#Rogue Elegance series

[pandapetals]

Cara Mia

The whole mansion is celebrating Halloween and you and Logan dress up as Morticia and Gomez Addams.

professor logan howlett x professor fem!reader - married couple, cute, fluff, teasing, no y/n used, no reader description, your an english professor, logan is a history professor - imagine days of future past logan with the white streaks in his hair

read on ao3 or find more parts for the series: here

divider credit: @enchanthings

"Now that’s a costume," you said with a grin, leaning against the doorframe as Logan stepped out of the bathroom. He looked the part of Gomez Addams, dressed in a sharp pinstripe suit that clung to his broad shoulders, a fake mustache meticulously glued above his upper lip. Of course, there was still something rugged about him, the rough edges peeking through despite the polished attire. Somehow, he managed to look like Gomez Addams who’d just finished chopping wood.

Logan grunted as he tugged at the tight collar of the dress shirt, his brow furrowed in irritation. "Remind me again why I agreed to this. And don’t say it’s for the kids," he grumbled, his voice low and rough. "You know damn well I don’t dress up for anyone."

You glided across the room, your long, black Morticia gown swishing dramatically around your ankles as you came closer. "Oh, I’m sure," you replied, your voice silky and laced with playful sarcasm. "You’re doing it because you love Halloween. Besides," you added, reaching up to smooth the lapel of his jacket, "you make a very handsome Gomez."

He huffed, but his lips twitched up in the faintest hint of a smirk as he took in your costume. "And you," he said, his eyes raking over your elegant black dress, "look like you were born to play Morticia." His hand slipped to your waist, pulling you in closer as he leaned down, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "What’s the line? 'Cara mia?'"

You laughed, lifting your hand to rest lightly on his chest. "That’s right," you replied, raising an eyebrow in challenge. "And I believe Morticia would respond with, 'Mon cher.'"

Logan smirked, his grip on your waist tightening as he dipped his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Keep talkin’ like that, and we’re not making it downstairs," he whispered, his voice a low growl.

"Downstairs now, " you scolded, swatting his shoulder playfully. "The kids are waiting, and I’d rather not be responsible for a riot because we kept them from their candy."

He let out a low chuckle, releasing you but letting his hand linger on your waist a moment longer. "Fine, fine. Let’s go entertain the little monsters," he muttered, but there was a glint of warmth in his eyes that said he didn’t really mind at all.

As you descended the stairs together, the sound of excited voices filled the air, and you could see the kids gathered in the mansion’s grand entryway, most of them already bouncing with anticipation. The room had been transformed into a haunted wonderland, complete with cobwebs, flickering fake candles, and eerie decorations hanging from the ceiling.

When you and Logan reached the bottom of the staircase, Jubilee let out a dramatic whistle. "Well, look who finally showed up," she teased, grinning from ear to ear. "I guess Logan’s not too cool for Halloween after all."

Logan rolled his eyes as he crossed his arms, standing a little taller as though he were playing up the role. "I ain’t here for the costume," he grunted, though the faint curl of his lips betrayed him. "Just here to make sure you all don’t eat so much candy you get sick."

Rogue laughed, stepping closer with a smirk. "Well, Gomez, " she said, giving his suit a once-over, "I have to say, this is the most put-together I’ve seen you in a long time. You clean up nice."

Logan shot her a look, his brows knitting together as he grumbled, "Watch it, kid."

You slid your arm through his, leaning in with a smile. "Oh, come now, darling," you said in your best Morticia impression, "don’t be modest. Everyone knows you’re the most dashing man in the room."

A few of the older students snickered, and Remy, who was wearing a pirate costume that looked like it had seen better days, chimed in with a grin. "You know, Logan," he said, raising an eyebrow, "you really do have that whole Gomez thing down. You’re all protective and swoonin’ over your 'cara mia.' Next thing you know, you’ll be speakin' French."

Logan grunted, shaking his head. "Not a chance, Cajun. But keep talkin’, and I’ll show you how Gomez handles an unruly houseguest."

You laughed, giving Logan’s arm a gentle squeeze. "Now, now, mon cher, let’s not start any duels tonight," you said, glancing up at him with a playful glint in your eye. "We wouldn’t want to frighten the children."

As if on cue, a group of the younger kids came running over, already decked out in costumes ranging from witches to superheroes. "Mr. Howlett, look at my costume!" one of them shouted, holding out his arms to show off his vampire cape.

Logan gave a faint, almost begrudging smile as he looked down at the child. "Not bad, kid," he said, giving the boy a nod. "Got the fangs and everything, huh?"

"Yep!" the boy said proudly, flashing his plastic vampire teeth. "I’m gonna get so much candy!"

"Just don’t go biting anybody," Logan replied dryly, ruffling the kid’s hair as he rushed off to join the other trick-or-treaters.

You watched the exchange with a smile, a warmth spreading through your chest. Even in his gruffness, there was something endearing about the way Logan interacted with the kids; he was always protective and watchful. 

You leaned in close, your voice a low whisper. "I think you’re enjoying this more than you’re letting on.”

Logan shot you a sideways glance, his lips twitching upward as he slid his hand into yours. "Maybe," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Don’t go tellin’ anyone. I’ve got a reputation to uphold."

"Your secret’s safe with me," you said, squeezing his hand. "But only if you do the tango with me later."

He chuckled, pulling you closer as the two of you made your way toward the candy station, the sound of laughter and squeals filling the room. "Deal, cara mia, " he whispered in your ear, his voice rough and affectionate.

You and Logan spent the better part of the evening wrangling the kids through the whirlwind of activities. There was pumpkin carving, where half the children ended up with more pumpkin guts on themselves than in the actual pumpkins, and a frantic candy-sorting session that resembled a mini stock exchange, with kids trading chocolates for lollipops and debating the merits of sour candies versus chocolate bars. The grand foyer echoed with the sound of squeals, laughter, and the occasional shriek when someone popped out of the fake cobwebs for a scare.

By the time the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed nine, the sugar-fueled chaos began to show signs of fading, and it was time to herd the little monsters off to bed.

Logan watched as you gently nudged a yawning witch and a sleepy vampire toward the staircase. "I doubt they’ll even sleep," he grumbled, arms crossed as he followed you down the hallway, his rugged features softened just a bit by the evening’s festivities.

"Well, if they don’t, at least it’s the weekend so we don’t have to worry about it in the morning,” you replied with a wink, shooing the last straggler up the stairs.

As the kids finally trudged to their rooms, dragging their candy bags behind them like little zombies, Remy appeared at your side, still dressed in his pirate costume, hat tilted at a jaunty angle. "Well, now that the little devils are out of our hair," he said with a grin, "it’s time for the real fun to start. I didn’t dress up for nothin’." He tipped his hat at you, then at Logan. "Hope you’re ready, chérie, ‘cause I brought out the good whiskey."

"About time," Logan grunted, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Might as well make this night worth the effort."

The moment the kids were safely tucked away, the main floor of the mansion transformed yet again—this time into a proper Halloween party for the adults. The common room was lit with a warm orange glow from jack-o'-lanterns scattered about, and cobwebs hung in the corners while a spooky playlist crackled from an old record player in the corner. A variety of drinks were set up on the bar, along with bowls of snacks and trays of cookies shaped like ghosts and bats.

"Alright, folks," Rogue called out from the center of the room, holding up a shot glass filled with something dark and ominous. "Let’s kick this thing off with a drinking game! Rules are simple—if you get caught in a lie, you drink. If you admit something embarrassing, we drink. And if anyone complains about their costume," she shot a glance at Logan, "they drink twice."

Logan smirked, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the bar and pouring himself a glass. "Looks like you’re all gonna get real drunk, then," he said, taking a swig.

"Please," you teased, sidling up next to him and giving him a playful nudge. "I’m pretty sure I could outdrink you in my sleep."

His eyebrow shot up, a spark of challenge lighting in his eyes. "That so?" he drawled, setting his glass down. "Guess we’ll have to see about that, cara mia. "

Remy, already leaning into the spirit of the game, handed out shot glasses to everyone. "Alright, first question," he said with a mischievous grin. "Raise your hand if you’ve ever used your powers to cheat in a game."

Several hands shot up—Bobby, who was dressed as Frankenstein, wiggled his fingers. "I mean, is it really cheating if it’s just a little bit of ice to cool the drinks?" he said with a grin.

Jean, who had come as a flapper girl, laughed and raised her glass. "Guilty," she admitted. "Scott and I may have used telekinesis during Twister once or twice."

You glanced over at Logan, who hadn’t raised his hand but was watching everyone with a hint of amusement. "And what about you, Mr. Howlett?" you asked, arching an eyebrow. "Ever used those heightened senses to win at cards?"

Logan’s lips twitched. "Don’t need to cheat to beat you," he shot back, his eyes glinting with a challenge. "But if I had used 'em, you’d never know."

"Oh, I see how it is," you teased, stepping closer to him. "Big talk from a guy who almost lost to me in poker last week."

"Almost doesn’t count, sweetheart," he murmured, leaning in, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "And if I remember right, you owed me a drink after that."

Remy cleared his throat loudly, cutting through the tension. "Well, well, look at these two," he said with a smirk. "If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you two were gonna re-enact that tango scene from Addams Family any minute now."

Rogue let out a laugh, grabbing another drink from the bar. "I’d pay to see that," she said, raising her glass toward you and Logan. "C’mon, Logan, show us your moves."

Logan rolled his eyes but reached for your hand, pulling you closer. "Fine," he grunted, "but don’t say I didn’t warn you."

You grinned, placing your other hand on his shoulder as you let him guide you into an exaggerated, dramatic dip. He held you there for a heartbeat, his face close to yours, a teasing smirk on his lips. "How’s that for a start?" he whispered.

"Not bad," you replied, your voice a playful purr. "But I think we can do better."

The music shifted to a slower, sultrier tune, and Logan pulled you upright, twirling you once before drawing you close again. The room around you faded into laughter and clinking glasses as you let yourselves get lost in the moment, your bodies moving together in time with the music.

As the night wore on, the drinks kept flowing, and the banter grew even more ridiculous. Someone—probably Bobby—had rigged up a costume contest for "Most Ridiculous Outfit," which ended up going to Logan while Hank, who’d put on a fake nose and glasses over his already blue fur, won for "Most Dedicated Effort."

Eventually, Rogue called out for another round of questions. "Alright, last one for the night—who here actually believes in ghosts?"

Several hands shot up, including Jean’s and Bobby’s. Logan remained still, his expression unreadable as he took a sip from his glass.

You nudged him playfully. "C’mon, Logan," you teased. "You’re not afraid of a few ghosts, are you?"

He glanced at you, his eyes steady and serious for just a moment before a grin tugged at his lips. "Darlin'," he said, his voice low and rough, "after all the things I’ve seen, I’m pretty sure a ghost would be the least of my worries."

The room erupted in laughter, and you raised your glass, clinking it against his. "Fair enough, Gomez. If we ever run into one, you’d better protect me."

Logan’s smirk deepened, and he slipped an arm around your waist, pulling you in close. "Always," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. "But I think you can handle yourself just fine, Morticia. "

Eventually, the party began to wind down. One by one, people drifted off to bed, the laughter and chatter fading into the quiet hum of the mansion. The candles burned low, casting flickering shadows on the walls, and the faint strains of the last song played softly in the background. It was just you and Logan now, standing together in the dimly lit common room, the lingering warmth of the evening settling into a comfortable silence.

You stifled a yawn, your lids heavy with sleepiness as you leaned against Logan for support. "I’d say this Halloween was a success," you murmured, letting your head rest against his shoulder. "The kids had a blast, no one went into a sugar coma… and I think Hank’s costume might’ve actually caused Bobby to laugh to death."

Logan chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that you felt more than heard. "Not bad," he agreed, wrapping an arm around your waist to steady you. "Though I could’ve done without the 'Most Ridiculous Outfit' contest."

You tilted your head back to look up at him, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. "Come on , you know you secretly enjoyed yourself," you teased, reaching up to brush a stray piece of lint from his jacket lapel. "I even saw you smile a few times."

He scoffed, but the corner of his mouth quirked upward in that way that told you he wasn’t actually denying it. "You must be seein' things," he said, his tone gruff but warm. "Maybe it's the whiskey."

"Or maybe," you replied, your voice softening as you ran your fingers along the edge of his collar, "you’re just getting sentimental in your old age."

Logan’s eyes flicked down to meet yours, his gaze dark and steady. "Careful, darlin'," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low growl that sent a pleasant shiver through you. "You keep teasin' me like that, and I might start thinkin' you actually enjoy my company."

You tilted your chin up, closing the distance between you just enough for your breath to mingle with his. "And if I do?" you whispered, your lips barely brushing his as you spoke.

Before you could blink, his hand was at the back of your neck, pulling you closer as his mouth met yours in a kiss. It was like the rest of the world fell away, leaving just the two of you, wrapped up in the warmth of each other. His fingers tangled in your hair, and you slid your hands up the front of his suit, fisting the fabric as if you were afraid he might pull away.

Logan didn’t pull away. If anything, he kissed you deeper, his other hand slipping down to your waist, pulling you against him. His lips moved over yours with a hunger.

When you finally broke the kiss, you were both breathless, your forehead resting against his as you struggled to catch your breath. "We should… probably head upstairs," you murmured, a teasing lilt in your voice as you glanced toward the darkened staircase. "Before someone comes down here and catches us."

