#The Path of Duty

[lifewithaview]

Upstairs, Downstairs (1971) The Path of Duty

S1E4

It's May 1905 and Elizabeth Bellamy returns home after attending finishing school in Germany. At 17, she is attractive and has a keen mind with a variety of interests whether it be literature, art or politics. She is pleased that Rose is to be her personal maid but is not necessarily looking forward to attending an upcoming ball where she will 'come out' and be introduced to the King and Queen. Everyone at 165 Eaton Place is working to ensure that her grand evening is a memorable one but at the ball she is bored not only with the company but with the empty-headed girls around her. Refusing to act the part, she disappears just before she is to be presented.

*Shot in black-and-white because of a labour dispute with technical unions.

[basedonconjecture]

Every time I re-read The Wigmaker Job, I'm reminded how it's so much about Lucanis’ hubris to me. That's not to say he was deserving of imprisonment and torture but it's like...something of that nature was always going to happen while he was on the path he was on. His choices led him there but also they were always going to, ykwim? From start to finish, he's just on a collision course with the inevitable in TWJ.

He's cocky about the Forfex contract, bordering on arrogant at times, dismissive of Illario's concerns and questions. He's done this exact job a hundred times before. He knows the beats, memorized the steps, they'll be in and out. Easy peasy. Of course that's not what happens and things might have turned out differently had he just killed Forfex and walked away when he was supposed to. Except that's not who Lucanis is, right, he was never going to turn away from that. Yes, he's a talented assassin and highly sought after, but the thing that sets him apart from his colleagues is his empathy. It's why he also earns the respect of the Shadow Dragons. There's an implication that his jobs in Minrathous (and presumably elsewhere in Tevinter) also involved helping slaves based on some banter between Lucanis and Neve.

Killing the hair spider demon thing is ultimately what leads him to earning the Demon of Vyrantium moniker and basically seals his fate wrt Zara. But if it hadn't been that job and that demon, it would have been another. That's what happens to heroes—and, to be very clear, I'm not calling Lucanis a hero in the sense that he is one but that is the narrative position he holds within the story of TWJ specifically. (Which is the irony of his "We're not heroes anywhere" line. He doesn't view himself as a hero even while actively saving people and killing the monster. Ugh.) That job earned him a permanent place in Crow mythology, for better or for worse, and legends are often remembered more by their falls than their feats. There's only so far one can rise, after all.

Then beneath all that, there's this growing tension between Lucanis and Illario, the culmination of which is the conversation in the tavern. Not only has Lucanis been dismissive of Illario, you can tell this is a conversation they've had before, and he's been pushing it off and pushing it off, throwing himself into his work to avoid it, and hoping it resolves itself on its own. (It won't.) The moment he fails to make Illario the promise Illario wants him to make, the course is set for them. It would have been so easy for Lucanis just to make that promise, whether he meant to or no, and he doesn't. He chooses not to.

That final conversation is so indicative of how much distance there truly is between Lucanis and Illario, how much they're presuming to know each other, each banking on how close they used to be, but they're completely missing one another. Lucanis acknowledges this distance but he's so completely in denial that Illario's resentment is festering and going to become a real problem for him. Obviously knowing where this moment eventually leads them, this moment hits significantly harder in retrospect, but, even so, it's a big moment of foreshadowing. The confrontation has to happen, there's no way of avoiding it, but it isn't going to end how either of them wants it to.

It's really well done as a set up for Lucanis' arc in VG. While I imagine it was written with some of the original story concepts in mind—some of which I, personally, would have found more interesting on the whole—I do ultimately like that the line carried through is centered on Lucanis' growth from emotional repression/compartmentalization/avoidance to taking a proactive role in determining his own happiness. Even in a hardened route, he's decided to find a way to separate from Spite for this purpose. In romancing either Rook or Neve, he's taking the steps to express his feelings in a more direct way than previous attempts. And, if Rook gets to help him through the Inner Demons quest, you get to see him make the active choice to work on those things. I just really like that that's the focus of his character development as opposed to being about familial obligation vs personal freedom.

[felassan]

What kind of spirit do you think Felassan waz?

