see me again. It can be arranged for us not to interact, even with me sponsoring them. 

If that is their wish, I will honor it. Whatever it is they need, I’ll find a way to make it happen. I owe them that. “I’ll go see them.”

------

Taglist: @sirenpearldust, @saltedcoffeescotch, @littlemissfix-itfic, @waka-babe, @raisam

//

@anainkandpaper, @rafeecameronsbitch, @whothehelliskayleigh, @lifetobeareader, @blimpintime

//

@hjgdhghoe, @krowiathemythologynerd

[gladiopsyop]

Mossad wasn't as big back then and Israel actually liked JFK because he allowed the sale of advanced weapons and arguably started the 'special relationship'

The assassination was the CIA old boys network killing Kennedy because he was gonna dissolve the CIA because he felt screwed over after the Bay of Pigs.

[motherofdogs1010]

A Jedi in Arrakis I (Paul Atreides x Reader)

Summary: While on the run from Empire troops, Jedi padawan Y/N comes to find out that hyper-driving in a compromised craft can have some major setbacks when she discovers not only is on a new planet but a whole new galaxy as well...

Warnings: jedi!reader, eventual 18+, NSFW, angst, fluff, eventual smut/pinv!sex, oral sex, talks of questioning the Force and teachings, more to come as story progresses

A/N: Like Ahsoka, I left Reader to have white, which means they are neutral and I feel Anakin would have taught any other padawans to be neutral when it came to the Force. The type of lightsaber Reader has for any photo reference is the same type Darth Maul has!

Dividers by @firefly-graphics Banner by @vase-of-lilies

Series Masterlist

She had e/c eyes that looked at him softly as she laid beside him; the white silk she wore over her body showing the curves she possessed as she reached a hand out and caressed his cheek.

"Paul", she softly said, her skin tanned and soft.

Her hair fell around her and framed her face as she blinked.

"Paul..."

Her voice lulled him before he heard a humming, a buzz of electricity coming to light before a white light took over, shielding him from her...

🪐

In a galaxy far, far away...

Hands gripping the steering wheel of her craft, Y/N looked at the controls to see if hyperdrive was even possible and saw that it was not yet as she dodged another Imperial craft shooting at her.

"BB, you better hold onto your metal butt", she called out to her robotic companion.

BB-1 was a BB prototype similar to the R2-D2 design with the little robot being circular and having a teal color scheme; she heard the little robot let out a squeak as it rolled to secure itself to something.

Y/N hadn't thought of the Empire being on Dantooine but she thought wrong; she had been sent there by her Jedi Master, Anakin while Ahsoka (her fellow padawan/classmate) was sent to assist in the Clone Wars on the field. This intel was supposed to be useful to the Rebellion against the Clone War and Y/N knew if she was captured, that could only result in terrible things.

"BB", she said as she dodged a meteor in their path. "Connect to the database and upload what we got then delete everything."

BB let out a little beep followed by a whirling noise before getting to the task as she saw the Storm Troopers still on their path.

It was an agonizing five minutes of waiting for BB to upload the data, hearing an excited beep from BB as she had just winced as their craft was hit with another beam from the Storm Trooper craft just as she saw that hyperdrive was possible as the system alerted her of all the damage.

"Alright, BB!" she said, looking over her shoulder. "Now really hold on to your metal butt! It's going to be bumpy!"

BB let out a whirl of noises just as she hit the button for hyperdrive...

Her head was pounding as heard BB's concerned noises before she heard the beeping of the ship and opening her eyes with a gasp and looking around, it all rushing back to her of the system failure during hyperdrive, her trying to navigate as they were descending fast onto an unknown planet.

"Hold on, BB", she said, "let me... let me grab my-"

She grasped at her side where her lightsaber was clipped as she un-clipped herself from her seat, standing up as she winced from the headache; BB came towards her and beeped, Y/N patted its round little head as she went to the door of the ship, hitting the button to open it but saw wouldn't budge.

With a sigh, Y/N went to where her supplies pouch was and making sure she had plenty of water and food before activating her lightstaber, its white energy glowing as she stuck it into the metal of the door, doing her best of welding it open.

