#The Unbranded Brand

[backwardswalks]

if they're gonna lose they could at least lose to a team that is real

[papercranes07]

.

[funkscop1997]

shout out to my only 2 shopkins

[trinketfairy]

Vintage dolls and teddy bears at the antique store

[hyenabrainedpup]

So mad i had to buy a few mice from pets at home bc i had no time for an online order from my go to place, tell me why 5 medium mice cost me £10 jesus christ

[thesandsofelsweyr]

Could you write fic based off of this img

《 ALSO ON AO3 》

Comments & kudos on ao3 are much appreciated, as are reblogs here on Tumblr! ❤️

The red hot branding iron was inches away from his other cheek when he woke with a choked gasp. His ragged breath was running away from him while his heart pounded like fists against his ribcage. His wide, pale blue eyes blinked frantically, adjusting to the darkness, trying desperately to latch onto something—anything—that didn’t belong in his dank, dark prison cell. A bed, he told himself. His chest rose and fell as if he was running a marathon. He swallowed hard. I’m in a bed. The only bed he’d known in Arkham was the cold, hard, filthy wood floor of his cage. But he could still feel the intense heat radiating off the cruel metal onto his tender, unbranded cheek; the Clown’s maniacal cackle still echoed in his ear. He clawed at his pillow, pulling it over his head as if he could hide from his master, as if he could drown out the grating laugh that would haunt him even after he was rotting away in his grave.

“He’s dead,” he panted as his body shook like a leaf in a hurricane, “he’s dead, he’s dead, I’m free,” he repeated, but icy terror still clutched at his throat as his mind refused to believe the words. The walls of the dark room seemed to close around him, swallowing him back down into the bowels of Arkham Asylum, where his master was waiting to punish him again. He choked back a scream. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, which he screwed shut. “Not again,” he whimpered helplessly. “Please don’t do it again.”

His muscles were as taut as a grappling cable. Cold sweat drenched his entire body. He pulled shuddering knees to his chest, curling into the fetal position, as if he could protect himself from the crowbar in the Clown's lavender-gloved hands. 

A pair of ungloved hands slid beneath the crooks of his arms, and he squealed in terrifying despair.

“Shh,” a voice whispered, as soft as satin, as gentle as a breeze. Then the warmth of an embrace enveloped him, dragging him out of hell.

“I-I’m sorry…” he stammered, sniffling. Warm tears trickled down his cheeks, which flamed red with embarrassment. “I-I didn’t mean to wake you…”

She squeezed him even tighter, curling herself around him, wrapping him up in a cocoon of protection. Her heart beat steadily against his mutilated back, and he grounded himself with the comforting sensation; the reminder that he was needed, that he was loved. 

“It’s okay, baby,” she murmured sleepily. “You’re safe. I’m here…” She placed a tender kiss against his trembling shoulder, and his body relaxed in her arms. “I got you.”

[beckyninja]

The Dragon

Pairing: Salamander x FemOC (past), Salamander x FemReader (future)

Warnings: implied child death, implied Drukhari... being Drukhari

Description: Salamander Apothecary Nev'ran returns to his chapter after years in the Death Watch and is forced to face painful memories.

Here's something new guys! My first ever Warhammer oc protagonist! Thanks to @thememestrider and @garlickedbreads for showing enough interest in my Salamander side-character to inspire me to write a full fic just for him. (Please forgive my playing fast and loose with Warhammer canon.)

Apothecary Nev'ran makes a brief appearance in my previous fic, Relief. And, of course, if you'd like to read my other works, check out my Masterlist.

“It is good to see you again, brother.” 

Apothecary Nev’ran nodded to the Captain of the Salamanders 4th Company, even as his deep red eyes roamed the Flamewrought’s bridge. So familiar. Every screen, shrine, beam and cable. 

Has it truly been half a century since I stood upon this ship?

“It is good to be back, Xavus.” He allowed himself a smile. “Your new rank suits you.”

Xavus returned the grin, the wings of the dactyle branded onto his left cheek twisting at the expression. “Much has changed during your absence, old drake. I hope it will not be too difficult for you to assimilate.”

Nev’ran snorted. “I am not so old that I cannot still humble you in the training ring, hatchling.”

The Captain chuckled, then grew solemn. “I see you have brought our fallen brothers back to us.”

Nev’ran turned to watch the five covered bodies wheeled off the Thunderhawk. 