Swag

[arabellasfvv]

Just watched train to busan and all of us are dead, so logically I gotta blurb about zombies.

Word count: just under 4k

MDNI 18+ Cw: Zombies, loss of self, description of wounds, sex while/after turning

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It's loud and chaotic, you've long stopped trying to make sense of the sounds around you. The endless shattering and breaking of glass stopped meaning anything hours ago. The screams being torn from people have started to fade, getting replaced by animalistic growls and ragged groans filling the air.

Footsteps still run, but they seemed slower now. Heavier. Less coordinated.

The air stank rotten, thick, choking. It clung to your lungs in the worst way. You're hoping you'll get used to it soon.

The apartment— not yours, just where you and John had found refuge— still feels oddly cozy. At least thats what you tell yourself. Dim lights, curtains drawn. You had turned on a radio when you came, tuning in to some station without news, somehow trying to focus on the familiar 80s hits. Let you pretend it was all normal, this would pass and you'd go back to listening to them with John in his old truck.

John...

Who had silently pushed your hand away when you tried to clean the bite on his arm. Who looked at you with that solemn calm while you looked at him with desperation and hope. Clinging to the idea that maybe this was fixable. Maybe if you cleaned it well enough. Maybe if you cut the infected flesh away. Maybe, maybe, maybe...

Now he was lying tied to the bed, because you couldn’t damn him to the hard, uncomfortable floor. His soothing voice was almost gone, being replaced by something else. Rough, scratchy like fingernails on a blackboard.

You didn’t like it.

The words you adored, "Look a' me, love." Now made you cringe. Made your eyes sting with tears you didn't dare to shed. He wasn't lost yet. He was still there, you could see it, hear it.

But you stopped being able to smell it.

He didn’t smell like your husband anymore. The warm musk and woody cologne had turned fetid, sour, forcing your stomach turn when you got too close.

And it hurt. Because you didn’t want to imagine the rest of him leaving too.

So you didn’t.

You turned to look at him and forced yourself to see the good. To remember. To look past the putrid scent that stained the air and focus instead on who he had been. How he had fought bare handed to save you.

How even before everything went to shit, he was always there, pulling your chair back at restaurants, making you laugh until you had to wipe away tears.

The flowers he used to bring. The kisses. Every little present, every little touch that was normal.

You tried to smell them again, to feel the warmth of his body. Focus on anything but the way the light was starting to leave his deep blue eyes.

"You're still beautiful." It sounded so wrong. You knew it was him, but your mind was already trying to distance yourself from it. To go into denial about it all. "Oh, John."

"I'll always—" "No," you interrupted, almost choking on your own tears. You didn't want empty promises, you couldn't stand the idea of hope that'd leave you dreaming.

"I'm sorry," the way his throat croaked made you both flinch. It sounded so unnatural. "You don't... you shouldn't be. Don't be sorry, honey."

Whatever little parts were left of him shattered when you flinched at the way his body twitched.

Somewhere in the tangle of his mind, he knew that hurt. He couldn’t fully comprehend your emotions anymore, thinking was like forcing a fish to evolve and breathe air far too quickly. Painful. Wrong. Going against every instinct.

But he could still tell the emotions coming from you were bad. He just couldn’t name them anymore.

And that broke him. He used to know how to read you.

Years spent together had taught him how to handle you. How to read your moods. How to cheer you up even in your quiet kinds of sad. All of that was now slipping.

It wasn’t fair.

He could barely feel anything human now, but God, he yearned.

Silently he begged, pleaded to whatever holy being still watched over this rotten earth.

Even if he turned into one of those monsters, even if words refused to work, and his brain would start to melt in his head until his body gave up.

Please.

Let me remember my love.

"Darlin', don't," he warned. He didn't like the tentative steps you were taking torwards him. He was tied up, arms bound to the bed. And for once he was scared of his own strength. It had always worked in your favour before, but what if slipped now? What if he left, the monster took over and he'd hurt you. "Please."