And with success she did as she managed to budge the door open to show a endless desert with hot air that hit her in the face; it reminded her of Tatooine with its similar landscape except she would say Tatooine had more rocky structures than this place.

"Where are we, BB?" she voiced as she stepped out.

The sun was hot against beige tunic and she frowned under the force of the heat, looking at BB before putting her hands on her hips.

"I guess let's do some exploring, huh?"

🪐

It was hard walking through all the sand, making sure she didn't stumble as she walked. And it was pretty boring considering there was just sand and oh, more damn sand; she wondered why it looked like the sand glittered at some points as her and BB continued their journey before her eyes widened at the sight of a large machine that reminded her of AT-AT Walkers except this one was larger in width and was... digging into the sand?

Either way, that had to mean that people were around as she began to jog towards there considering that it was so close.

BB rolled easily over the sand as they heard the sound of aircrafts and looking up, she saw two that resembled a bug, a dragonfly really. It hovered in the air as if it was looking over the machine and she squinted as she looked before beginning to feel the ground begin to shake violently to the point that she was knocked over.

Looking around, her first thought was a Nightwatcher worm and she looked at the machine as she begun to run with BB following closely; she held her lightstaber in her hand, her pouch bouncing as she ran with all her might to the machine.

Paul watched as the dust cloud grew as the sandworm quickly approached the Harvester, his father arguing that it was better to save the men on the Harvester than prioritize the Spice.

"Forget the Spice, we need those men", Leto argued and Paul's eyes squinted as he saw two figures running towards the Harvester.

"Look there", Paul pointed, his father leaned and looked.

"It's a girl and a... robot?" he said.

A.I. and anything of that nature had been banned in the Empire since the great war against A.I. so many centuries ago so it was curious as to who this was.

"How many men are on that?" his father asked.

"21", Shadout responded. "23 with the girl and the robot."

"We can only carry 6 on each ship", Paul mentioned.

"We'll make it work", his father confidently said.

🏜️

She was right that machine would draw in people as it was being evacuated as the sandworm was coming closer. BB was squealing as the sandworm was hot on their trail before she panted, "Go, BB! I'll hold it off!"

BB squealed and she said, "Go! I'll be there too!"

Turning around, she panted as she sucked in a breath and held her hand out, focusing her mind on the Force and its power as the creature closer. She felt vindicated as she saw the creature hit a invisible wall, panting and sweating as she held back the creature, the heat exhaustion getting to her as she tried her best to keep the creature back as black began to spot into her vision.

Suddenly, a hand gripped her shoulder and she looked to find two men: one around her age with handsome, pale features and dark curled hair, and an older man with greying hair.

"Come on, follow us", the older man said, she nodded.

With a final push of the Force, she ran behind the men onto one of the ships, stumbling but gleefully cheering once she saw BB there, who twirled in happiness and squealed.

"BB", she said, the robot rolling to her and she hugged it. "I told you I'd make it."

BB let out noises and she laughed.

"You understand that?" a man asked.

"Don't you?" she asked as she stood. "Where am I?"

"You're on Arrakis", a older man with thick dark hair and a facial beard said. "I'm Duke Leto of House Arrakis and this is my son, Paul. Do you mind telling me where you're from?"

"Arrakis? I've never heard of it", she mumbled, "I'm Y/N L/N from Naboo. What star system is this?"

"Canopus", Leto said and Y/N's eyes widened. "Where is this Naboo? I've never heard of such a planet in the Empire?"

Y/N now realized where she was as BB let out a concern noise. They weren't just in an entirely different solar system, they were in an entirely different galaxy.

[timetodiverge]

Nothing says "it's Bad Batch Wednesday" like watching this tiny little girl engage in illegal gambling with an imperial officer and kicking his butt then casually, wordlessly ordering her deadly sniper sidekick and vicious lurca hound out the door because the imperial officer is scared of dogs

[sapphiresaphics]

Okay, we’re doing this again.

Domestic Abuse: “We define domestic abuse as an incident or pattern of incidents of controlling, coercive, threatening, degrading and violent behavior.”

Key words there: PATTERN of incidents. If not a pattern then the incident must contain controlling, coercive, threatening or degrading types of violent behavior.