Logan smirked, the warmth in his gaze tempered by that familiar spark of mischief. "Guess we wouldn’t want to ruin our reputations," he drawled, his hand slipping into yours as he led you toward the stairs. "C’mon, Morticia. Let’s continue this in private."

The two of you made your way upstairs, your footsteps quiet against the wood floor as you stole glances at each other, the anticipation building with every step. When you reached the top of the stairs, you couldn’t resist pulling him aside into one of the quieter hallways, your back pressing against the wall as you tugged him close again.

Logan didn’t waste a second. His hands slid to your hips, lifting you slightly as his mouth found yours once more, this kiss slower, deeper, as if he were savoring every second. You threaded your fingers through his hair, pulling him even closer, your body arching into his as a soft sigh escaped your lips. It wasn’t just the kiss that made your pulse quicken—it was the feeling of being completely wrapped up in him like he was the only thing that mattered right then.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his breathing ragged, his eyes dark with a mix of affection and desire. "You look damn good in that dress," he murmured, his voice low and rough as his thumb traced along your jawline.

You smiled, your fingers toying with the collar of his suit jacket. "And you don’t look half bad in a suit," you teased. "But I think I like you better without it."

Logan’s smirk deepened, his eyes glinting with that familiar spark of challenge. "Then I guess you’ll have to do somethin’ about that, won’t you?"

Your laugh was soft and breathless as you kissed him again, tugging him toward your bedroom with a playful urgency. 

[dandelionjack]

an essay about Rogue, The Chimes of Midnight, and how i believe all this ties in to the overarching themes of the series EVEN IF the inside-a-tv-show theory proves untrue

“Rogue” named himself after a stock character. he is the archetypal Handsome Rogue because there has to be a Handsome Rogue role in a period drama story set in Austenesque Regency England.

it’s all theatre — smoke and mirrors. just like the war waged against imaginary foes in boom (because there needs to be an Enemy in a wartime story) was theatre; the creation of the Bogeyman in space babies (because there needs to be a Scary Monster in a children’s bedtime story) was theatre; The Woman following Ruby in 73 yards (because there needs to be a Ghost in a folk horror story) was theatre. dot and bubble less so, but it’s wise to note — the dots created the slugs after all. they invented the slugs so that there would be a tangible Creature for the finetimers (and the Doctor) to fear, rather than simply being betrayed by their own technology. because that’s exactly what the false, harmful narratives colonialists tell themselves — stories of taming and conquering a wild Mother Nature and her ferocious beasts — have trained them to expect from the world. the dots were telling a story too, or rather putting on a play.

the penultimate episode of any doctor who series, if not always leading directly into the two-parter finale, will typically begin to tie up loose narrative strands that have stretched across the entire season. at a first impression rogue doesn’t seem to be doing that. but then you take a closer look at the antagonists: creatures that play a role for fun without the slightest regard for those around them. lethal LARPers. cosplayers out to kill. to put it pretentiously, a hyper-realistic theatre of cruelty.

to nobody’s surprise, i’m bringing up my favourite eighth doctor audio drama — the chimes of midnight. edward grove gives every person trapped in the time loop a designated role: the chauffeur, the doctor-detective, the plucky young lady of the house, the lady’s maid, the scullery girl, the housekeeper. they keep playing these roles, over and over, until they begin to forget their original identity, until the part they’re playing takes over their entire sense of self. the servants keep dying over and over because they cannot transcend their roles, because they believe themselves to be “nothing but a scullery maid”. they are reduced to the parts they play in the narrative until they become nothing outside of it, until they become confined to a single location.

the chimes of midnight is set in Edwardian-era England, a time of restrictive, prescriptive class, status and social roles which defined a person’s life and career trajectory — this strict delineation is driven to its logical conclusion and deconstructed under the unnatural conditions of Edward Grove. similarly, rogue is set in a Regency-era mansion — another historical period defined in the popular imagination by its complicated social rules, elegant courtship dynamics, strict class barriers, gossip and elitism. these two doctor who stories don’t have any intentional watsonian connection, but they are deeply linked on a thematic level.

high society is forced theatre. a 24/7 LARP. play your part, put on your costume, don’t interrupt the performance. the audience is waiting. they’re oh so hungry for tragedy.

the biggest part of them all, the most sought-after role, of course, is The Doctor. a standard to live up to. a name to wear like a banner, a pledge, a promise. he has to be like this because this is what he’s like.

the Scullery Maid scrubs the kitchen floor. The Detective searches for clues. the Chauffeur starts up his car. the Duchess hosts a glittering soirée. the Rake hides a secret fling with the Wallflower. the Rogue breaks hearts and broods on the balcony.

and the Doctor? the Doctor dances. “onwards and upwards”. forever in perpetual motion, spinning and spinning and spinning across the stars. never pausing to breathe. never stopping.

p.s.: so, pray tell, what is Ruby Sunday in all this? “The Companion”, of course. smart, funny, sassy, quick-witted, brave, cheeky, curious, self-sacrificial. she almost feels generic because she’s meant to be. she wasn’t born. she was written. an essential part of the story too. circling the Doctor like a satellite forever.

[iri-desky]

An ALNST Dungeons and Dragons AU?

Howdy! So I mentioned trying to make an alnst fantasy au on a previous post. To be more specific, I thought I'd try to make a DND style au!

Although before I get into the details of it, I thought I'd establish the classes of the characters first and foremost. That's what this whole post is about. Please note that this is just a draft and big idea dump, as well as test of how well these classes fit each character...aaaand how well other people think each class I chose fits each character.

In other words, if you think some other class or subclass fits better, feel free to speak your mind. I'm actively looking for a bit of criticism on these choices.

Mizi - Paladin, oath of redemption OR oath of the ancients. Mostly because of the "belief that God is human" speech and uplifting, positive nature. And how I think that Mizi should be seen in armor (/lh). I also think it'd be ironic for her and Ivan to be best friends while she's a Paladin and Ivan's a warlock. I'm very unsure about this one, though-- she's probably the one I'm struggling with most. An exchange I've had with @mirrorcatcreditcard also is making me consider a Monk or Rogue, though in general I'm trying to give her a class with a good dexterity. If I do end up giving her Paladin as a class, I chose the subclasses I did to give her a less "smite-y, all who defy me must die" flavor and more of a "starry eyed idealist hero" flavor.

Sua - Cleric, Life Domain. Mostly because I think it'd be funny as hell for the most reserved and secretly temperamental one to be given the responsibility of healing the party. She gives the vibes of any cleric-- gentle and elegant on the outside but secretly cursing the world and everyone else in this stupid party on the inside. Except Mizi. She's an angel and we're glad she's here. I also wanna see her deny healing to Ivan at least once. Also, Sua has angel symbolism, so I had to go through with that in the classes.

Hyuna - Rogue, Swashbuckler subclass OR Fighter, monster hunter subclass (or gunslinger). I think it's pretty obvious that a rogue really fits Hyuna, and I think it'd be neat to continue her "outlaw" thing in this universe, just in a different context. Swashbuckler is so she's still high energy and in the thick of things. That said, a fighter can fit just as well given their versatility and spirit-- being a fighter doesn't necessarily have to be "basic". She could be a monster hunter subclass (inspired by her destruction of the aliens in the original series) or even a gunslinger subclass. A champion could work as well.

Till - Bard, college of lore. Despite how the original series is music based, I feel like he's the only character that I can see being a bard outside of the context of alnst just because of his creative genius. He's an artist at heart, and I wanted to reflect that. I don't see him being too flamboyant of a bard, of course, but I feel like his excitement and his genuine love for what he makes might start to bleed into a crowd when he's, yknow, not being judged by thousands of aliens and instead being watched by fellow humans. My choice of the college of lore is especially inspired by his drawings in the Io comic and desire for a better world while knowing what the natural world used to be. It's also come to my attention after an exchange with @nilladrawsstuff that a healer Till that complains about having to heal everyone but still expresses genuine concern would be a neat idea--While I don't think a pure healer Till would be too in character, Bards CAN function as healers and I can see Till being a jack of all trades. That's just what Till is in Canon--a jack of all trades. I want to reflect that in this au with his class.

Ivan - Warlock, with Unsha as his patron, Great Old One subclass (because squid). Unsha gives enough cthutulu vibes for this to make sense-- furthermore, I feel like Ivan's detached and transactional realationship with Unsha makes this make even more sense. I also wanted Ivan's class and subclass to reflect his intelligent but somewhat distant nature, with the theme of "unfathomability" being something that really fits him. The class parallels Luka, as well, a character that Ivan is known to reflect. Hexblade could work as a subclass as well, although I'm leaning towards The Great Old One. Tbh, I'm not too sure about this one, although Warlock Ivan definitely goes hard in my book.

Luka - Sorcerer, Aberrant Mind. He's got the vibes. Luka was the one I figured out first, actually, simply because he screams sorcerer; Annoyingly dazzling man with his powers handed to him (no offense to Sorcerer mains at all, yes offense to Luka /j [jk, we love Luka in this house. I just like bullying him /lh]). That bitch did NOT need to research for that or beg for a thing. Also, a sorcerer's main stat is charisma, so... yeah. The inherently mysterious nature of Aberrant Mind also gives me huge Luka vibes, hence my choice.

Anyway, that's all. Again, if you have any criticisms, comments, or better ideas, PLEASE do no hesitate to tell me. 👍🏽 This is a sapling of an idea so far and I need your help for it to grow!

( ahaha pls don't let this flop... I've been working on this post for over an hour )

(Tagging people who I know might be interested in this / were present back in the previous post below the cut)

@junebluues @awaggaa @mirrorcatcreditcard @ravelroses @nilladrawsstuff @kingofanemptyworld

[aardvark-123]

~Gender Roles and Misogyny in the Elder Scrolls Headcanons~

This is mostly me speculating, because I've heard characters like Olfina Gray-Mane remarking on misogyny ("It's not easy being a woman in Skyrim"), but that sentiment isn't really borne out by the rest of the game. I'm not married to these headcanons, but they are interesting to think about within The Elder Scrolls's other world-building.

Cyrodiil has quite an open-minded culture, without much concept of Jobs For Men or Jobs For Women, and with trans people widely accepted. However, it also has quite a refined culture, where people are expected to be well put-together. Middle-class women face a familiar pressure to glam themselves up, being elegant lady-knights or preppy architects; working-class women, not so much, although they might wear some perfume for a shift in the mine.

On the surface, Skyrim seems to have gender equality - women are often seen as warriors, Jarls, clever-men, farmers and so on. However, there is a lingering sentiment that women are side characters, there to help and look after the real heroes - strong, loud men like Ulfric or Ysgramor. Skyric society can also be judgy about men doing "women's work" like weaving and cookery.

I've decided Skyrim's demonym should be "Skyric", because it just makes sense.

High Rock is open-minded like Cyrodiil, as well as having an individualistic culture where people try to make their own path through life. It has a very romantic culture, led by stories of chivalry, adventure and courtly love, but these stories aren't exactly bound to gender roles. Maidens and knights are well-established archetypes, but half the famous knights are women and several of the maidens are men.

Morrowind has a fairly robust culture, but it cuts even-handedly in all directions, with gender stereotypes and mockery levelled at everyone. When asked, some Dunmer women have said Dunmer men are worth putting up with, and Dunmer men have said they're glad Dunmer women are on their side.

The Code of Malacath expects men and women alike to be strong, tough and argumentative, although it is patriarchal in the sense that men lead families and strongholds. There are a few who scoff at non-binary Orcs, but non-binary Orcs can earn respect by punching their detractors in the face. Orsinium's biggest counterculture is an elegant, cultured ballroom dancing scene.

Sexism is a non-issue in Valenwood. There is a stereotype that women are the tough ones, but neither women nor men get pigeonholed into a particular life path.

Yokuda never had a serious problem with gender roles, but women in modern-day Hammerfell face pressure to live up to a "cool girl" image, where they're friendly, sprightly, tomboyish and up for a good time, able to fight, yet always nicely attired. It's remeniscent of Skyrim's cultural emphasis on comely shieldmaidens. Conversely, Hammerfellese men have faced pressure to live up to the "dashing rogue" archetype ever since a popular comic book series about Cyrus.

[faulty-writes]

Hii! I apologize if you keep getting notifications from me at such an hour but I cant get enough of your posts! I love the way you write Tenya!

So if I may trouble you just a bit longer…

Since it’s spooky season, what would your take be on vampire Tenya x f (or gn) reader? And vampire Monoma as well?

[ Oh I like trouble, trust me. Haha. Thank you. I swear I get so many compliments regarding how I write Tenya, makes me so proud of myself. One spooky season request coming up! ]

Despite being what many assumed was a "blood-sucking" creature, Tenya had a sense of elegance and self-discipline because of his upbringing. Yes, he was what most would refer to as a "rich kid" but he was not spoiled in any capacity and often adhered to his own rules which included having manners even when thirsty for blood.

Most found Tenya to be intimidating, but you found him intriguing despite initially being unaware of his true nature. The two of you met in a bookstore late at night and you recall the way he stumbled when he rounded the corner of a bookshelf to find you and the way he bowed and said "Pardon, I was unaware there was another frequenting this shop so late at night."