You didn't listen. You came to kneel beside the bed. Laying a reassuring hand on John's thigh— now twitching violently, another part of his body leaving him. Your eyes landed on the bite again. Getting worse, the skin around the sunken in teeth marks now violently red, festering. Small blisters formed around the area, making his skin look taut, like it was gonna rip open and spill on you.

His veins swollen, far too visible under his tanned skin, and you could've sworn they were pulsing. Pulsing the rot through him...

"Let me try," the way he didn't answer made your stomach churn more than the rancid smell did. "Jonathan."

"Try?" Don't slip now, please. "To cut it away."

"My love..." You knew that was a no. A warning.

"Why are you just accepting this?!"

"Love..." "Don't! Answer me!"

"I love... I love you."

No. No, no, no! This couldn't be it. "John, please. Please stay with me. Okay? I'm here, focus, please. Okay, just— just think. Don't slip. Youre stronger than that, I swear. I've seen it. All the times you've come back to me. Everything you've went through, you cant just—"

He smiled. Oddly. Not like his usual smile, too much teeth, but you could tell he was trying. It made you want to vomit, bile rising in your throat as you imagined the mess his brain was turning into.

You crawled ontop of the bed, ontop of him. Straddling his hips, your palms coming down on his chest, trying to feel his heartbeat.

Maybe it was stupid. It was downright dangerous. But you couldn't help it, needed to feel him before he was gone completely cold. The heat was already slipping from him, his eyes twitching and blinking like he was in pain. "Please, John. I need you."

You couldn't even get an answer now. He was trying to talk, focusing all his strenght on getting the words past his throat. To fight against everything to show you he was still there. He always would be for you.

But to no avail. All he managed was groans and growls, babbles that made no sense. And it ripped your heart right out of your chest. There was no point in holding back. Tears spilled freely from your eyes and down your cheeks, drawing clean streaks through the dirt on your face. Sobs tore from your throat, attempted words turning into broken sounds. You tried to scream "Don’t you dare! Stay with me!"

As if love alone could bring him back. Or at least keep him from turning further. As if just hoping enough could undo it all.

Your fingers curled against his chest, digging into his shirt and holding on. Before pounding your fists against his chest, begging his heart to beat faster, for his body to warm up again and welcome you.

And he could do nothing

The tiny part of him that remained watched it all from a distance. A grim, third-person view, tied back unable to get involved. He couldn’t feel your hands anymore. Couldn’t speak, couldn’t move the way he wanted to.

He longed for any kind of comfort, to see any kind of recognition in your eyes. To speak the words "It will be okay." like he used to.

But the best he could do is fight back the violent instincts aching to break free. To stay still and not hurt you no matter how far gone he was.

Wishing his name would feel like his again. So it would sound like you were calling him, not a version of him, a ghost, that just slipped right past his fingers.

It took so long to exhaust yourself. To cry it out and curse him with every name under the sun.

You hadn't accepted the loss when you came down. You didn’t dare think once the tears stopped. Barely looked him. You just needed one more night.

So all you did was lay down. Rest on your head on his chest and curl up.

The usual comforting sound of air filling his lungs and his heart beating was now crackled. Every breath of air raspy and uncomfortable, his heart beating with no proper rhythm. And through the sheer exhaustion you were feeling you could will yourself to pretend it was normal.

That everything was just okay, you could close your eyes and rest peacefully.

You wondered if the creaking of the old wooden headboard was because he was trying to comfort you, rest a hand on your head like he always would, or if was because he wanted to tear you apart.

You chose to believe the former and imagine the weight of his arms around like every night before this.

And it worked well enough. Awakening some odd hours later.

Everything had just been a dream.

Right?

It had to be. Couldn't have really— the stench entered your nose before any other sense really woke up. Noisome, like it could burn your nose hairs straight off. No acquaintance to it, just offensive odor that made dread crawl up your spine. You didn't want to lift your head, wanted to stay buried in his chest and just never look at the outside world again.

Curiosity killed the cat.

He looked so much worse. His skin a whole new colour, grayish and pale. Gashes he didn't have before staining his clothes with dark red blood, blistering seemed to have popped up everywhere, filled with fluids you'd much rather stay ignorant of. Eyes clouded over and bloodshot all the same.