Caitlyn trying to leave a situation where Vi is holding her back and using the butt of her gun to get Vi to release her grip and let her go isn’t a pattern of abuse. It is not threatening her. It is not controlling her. It is not coercing her. It is not degrading her. It is literally someone trying to get free from someone who is actively restricting her movements.

Fascism: “Fascism is a far-right, authoritarian, and ultranationalist political ideology and movement. Fascism rejects the view that violence is inherently negative or pointless but rather views imperialism, political violence, and war as means to national rejuvenation.”

Key word there: Philosophy. That’s a belief in the ideology. To be a fascist is to believe in the rhetoric of fascism.

So while Caitlyn was manipulated into declaring Martial Law by an actual Fascist (Ambessa), Caitlyn often REJECTS the ideology at every turn. When she is actively butting heads with Ambessa and complaining that you need “probable cause for an arrest” that is Caitlyn REJECTING Fascist Ideology. This rejection of the ideology is why she ultimately BETRAYS Ambessa. So no, Caitlyn is NOT a fascist.

Martial Law: “Martial law is typically declared in situations where civilian authorities are unable to maintain order, such as during natural disasters, civil unrest, or invasions.”

A key component of Martial Law is that it is a TEMPORARY SOLUTION to a problem, not one that is sustainable for lengthy periods of time. It’s often used in times of war or for emergencies such as civil unrest and natural disasters.

Declaring Martial Law when your government has been attacked by a terrorist is something that happens. And the key component in this situation is that the power it entails is willingly given BACK to the government once the crisis is over. Which Caitlyn DOES. Proving once again that she is not a dictator, nor a fascist.

Sexual Assault: “Sexual assault is an act of sexual abuse in which one intentionally sexually touches another person without that person's consent, or coerces or physically forces a person to engage in a sexual act against their will.”

Key words there: Lack of consent and physically forces a person to engage in sexual acts against their will.

Caitlyn sleeping with Maddie isn’t sexual assault. It’s two consenting adults having a relationship. Now while there is definitely a potential power imbalance there with Caitlyn being Maddie’s superior… that does not make this sexual assault or abuse.

Especially with the fact that it is CAITLYN who is the one refusing to engage with the unwanted sexual touch and acts that Maddie is constantly putting on her. And of course the elephant in the room is that Maddie is a Noxian spy, which means that in this situation it could be argued MADDIE is the one sexually assaulting Caitlyn, because she coerced Caitlyn to sleep with her.

WORDS MEAN THINGS. THIS SHOULD NOT BE HARD. YOU SHOULD HAVE THE MENTAL POWER TO UNDERSTAND THESE DEFINITIONS AND HOW THEY APPLY TO ARCANE.

[welcometothejianghu]

Welcome to another round of W2 Tells You What You Should See, where W2 (me) tries to sell you (you) on something you should be watching. Today's choice: 琅琊榜/Nirvana in Fire.

Nirvana in Fire is a 2015 historical series best described as either a complicated succession drama set in the premodern Chinese imperial palace, or the story of a man who didn't die a decade ago and has decided to make it everyone else's problem.

And really, I almost feel silly giving my glib little summary, because Nirvana in Fire is so well-known of a property. It's a classic for a reason, and that reason is that it's legitimately very good. This show is what happens when you adapt a solid story, get a bunch of very talented actors, and throw a huge amount of money at it. It's incredibly popular and highly acclaimed, and it earned all of the hype.

Still, while I bet there are few people adjacent to c-drama stuff who've never heard of Nirvana in Fire, I'm sure there are plenty who haven't watched it. After all, it looks like one of those slow, serious shows with a lot of ponderous talking and no joy. If that's the impression you've been given, I could imagine looking at the 54-episode commitment and saying, I don't need that in my life.

I am here to tell you you're wrong. It is a banger of a show. It's tense. It's funny. It's heartbreaking. It’s exceptionally clever. It’s jaw-droppingly stupid. It’s romantic. It’s tragic. It has smart plots and bizarre subplots. And that's not even touching the thing with the yeti.

So in case you're one of those people who's heard of Nirvana in Fire, but has put off watching it for one reason or another, I'm here with five reasons I think you should try it.

1. Epic Shit

Did you like the Lord of the Rings? More specifically, did you really like the second Peter Jackson film? Great, then you're all set for this.