The two of you began to meet frequently at the bookstore after that, and although you thought it peculiar Tenya only requested to meet you at night. You assumed it was because he was busy during the day but in all truth, he was struggling to avoid revealing his true nature to you and feared that once you found out he was a vampire you'd…well you would not want to see him again.

He slipped one night, after pushing himself too far. Yes, self-control was essential. But one could only contain themselves for so long and vampires were particularly dangerous when deprived of blood. "I…I apologize I…I did not wish for you to see me as such a…monster," while initially a shock, you tried to be accepting and understanding of what he was.

Being the person you were, his vampiric world fascinated you, and he didn't hesitate to teach you about the history of his lineage or his nightly rituals which typically included performing a series of prayers, chants, and such before he drank whatever blood he had managed to obtain.

Unfortunately, Tenya also informed you of the dangerous side of his world. Mostly the rogue vampires who strayed from the societal rules of their world and killed or injured humans during their bloodlust. "I promise, I will not allow harm to come to you. Ensuring your safety is quite a priority." Yes…he would go to whatever lengths he needed to ensure you remained by his side.

To double ensure your safety, Tenya presented you with gifts frequently. Usually, these consisted of protective charms, blessed holy water, and amulets that were believed to ward off bad supernatural threats. Of course, he would never tell you the hoops he had to go through to get such gifts.

Sometimes it was hard to keep up with Tenya's schedule considering he was more active at night. But he assured you that he enjoyed your company and often insisted that you could rest when you appeared extremely tired. Waking up in his bed or falling asleep against his shoulder became a frequent occurrence for you.

His parents were hesitant to accept you and your growing relationship with their son. On the other hand, his brother, Tensei welcomed you with open arms. "It's awesome that my little bro finally found someone! And just to let you know, it doesn't matter if you're human, another vampire, or even a witch. I believe that people who look past such things are the coolest!" It was safe to assume that Tenya got his beliefs from Tensei.

"I believe with enough effort, we may eliminate the prejudice that separates our societies to coexist together in harmony," one of Tenya's deepest wishes was to break the barriers between his and your kind. Although he had not intended to feel affection for you, he did. Yet, he looked at it as the first step to uniting your kind as he dreamed.

Neito, unfortunately, was out of blood and sought to get it fresh from an unsuspecting human. That human happened to be you and he was only attracted to you because of the intoxicating scent of your blood. However, he quickly found that you were not a frail human and stood your ground far more than he expected.

While some would be embarrassed, Neito remained his ignorant self after realizing you were quite the troublesome individual. "How dare you reject me! I am Neito Monoma, and I demand you provide me with your blood!" As far as you were concerned, underneath his vampiric nature was nothing more than a spoiled child and you were prepared to discipline him as needed.

He continued to stalk you, despite finding alternative blood donors because as much as he hated to admit it, he found you intriguing. For a human that is, and used his sharp wit accompanied by playful banter whenever you caught him in his stalking efforts. "Surely you didn't think I'd leave you alone, oh no my dear, quite the opposite. I do not stop until I get what I want and what I want is your blood," and your affection, but he kept that to himself.

Your opinion of him didn't change until you were attacked by another one of his kind. Your guard was down initially because you had mistaken them for Neito, and despite your skills, you were losing the fight until he showed up and saved you. He'd be damned if he let another taste your blood before he got the chance to.

You detested the idea of letting him finally drink from you but considering his courageous actions. You allowed him the opportunity and found that he was surprisingly gentle when feeding from you. "Surely you didn't compare me to such monsters as that rouge one who attempted to take what is mine, how insulting. I pride myself in presentation and manners," he stated, acting just a touch too offended.

Despite not letting many people in, the two of you continued to spend time together, and Neito began to reveal his past. How he came from a high-class family, their rather…unbelievable expectations of him, and how he wishes to break free and prove his own worth to the world. Of course, that was a challenge given the current state of discrimination toward his kind, but he was still determined to do whatever he could to make his dream come true.

He finds himself feeling peaceful when in your presence and this was new to him and something that gave him a sense of belonging. It was almost as if being in your presence kept his demons at bay and he partially wondered if you wore any protection symbols or amulets on your person.

On occasion, Neito would still struggle with the affection he felt for you and his nature. Vampires were strong, drank blood, and didn't hesitate to do what they wanted to obtain said blood. But even though he knew you would allow him to drink from you. He found that he didn't want to cause you any harm and thus the conflict continued but he kept this a secret from you.

Eventually, Neito agreed to allow you to meet his family. Although it was immediately apparent, they detested you merely because you were human and spoke ill of Neito for befriending and furthermore feeling the way he did toward you. "Humans are meant to be our food source, nothing more," they said which caused Neito to argue with them before ultimately dragging you out the door.

Despite your unusual relationship, Neito viewed it as fulfilling his commitment to protect and cherish you for as long as you lived, and from what he understood, that was for a short time. He planned to propose to turn you but decided to wait to bring that up. For now, he'd enjoy your company.

[ladamedusoif]

Tempered in the Fire - Part One

See the Series Masterlist for complete content warnings, historical event information, and series notes.

Cross-posted to AO3.

Pairing: Blacksmith!Din Djarin x F! Reader

Summary: Ireland, almost a decade after the rebellion of 1798. You are an unusual woman: married, but alone; a widow, with no certainty her husband is dead. When your local blacksmith is badly injured in an accident and unable to work, you have no choice but to travel to the next forge, run by a man of few words whose uncertain origins and dark complexion make him stand out among the locals. You are immediately intrigued by this mysterious, taciturn figure - and the striking little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

Word Count: 3.3k

Rating: Mature (chapter); Explicit 18+ (series)

Content (chapter specific): Blacksmith!Din AU; historical setting; references to violence; references to spousal abandonment; strong language; almost certainly inaccurate depictions of blacksmithing; slightly wonky history; likely slightly wonky renderings of Irish language (technically my third language!).

A/N: Translations for any dialogue in Irish are provided at the end of the chapter. The Irish language was one of the casualties of the colonisation of the island, as it became associated with a lack of education (though the tide turned somewhat in the late nineteenth/early twentieth centuries) and has never recovered. (Go and listen to ‘Butchered Tongue’ on Hozier’s latest album for a musical reflection on this, it even includes references to 1798)

Tagging interested parties and my usual taglist people - sign up via my taglist if you want to be added (or let me know if you’d rather not be tagged!): @gracie7209, @yourcoolauntie, @tessa-quayle, @lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @trulybetty, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @katareyoudrilling, @perennialdoll247, @joeldjarin, @sunnywithachanceofjavi, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @javierisms, @pedrostories, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @rhoorl, @red-red-rogue, @survivingandenduring, @khindahra, @love-the-abyss, @fictionismyreality, @imaswellkid

This is a quiet place, a landscape rendered in greens, greys, and whites, the simple rural dwellings peppering the good agricultural land that stretches across the county.

Appearances can be deceiving, though. What seems to the outsider as a long-established peace is the result of a more recent and more violent pacification. The fields where young men lost their lives in the pursuit of a dream of freedom give nothing away today, almost a decade after the rebellion was brutally crushed. They didn’t stand a chance against the arrayed ranks of muskets, being armed only with tall, sharp pikes, hammered for them on the anvils of sympathetic blacksmiths around the country.

The people who live and work here bear the scars - some literal, some psychological, but all livid, fresh, and painful.

In this idyll where trauma and anger simmers beneath the surface, his forge is a long, low, whitewashed stone building roofed in thatch. It’s a little outside the nearest village, sitting just off the main road on the way to the next big town. Like most of those who ply this trade, the blacksmith here lives alongside his place of work: one half of the building is the forge, the other is the neat, simple home he shares with the little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

He’s an essential figure: he makes all manner of metal goods and repairs them, too, in a world where nothing is disposable. He shoes horses, too, and his gentle care for the elegant beasts is well-known around the county.

Still, he’s not the most obvious candidate for a ‘pillar of the community’. Unlike other smiths in the area he’s not known for holding court while he works, regaling his customers with yarns and stories. He keeps himself to himself, mostly, though he comes into the village with the boy to buy supplies, collect items for repair, and return what he’s mended to their owners.

He’s been at his anvil for twenty years, or thereabouts. As is the way of a small community, all manner of stories circulate about where he came from and why there was no obvious family of origin. Most assume he comes from travelling people, who are known for their skill with metalworking.

Such is his reputation for consistently good work, fairness, and decency, though, that no one would ever dream of pushing him to say more about himself. This man of few words, who wears his apron like his armour and sometimes wraps a band of grey cloth around his mouth and nose when he works, to protect his lungs from the soot and smoke, is both insider and outsider in a place where such binaries are normally strictly enforced.

“You’ll be living high on the hog soon enough, then, Din? What with all the work that’s coming your way now.”

He looks up from the horseshoe he’s hammering into shape, dark eyes staring at the silhouette of the local priest, framed by the light of the forge’s small front window. Father Carthy has come to have his horse shod - and, it seems, to discuss the blacksmith’s fortunes.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The priest steps closer to the anvil, a look of surprise on his face when he realises the blacksmith hasn’t heard. “Bad accident over in the forge at Donapatrick. He’ll be alright, but their smith is out for the next few months, at least. He’s lucky to be alive.”

Din dips the shoe into a tub of cold water, sending a hiss and a plume of steam into the air.

“So they’re coming to me?”

“Most of them. Your reputation precedes you.”

He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Not sure I can take on all that extra work.”

Father Carthy scoffs. “Don’t turn it down, Din. Lean times are always waiting round the corner, just when you least expect them.” He peers around the stone forge at the centre of the room, trying to spot the little figure who’s been hiding in the shadows.

“Sure you have an apprentice to help you, don’t you?”

The little boy stares silently, intently with his huge, dark eyes at the man clad in clerical black.

“Well, he’s inherited your gift of the gab, Din, anyway. Look, you’ll be glad of the few extra shillings. I know it’s not always easy making ends meet, between looking after yourself and the lad.”

Din pulls himself up to his full height, cutting an imposing, broad figure in his soot-marked shirt, leather apron, simple brown woollen breeches, and boots.

“We manage. Gró?” The boy appears at the blacksmith’s side. “Tabhair dom na tairní, maith an bhuachaill.”

He swiftly locates a box of horseshoe nails, each made by hand at Din’s anvil. The priest raises an eyebrow.

“He’ll need English, Din, or he’ll get nowhere. I’d be glad to teach him if-“

Din cuts him off with a pointed sigh. “He understands every word. But this is how we talk to each other.”

Behind him, the sandy-haired boy narrows his eyes and scowls at Father Carthy.

You know it’s not usual for a woman of your age and station to ride alone, but then you’re not usual for a woman of your age and station. And your washtub is leaking, and your horse needs to be shod. Needs must.

You saddle up the horse, strapping the tub on one side, and wrap yourself up in your shawl, securing it at the waist with a well-worn leather belt. You mount the little brown horse and turn her in the direction of Donapatrick and the local forge.

“How did you not hear?” Seán, the blacksmith’s apprentice, stares up at you in astonishment. “Everyone heard!”

You feel like kicking him in the ribs for talking to you like that. He’s no more than thirteen, and yet here he is talking to a woman who could comfortably be his mother (and then some) like she came down in the last shower.

“I didn’t hear because I wasn’t told, and because I have better things to be doing than gossiping around the village.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, regardless. You’ll have to go over to the other forge - the fella over the bridge, about twenty minutes away. You know it?”

You do know it, though you’ve never had reason to go inside. Why would you, when Peter’s forge is so much closer? You don’t even know the other blacksmith’s name, and in this part of the world that’s a strange situation indeed.

“Right, so.” You gently dig your heels into the horse’s sides, she starts to walk, and you make your way to the road that leads down to the river, the stone bridge, and, eventually, the whitewashed forge beyond.

Just as Father Carthy had predicted, Din was snowed under with extra work since Peter’s accident a week or so before. He is exceptionally well-organised by nature, managing his own accounts and records with great attention to detail, and he has extended the system to help him cope with the new demand. With Gró’s help, he organises the items for repair into separate sections, labelled according to whether they belong to existing or temporary customers. He sets up a new ledger to take account of custom orders from people who normally go to the other smith, and takes note of new faces who come to have their horse shod.

Din is cross-checking his records at the table in the main room of his home when he hears the sound of hooves approaching. He asks Gró to peek out, to see if it’s a familiar face or another new customer.

The boy climbs up on the deep windowsill to look out through one of the small cottage windows.

“Is bean ar chapall í - ’s stráinséir í.”

Din stands up and goes to the door, reaching for his apron as he does so.

He cuts an unusual figure, this blacksmith. There aren’t many people around here who look like him. You notice the penetrating dark eyes first, taking you in as you slow and pull up the horse. His dark hair is wavy, curling in places, and you are surprised to see that he’s bearded - if you can call the patchy scruff around his mouth and jaw a beard.

He’s younger than you’d expected, maybe forty, and well-built - broad shoulders, strong, muscular forearms marked with scars from his work, his shirt loose and open to expose a stretch of his tanned chest. He ties on a leather apron as you dismount, and walks out to greet you.

“Good day. I was hoping you could help with a repair? And my horse needs to be shod, too. I’m sorry, I usually go to Peter up in Donap -“

He cuts you off with a nod. “I know. Yes. That’s fine. The tub, is that the repair?”

You raise your eyebrows at how direct he is. Curt, almost. Rude, some would say.