His muscles were spasming and twitching, his jaw hung open, and you could see how a part of his tongue was missing, bitten off by himself.

His wrist were a horror show, pieces of flesh seeping out beside the restrains digging into them. It was a miracle he hadn't broken them. You could see fucking bone peak out beneath the bloody mess that stained his entire forearms.

If he could feel that? You wondered. Imagining the kind of pain that would be.

Satisfaction wouldn't bring this one back.

Suddenly you wished your heart were cold. At least cold enough to not see him for who he was, to not feel this aching grief that screamed to consume you. You wanted nothing more than to forget, get up and walk away. Maybe just one apartment over to wait this out, to be alone and safe until rescue came.

But your heart was flaming hot and filled emotions from all ends of the spectrum. You don't think you could ever bring yourself to truly leave him.

Your heart was his. He was the one that took it and filled all the little cracks with his devotion, made sure to wrap it up in gentle cloth and always keep it out of harms way.

He was the one that spoke about how he'd rather die than hurt you, the man who had pushed through when your daughters eyes grew cloudy and red—just like his now. He had kept you afloat. And now he was the cause of the pure agony running through your veins.

You just wanted to cry again, to scream and pray he comes back. Just a little, just enough for you to tell him how grateful you are for everything he's done. And how much you hate him for leaving you on your own.

You felt it when you sat up, wiping the sleep from your puffy eyes, pressing into your lower back. You must've imagined it, there was no way.

You shouldn't have dared to imagine, much less turn around to look.

But who could blame you for doing it? And who could blame you for the rush of arousal that swept through you at the sight of the straining bulge in his ratty jeans.

"Honey?" Stupid hope. Your voice came out so raspy it was almost painful in your throat. You had to say it though, just incase he wasn't truly gone. "John?"

You didn't think you had any heart left to break, but the low growly clicking sound that escaped him just shattered you all over again.

What if he understood, though? Could it be that he was understanding but not able to talk? Hope would never leave you, would it?

The outside started to quiet down again as you sat there, waiting, thinking, body shaking under John's violent twitches.

It was silly, wasnt it? It wouldn't work. Still, you should try... right? It couldn't hurt to, you could be lucky.

An uncertain hand reached out to your husband's crotch, palming his shaft. Teary eyes flickered back to his sunken in face, praying for any kind of reaction to your touch.

You could’ve imagined it, yes. But you swore his eyebrows twisted, it wasnt really pleasure. But it was something, he could feel you. It made your touch bolder, firmly pressing against his cock, thumb finding the twitchy head and rubbing along it.

You were sick. Absolutely sick in the head for doing this. But you just had to.

"I'm so sorry, hun." This must be illegal, there's no chance this was in any way right. You kept telling yourself. And yet, you slipped down to straddle his thighs instead, putting your weight in them so they'd remain as still as possible. Easier said than done.

But with some effort you managed to rip off his belt and work the buttons open.

You hesitated to take them off however. Scared of what you'll see, of what would happen, scared you'd get infected too. Slowly you tugged the jeans down his thick thighs... they didn't seem too bad. Blisteres had formed, and the skin looked just as bad. But his upper body certainly looked worse — you could work with this.

You cringed when you exhaled. The smell rising to your nostrils. Christ, you'd been neglecting oral hygiene bad, huh? Not like it was a priority with—

Focus.

Taking another deep breath you finally dared to pull his underwear down too. Eyes pinched together so you wouldnt have to stare at a horrid mess straight up.

Fortunately that seemed like an exaggeration, it wasn't exactly what you were used to. But what was? There was no puss running down, or skin peeling off, and you took that as a win. Encouragement to go on.

Pulling all your own clothes off, to leave you bare and vulnerable. You needed to be. He was still tour husband, you had no right to hide. He always made you feel comfortable, secure, you were safe. You could be naked around him and nothing would happen. He promised.

You hadn't realised you'd just been staring at his cock until a particularly violent kick of his threw you onto the matress. A strange gurgle in his throat following. You thought it was an apology.

But you still curled up, making yourself small next to his trashing body and fighting back the pained whimpers.