I guess I could have called this Game of Thrones without the dragons, but that's not actually the vibe at all. Game of Thrones is much more sensational and salacious, with all the blood and butts and what-not. The Tolkien comparison is more apt, I think, because Nirvana in Fire is equally about as wholesome as you can get in a property where dudes are still getting stabbed all the time.

This is a show about vengeance. And yeah, justice for the fallen, sure, that's fine too. But mostly it's about a bunch of good people joining forces to make sure the bastards who did wrong pay, with their lives as necesary.

The problem, though, is that these bastards are incredibly powerful, which means that a pure brute-force approach isn't going to work. Accordingly, this quickly becomes a story about the power of smart teamwork to exact retribution on some people who can (and did!) legally get away with murder -- and our heroes are some of the people with their necks most on the line if anything goes wrong.

Don't let the Middle Earth comparison fool you into thinking this is all epic swordfights. It's not. (I mean, for one thing, as well-funded as this project is, it doesn't have Peter Jackson Money.) The vast majority of the tension in the show comes from dialogue and slow, terrible realizations. The fight scenes are almost a relief from the nail-biting intensity of intimate conversations about getting a letter from somebody's ex-wife or returning a book.

All told, the show has that incredible almost-RPG vibe of going through all the little subquests and cutscenes you find along the way to defeat the final boss. The plot carefully unravels a multi-tendriled mystery told to you by people in incredible costumes. It doesn't get much more epic than that.

(Nirvana in Fire is also a cautionary tale about how you should be very careful with who gets invited to your birthday party.)

2. A chronically ill protagonist

Okay, right in the first episode, it is established that the main character has three whole completely different names and an old nickname. I'm going to call him Mei Changsu for the duration of this rec post, but let the record show that I could just have easily gone with one of the other three.

What you learn in that same first episode is that Mei Changsu used to be a palace insider, the cocky son of a noble family, only now nearly everyone he used to know thinks he's dead. Also, he's not far off from being actually dead -- he has an unspecified terminal condition that's mostly managed, provided he stays in his little mountain hideaway with his handsome doctor bestie and doesn't return to his old stomping ground and start kicking over hornets' nests.

So guess what he's about to do.

I have to make a note of how brilliant the casting is here: Hu Ge is an action actor! He is a kickpuncher of a man! And I think it's great that you can sort of see his frustration, as well as Mei Changsu's, at having to spend the whole series wrapped in countless layers of fabric and/or lying in bed while everyone around him gets to be the badass action heroes.

Mei Changsu's not faking it, either -- he's actually dying. He expends his energy where he thinks it's necessary, and sometimes that means he has to spend the following week in bed. He's constantly frustrated with himself for what he can't do anymore. He's racing a clock, and that clock is his own failing body. If he dies, the only hope anyone here has for justice dies with him.

He gets two love interests that the show treats pretty much equally. One's a lady general who wasn't even a love interest in the book. The other's the handsome prince who was initially going to be his textual romantic partner in same book, until the author hopped genres from danmei to general historical drama. I can't even call this a love triangle, because there's no competition. He just gets a wife and a husband -- in that he gets neither, because circumstances and his own illness keep him distant from them. He lies to both of then about his condition (among other things). He wants to be with them both and knows he can't be with either. And they in turn have to learn to accept what of him they can and can't have.

(Also, Nihuang (her) and Jingyan (him) are both incredibly gorgeous, which is exactly what bisexual genius Mei Changsu deserves.)

Obviously this isn't a perfect representation of life with chronic illness, largely because Mei Changsu is an incredily wealthy man who lives in a universe with what's basically magic medicine. However, I've seen the story's treatment of him and his condition resonate with a lot of chronically ill viewers, so even with the fantasy layer on it, there's definitely something there.

3. Dave

I have already told the story of how Meng Zhi became "Dave," but long story short, he's such a Dave that I legitimately forget his character's real name. He embodies Daveness. He's The Ultimate Dave.

Dave is an excellent fighter, a loyal friend -- and a terrible liar. He's possbly the only straightforward character in the entire show. When he's asked to be duplicitous, he's comically bad at it. Dave will never do a heel turn. I was misled at first by his semi-evil facial hair, but I have seen the error of my ways. Dave is pure lawful good.