“It is. It’s leaking at the side, here.” You undo the strap and he takes the washtub down. It looks strangely tiny against his substantial form.

He turns and gesticulates with his head in the direction of the open door. From the dark interior, a striking boy emerges, clutching a piece of paper, some string, and a stubby pencil.

The blacksmith gives him instructions and he diligently scrawls a number on the paper, before attaching it to the tub with the string and carrying it into the forge.

“Do you only speak in Irish to him?”

The smith has turned his attention to your horse, examining each of her hooves in turn. He looks at you quizzically.

“It’s what he prefers. What we prefer. He understands English perfectly.”

“Unusual that he’s fair and you’re dark. Is his mother fair? I suppose she must be.”

He sighs.

“I don’t know.”

You can’t stop yourself from letting out a little gasp. He looks up at you, dark eyes frustrated at your constant chatter. But he knows this needs explanation.

“He’s my apprentice. He’s a foundling. I’ve taken him as my own.”

You feel your face heat, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

He strokes the horse’s muzzle, not looking directly at you. “You didn’t know. I can shoe the horse now, though you’ll need to wait. The tub will take a day or two.”

You nod in agreement.

“What’s her name?”

His voice is softer. He’s still looking at your little horse, who’s loving the attention from this new person.

“Réaltín.” She has a perfect little splash of white between her eyes, in the shape of a little star. You couldn’t have named her anything else.

He repeats the animal’s name, and you see the tiniest hint of a smile cross his lips before his serious expression returns.

It turns cold, and you wait it out on a stool just inside the door of the forge, glad of the warmth.

You watch as the blacksmith heats up and works the metal shoes at his anvil, so they’ll fit Réaltín’s smaller hooves perfectly. The light from the fire illuminates his features as he works, highlighting the beads of sweat on his brow and picking out the various shades of brown in his eyes. He has pulled a band of grey cloth over his nose and mouth, which draws your attention all the more to his dark gaze.

The little boy stares at you while the man works, occasionally helping him by fetching an implement or helping work the bellows. You give him a little wave and a smile, hoping he’ll respond. He doesn’t come any closer, but you see him grin for a moment before he disappears behind the broad figure of his master - well, his adoptive father, if what the blacksmith said is correct.

Peter’s forge is always full of chat and song and gossip, a kind of social hub as much as a vital service. In contrast, the only music here is the singing of the anvil as the silent, stoic smith works, interspersed with the whoosh of the bellows and the hiss of the cooling tub. He doesn’t look at you, eyes always trained on the task at hand or at his little apprentice. He doesn’t speak, except to the little boy.

After a few exchanges, you realise something. “Is he called Gró?”

The smith keeps working. “That is what I call him, yes.”

“Funny to call a little thing like that after a poker.”

He turns his attention to the fire for a moment before he answers you. “He kept trying to stoke the fire on his own when I first took him in. I said the word so much it became his name. He likes it.”

Silence. Singing metal. Hissing steam.

He makes sure Gró watches him at every step as he removes the old horseshoes, cleans Réaltín’s hooves, files them carefully, and attaches the new shoes. Throughout, he quietly explains to the boy what he’s doing, and why.

Your stomach is rumbling, and you remember the supplies you brought with you (and had forgotten about).

When they’ve finished the last hoof, you speak up. “I - I brought a cake of fresh bread with me, in case it took longer. And I have butter, too, and a little crab apple jam. I’d be glad to share it with the little lad.”

Gró’s enormous eyes widen with excitement and he grins. (He really does understand English perfectly, you think.)

“We have enough food for ourselves, thank you.”

The boy’s face falls.

“I just meant as a little treat. A thank you, for taking the job when you’ve so much to be doing.”

He sighs, again. “Well… ach. Yes. Come in.”

Their home is neat and simply furnished, and he evidently knows how to look after a household as well as a business. You sit at the wooden table in the main room, which serves as kitchen, living area, and office for the blacksmith’s records. Out of the corner of your eye you spy a ladder going up to the attic, which you presume must be used as a sleeping space. A door leads off the main part of the house to what looks to be a smaller room.

Gró is already on his third piece of bread, butter, and apple jam, a shiny orange smear on the tip of his little nose.

“I hope this tastes okay. It’s always so hard to know when you churn butter, isn’t it?” You sip some of the cool water he’d poured into an earthenware mug for you.

“I don’t know. I’ve never churned butter.”

His reply is so deadpan that you wonder for a moment if he’s joking. You decide he isn’t.

“It’s not that hard,” you continue. “And I have the cow and the milk so why not?” You chew on a bit of bread, appraising your handiwork. “Actually, not bad at all, this time.”

He grunts in agreement. “You have a farm?”

“A very small smallholding. Tenant to the lord, like most of us.”

“Your husband works the land, then.”

You stare at the crust of bread in front of you, and clear your throat.

“He doesn’t. He’s…not here. He’s gone.”

The blacksmith’s eyes soften. “I’m very sorry for your troubles. Sickness, or was it in the fighting -”

You look at him directly. “That bastard wouldn’t fight for anything, not even his wife. He’s not dead. Or at least, I don’t think he’s dead. But I wish he was, because then I’d really be free.”

For a moment it looks like the stoic blacksmith is going to choke. He reaches for his own mug and drinks deeply.

“Well, now, I -“

“He upped and went. A few years back. God knows where he is now. He’s not around here, anyway. I’d say he’s skipped to Belfast or London.” You finish your bread. “Lucky the smallholding had come through my father, so I wasn’t out on the road.”

He’s flushed, and evidently a little uncomfortable. Well, he started it, you think.

“How do you survive - do you have children, too?”

You shake your head. “No, a blessing not to have them. And I do what I did before I married - I sew. Mostly alterations and refashioning and repairing, now, but at least I have a trade.”

The smith nods to himself. “A useful one.”

“Not as useful as yours.”

He gives you a tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile.

You stand up and start to clear the dishes. “Keep the rest of the bread and the butter and jam. I’ll collect the jars when I come back for the tub.”

He starts as if to speak, standing up from his chair, and seems nervous.

“Could I - we - ask you to do something for us?”

“It depends, but…”

“Clothes. Gró’s clothes are in need of mending. Badly. Would you be able to help?”

You smile and nod. “I’d be delighted to. Lord, has the poor lad been going without mending for this long?”

The smith opens a wooden chest and takes out a small bundle of tiny items of clothing. “Not quite. Peigí normally does it, but she’s been so busy with the work in her yard lately that I didn’t want to ask.”

Peigí is something of a legend in the area, a fiery woman who stubbornly insisted on taking over her father’s trade in repairing carts and wagons - and succeeded. You smile wryly to yourself at the vision of her wielding a needle and thread.

He hands you the clothes, wrapped in a faded piece of red and white cloth. “Oh, hold on.” He reaches back into the chest and retrieves a dark grey knitted sweater that has seen better days. “I don’t know if you darn, too, but he’ll need this in the colder weather, and -“

You take the sweater, handling it with care, and clutch the little bundle to your chest. “It’s no bother at all.”

He smiles, genuinely smiles, at you for the first time. You marvel at how such a stern, hardy man can reveal himself to be quite so soft - eyes crinkling, expression warm and friendly, teeth white in that tanned face streaked with grime from the forge.

“Thank you…?” He pauses, waiting for you to introduce yourself. You tell him your name.

“And you’re…”

“Din.”

“Din. And Gró.” The little boy swivels in his seat at the sound of his name, and sends the sneaky spoonful of apple jam that he’s been enjoying flying to the flagstone floor.

Din accompanies you as you strap the bundle of clothes to the saddle, and mount Réaltín for the journey home.

“I’ll be back in two days for the tub. I’ll bring his things then.”

Din gives the horse an affectionate pat, and nods as you turn and head back up the narrow road.

Gró has come to the door of the house.

“’s bean deas í, a dhaid.”

Translations:

Tabhair dom na tairní, maith an bhuachaill.

Give me the nails, there’s a good boy.

Is bean ar chapall í - ’s stráinséir í

It’s a woman on a horse, she’s a stranger.

’s bean deas í, a dhaid

She’s a nice lady, daddy. (Can also mean ‘pretty lady’).

And yes, ‘gró’ in Irish can mean crow-bar - or, in older dialect, a poker.

[jadegretz]

Miss Spencer: Beauty's Clash with Destiny by Jade Gretz

Title: "The Rivalry in the Ring: Miss Spencer's Darkest Hour"

The arena was electric with anticipation, the crowd a sea of eager faces, each one waiting for the night's main event. The lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the audience as the spotlight hit the center of the ring, where the announcer's voice boomed through the loudspeakers.

"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight's match is one you won't forget! In the blue corner, the elegant, the unbeatable, the queen of the ring—Miss Spencer!"

The crowd erupted into cheers as Miss Spencer, also known as the "Sexy Teacher," made her entrance. Dressed in her signature white blouse and short plaid skirt, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, she exuded confidence and poise with every step. Her blue eyes sparkled with determination as she waved to her fans, who chanted her name with fervor.

But tonight was different. As she climbed into the ring, she could feel a tension in the air, a sense of unease that gnawed at her. She had faced countless opponents in her career, but something about this match felt off.

The announcer's voice echoed again, this time with an edge of excitement. "And in the red corner, a new challenger, fierce and unyielding, the mysterious dark horse—Lilith!"

The lights shifted to the opposite side of the ring, where Lilith stood, her presence commanding attention. She was a stark contrast to Miss Spencer—dressed in a black leather bodysuit that clung to her athletic frame, her dark hair framing a face that was both beautiful and intimidating. Her eyes were like twin pools of shadow, filled with a cold, calculating malice that sent a shiver down Miss Spencer's spine.

The bell rang, signaling the start of the match. Miss Spencer circled her opponent, her mind racing. She knew nothing about Lilith, and that was a disadvantage. She relied on strategy and knowledge of her opponents' weaknesses, but with Lilith, she was in the dark.

Lilith struck first, her movements a blur as she lunged at Miss Spencer with a series of quick jabs. Miss Spencer dodged and c …(see the rest of the story at deviantart.com/jadegretzAI). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)

[hlficlibrary]

✤ Royal Fics ✤

A series of posts with the top five fics of each category by kudos plus five more hidden gems from that category! Remember to leave kudos and a comment on the fics you enjoyed to show your appreciation! You can find our other recs here.

- Top 5 H/L Fics -

1️⃣ Nothing But You On My Mind by nonsensedarling / @absoloutenonsense {E, 84k}

Louis Tomlinson is a PR manager hired to improve the image of royal bad-boy Prince Harry Styles. Unfortunately for him, that means being faced with the Prince's constant innuendos, incessant dirty jokes, and relentless flirting. Louis just wants to make it to Princess Gemma's coronation; once she's crowned Queen, his contract is up and he never has to see the Prince again.

2️⃣ Queen of Arizella by seducedbycurls {M, 277k}

Stealing from Royalty is punishable by death.

Louis starts over, doing his best to keep his hands at his sides but he is hungry and he tries stealing from the wrong Royal.

Harry is King of Arizella, he needs a Queen and who better than an omega on the run from death? Louis will learn to become the perfect Queen -the perfect fake Queen, but only for a few months.

A fake lover, a fake Queen, but a real bond.

3️⃣ Pretty Boy by iwillpaintasongforlou / @stfustucky {E, 32k}

Harry's been forced into a high-class prostitution ring because his heroin-addicted mother is too strung out to realize that her boyfriend is pimping out her son. Louis is the crown prince of England and gets into a lot of mischief and thinks it's normal to pay prostitutes to "get a good night's sleep." They probably aren't meant to see each other beyond that one random night, but then again, they probably aren't meant to see each other at all.

4️⃣ Celebrity Discount by LoadedGunn {T, 27k}

Louis fell for Prince Harry when he was ten and Harry was eight and peeked behind the Queen’s elegant gown for his first public appearance—a shy smile and a mess of curls. He fell for him when he caught Lottie putting up a magazine cover of Harry on her wall and all she had to say for herself was, “He’s such a good person, yeah?” and, yeah. He fell for him when Harry gracefully accepted his demotion. He fell for him when Harry came out and stayed out.

5️⃣ Sail Across Me by iwillpaintasongforlou / @stfustucky {E, 21k}

Harry is a prince that is about to be forced into marriage against his will and running away to sea seems like a much better option. Louis is the captain of the infamous pirate ship The Rogue and he has a thing for helping defenseless creatures. Especially when they're as pretty as this one.

HIDDEN GEMS:

💎 Unveiled by @phdmama {M, 65k}

The train grinds to a halt and Harry leans forward in his eagerness to take it all in. It’s a gorgeous Spring day, the sky the same intense blue that he knows from home, which comforts him. There’s much here that looks almost familiar, but then so much that is new and strange to his eyes. The bustling station platform and winding streets beyond paved in cobblestones look much like home. There are vehicles ranging from small to very large, some with strange and unusual shapes of which he can only guess the purpose. But most surprising are the people. There is a crowd gathered, filled with men and women, some in what looks to be a military uniform, some in what must be the street clothes in this Land.

There are no robes. And not a single one of them is veiled.