Five more I failed to save. 

“We will take them home, brother. We are bound for Nocturne.”

Nev’ran clenched his teeth. “Home. It has been… so long.”

A gauntleted hand landed on his shoulder. “Too long, brother.”

Not long enough. 

Forcing the nagging thought to the back of his mind, Nev’ran once again looked around the Bridge. Most of his fellow Salamanders he recognized. But the serfs….

“I expected Exin would be here to meet me.”

Xavus blinked. “I thought you knew, brother. Your brander priest passed into the fire nearly a decade ago.”

A stab of pain. Exin had served him faithfully for nearly three decades before he’d gone to the Watch, painstakingly branding the sigils of his lord’s victories into his flesh. He remembered the angular, serious face. Slow to smile, but warm-hearted nonetheless. Like his father and grandmother before him. 

Ruby used to tease- no. Not those memories. Not yet.

Nev’ran spoke past the tightness in his throat. “Did he have no child to carry on his family calling?”

“None. I am sorry, brother.” The hand on his shoulder squeezed. “Another will be assigned to you when we reach Nocturne.”

Another mortal I can watch fade and die. “There is no need. I have grown used to caring for myself these past years.”

Xavus chuckled. “Then I can only imagine the illegibility of your brands, brother.”

Nev’ran forced a laugh.

The Captain continued. “You must tire of my company. Your old apothecarion calls, and I am sure you are eager to return to it.”

“Yes.”

No.

***

The equipment. The medicines. The harsh scent of chemicals failing to hide the omnipresent odor of blood. His apothecarion.

Memories battered his mental walls as he stepped through the doors. A bright smile. Glinting, mischievous eyes. His name on soft lips. 

He shook his head. “No.”

“My lord?” A feminine voice.

His eyes snapped to the small figure in medica’s robes standing off to one side. Her hood covered her face, and both his hearts skipped a beat. 

“Ruby?” The name slipped out before he could stop it.

It cannot be…!

The medica raised her head enough for him to see her puzzled expression. And his faint, mad hope disintegrated. 

“Apothecary Nev’ran!” Another Salamander burst through a side door. “By the Emperor, it is good to see you!”

Nev’ran stared at the youthful, unbranded face. “Hur’reth!”

A spark of joy warmed the cold forge of his hearts. Former master and former apprentice embraced, the clang of colliding ceramite resonating through the chamber. More clangs followed as Nev’ran pounded the younger Salamander’s back.

“It is good to see you, young one.” He stepped back, looking him up and down. “You passed your trials with ease, I expect?”

Hur’eth laughed. “How could I do otherwise, with you as my teacher?”

Nev’ran gave a genuine smile for the first time in longer than he could remember. “A full Brother Apothecary. I am proud of you.”

“I have eagerly awaited your return, master. What news from the Long Watch?”

“Have you time to listen?”

“My duties are light since the company is between campaigns.” Hur’reth’s eyes sparkled just as they had when he was a child, listening to his master’s stories in the forge.

“Then sit with me, and I will share what wisdom I have gathered.” Nev’ran lightly batted the side of the younger Salamander’s head. “Perhaps some of it will sink in this time.”

A soft cough. Hur’reth glanced off to one side, where the medica stood silently. 

“Before that, master. I have someone I would introduce to you.” He beckoned the woman over. “This is Matia, my most valued assistant here in the apothecarion.” 

He gazed down at her with an expression Nev’ran knew all too well. “She is to be my mate.”

Pain. Like a branding iron shoved inside his gut. With those few words, Nev’ran’s mind spiralled into the deepest secrets of the Salamanders.

Official doctrine stated that the Primarch Vulkan himself started the custom. But some chapter scholars believed the practice went back even further. They held that the instinct to mate and father children lay deep within the geneseed of every Astartes. The Salamanders simply chose to embrace that instinct, instead of burying it beneath repressive indoctrination. 

The Chaplains gave strict instructions on the practice to each initiate. 

The woman must be strong of body, able to stand alongside a warrior and mother his children. The woman must be strong of mind, able to bring skills to the chapter and guide the next generation of battle brothers. The woman must be strong of will, to endure the horrors to which she may be exposed.

Above all, the woman must be willing. Coercion of any kind turned a former battle brother into the most hated of creatures, dishonored and hunted by his fellow Salamanders.