And the reason I list Dave as such a selling point is that having a Dave means you always know what's going on. This is because Dave never knows what's going on, and he has no ego about that, so he asks questions, and other characters have to explain to him what just happened, and that is how you figure out what's going on.

It's an incredibly smart move on the drama's part, because some of the (very fun) schemes are so complicated that there's no way for you, the viewer, to understand them just by watching. Without the internal monologues and omniscent narration of a book, the machinations are opaque. You need things explained -- but why would the schemers explain their schemes? Well, Dave needs some exposition, so here you go.

So if you're worried that you might be left feeling stupid by a show where so many sneaky people are hatching so many complex plans, worry not! Like the good man he is, Dave has your back.

4. A Million Amazing Antagonists

If you like bad guys, this is a show for you. This show has brilliant bad guys all the way down. It has bad guys at every turn. It has bad guys for every taste. Welcome to Big Liang's Big Bad Guy Emporium, where we guarantee you'll walk out of here with a bad guy you like, or your money back!

(And yes, this set of pictures is also to say that their costume budget was entirely well-spent.)

Without getting too far into spoilers, I will say that the basic situation underlying the whole series is this: The emperor has done a lot of bad things, and he has enlisted a bunch of people's help in hiding those bad things, so much so that many of those other people have done even more bad things the emperor didn't even know about -- and then everyone has gone to great lengths to cover those up as well. Our protagonists spend the whole series unraveling this colossal shitshow and bringing people to task for their crimes.

So really, if you're going to spend 54 episodes taking down the baddies, they've got to be baddies you love to see taken down. And these are -- in part because all of them have crystal-clear, rock-solid motivations for their actions. Nobody here is a moustache-twirling comic-book-villain baddie. They're all bad for reasons that are very understandable in their individual contexts. And not a single one of them is going to go down without a fight.

5. World's Best Mom

(Sidebar: The fact that four out of five of my reasons to watch the show are individual or groups of characters should be your strongest indicator that this is an intensely character-driven story.)

This is not a Dead Mom Show. Okay, some moms are dead, but mostly this is a Moms Are Alive And Often Cause Problems Show, which is a lot of what makes the palace drama so delicious. But there is one Good Mom who stands out above all the rest: Consort Jing.

Played with perfect grace and devastating politeness by the stunning Liu Mintao, Consort Jing is a skilled doctor and excellent baker who starts the show with a low-level status among the women of the palace. She swallows down all kinds of mistreatment because she's not in a place to oppose it -- and when she can retaliate, it must only be through soft power. She loves her jock son with all her heart, but because of both their relatively poor positions in the hierarchy, she doesn't get to see him all that much. She wants to be an asset to him, while all the time she has to fear becoming a liability.

She is also the smartest person in any room that she's in, unless she's in a room with Mei Changsu, and even then it may be a tie.

There are lots of great characters in the show that I could have highlighted here, and plenty of them are women, but Consort Jing in particular never ceases to impress me. She is trapped in a gilded cage, married to a man who [lengthy list of spoilers that are traumatic to her in particular], and held hostage by how every time she even looks like she's out of line, it puts both her and her boy in danger. She's the most vulnerable of any of our good guys. Kind of like Wang Zhi, she's got to be clever or she's dead.

Consort Jing is not part of Mei Changsu's original plan. She figures out his plan and makes herself part of it -- and entirely remotely, as she and he aren't even in the same room until episode 40 or so. She puts herself in great danger to make sure he succeeds, not because it will necessarily do her any good, but because Jingyan needs him. This woman has been captain of the Mei Changsu/Jingyan ship for like twenty years already.

Oh, and did I mention her outfits?

I love you, Consort Mom.

Are you ready to watch it yet?

Get it on Viki! Get it on YouTube! Get it on YouTube but in a different playlist! (And also maybe get it on Amazon? Not in my region, but maybe in yours.)

I will warn you that it does take off running -- I think I saw someone say it introduces nineteen characters in the first episode? I was worried that I'd be too innundated by situations and flashbacks and names to be able to follow. By the second or third episode, though, I was rolling with it. So if you feel like you're struggling at the beginning, stick with it a bit. See if you don't feel it start to click.