💎 dip you in honey by delsicle / @eeveedel {E, 28k}

Princess Harry, the pearl of England, is set to be married to the youngest prince of France in just six months. Anxious about his performance on his wedding night, he enlists the help of his loyal handmaiden Louis to help him practice everything he needs to know

Omega/Omega AU

💎 foothold by @turnyourankle {M, 18k}

Louis has crossed the galaxy with a ship full of crystals; they’re the only thing he has to offer in exchange for safe harbor. He thought getting to his destination would be the hardest part, hoping that once he got his family to safety everything would fall back into place; Louis struggles to adapt while his sisters thrive. Louis suspects Emperor Styles may have something to do with it.

💎 The Prince and The YouTuber by @haztobegood {E, 12k}

The Annual Rosendal Spring Gala hosted by the Royal Family is the most prestigious fundraiser in the country. When a problem with the honorary foundation arises, Crown Prince Louis Tomlinson must pick a new worthy foundation on short notice. He discovers the perfect replacement in an unlikely place, while watching his favorite YouTuber, Harrysparkles.

💎 i know i've grown (but i can't wait to go home) by LiveLaughLoveLarry / @loveislarryislove {T, 7k}

When Louis falls down a hill behind an old castle, he wakes up and finds the castle new and full of life. It's confusing to say the least.

“What year is it?” Louis asked.

Harry’s befuddlement was only growing. “It’s… 1369?”

“Nice,” Louis said instinctively, then, “Sorry, not related. Okay. Wow. So, when I woke up this morning, it was 2019.”

[brabblesblog]

Ch 6: Turn away thine eyes from me, for they have overcome me.

Astarion has ascended, and she has stayed with him. Life in the Crimson Palace isn’t as idyllic as it seems. Is there a chance for their relationship to go back to how it was? Or is it too late for the Ascendant and his consort?

This series is about Ban, my Tav, and the Vampire Ascendant. Will be angst and smut, with sprinkles of fluff.

This fic is a softer take on Ascendant!Astarion and of the changes he undergoes after the rite. Can Ban handle the change, and if a chance came, would she choose to run? And can the Ascendant win her back in time? Inspired by the concept of vampire wives and that IGN interview with Larian that discussed the ascension.

Professionally edited by @editing-by-night

Astarion attempts to deal with the threat of the Waterdeep covens. A party, his own feelings, and the tentative nature of his current relationship with his consort threaten to undo everything.

Read on AO3.

Masterlist.

Astarion considered the invitations laid out before him. He picked one up, feeling the quality of the parchment he’d selected for it. He normally wouldn’t bother to inspect these himself, relegating that task to the help. However, this wouldn’t be one of his typical soirées. He’d made the first move, inviting the largest coven in Waterdeep in the hopes of assuring them he had no designs upon their city - and that were he to, he’d be more than a match for them.

In the two months since his consort had abandoned him, most of the renovations to the Crimson Palace had been completed. The garden was now filled with flowers and fountains, the basement now ready for the guilds to rent and occupy in the daytime. He had made little progress in his conquest of Baldur’s Gate, however. Losing her had soured his drive, and hours that could have been spent strategizing were now unfortunately spent sulking.

He’d taken to walking the gardens, absently retreading a path he’d been taking often - from the stairs to the greenhouses, eyes barely taking in the statues on the balustrade, ambling past the sculpted hedges. In his mind she’d be beside him, admiring everything, commenting that a particularly sullen looking cherub looked a little like him. He’d sulk but be inwardly pleased.

His eyes flicked up from the stack of invitations, his gaze falling through the window to the garden outside. For a moment he allowed himself to imagine a figure walking amongst the bushes, fingers brushing over the flowers as she went. She would have loved it, he thought. They’d planned it together, and she had told him once that she’d always wanted a rose garden.

Well here it was. Roses of every shade, imported from all corners of Faerûn, and she hadn’t even been by to see it.

He knew she’d been in Baldur’s Gate for some time. He even knew which inn she was staying in. But he had given her space, hadn’t gone to see her or even attempted to touch her mind. Seduction, after all, was an act of patience. Of laying out your trap slowly, but surely. He could wait. They both have forever.

However, this party did necessitate her being present. The vampires had heard of his extravagant gifts to Ban and of his disastrous attempt to break the wards of Gale’s tower, and had correctly assumed that it meant trouble in their relationship. Astarion had done his best to assure them that no, he did not have a rogue daywalking bride he couldn’t rein in walking around Waterdeep - gods forbid! She’d been there to visit a friend, and they may have had a bit of a spat, but she was back in Baldur’s Gate and under his control and protection, thank you very much.

He returned the invitation to the pile. Time to stop putting off the inevitable. He stood and turned to the mirror, inspecting himself. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and black trousers, he looked elegant, but he didn't need the mirror to tell him that. He was aware that he turned heads everywhere he went; he’d always known, even back when he couldn’t see himself.

But the face in the mirror was uncertain. Scared. Still the spawn who had given his heart away unwittingly and utterly while he’d attempted to entice her to surrender hers. He was apprehensive about seeing her again - excited, but also worried. He preferred their relationship being up in the air rather than having a definite end. He couldn’t even consider the opposite result, as much as he wished for it - he knew she likely hated him too much to consider reconciliation.

Steeling himself, he slapped on a well-practiced sneer. He’d had these walls up for two centuries before he met her. He could utilize them again.

The Ascendant left the room, calling for a carriage to the Elfsong.

Ban stared in shock as she opened the door to her room to reveal Astarion. He was dressed down for today, just a suit jacket, shirt and trousers - a look he usually only wore when he didn’t need to leave the palace grounds. Still, she couldn't help but rake her eyes over him, from the perfectly coiffed curls, to the intense eyes, and the small curl of his lips. His posture exuded a lazy confidence, leaning on the doorframe.

“May I come in, pet?” He asked, voice perfectly level.

She nodded, taking a step back. He surveyed the room and her sparse belongings, sauntering over to take a seat on the bed.

“A shame for you to be living in such a small space.”

“Well, at least I’m free to do whatever I want,” she snapped back, seeing a flash of anger pass over his features.

His hand tightened on the corner of the bed, but he let the comment pass for now. “I need you to attend a ball in a tenday.”

He reached into his pocket, taking out an invitation and handing it to her. It addressed her as his consort, and she winced internally.

“One - how did you find me? Two - why should I even attend this? I’m not yours to command, Astarion. Never again.”

He let a small, amused chuckle escape him.

“You’re not hard to find. You’re a sentimental beast at heart, little love, and I had an educated guess on where you’d want to stay. All I had to do was fly by one morning, and there you were,” he said easily. What he didn’t say was that his heart had almost cracked as he’d watched her exit the inn and head towards the market, the sudden, intense ache of missing her forcing him to land on an awning for a moment.

“As for your second question, that is simple as well. I’m hosting a party for the patriars and some… new friends. I would very much prefer my consort to be there.” He lifted his right arm, miming being arm in arm with her, leading her through the ballroom. “A little bit of... decoration never hurts. And I want you to help me with some of the negotiations that have taken place in your absence.”

Astarion played his cards close to his chest, still unsure if he even wanted Ban to know the real reason for the party; she probably considered the issue with the Waterdeep covens resolved after her departure. She needn’t know that he had to do this to end their suspicion decisively and ensure her safety - to reassure them and also intimidate them into leaving her alone. He must keep her safe, but he must also keep hiding the best of himself from her, to avoid exposing his soft, vulnerable heart - the heart she no longer wanted - to further harm.

“I’m not your consort anymore,” she hissed, his comments having hit a nerve. “I never will be again. You understand? I don’t care about your stupid fucking plans. I’m done being your fucking set piece!”

“Ungrateful bitch,” he snapped in return, his voice rising, “I made you who you are. I made you a bride, not a spawn - as much as I regret that now. I continue to give you my powers, even as you disrespect me - your master, your creator!”

“That’s Cazador speaking.” She knew he loathed hearing his master’s name, and her voice was filled with derision.

“I am not him!” He couldn’t help it; he was now shouting. He found his heart was racing, his anger rising to the top. “Have I ever tortured you? Have I hurt you? Have I starved you, or whored you out? Don’t you dare compare me to him, you disloyal wretch!”

“Disloyal?” She laughed in disbelief. “You have not tortured me yet. Hurt me yet. If I didn’t go, you likely would have in time. And which one of us has been fucking anyone and everyone they can hire, hm? Who’s disloyal?”

“Because I miss you!”

He immediately clamped his mouth shut when those words slipped out. The truth of just how painful - how debilitating - losing her had been was something that could not come to light. It was beneath the Ascendant to be even capable of feeling that way. He’d preferred it the way it was, when she couldn’t tell which of his sweet words were truth and which were lies.

He tried to scramble up something to hide the truth in his slip of the tongue.

“I miss fucking you,” he amended. It was a poor cover, he knew, but he was desperate. “And I’m sorry, but why do you even care? Are you jealous, pet?”

“No,” she replied. It was only partially true - she knew he longed for her, but it still stung to know he’d been deep inside anyone else. “I only mentioned it because you said I was disloyal. I have been with no one else, and it’s not because of you, just so you know. I need time for myself.” Another lie.

“What about Gale, then?” he said, and there was a tinge of jealousy he couldn't quite hide.

“You already know. I couldn’t.” She looked away. “And even if I had, what’s it to you? What about your own escapades? Hypocritical to call me disloyal, don’t you think?”

“They’re just warm bodies.” He waved his hand dismissively.

It came to him then, that he sounded exactly like every patron Cazador had ever loaned him to, and it filled him with disgust. Reining in his thoughts before Ban could read them on his face, he opted to address something else entirely. He could at least be honest for this part.

“Gale… he’s always had his sights on you, and you two were close. Even before.”

With how rarely he tolerated talking about his life as a spawn, this was a touchy topic to broach.

“He was my best friend, Astarion. He did have feelings for me. Still does. But I chose you, in case you fucking forgot, just as you like to forget everything from before.” She leveled a steely glare at him. She had chosen him yet again that day in Gale's tower, despite the mess their love had become.

“I don’t forget,” he said quietly. “but I’ve chosen to move past that version of me.”

Sensing her bristling, he quickly continued.

“This isn’t what I came here for, debating my feelings regarding my past. I’m not even here to beg you to come back to me, as much as you wish it was so.” He raised an eyebrow at her, daring her to challenge his words; when she didn’t respond, he smirked.

“So easy to read, my little love. You still pine for me, don’t you?”

He let his voice drop a little, inching closer to where she was sitting at the opposite side of the bed. He couldn’t touch her with the wards up, but he could at least close the gap.

“Don’t worry. All can be forgiven. All you have to do is ask…” he purred. Astarion’s quick shift was a calculated risk; he knew she was most likely to refuse, but he couldn't help wanting to see her squirm, just a little bit.

“Say what you need to say, and be done with it. You want me at the party. Why?” Her tone was businesslike. She’d guessed there was a bit more to this party than he was letting on. After all, he’d mentioned some new friends.

The Ascendant shifted uncomfortably. The wheedling, cajoling, and goading hadn’t worked. He may have no choice here, and as loath as he was to show her the true level of his concern for her, he couldn’t let that stand in the way of her safety.

“I invited the leading coven of vampires in Waterdeep. They want to know that I have all my ducks in a row, so to speak. I intend to show them just that, and to show them who it is they’re crossing should they choose not to play nice.”

There. That didn’t sound too desperate, did it?

Ban snorted. “You invited them to threaten them? And to show them what - that you have absolute control? Over… over me?”

“It wouldn’t do to have the Ascendant so easily defied by his consort, would it? A daywalking bride, wandering willy-nilly in their city. It would concern any coven deeply, Ban,” he said, in a tone that made him sound like he was explaining something simple to a child. “It undermines my power.”

And it makes you a target, he thought. Please, don’t fight me on this.

Ban leaned back to get a better look at her estranged partner, scanning his face. She saw an odd intensity in his gaze that she knew all too well from the early days.

“Don’t-” Astarion said before she could move forward, gripping her wrist so hard she jerked backwards and almost toppled over him.

“What? Why?”

“Trap,” he murmured, nodding towards the wire hidden under the bush. She, ever the brainless fighter, had of course missed it.

“There would’ve been nothing left of you had you walked through it, darling.”

She swallowed nervously and tried to make light of the situation. “Ah. Well, no one would’ve missed me, so no loss there.”

He had stared at her then, with the same intensity she’d seen a moment ago.

With that look in mind, she made her decision.

“Fine. One night. I did promise to be cordial and to visit once in a while, I suppose,” she acquiesced.

His shoulders began to sag in relief, but he held them in place, remembering himself.

“Good. I expected nothing less from you, little love.” He stood up, pleased.

“Will you come with me to the palace today? I can have your favorite tailor brought over. We can have a dress made and fitted for the event.”

Ban sighed. Of course he wanted clothes made. “As long as you bring me back here afterwards.”

“On my honor, I promise to bring you back,” he said without protest. He was just delighted to have his plan work.

The carriage ride was silent. They sat opposite each other, and Ban had been careful not to touch him, even avoiding his hand as he’d instinctively offered it for her to hold while getting into the carriage. If it hurt him, he didn’t say so.

Ban knew the wards protecting her were easy to operate. She merely had to think of giving Astarion permission, and the wards would allow it. She could then change her mind and rescind at any time, and their defenses would reactivate. But she didn’t quite feel comfortable enough to take that risk yet, especially for something as minor as being assisted while getting in the carriage.