You should kill him, you couldn't dare imagine the pain he was feeling, if any. But it had to be unbearable. You should show mercy. And maybe, just maybe you would've if you had any idea how to kill... these monsters.

Your nagging arousal crawled up beside you, urged to you touch him. It'd make it all better for him. What a stupid delusion.

But again, trying never hurt. You stayed curled up but your arm reached back out, grimy fingers wrapping around his cock. Slimy, you discovered. The pre-cum driping from his angry tip anything but natural or healthy. But his twitching stilled for just a moment, and that relief gave you enough assurance to go on. To slowly pump your hand up and down, watching silenty how he reacted to it. Seizing body locking up when you swiped your palm across the tip. And then it almost seemed to relax when you went back to slower strokes.

Interesting.

"John?" There was that odd, raspy gurgle again. Like he was trying to talk but his throat was filled with a kind of fluid. He had responded to his name though.Thats what this was. It had to be. So he was still in there. It broke you as much as it gave you you hope. Clearly you had to up the game.

Hand staying firmly around his cock as you sat upright, didn't want to fight to stay on like a bullrider.

Your hands are digging into the flesh of his stomach as you sink down, hole fluttering around his girth. You cant hide in his shoulder, like you usually do, without his teeth getting too close, so you have to hide in your own. Mewling at the stretch like you do every fucking time. Just without any kind of praise or reassurance this time. Without any kind of warmth.

Its just you, your thoughts, and your husband's inhumane clicks and growls filling the space. But he's calm, twitchy, but not trashing, no seizing. Just muscles bulging beneath skin. Your fingers curl harder when you lift yourself up and down, and his skin gives away far too easily.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck. Suddenly your nails were embedded into the little pudge he'd grown over his hard muscle. Red, brownish blood seeping past the limbs. You almost throw up right then and there. Nothing about this was fucking normal! You were in a straight up nightmare.

But you didn't get up, being stuffed full again, being vulnerable again, it all was right. God, you needed it.

Simply repositioning your hands you looked away from the wounds you had caused him. Meeting his fogged up eyes instead, rolling your hips, feeling his cock twitch inside of you. And pray for any kind of response, aching to hear his voice speak to you. And even if it was some incomprehensible mumbling or curses, just anything that was remotely human, anything that was John. Something to give the ring on his finger meaning again.

That damn ring was just cruel. The way it simmered with the bright morning sun, catching your eye.

But with your husband out of his mind it didn’t mean anything anymore. It was just laughing in your face now, reminding you of what once was and would never be back.

Tears were gathering on your lashes again, the realisation that you could do nothing hitting you straight on the face.

So you just kept staring at him, awaiting his eyes to just switch. To turn into that pretty blue that had you squirming ever so often.

It never came. You kept riding him, grinding your hips down chasing pleasure, relief. But all that stared back were calm, misty eyes. Scarily calm.

It was different. You missed him slamming up in you, abusing that gummy spot inside for hours until you were a weeping mess. His calloused hands on your soft hips, guiding you up and down on his length. Pushing at your chest to keep you upright, propping up his feet so you could rest your back against his strong thighs while chasing release for the umpteenth time.

You missed his gravelly voice throwing all the praise your way. The “Atta girls”, the way he'd nose at your throat and mutter about how “You're the most beautiful woman ever, y'know that? My woman… a whole blessing.” The reassurance even if you showed no signs of anything wrong “You're okay, yeah. Doin’ so good. We're good."

You missed his fingers on your clit. All the times you'd protested about how “It's too much! Please, john. Ahh— fuck.. please ‘s too much.” Suddenly filled you with regret. Now you ached for “too much”. For the way he'd shush you when you whined around the fingers he pushed into your mouth. You wished his rough fingers were drawing gentle circles along your clit, crooning at your squirming and allowing you to cum.

Every “you can take it. Sweet girl, you can do this for me.” now your motivation to take this for him.

Your orgasm was overwhelming, emotionally. Sweeping over you like a wave and forcing the sobs out of your chest. Physically it was weak. Forcing your hips to slow, spasming around his cock, slick— that you couldn't identify as either yourself or his — gushing around him, forming a little ring around his base.