...Man, reading over this post has left me going, oh, but I missed that! and that! and that guy! And yeah, the truth is that there are just so many great things about the show that limiting myself to only five (and being limited to only thirty images) was tough. I'm sure that people reblogging will add their own must-see elements.

Truly, this is a show that deserves its reputation. It may not be for everyone, but if this is the kind of thing that you like, it is a shining example of that thing.

Besides, you have to love a production where everyone was clearly having just a whole lot of fun being big ol' costumed dorks.

[dollyonm0lly]

babe that is H.O.T, please give us more???

i literally can‘t decide if i like shared slave!reader or poly wife!reader more with these two ginger freaks

but just imagining being trapped between them on the imperial bed, literally bodies pressed so tithtly together because they both want to be as close as possible to you,

one underneath you, deep inside you, arms wrapped around your waist and pulling you down, the other above you, chest pressed to your back, also deeep inside you, his hands pinning yours to the bed below, his face buried in the crook of your neck and they just thrust in and out 🥵

and this is a nightly occurrence because you are married to them both and this is how they try to make an heir for the throne

"Stop... Fucking moving..." You can hear Geta hissing in a whisper between panting breaths, one of his hands pinning both of yours to the fluffy cushions of the huge bed, fit for three to occupy. His other hand rests on your hip, near one of your buttocks and a little below one of his brother's hands, Caracalla keeping both of his firmly on your waist. There's a minute of silence, Geta trying to get used to the suffocatingly, pleasurable sensation of being inside your ass today, you can't see it, but you feel that he has his eyes closed, trying to hold himself back from cumming right on the spot, giving this the reason for his insistence that everyone stop their movements for a minute. It's hot, being between them, sweaty, you can feel Geta's chest against your back, his head resting in the area between your shoulder and neck, the soft texture of his belly, his happy trail that runs down to his pubic mound tickling against your skin. His chest rises and falls against you with each breath, not that you're in a different predicament, given the friction of your breasts against Caracalla's chest, your nipples rubbing deliciously against his sweaty skin, making you have to bite your lower lip tightly to contain your excitement, the nipples of your breasts harden more and more with each small touch against Caracalla's chest hair, and just as much as he can see your expression of pure anticipation, he can feel it, the way you throb and tighten your vaginal walls even more on his cock, your slick running down his balls and falling to the mattress, making him let out a faint moan in reaction. His tongue licks over his golden tooth, letting out an impatient click.

"I said... FUCK!" Geta proclaims in complaint when, lacking patience, Caracalla uses his firm hold on your waist to push you up and then brutally down his length, making Geta's cock also slightly move inside of your ass. The action results in Caracalla laughing in disdain at his brother's irritation, and Geta's nails digging impulsively into the soft skin of your butt, earning them both a moan of a great mix of pleasure and pain coming from you, who is always the ragdoll in all of their stupid little fight, you wouldn't say you are complaining though.

"Stop being a wimp, she's basically begging for it already" Caracalla says with a little smile that could have been an attempt to comfort you, one of his hands leaving its place on your waist and going to your hair, pulling it hard to remove your head that until then was resting on one of your outstretched arms, the act allows him to finally look you in the eyes, your eyes drooping, your chin now soaked in your own saliva, you didn't even realize you had drooled, Caracalla makes sure to clean it, his tongue running from your chin to your lips, capturing them in a hungry kiss. You're not sure how Geta took Caracalla's comment, but certainly not so well, since the only thing you can remember is the merciless rhythm of both of them and your moans muffled each time by one of the brothers' lips, your legs that trembled in ecstasy, how your body was moved the way they wanted, too fucked out of your own mind to know what even was happening anymore.

[earthlybeam]

You Slapping their Butt and Calling them “Dummy Thick” in Front of Everyone:

how would the elves react to this?

↓

↓

↓

Thranduil, Elrond, Celeborn version’s below.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

𐂂 Thranduil, the Elvenking of Mirkwood, stood at the center of his grand hall, his presence radiating regal authority as he listened to the report of one of his advisors. The moment your hand made contact with his backside, a sharp, resounding slap echoing in the silence and the words “dummy thick”, the room froze. It was as if time itself had paused to process the sheer audacity of what had just occurred.