She looked at him, watching his face as he gazed out at the streets of Baldur’s Gate. He looked much the same, but she noticed an exhaustion there, as if he’d barely had any rest. The circles under his eyes were darker, his skin more sallow. She wondered what had caused this, considering he lived in luxury. She didn’t allow herself the idea that he was suffering because of her - he didn’t really give two shits about her. Not really.

All the same, Astarion was still ethereal, curls capturing the sunlight streaming through the window; he looked like he was carved from the finest, purest marble holding still. Beautiful crimson eyes watched the city go by but they did not move over the landscape, long fingers cradled his chin, his mind obviously far away. Ban found herself fighting the urge to lean in and cup his cheek, to tell him that everything was going to be alright.

As they approached the palace, they passed the gardens. Astarion sprung to life, gesturing outside.

“They finished the garden, Ban. See? Just the way you wanted it.” His voice was quiet, but filled with an enthusiasm that Ban did not expect.

She looked, and indeed it was. He’d had many types of roses planted in different sections of the garden. Their various hues brightened the green of the grass. There was the fountain she had conceptualized, with the statue of a seahorse spewing water at the top. She was taken aback, managing only a shy word of thanks.

He waved it off. “There’s no price too high for my beloved’s whims,” he answered automatically.

His eyes were fixed on her face, drinking in her rare look of happiness. His broken heart sang at the sight of it, and he quietly carved the image into his memory. Gods knew if he’d ever see it again.

They arrived, and he offered his hand again; and again she refused it. He knew why, but the sting of it was sharp, albeit momentary. He never thought he’d see her here again, and for now that was enough.

Astarion waved his hand and a servant appeared. He quickly rattled off instructions. A cup of her favorite tea, laced with some blood, warmed just the way she preferred. Her favorite tailor was to be summoned.

He followed her to their old room, and inside he was giddy, an emotion he hadn’t felt in so long that it felt new and intoxicating.

She sat on her old dressing table, running her hands over the filigree. She had missed her comforts here. Her writing desk where she’d write to their companions in the evenings. Their bed - the mattress a perfect softness and the sheets always immaculate, at least until they’d methodically ruined them every night. The couch, the chaise - plush and luxurious as always; she’d loved lounging on them. She also found something new - a mirror. It was small, barely full-length, and the frame was simple - she was surprised he hadn’t purchased something much larger and more ornate; this one was not nearly ostentatious enough for his usual style. She turned to Astarion, and seeing his grin, couldn't help but smile back.

For a moment, all was well. They sat in companionable silence, reveling in the cozy feeling of being in each other’s presence and the familiarity of home.

The tailor arrived, and began to run ideas by Ban. They took her measurements again just to be sure, even though they remain unchanged. Astarion stood to the side, taking in the sight of her with rapt attention. For now he could pretend she was his again - that she loved him as she had before.

Ban decided on a midnight blue fabric, to be made into a halter top gown, accentuating her muscled upper body. As the tailor finished with her, they turned to Astarion.

“I’ve brought the newest coat and shirt, my lord. The pants are not yet finished, but I thought you may wish to inspect the completed pieces today. Will you try them on?”

The Ascendant glanced at Ban, then nodded. He stripped, first taking his suit coat off. Then he began to undo the buttons of his shirt, deft fingers working slowly.

His eyes locked with hers, and he found his breathing quickening. With each button undone, more of his pale torso was exposed, the smooth planes of his pectorals slowly giving way to his muscled abdomen. She was watching him with barely concealed want, and it was all he could do not to cross the distance and capture her lips in his.

He felt his cock twitch in response to the sheer lust in her gaze.

“Like what you see, my consort?” He dared use that nickname, for now, knowing she wouldn’t mind it in front of others.

“Perhaps.” The heat in her eyes told a different story, however, and she surreptitiously crossed her legs.

He couldn’t help but get hard at that; within moments he was straining against his trousers. He was sure the tailor noticed it as they handed him the shirt, but he didn't care. He slipped his arms into it, buttoning it quickly. Next was the coat, which he pulled on with deliberate slowness, eyes fixed on her.

The suit was blood red, lined with black. Ban had told him once that red suited him best, brought out his eyes, and made his hair pop. He turned to admire himself in the mirror, seeing his cock outlined in his trousers.

”It looks perfect,” she intoned with deceptive innocence.

He had to shut his eyes for a moment, his cock now insistently pressing against the fabric, begging to be freed.

One breath. Two breaths. Calm down.

“Of course.” He twirled around with exaggerated slowness to give her a look at everything. “Any suggestions, Ban? Or is this good?”

She stood up, and to his utter surprise, moved close to him. She paused for a moment, taking in the sight of him from head to toe, lingering on his groin.

He bit back the groan that rose in his throat as her eyes locked there and she licked her lips. She noticed, smirking at him.

“Everything’s the way I like it.”

Gods. How did she keep doing this to him? He felt himself throb, and he was sure there was precum beginning to form for her. Before he embarrassed himself any further, he took off the coat and shirt, draping them over a chair, hungrily watching her wander to the other side of the room. He quickly dismissed the tailor.

As they left and the door shut, he rounded on Ban, fierce, unbridled lust burning in his features.

“You minx.” He smiled, baring his fangs, the intensity of his desire overriding any and all reason. He crossed the room with inhuman speed, bare chest heaving from excitement. He reached out, desperate to finally touch her again.

Bang.

He looked up from where he had been thrown back and to the floor, dazed. In his fervor, he’d forgotten about the wards. That realization brought a cold dose of reality, and he winced as he got up.

“I told you. You cannot touch me without my express permission, Astarion,” she reminded him, smirking coyly.

He glowered, his pride wounded. “Fine. But during the party, I may have to do so.”

Her smirk died as she realized he was right. If they were to fool the other vampires - and she had her suspicions as to what Astarion’s real motives for inviting them were - she would have to temporarily let the wards down.

She nodded, agreeing. “During the party, I’ll let you touch me.”

His posture was stiff as he crossed the room to grab his shirt, slipping it on and unceremoniously buttoning it up. He was still a little upset, glaring at her.

“You know, pet, I can see right through you,” he began, “You still want me. You still love me.”

He paused briefly before continuing, “I swear, you’ll regret leaving me. More than you’ll regret anything else you’ll ever do.”

The words were hard and cold, but that familiar intensity was there in his gaze, mixed with uncertainty. As if what he said wasn’t a threat, but something that he hoped was true.

“I can live with my regrets, Astarion. Can you?” She didn’t expect an answer, nor did she receive one.

His lips pursed, his gaze becoming more guarded. His tone was chilly when he finally spoke. “The carriage will be waiting for you outside. I trust you to know your way out of my house.” With those words, he left, slamming the doors shut.

Astarion realized he was retreating, but he had to hide before he spilled his heart out again.

Ban sighed, looking back at the palace, preparing herself to leave. After a long moment, she hopped into the carriage and let it take her back to the inn, contemplating today’s events.

He was likely hosting this ball, inviting the Waterdeep vampires for her safety. That much was obvious, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

But was he doing it out of some perverse sense of possessiveness? Because she was his creation? Some sort of twisted pride in the way he kept his treasures safe, just like he’d kept her locked up in the palace before?

Or was he doing it because he loved her?

[bg-brainrot]

Prompt: Ornaments

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Premise: Winter continues to be Astarion’s least favorite season, but when you give him the chance to show off his nimble fingers, he can’t possibly refuse. Time for some arts and crafts!

Tags: POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Fluff, Holidays, post-canon, comfort, astarion is a crafter

Word count: ~1.1k

“Astarion, could you come here a moment?”

The vampire in question stops in his tracks, turning to look at you. You’re currently hunched over a desk littered with all manner of materials– various strings, glass beads, sequins, pieces of wood, cloth, and so much more. 

Taking in the situation as he walks over, he asks, “Darling, are you crafting a diabolical poison? Or perhaps a seasonal explosive?”

You laugh, halfway through tying a string, and gesture him over with your head. “Nothing so deadly, I’m afraid. Could you put your finger here so I can tie this?”

Like the supportive partner he is, he places his finger in position before continuing to press. “So what exactly are you doing, love?”

“Making ornaments,” you say, as you finish tying together a tree made with green beads. You hold it up for him a second later. “See? Do you like it?”

The look on his face doesn’t give away much, but you can sense the emotions underneath at war with each other. “It’s…”

“Don’t finish that,” you say, holding up a hand. “It’s my first attempt, so it will only get better.”

Astarion crouches in front of the desk across from you, folding his arms over the edge. “I was only going to say that it’s quite twee. Though it may be missing a little something.”

“Oh?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at him. “What do you suppose is missing?” You spin the tree a few times to get a better look at it before he holds out his hand to you. After a second of deliberation, you place it into his awaiting palm. “Don’t break it, I lied about getting better. This is probably my best work.”

He smirks at you. “I know, dear. But that’s why I’m here to help.”

“What are you going to do to it?”

Tilting his head as he looks through your various materials, he simply gives a soft hmm. His long fingers sift through a variety of silver strings, pushing them aside for a delicate, metallic silver. He spends another few seconds searching through the beads while you watch and he comes away with a few glimmering, silver beads that look like stars. “I think,” he finally says. “It could use a bit of dressing up, don’t you?”

You nod at him with a smile, getting out of your chair. “Alright, love. Let’s see your nimble fingers at work.”

At that, Astarion gives you a suggestive little look, but he moves around the desk and sits down all the same. “Watch the expert, darling,” he says, his tone entirely too seductive for the task at hand.

But watch you will. After giving him a kiss atop his head, you settle in. At first you stand behind him, watching him weave the thread through the beads in a regular spacing, tying off after each one. Then you lean a bit forward, resting your arms on the back of his chair, as you watch him begin to sew the beaded thread into the tree, his fingers working in a way that manages to somehow be both elegant and swift. By the time you’re watching him tie off the additions, your arms are draped around his shoulders, melted by the easy way he fell into the rhythm of his work.

“There,” he says, holding the finished tree to your eye level. Then, tilting his head back toward you, he asks you the same question you asked him, “Do you like it?”

You want to be a little snarky, give him the same blank stare he gave you, but you know it’s pointless– the glee on your face is already unmistakable. 

While you were proud of your work before, Astarion wasn’t far off the mark when he called it twee. Now that he’s had a turn with it, it looks like a piece of art. The silver stars and string drape across the green beads like delicate garlands, twisting up the tree to culminate in a crown of stars on its top.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, hugging Astarion through the chair. “Your talent is a thing of wonders, love.”

Astarion tries to appear nonchalant about your praise, lifting his chin up and looking at you with a smirk. But something about the look in your eyes proves to be too much and he turns back around, clears his throat, and says, “Thank you, my dear.”

“I mean it!” you say, misinterpreting his sudden shift for disbelief. Using a finger to turn his head back towards yours, you see the truth of it when his wide eyes meet yours. He’s bashful– in fact, you think if he wasn’t a vampire, he might be blushing under the heat of your praise.

“I believe you,” he says in a soft voice. Then his voice picks up strength and he adds with a smile, “I didn’t realize that such an insignificant little thing would be worthy of so much praise.”

You move around the chair to face him and shift the hand that was holding his chin to cup his cheek. Staring down your ridiculous, brilliant lover, you impress upon him the truth you know he needs to hear, “There’s nothing made by your hands that is too small to be worthy of praise. And it’s significant to me. Understood?”

He nods into your hand and presses a kiss to your palm. Then he heaves a great sigh. “Ugh, why must you try to infect me with these absurd holiday emotions? I was perfectly content just milling about, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” you say, removing yourself from his face and going to pull up another chair. “And now that I know you’re willing to help–” you raise a hand when he begins to open his mouth in objection. “Only to the extent you feel like, of course. I think it would be nice to make some ornaments together.” You place the chair next to him and scoot in, looking at him expectantly.

Astarion purses his lips at you, as if he’s trying to figure out if he’s fallen into a trap he hadn’t realized you’d laid. After deciding it doesn’t matter, he replies, “How could I say no?”

You spend the rest of the evening together, crafting a variety of ornaments. Some are seasonal: A snowflake, a ribbon, a candy. Some that are more for the two of you: A dagger, a skull, a snake. Once the night is over and you’re both cleaning up, Astarion looks up at you, a wry smile playing on his lips. “You may have tricked me into helping, but I did quite enjoy myself.”

With all of the innocence of a trained liar, you simply blink at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m glad you had fun.”

[warningsine]

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/03/21/magazine/elsbeth-cbs-review-good-wife-good-fight.html

The most-watched streaming series of 2023, it turns out, was “Suits.” All your faves — the conceptually and emotionally difficult ones, the family-trauma dramedies, the zombie soaps and franchise space operas — were as dust in comparison with a bouncy basic-cable legal procedural. If Gen Z viewers are looking at the buffet of TV content and choosing old-school blue-sky procedurals over “Succession” or “The Mandalorian,” what becomes of the world all these streamers and premium-cable networks worked so hard to build?

CBS might have the answer, and her name is Elsbeth Tascioni. This defense attorney, played by Carrie Preston, was a beloved guest character on “The Good Wife” and its sequel/spinoff, “The Good Fight,” both created by the network veterans Robert and Michelle King. Tascioni is, in the parlance of today’s internet, a “weird little guy.” Outfitted in blaring patterns and carrying numerous quilted tote bags at all times, she is both hard to miss and easy to overlook. She appeared in just under 20 episodes across both series but delighted fans as one of the strangest and funniest running gags in two series already filled to the brim with running gags and high-wattage guest stars. Where Julianna Margulies on “The Good Wife” is all elegance and eroticism, Elsbeth is kooky and oddly mannered. Where Christine Baranski on “The Good Fight” is all gravitas and moral outrage, Elsbeth is non sequiturs and slapstick — a whimsical agent of chaos, an odd bird among all those silken and self-serious lawyers.