It meant nothing. You hated it, really.

And now, full of him, your stomach fluttering with a kind of homey feeling you let yourself consider, maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

Maybe you could stay like this forever.

Or well, however long zombies lived.

You wouldn’t leave now. You could work yourself into the delusion, build a life in this apartment. Survive on shitty canned food and whatever animal dared to stumble by. Pretend it was the dream.

A sweet domestic life.

Unfortunately, there was no real point in that. You’d succumb eventually.

If you got it over with now, maybe you wouldn’t have to feel the pain anymore.

At least you hoped.

Your hands trembled as they reached for the restraints, still etched into his flesh. A raw and crimson mess ruining the ropes. You gagged when your fingers brushed his cold flesh.

You had to look away for a second, hands shaking harder than ever.

The knots wouldn't come loose, so your fingers went to the knife strapped around his ankle.

Your sobbing left you uncoordinated, causing the knife to slip and accidentally cut into his flesh, worsening the already torn open wound. Leaving you choking up between gags and cries. Damn him for teaching you how to tie ropes this well.

He didn't seem to care, dead brain being of no use anymore.

It was confusing how you went from thinking he was there, to being sure he was gone. The way those shimmers of hope caught you left you a mess.

He was still once the ropes came free. And that was so much scarier than if he had went straight for your throat. He was staring, looked like he was contemplating.

“It's okay.” You weren't sure what was okay. Nothing felt okay. But the look in his eyes told you to reassure him, “just… It's okay, John.”

He nodded.

He nodded? What?

Your entire system just froze up. He was the one to move, to sit up with those damn clicking sounds. Keeping your naked form in his lap, as your chests pressed together. His arms wrapping around you. It felt wrong.

But you'd take it. Anything that made him John again, you were open for it, ready to take any crumb with your entire heart.

So open that when his head tilted and his teeth scratched the soft skin on your neck you didn't do anything.

Nor when his teeth sank into the muscle of your shoulder.

And even when he pulled away with torn off skin in his mouth, your shoulder screaming in pain, your body shuddering with the hot blood dripping down, you didn't fight.

That was the point of cutting him free, wasn't it?

You just let him dig back in, more eager than ever he bit into your raw flesh. Half a tongue trying to get your blood into his mouth, spreading dirty saliva along the wound.

Cradling his head, feeling the thick hair that still felt soft, you let him feast. The pain irrelevant for the closeness he was giving you.

Your breath hitched first. Your lungs stumbling over nothing in particular. You thought it was the pain, until the tips of your fingers started twitching. Your bone feeling like its gonna lock in place.

You swallowed thickly as things grew dull, the squelch of your flesh, ACDC playing in the other room, and the cracking of his bones turned muffled.

You couldn't think about the pain, your mind suddenly feeling like it was overheating, thoughts leaving like explosions. Little puffs forcing them to lock behind some wall you couldn't pass. You couldn't reach out to grab any of them, everything just dulled.

All warmth left, and your heart quieted its roaring fire.

But you didn't try to pull away. You let yourself slip into the abyss, calm in your husband's arms. The void seemed much less scarier with him around, and the last pure thought in your head was about him. About all the love you carried, and would continue to until this earth finally crumbled.

Oh love, maybe you should've switched to a radio station that played the news...

[pokimoko]

To Walk Over Your Grave - A Gravity Falls Fic

Written by pokimoko

Chapters: 7/7

Final Word Count: ~60K

Fandom: Gravity Falls

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Ford Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Bill Cipher & Ford Pines

Characters: Ford Pines, Stan Pines, Dipper Pines, Mabel Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket, Bill Cipher, Background & Cameo Characters

Summary:

This is not the world you think you know Though it starts in the same winter snow And ends in the same place as before: In a town of cryptids and folklore Where a man must set his mind aflame To bring an end to a god's cursed game That's the thing about branches of time However they diverge, they will rhyme But diverge they did, with one mistake One wrong number is all it can take To keep a man away from his twin And to change all of what might have been How cruel, how strange, that a change so small Could make so many dominoes fall But still, every choice must have its cost And in this world, he must pay with frost