𐂂 The entire court—guards, nobles, advisors—stared in stunned disbelief, their expressions a mix of horror, confusion, and an undeniable urge to stifle laughter. Thranduil, however, did not move. His spine straightened even further, if possible, and the air around him seemed to chill several degrees. Slowly, with the deliberate grace of a predator, he turned to look at you, his ice-blue eyes narrowing with a deadly calm.

𐂂 “Excuse me?” he said, his tone so frigid and cutting it could have shattered glass. “Did I hear you correctly, melethril, or did my ears deceive me in hearing the words ‘dummy thick’?”

𐂂 the elves in the room shifted uncomfortably, some daring to exchange wide-eyed glances but none brave enough to speak. Thranduil raised one elegant hand, dismissing them with a single, imperious gesture. “Leave us.” His voice was soft, but the command was absolute. Without hesitation, the room emptied, though the faint echoes of stifled laughter could be heard from a few who dared not make eye contact as they fled.

𐂂 Now alone, Thranduil turned his full attention to you, the weight of his gaze bearing down like a storm. “Of all the stunts you could have pulled,” he began, his voice low and measured, “this… this is the one you chose?” He stepped closer, his imposing height and regal bearing making the distance between you feel both suffocating and electrifying.

𐂂 For a long moment, he simply studied you, as if trying to determine what on Arda had possessed you to act so boldly. Then, to your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched—a flicker of something between exasperation and reluctant amusement.

𐂂“You are insufferable,” he said finally, though his tone betrayed the faintest hint of amusement. “It would seem you are determined to test my patience in ways no other would dare. I should have you escorted to the dungeons for such insolence.”

𐂂 But he didn’t move to punish you. Instead, his gaze softened, just a fraction, as he let out a slow breath. “Be grateful, Mellon, that I find your absurdity… tolerable. Though I would suggest you find less public ways to express your… admiration.”

𐂂 He turned with a regal flourish, leaving you to stand there, heart racing, as he strode toward his throne. But just as he sat, you could have sworn you caught the faintest smirk playing at his lips. Later, alone in his chambers, he would find himself chuckling softly, shaking his head in disbelief. “Dummy thick, indeed,” he’d mutter, before dismissing the thought as utterly ridiculous—and perhaps a little endearing.

📜𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

✶ As a lord of immeasurable composure and wisdom, Elrond would at first remain utterly still. The sharp sound of your audacious slap your hand slaps firmly against his backside, and the words “dummy thick” would echo through the Hall of Fire, bringing an abrupt silence to the gathering. Every elf present—poets, musicians, and scholars—would freeze in astonishment, their refined sensibilities shattered by the sheer audacity of your actions.

✶ Slowly, with the precision of someone who has endured millennia of chaos and unexpected challenges, Elrond would turn his head to look at you. His expression would be inscrutable, a mixture of bemusement and disbelief. His elegant brow would arch slightly, the only sign of his internal struggle to process what had just occurred.

✶“Mellon…” he would begin, his tone measured but carrying a distinct edge of incredulity, “did you just—” His words would falter for a brief moment, as if he needed to confirm to himself the reality of what had transpired. “And ‘dummy thick,’ you said?”

✶ A ripple of restrained laughter might pass through the room, quickly silenced by the sheer weight of Elrond’s presence. He would lift a hand in a subtle gesture, dismissing the spectators. “Leave us,” he would say, his voice calm yet commanding, the authority in it brooking no argument.

✶ Once the hall was empty, Elrond would face you fully, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze piercing. There would be no anger, but a palpable sense of gravity in his demeanor. “You possess a bravery,” he would say slowly, as if choosing each word with care, “that borders on recklessness. To display such… familiarity with me, and in such a setting…”

✶ Despite himself, a small, fleeting smile might tug at the corners of his lips, quickly replaced by his usual composed expression. He would step closer, his voice dropping into a softer, almost amused tone. “Dummy thick, you said? Pray, tell me, what compels you to such bold declarations?”