Now she has her own show, “Elsbeth.” The previous entries in the Kings’ trilogy took place in Chicago, but “Elsbeth” sends Tascioni to take Manhattan, Muppet-style. Without any of her former co-stars to contextualize her, she begins as a fish out of water. She has been tasked with observing a police precinct after a series of wrongful arrests and other violations (and, secretly, with collecting evidence for a corruption case). She wriggles her way into ongoing investigations, stymying police detectives and, almost always, proving them to be arrogant dummies. She is, in other words, an annoyance. Nearly everyone she meets reacts the same way: Who is this strange woman, and what is she doing here? Viewers might ask the same. Why would anybody greenlight a spinoff about a minor character who appeared in a smattering of episodes of two moderately successful series over a period of 14 years? Who is this strange woman, and what is she doing here?

The answer is that Elsbeth Tascioni, and the oddball detective procedural in which she now lives, exist because Robert and Michelle King know what they’re doing. They have always been particularly self-conscious creators of network procedurals, working in a kind of uncanny valley: The shows are immersive, dramatic crowd-pleasers, but they are also playful, ironic, even occasionally postmodern in their building out of intellectual property. “Elsbeth” isn’t just a spinoff; it’s a spinoff about spinoffs.

From the perspective of what we can now call the “Good Wife” Televisual Universe, the very existence of “Elsbeth” is a pretty funny joke. It is a canny management of the industry’s obsession with reused intellectual property, but it is also a satisfying mockery of it, a rogue spinoff that has become self-aware. Elsbeth isn’t just a fish out of water in Manhattan. She’s a fish out of water on her own show.

This estrangement is embedded in the visual language of the show. Subway ads for the series featured a shot of uniformed police officers, a burly polyester wall, with Preston seemingly poking her head in from out of frame, wearing a pink overcoat, a crocheted scarf and a foam Statue of Liberty crown. This is Elsbeth, they announced: Nobody knows who she is, but she certainly doesn’t belong here. Scenes in the show itself are often blocked as though a passing tourist has happened upon the filming of a “Law & Order” episode, butted her way into the scene and ended up solving the murder. At the start of the third episode, we see a row of bystanders behind caution tape on a dark Manhattan street, their bodies a gray woolen barrier — until we spot a soft pom-pom bobbing up and down behind them, straining for a view. That’s Elsbeth, who must crouch and sneak through a forest of legs to get to her crime scene. There’s a series of shots, repeated in several episodes, in which a central-casting homicide detective is interviewing an eyewitness; the camera moves back and forth, capturing the interviewee at a lower angle and the commanding cop at a higher one, until the diminutive Elsbeth invariably scoots her way into the cop’s frame, taking it over from beneath. They never see her coming.

The core joke of “Elsbeth” is its own wobbly preposterousness, the way its protagonist is at odds not only with the other characters but also with the show that’s nominally built around her. In ways both too cute and really quite ingenious, Elsbeth Tascioni keeps disrupting a boilerplate CBS police procedural already in progress. The characters themselves notice this: The first three episodes have been layered with double entendres, reaching a boiling point in an episode revolving around a “Real Housewives”-style reality series. Elsbeth tells a producer: “I don’t think I’d do well on television.” Later, the producer lashes out at her: “You have no idea how hard it is to make good TV, Miss Tascioni, and you never will.” One detective questions not just the character but the show: “Elsbeth? What kind of name is that?” In a particularly sharp moment, the guest star Jane Krakowski simply stops the action to tell Elsbeth: “You I don’t get at all. I don’t get who you are or what you actually do.”

These lines are both nervous tics and statements of blithe confidence. They are also one droll reason for why the show works: It’s in a constant, comical state of existential crisis.

A hallmark of the Kings’ series is their mischievous messing with established formats; they play with genre in order to destabilize it, asking us to rethink concepts like justice or the binary of good and evil. With “Elsbeth,” they may aim to mount an unassuming critique of TV-cop propaganda. (Elsbeth is almost always right, while the police are almost always blinded by cockiness and self-assurance, having never once questioned their own purpose.) But it strikes me that you could just as easily see this as a show that’s interested less in the police than in the industry that keeps making shows about them.

The Kings have already made self-referential shows about lawyers and cops and priests and senators, dramas and satires and erotic thrillers about the lofty and corrupt institutions that structure our world. Is television itself not an institution worthy of such critical minds? When “The Good Wife” ended, several critics called it the last great network drama — a designation that, in retrospect, says as much about the networks as it does about the drama. Elsbeth does not belong in a CBS procedural; she is a time traveler from an antique land before the boom of Peak TV, before our current era of algorithmic austerity. Thus far, her show is a relatively simple one, but the Kings do not have a reputation for keeping things simple. What if they made a show about their own institution, a self-referential tale about an industry that holds itself in such low regard that it imagines its product could be made by artificial intelligence rather than writers and showrunners? An industry that mourns the loss of “The Good Wife” but would never greenlight it today? That show might focus on a figure dressed in bright colors, gazing in wonder at aspects of the world that other characters never stop to notice, carrying overstuffed tote bags filled with new ideas to a place that scorns color and wonderment and ideas. Nobody would ever see her coming.

[trulycertain]

This will probably become part of something bigger eventually. My Chaotic Good bard, Astarion, and Act 1 pre-romance reluctant hairwashing. Basically: that stage when they're both sniping at each other, but it's becoming oddly fond. 2.4k.

Lora’s heading to the river with a change of clothes when there's a quiet, finely-enunciated murmur of an invisibility spell, the air tugging and changing. She knows that voice, and she's in no mood for an argument, even if it’s often one that makes her laugh. 

Turning away sharply, she says, "Sorry. I'll come back later."

"Oh. It's you," Astarion mutters. There's a feeling in the air like an exhale, the spell dispersing. Then a quiet scrape of metal on rock - a knife being put aside. "Since you're here, will you do me a favour?" That's mulish, and far more genuine-sounding than when he adds, "You can look, darling. We're all friends here."

She turns, and tries not to regret it. He's to his shoulders in the water, so oddly pale against its darkness, against the bright green of the willows and the lily pads. Like someone's misplaced a marble statue. The sopping wet hair in his face is a little less classical, though. 

He gestures to said hair. "I can tell it's not all out. Where's the last of it?" 

She frowns, and then sees the streaks of red in his hair amongst the white - well, grey, now it's wet. "You've got some…" She touches just behind her ear. 

He attacks his hair with a wet comb, but still… 

Of course it's a little different, when you've got longer ears. "No, more like…" She's stepping closer, and only realises at the sudden tension in his shoulders. She tries to brazen it out before she's snapped at. "Here," she says, and tries to show him again on her own scalp. 

He gets it this time, holding the hair and picking at it with the comb - the look of it, of the frustrated snarl on his normally sharp-pretty face and the elegant little bone-handled thing being wielded like it'll save him that's the monster from his hair, makes her want to laugh. It should make him less handsome. It does… exactly the opposite, somehow, and she shoves that thought aside. Definitely not one to have when she's intruded on his bath and he's very, very naked. 

He says, "And the rest?" He turns in the water, a few splashes and a series of ripples following his progress. 

"You've got a little at the back of your neck. Nearly the nape."

He touches what's almost - almost - the right place. 

"Nearly," she says. 

He pats and it's somehow further away. 

"Not… quite."

"I feel rather like I'm being patronised," he snaps. 

"Can I just get it for you?" she responds, with a sigh and equal terseness. 

She knows that was a bad idea the moment it comes out of her mouth. He tenses, instantly, like a string pulled taut. He looks at her over his shoulder, eyes narrow, and there's a moment she can see him considering. And then he says, "...Fine. But you're not styling it." He sinks lower into the water, carefully. 

She meanders over, slowly, and those sharp rogue's eyes watch her the entire way. She says, "How do you know it's there? I understand when it's dry, it goes all… crunchy, but wet?" 

He looks away from her a moment, at the weeping willows - and then he finally turns to her, with the faintest sigh of something like resignation. "Probably something to do with the fact I can smell it."

"Really?" 

He peers at her through the now-greyish mop of hair all over his forehead - like a sheep in the rain. That shouldn’t somehow still be good-looking. "You can't? Is this a human thing?" 

"I suspect it's a not-vampire thing," she says, taking a seat on a good rock by the deeper water. 

"Hmm." He raises his chin obstinately. "But at least you can see it." And then, to what must be both their surprise, he wades closer to the bank, and to her. "I could do this myself. I usually do. But at least you might save me some time."

The water falls and she tries not to look at the wings of his collarbones, the old scarred bite mark. The tree-shadows fade and he's in a ray of sun, the blazing gold kind that lends the faintest warm colour to his skin. Makes him look… alive. She can almost imagine it, the sharp-eyed magistrate in all his robes and finery, making people's lives a misery. She asked about his eyes, but… "Has your hair always been white?" 

His eyes narrow again. "You mean before I became a soulless stalker of the night?" 

She grimaces at herself, and lets him see it. 

The corner of his mouth raises, the way it often does when he's amused at her expense, and then he barks a laugh, fangs a swift bright gleam. "I think so. Though it used to be longer, in the past. I could see it a little more easily. I've tried a few fashions, it comes with the territory - there was a time when you had to wear a horrendous amount of bows - but I prefer this." He turns away from her, sinking deeper into the river, trying not to let his shoulders tense and failing. The barest start of old scars on his back - they look like parallel knife slashes, or something like it - disappear beneath the water; none of her business.

She had a friend who was glassed once over the back of the head, after a particularly rough gig. He never did like anyone behind him after that. She’s not too dissimilar herself.

"This might need a bit of…" she starts, but he's already passing her back a bar of soap from… somewhere. It's scented with some kinds of oils - jasmine, perhaps, and… She sniffs. "Is this bergamot?" 

"Good nose, considering what we were talking about before." He gives her a grin over his shoulder - lopsided and rakish, the mockery not having much sting to it. His hair's flattened to his forehead in waves, his eyelashes wet and seeming five miles long. He looks realer this way, younger than his talk of eras and ages past. He passes her his comb, too: bone, with little flowers engraved into it. She suspects it’s only been his comb since that last fight.

She memorises the blood at the nape of his neck, and then says, “You have some in the front. Think I’ll start there.” Damned if she knows whether it’s true. But while talking’s helped, his shoulders are still round his ears, even if he’s doing his best to hide it behind his usual carefully-lax poise. It’s just the smallest tension, the way she can tell from ripples that his hands are working in the water idly. It’s the same thing that precedes him going for his daggers, but this isn’t a threat - just discomfort.

He heaves a melodramatic sigh. “Really? Can you stop pontificating and just fix this already?” But in his annoyance, he’s turned to her, even if it’s just for a good glare. That’ll do. He's relaxing minutely now he can see her. 

“Ooh,” she says, drily, “definitely a magistrate.” She receives a narrow-eyed look in response. "Astarion," she adds, putting the comb aside for now and getting the soap wet. 

"Hm?" 

She rubs the soap between her palms, for a good lather. "I thought you were somewhere in your thirties, when we met."

He snorts. "You're not wrong. Well, in a manner of speaking."

There is at least some blood here, too, so it isn’t all an excuse. His mouth tightens when she reaches to work a few bloodied locks at his forehead, but he doesn’t flinch; he’s like stone, albeit sun-warmed stone compared to the cold, careful silence of before. Sharp red eyes follow her movements as she gets the soap through and coaxes out blood, trying to be gentle. 

She asks, "How old are you?" 

"Thirty-nine. …Two hundred and thirty-nine," he adds, with that terrible false airiness that comes from talk of Cazador. Time to tread carefully. "Now I know that must seem like a lifetime to you, but in all fairness, your kind are mayflies."

"I'm thirty-six. And at least I don't get blood stuck behind my pointy ears."

He somehow manages to give her an unimpressed sneer even through her hands. It’s probably meant to be disgusted, but there’s a wryness in his eyes. And he doesn’t look frightened anymore. “I’ve seen the state of you after a battle, darling. Mud in all sorts of places the sun doesn’t shine.”

“I’d say something like ‘And you’ve been paying attention to those places?’ but of course you have.”

He gives her a half-smile, but there’s the faintest dullness to his eyes, as if he’s had a conversation like this a few times before. “I’d hate to disappoint, darling.”

She pauses theatrically as she works soap through locks already fighting to curl again. Beautifully combed, of course, even after a day of fights and blood and mud. He’s already rinsed out whatever grease he uses – she caught the scent of pomade that first day, and no-one has a quiff like that naturally. “I’m just imagining you with all those bows. The image I have is..." She waves her hands with a flourish. "...A poodle in a gown.”

He sighs – but he’s back again, mischief in his eyes. “As if I should have expected you to understand ageless beauty. Thirty-six. What is that in human years, ancient cronehood?”

She squints in return. “You grew up in Baldur’s Gate too. So you know perfectly well I’m middle-aged at best.”