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe, Cryogenics, Suspended Animation, Young Ford Pines, 80s Ford in 2012, Ford Pines Has Issues, Ford Pines Needs a Hug, POV Ford Pines, Ford Pines-centric, Psychological Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ford Pines Has PTSD, Memory Loss, Amnesia, Repressed Memories, Horror Elements, Mystery, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, (just…not quite in the canonical order of events), Haunting, Dreamscapes, Unreliable Narrator, Reconciliation, Memory Alteration, Grief/Mourning, Metafiction, Pre-Portal Incident Ford | Early 1980s Era Ford Pines, Implied Autistic Ford Pines, Alternate Universe - Ford Pines Never Went Through The Portal, and let's just say that changes a lot of things, Brotherly Love, Brotherly Angst, Wait if I'm haunting the narrative and you're haunting the narrative then who's driving?, TLDR: instead of portal adventures Ford gets frozen for 30 odd years and is still not having a good time, my boy is out here young dumb and broken

[scribeofmorpheus]

new wheel of time trailer dropped AND WHERE IS MY GIRL NYNAEVE?! Where is Lan Mandragorian's "wisdom"?! [she was in one frame. one!] *chews glass*

but also the mythal/solas/lavellan parallels in moiraine/lan/nynaeve are actually crazy--like i didn't think about it till now, but of course i'd find inklings of robert jordan's influence in my favourite fantasy game series too

[pampanope]

HI I was just wondering what do you think Adler's react was to graves joining the marine corps?

Hahaa oh god I can hear the exasperated disappointment in his voice XD military branches are notorious for their rivalries

“Really, son? The crayon munchers?”

“Don’t you gimme that! You army guys were eating claymores back in ‘Nam. That’s why we got ‘Do Not Eat’ warning labels all over ‘em.”

Adler would’ve been perfectly fine with whatever his son chose (but he has his preferences lol). But did it have to be the Marines??

(He made sure to show up at Phillip’s graduation in the sweltering heat, with pride in his chest)

[wild-magic-oops]

Just saw a post in my for you page and while I generally agreed with the sentiment of it, the info was not correct based on what I personally remember from BG3 so here's my take-

God!Gale was able to become a god while Karsus failed not because he was better, more powerful, more special or whatever, but because he didn't try to unseat Mystra when ascending. If he had tried to become the god of magic like Karsus had tried, Mystra would've annihilated him on the spot. She would've left a Gale-sized hole in the ground, if you will lmao sorry

But despite Gale's completely unchecked and untampered attempt at power grab on his godhood path, he still realized that he had to thread carefully. People can clown on him for low wis stat compared to his high int stat and whatever, but he still activated his brain and came to the conclusion that he should not fuck around and find out the way Karsus did. He looked at the mistake of someone else and correctly pinpointed what went wrong there. He did not repeat history but instead learned from it (for this particular thing, I mean).

People can also clown on God!Gale for chickening out of confronting Mystra, but at the end of the day, it was simply the intelligent thing to do.

Anyway, I love that Gale actually succeeds in becoming a god if he goes that path.

[starry-skies-writes]

I keep thinking of Viren

How in his final moments, he still had to do Dark Magic, something he wished to put behind him since it caused him and his family so much pain that it broke him and his daughter and, just his family APART.

How in his final moments, he tried to save his son while suffering sacrifice, as he’d done once before.

How in his final moments, he sacrificed himself for the kingdom, as he should’ve done once before.

“I—am a servant. I am a servant.”

His words finally ring true.

[fisheito]

A while back you made a post talking about yakumo and his sensitivity to temperature and I haven't stopped thinking about it. imagine when winter comes around and yakumo becomes progressively sluggish, usually staying in the kitchen and not leaving for hours, always making something near the stove to feel a little warmth from the flames or from a little taste of the things he's making (soup probably), or him picking up the habit of bundling himself up and staying in the library to read and nap. maybe when it starts getting even colder he barely leaves his room because its too uncomfortably cold for him, and if he does he's probably looking for eiden to help him warm up, but if eidens not around he gets antsy and looks for somebody else in the mansion, but he's too shy to ask and looks at whoever with his wet eyes so they know he's cold and wants a cuddle

*inhales deeply* ah yes. you understand. you envision it all so clearly. rightly so. gEt in the wAy, everybody, snake burrito walking the halls very very slowly!!!!!!! (i was about to say get OUT of the way but that would probably make yakumo colder so why not do him a favour and collide with him on your way to another room)

[pinetreepilgrimage]

Starlight (4/6)

[insignificant457]

Thinking about the fact that sevro is a carvers creation too.