✶ Elrond, ever the patient and understanding soul, would find himself torn between chastising you for your outrageous behavior and being quietly charmed by your irreverence. His eyes would soften as he observed you, a flicker of warmth breaking through his stern exterior. “Though I find your timing questionable,” he would say, his tone lightening slightly, “your sentiments, if genuine, are… noted.”

✶ However, he would lean in just enough to ensure his words reached only you. “But take heed, melethril nín. Such actions will not go unanswered.” The slight smirk that accompanied his words would be enough to send a thrill of anticipation through you, even as his poise remained impeccable.

✶ Later, alone in the quiet of his chambers, Elrond might allow himself a small chuckle, shaking his head as he recalled your audacity. “Dummy thick,” he would mutter to himself, his voice tinged with both exasperation and fondness.

🩵𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓸𝓻𝓷

𖣂 The hall of Caras Galadhon is steeped in its usual tranquil dignity, the soft glow of the trees illuminating the gathered Galadhrim as they discuss matters of import. Celeborn, as always, stands tall and composed, his serene presence radiating authority and wisdom. It is precisely at this moment that your audacious act breaks the reverent calm: your hand slaps firmly against his backside, and the words “dummy thick” echo through the sacred silence of the Golden Wood.

𖣂 Celeborn freezes. His silver eyes widen slightly, betraying his utter shock, and for the first time in centuries, the ever-dignified Lord of Lothlórien appears utterly at a loss. The room grows silent—not the tranquil silence of respect, but the strained, collective gasp of elves trying to process what they’ve just witnessed.

𖣂 His lips part as though to speak, but no words come out. He glances sideways at you, the faintest flicker of bewilderment in his gaze, before returning his eyes to the court as if silently begging for the intervention of any Valar willing to grant it.

𖣂 The Galadhrim, ever composed, stand in stunned silence. A few younger elves, struggling valiantly to suppress laughter, hastily bow their heads to mask their reactions. Others exchange wide-eyed glances, unsure whether they should leave, intervene, or pray for a merciful ending to the scene.

𖣂 Celeborn slowly raises a hand, motioning for the court to leave. His voice, calm but carrying the unmistakable weight of authority, cuts through the tension:

𖣂 “Leave us. We will… discuss this later.”

The elves file out, some moving with haste, others lingering to steal one last glance at the scene of unprecedented absurdity. Once the room is empty, Celeborn turns to face you fully. His expression is carefully neutral, but the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth suggests he is struggling to maintain his composure.

𖣂“Tell me,” he begins, his tone measured and deliberate, “did you consider the consequences of such a… bold action? Or were you merely acting on impulse?”

𖣂 Despite the carefully composed exterior, you can see the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes, though it is buried beneath layers of propriety and disbelief. He steps closer, his voice dropping to a lower register: “It is not every day that the Lord of Lothlórien is called ‘dummy thick.’” He pauses, his lips quirking into a reluctant smile. “And yet, here we are.”

𖣂 Though initially taken aback, Celeborn cannot help but admire your audacity. He knows you well enough to recognize that this was no mere act of disrespect but rather a playful, if wildly inappropriate, expression of your bond.

𖣂“Perhaps next time,” he muses, his voice carrying the faintest edge of humor, “you might consider a more private venue for your… observations.”

𖣂 Still, as the evening progresses, you might catch him glancing at you, the faintest smirk gracing his usually composed features. While his pride as a lord is somewhat bruised, Celeborn’s affection for you remains unwavering, and deep down, he appreciates the rare moment of levity in his otherwise solemn existence. But beware—he is not above exacting playful revenge in his own time.

I’m working on other elven characters like lindir, haldir, feren, meludir, Galion, elros, elladan, elrohir, Legolas, erestor, glrofindel, Gil-galad, círdan.

So keep an eye out for my posts 🫶💚🍃

[vodrae]

Clark rushed from the other side of the world as he heard Bruce's heart going frenetic then nealy flat out. As he wrecked the Wayne's Plaza Imperial suite wall he saw Talia Al-Ghul knoting her kimono, her face wore an honest grin. Bruce was butt naked in their bed, post Damian creation.

"You are really a great friend. I'm glad you will always be by my beloved's side"

Too stunned to speak, the kryptionan could only think about the lack of batmask on Bruce's face. He knew she was the one for his brother from another mother.