He rests his chin on a hand, nearly dislodging her. “And magic does have such odd effects on your species. Bards probably live to about a hundred and twelve. Adorable.” He meets her unimpressed look with a half-lidded, assessing look. “Still. Ageless you are not, but I’ve seen worse. I’ve always been rather glad I can’t get freckles, but you wear them well. They add a… hm, a salt-of-the-earth charm.”

“Shut up,” she mutters, face heating, while he laughs. “Head under the water.”

He’s still cackling when he ducks under, and seems utterly unbothered by that – though of course, he doesn’t have to breathe. He emerges from a little cloud of lather and bubbles, eyes closed, still laughing under his breath. “I feel like you’re blushing, but I can’t tell.” He sniffs. “Oh, no, there we go.”

“Please tell me you can’t smell the blood in my cheeks.”

He says, smugly, “Then I won’t.”

Getting more soap on her hands, she draws a little closer, and warns him, “In for a second go, now. I think I got most of it out.”

“Mm.”

He opens his eyes, and they stray to her neck, over her face, never far from her hands – but his eyes close again when her fingers are in his hair. She works the last of the blood at the front between two fingers, dips them in the water and does it again.

She says, “Turn around for me?” Easier if it’s his choice, somehow.

He barely more than grunts, and does.

She grabs some more soap, gathers it in her hands. “Thanks,” she says, and she’s oddly glad for his weird blood talents meaning that he can smell her coming – she doesn’t feel like touching him without warning. Good way to get a knife in the eye.

She lathers soap through until the bubbles are pink, trying not to tug. It’s the worst when you get someone who’s got no idea how to deal with thicker hair, though hers makes his look mild. His shoulders have relaxed the slightest bit.

He says, after a moment, “It’s sort of… Hmm. You were very light, and fruity. Sweet.” His voice is soft, thoughtful.

Looking up from where she’s gathering more soap in her hands, she says, “If you bite me, I’m leaving.”

His voice winds, an easy meander when he says, “No, it’s more… someone opening a rather lovely dessert wine when you’re already full. You don’t necessarily want any, but it smells good. A… nice ambience.” He waves a hand, but it’s vaguer than his usual flourishes.

Something occurs to her, as she’s working blood out of the strands. “…‘My sweet.’”

“Hm?”

“Just sometimes, you call me ‘my sweet.’ I thought it was just to annoy me, but is that why?”

There’s a long, caught-out pause. And then he says, without a hint of remorse or embarrassment, “Whoops.”

She snorts, but lets the silence rest. It lengthens, and for once, between them, not in the tense way. She sneaks a glimpse over his shoulder, and finds his eyes still closed. It’s a strange sight: a man who’s never still, so at rest he’s forgotten to breathe.  She finds herself taking longer than she should, because he looked… well. Like someone who hasn’t had a gentle touch in a long, long time. She knows a little of what that feels like. The last time someone touched her, other than him drinking her blood, was a drunk decking her in the Mermaid. That split lip took ages to heal. And a slave, he said – torture, he said. That’s too much to examine while she’s here. All she can do is get out the last stubborn remnants of the fight.

The slightest pressure against her fingertips: they both realise at the same time that he’s leaning into her touch. He freezes like a cat that’s been petted the wrong way, and she’s sure that only the fact she’s got her hands in his hair stops him yanking back from her.

“There,” she says, and extracts herself. “See if the water gets it.”

He ducks under, and when he comes back up, he’s facing her again - and there’s the faintest stiffness under his posing. Lifting a dripping arm, he pats at the soaked remnants of his coif, and raises a brow. “Back to perfection?”

She looks him over. “Flawless. Bloodless, at least.” It’s true, and definitely also not an excuse to back away.

“Marvellous.”

Nodding, she turns to head back to camp.

She’s taken a couple of steps when she hears, “Lora?” She looks over her shoulder, and spots him looking… almost sincere. The words are quiet, and sound a little reluctantly tugged out of him: “Thank you.”

She nods, and flees before they remember they’re meant to insult each other again.

[gascon-en-exil]

I'm pretty sure they said they wouldn't sos it's just w wondering but, if they released an updated OT1 with crossed paths like on 2, how would you like them to pair up the travelers?

OT2 already sort of answers this with its extra battles, by pairing up the OT travelers for dual attacks like so: Ophilia/Alfyn, Cyrus/H'aanit, Tressa/Olberic, and Primrose/Therion. The problem with those aside from them all being M/F is that they're constrained by how those battles handle the noble vs. rogue character divide, breaking up the travelers into two groups along those lines and so preventing any pairings that combine travelers from each group. All of the OT2 pairs by contrast would be noble + rogue duos going by the first game's logic...but then it very much doesn't, anyway. Agnea would be a rogue character on that basis!

So instead, I'd break them up with the same gender arrangement as OT2's pairs as well as still do all noble + rogue pairs since that distinction actually matters somewhat in OT. I'd also avoid pairing travelers who have the same path action type (ex. no Ophilia/Primrose or Cyrus/Alfyn) as well as those whose base jobs are too similar (no Ophilia with Cyrus - squishy mages - or Alfyn - healers - for example). With all that in mind:

Cleric and Hunter - Ophilia/H'aanit: If I recall I believe these two have some of the stronger bits of sapphic subtext among the OT travelers, which would make this a nicely complementary contrast to Castti/Ochette going hard for the found family angle. (I assume that lesbian mommy kink is a thing that exists...but I don't think I've ever seen anyone do it with those two. Ochette's writing is just so weird.)

Scholar and Merchant - Cyrus/Tressa: Reuses a job pairing from OT2, but what a contrast! Osvald/Partitio simmers with half a dozen kinds of mildly kinky homoeroticism, while between Tressa's wide-eyed antics and Cyrus being comically clueless these two are absolute duds. Unfortunately whoever gets saddled with the designated little kid character would get stuck in such a role regardless.

Warrior and Dancer - Olberic/Primrose: Another reused job pairing, but where Hikari/Agnea has some pretty standard ship tease these two would be notable for not going there because Olberic is gay. That would give Primrose more room to explore her character beyond the flirty exotic dancer angle, and they could have lengthy conversations about the nature of justice and revenge and such. Also, these two have been sort of paired up from the very beginning, since they were the ones chosen to show off the series concept in OT's demo.

Apothecary and Thief - Alfyn/Therion: The most popular pairing in OT going by AO3 stats, and while it's not a dynamic I particularly enjoy I get the whole bantering opposites thing. If there's any M/M traveler pair that can pull something out of the mostly-dry well that is OT's homoerotic potential, it's probably these two.

The nice thing too about these four is that they're paired geographically as well, with each one coming from two adjacent regions respectively making up the four corners of Orsterra. OT's world design is something that could only exist as a video game map...but at least thing way there's a little extra stylistic elegance to the obviously artificial wheel-and-spoke layout.

[utilitycaster]

💖 & ❤ for the ask game?

What is your biggest unpopular opinion about the series?

Honestly it's hard to figure out an unpopular opinion about the series as a whole; I have a decent bead on like, unpopular opinions about specific things or even campaigns but like, overall? that's a lot.

I think the best overarching opinion that might not be unpopular but is at minimum largely unstated is that like. ultimately, this is middlebrow, and while it frequently sets the standard for the genre, and while the cast is extremely talented, it does not per se transcend the genre. This is not a bad thing! And I get that I tend not to be particularly hyperbolic and some people are, but like. The acting is often great, and impressive given that it's improv, but I am a little tired of "Emmy!" over a lot of solid but not spectacular performances. It's not terribly intelligent to bring in expectations that heroic fantasy rarely transcends for a show that has always been true to heroic fantasy roots. I love CR deeply, I spend tons of time in this fandom, and loathe as I am to say it because I don't agree with the premise but do with the outcome, there is a kernel of truth in the idea that too elegant a structure prohibits such a robust fandom. Reasonable expectations: unsexy, but also, ultimately, less likely to leave you bitter in weird and unpleasant ways.

Which character is not as morally good as everyone else seems to think?

The player character answer is Molly though I think the fandom tide has finally turned on that one; I don't think he was a bad person, but he was hardly the moral center. There's a bunch to unpack re: Molly and honestly how we think of dead people in general but just on a personal level, I think loveable rogues [the broader archetype not the D&D class] are really popular just, generally, and as someone who thinks abrasive and brutally pragmatic knights with a heart of gold are the vastly superior archetype this was just Yet Another Case Of Loveable Rogue Favoritism At Play. On the other hand for that exact reason I am more likely to run into the opposite problem, the "which character does everyone else think is definitely evil and terrible and you think is far more morally upstanding than they're given credit for, they're just kind of an asshole." This isn't so much an issue with CR right now but the Jonas Spahr/Fjord Stone/Suvi Kedberiket/Wizard Steel trenches are always open and accepting new members.

[autotopic]

The Aston Martin DB10, created exclusively for James Bond in Spectre, marks the first time a car was specifically designed for the film series. Bond first encounters the DB10 in Q’s lab, where he learns it has been reassigned to Agent 009. However, Bond “borrows” the car for a rogue mission in Rome, leaving a bottle of chilled Bollinger in exchange. The DB10 is then seen driving through Rome's iconic landmarks before arriving at a SPECTRE meeting. As Bond flees the meeting, SPECTRE agents fire machine guns at the car’s bulletproof body armor and glass. A high-speed chase ensues as the new SPECTRE agent, Hinx, pursues Bond in a Jaguar C-X75 through the city streets. During the chase, Bond attempts to use the DB10’s weapon systems, even though he is unfamiliar with their operation. He first tries the ‘Backfire’ button, which reveals a twin-barrelled machine gun extending from the rear Aston badge, but discovers it is out of ammo. The ‘Atmosphere’ button only activates the car stereo. As they race alongside the Tiber River, Bond engages the ‘Exhaust’ button, unleashing a twin flamethrower. Finally, he presses the ‘Air’ button, which deploys the sun-roof ejector seat, allowing him to escape just before the car crashes into the river. As Hinx watches the Aston sink, Bond safely parachutes away and disappears into the night.

The DB10 features a chassis based on a modified V8 Vantage with a longer wheelbase, powered by a 4.7-liter V8 engine. Q claims the DB10 can accelerate from 0 to 60 mph in 3.2 seconds, although Aston Martin states a top speed of 190 mph and a 0 to 60 mph time of 4.7 seconds. The car’s sleek design includes a shark-inspired nose where the grille sits in shadow beneath the main feature line, hinting at its stealthy character. The body panels are made entirely of carbon fiber, exposed on the sills and diffuser, and it has a full clamshell bonnet with a heat-mapped perforation pattern, negating the need for a vent surround. The designers drew inspiration from the classic DB5, working to ensure that when viewed in profile, the DB10 exhibits a single elegant shoulder line running from front to back. Only ten of these concept cars were built, with eight used to film key scenes in Spectre and the remaining two reserved for promotional purposes. Director Sam Mendes contributed to the design process, requesting a car with “clean, clear lines, something classic where it is almost impossible to place its year of birth,” aiming for a design that felt timeless, somewhere between the early ’70s and now.

The main filming sequence involving the DB10 was shot in Rome over three weeks in March 2015, involving 350 crew members and 250 blockers to secure the roads. The production shut down a 4 km section along the River Tiber, including five bridges, using a total of 15 locations such as the road leading up to the Vatican and Via della Conciliazione. Preparations for the shoot included location scouting a year prior, with pre-production beginning in October 2014. During testing, the stunt team went through a pair of tires every 10 minutes. Gary Powell coordinated the stunt driving while Mark Higgins was behind the wheel of the DB10.

[pollyssecretlibrary]

"When the Earl Desired Me", by Lydia Lloyd

Third 𝗯𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 ❞The Rake Chronicles❞ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

I’ve been following Lydia Lloyd for quite a while, a bit before she published her first book, this is the third and I can’t wait for the fourth. I’m invested in each and every one of the couples in this series. “When the Earl Desired Me” is a second chance historical romance in which Augustus, the earl, and Olivia, the maid, had a very passionate romance when they were barely 20 years of age. They traded notes that they put in hidden places and the last note was such that Olivia decided to leave her position as maid and hire herself as the companion of a widow with two children right before they moved to France. Since then, Augustus has become a rake and a rogue, notorious for debauching maids and servants, so naturally everyone thought Olivia was just another name on the list. Years later, the lovely widow decides to return to England to find a match for her daughter, and person most likely to be her suitor is none other than Percy, Augustus younger brother.

Of course Olivia, like everyone else, thinks Augustus never loved her. But as it happens it is him who never stops trying to talk to her and that was interesting. This is interesting to me because in the last couple of months I’ve been avidly reading romances and I liked many of them, but I was missing a hero who had to ‘work for it’, really really work to get his heroine’s love. Yes there have been many that were good at seduction, but I didn’t want seduction only, I wanted him to go for it with all his mind and soul, to put his heart in his pursuing of the lady. To be the knight in shining armor or in this case, the breaking ball that would throw down all the walls that separate the couple. Because in this story there are many walls between Olivia and Augustus, not only the misunderstanding of years past. There is social commentary, behavioral commentary and many other equally interesting topics, including their own uncertainty and insecurity. But still they manage because they’re strong together, their chemistry is so explosive and he’s so willing to do right by her that I was rooting for him, a man that in the previous books never got my attention. Oh, and it’s spicy, very very spicy… spice with the elegance that not many people can convey, but Lydia Lloyd delivers, every time.