“We went to a carver to see if we couldn’t make ourselves some magic. We did.”

Sevro, just like Darrow, is created in a lab, but their purposes are completely different. Darrow is created as a machine of war, his whole purpose after being saved by the sons of ares is to infiltrate and tear down the gold machine. He can’t separate himself from this war, because his purpose is not yet fulfilled.

Sevro, on the other hand, is created out of the love his parents have for each other. And when his mother is killed his father starts this revolution, and he does it in big part for him. It’s no coincidence that the organization fitchner starts is called the sons of ares. In sevros life, the war hasn’t just been about tearing down the society, it’s about the possibility of what comes after. The possibility is own birth represents.

I think iron gold and dark age really highlight the differences between their individual philosophies. You can see it in the fact mustang says she’d like to retire with Darrow and their children, plural, despite the fact that in ten years they’ve only got the one (who certainly wasn’t planned). Meanwhile sevro and victra have had three and another on the way in that intervening time. You can see it in the way Darrow continually struggles to pull himself away from the war, while sevro is able to compartmentalize and prioritize his family when he’s home. You can see it in the sevros palace chapter in dark age, when Darrow says sevro “didn’t close his mind to his family before battle, because he knew they did not make him weaker, they made him stronger than he was by himself.”

Darrow can’t start living life for himself until his purpose is fulfilled, while sevros purpose has always been that very life, so he finds a way to fit it in.

So in the end, it’s not surprising that when it comes down to it, Darrow chooses his army and sevro chooses his family. It’s not about one of them being right and one of them being wrong. It’s about what they were created for.

[ladysouthpaw1213]

a brief summery of my Bell’s bio in BO6(this is following the bad ending timeline of Black Ops 2)

visual reference for 1991 appearance created by Bikosi’s Neka C.C: Click

Bio: In 1990,Natalia Alder is forced to go on the run along with her Husband Russell, after being falsely accused of what happened in Panama(her past did not help matters). After leaving their children Andrei and Lana with a trusted ally of theirs for safety, Natalia works to clear her and Russell’s names and find out who framed them. She is introduced to the Team at the safehouse expecting them. You usually find her working on ciphering or photography when not on missions. Even after her and the rest of the Rook Team were cleared of treason and reinstated to their former ranks into the CIA after the events of the game, Natalia still has trust issues towards them(she always had due to what happened in 1981, but this just added on to them). Their house(despite it being untouched since they fled as someone watched over it for them) still feels like a ghost to her after being on the run for 11 months and finally being able to return home

1991 safehouse outfit

1991 tactical outfit

Visual reference created by Kyoumeikaitou’s Neka C.C: Click

quotes:

(Asking why she’s called Bell) it’s a nickname given to me by Russell

(Asking if something on her mind)”Oh, it’s just I’ve been thinking of Andrei and Lana”

(Asking about her history with Russell)” it’s complicated”

(Asking about the orange neckerchief she wears on missions)”It belong to someone dear to me”

(When asked about a certain plot reveal in BO6)” I’m used to it”

[vigilskept]

i think might actually commit to the inquisitor felassan au. it just Makes Sense to me. if he's rendered tranquil rather than killed at the end of masked empire he really only has 2 options: give up and wait for mr sunk cost fallacy to do his thing or………. follow the breadcrumb trail all the way to the conclave.

[fire-n-madness]

K.D. || 27 || she/her

Denizen of the PNW

ADHD + Autistic

I got a full time job, I’m always tired

Shop or Adopt Responsibly

Advocate for ethical dog breeding and responsible dog onwership

I’m that writer that has too many WIPs and OCs

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