For such women were valued beyond price. Bringers of love and wisdom. Councillors and artisans. Faithful companions.

Nev’ran’s hand automatically sought the reliquary at his waist.

“Master?” Hur’reth’s voice shook him from his reverie. “Do you disapprove?”

“You have spoken with the Chaplain, child?” Nev’ran addressed the woman, softening his voice as much as he could.

“I have, my lord. He deemed me worthy.”

Hur’reth beamed, settling his hand on her shoulder. “We will be bound in fire when we reach Nocturne. I would greatly appreciate your presence at the ceremony, master.”

By the Throne, do not ask that of me. Not that!

“I…may have other duties to attend to.” He sighed when the younger Salamander’s face fell. “But I will try.”

Matia smiled. “Hur’reth often spoke of you, my lord. He said you were like a father to him. We would be grateful for your blessing.”

“I said I will try. I make no promises.”

The woman flinched at the harshness in his tone. Hur’eth’s eyes flashed fire, a growl rumbling from his chest.

Warp damn it. 

Nev’ran raised a hand. “Forgive me. The day has been long and I am, perhaps, still adjusting to my return.”

Matia laid a hand on Hur’reth’s arm, and the younger Apothecary seemed to calm. “We understand, my lord. Don’t we, my heart’s fire?”

Hur’reth remained silent, and she gave him a sharp look from beneath her hood. 

“Yes,” he finally grumbled, “we understand.”

“Perhaps it would be best if tales of my time in the Watch waited for another day.” Nev’ran tried to smile.

The scowl didn’t leave Hur’reth’s face. “I think that would be wise. Rest well, Brother Apothecary.”

“And you.”

He watched the pair make their way out of the chamber. At the door, Hur’reth bent suddenly and scooped Matia into his arms. Her startled laugh floated back to Nev’ran and, once again, pain seared him from the inside out.

Warp damn it all! Fifty years since… and nothing is easier.

***

A throaty laugh. “Arise, old dragon. The day cycle stretches on, and you lay like a lizard in the sun.”

He stubbornly kept his eyes shut. “Hmph. No respect for my age and wisdom, young one?”

“None whatsoever.” A cool, calloused hand against his cheek.

He caught the wrist. “You forget, woman, an old dragon is still dangerous.”

“Oh?” The voice dropped low, and his body stirred in response.

“Dangerous. And patient.” 

With a firm, but gentle tug, he pulled the woman onto his broad chest, lips pressing against her throat. He opened his eyes to stare into snapping black orbs full of laughter and love-

Nev’ran awoke.

The darkness of his quarters confused him for a moment. Then his firesight activated, and he saw the ribbons of heat swirling across the walls and ceiling in geometric patterns. The smell of warm metal and incense filled his nose. He pushed himself upright with a groan, feeling the stretch and creak of centuries old muscle.

One hand reached behind him. But no soft, cool body met his questing fingers. None had for over fifty years. Instead, he caressed the reliquary still tied at the waist of his sleeping robes. 

“My Ruby.”

For a long moment he sat upon the edge of his cot, feeling every ridge and edge of the ornate little box. He knew it  better than any weapon he’d ever crafted. He’d forged it himself after all.

And yet, it was naught but cold comfort.

He surged to his feet.

I can put this off no longer.

Exiting his quarters, he padded barefoot through the halls of the Flamewrought. This late in the night cycle, only a few serfs scurried about. They bobbed in respect as he passed. Any other time, he might have stopped to converse, to ask their names and positions. 

Not tonight. 

The memory of hundreds of similar treks did not fail him as the doors to the small chapel came into view. One phrase stood out amidst the riot of Imperial symbols and imagery lovingly carved upon their surface: The Daughters of Vulkan

He hesitated for a fraction of a second before pressing his hand to the panel on one side of the door. He felt sharp prick as the needle tested his blood.

None but Salamanders were permitted beyond these doors. Few, if any, of the other chapters or Imperial offices would understand the secrets held within.

Emperor forbid the Inquisition ever learn of this.

A few seconds later, there came a high-pitched beep, a light flashed, and the doors hissed apart. Nev’ran steeled himself as he stepped within.

The inner walls and floor were not metal like the rest of the ship, but stone, mined from Nocturne and made to resemble the homeworld’s caverns. A large brazier stood in the exact center of the circular chapel.

Nev’ran took in the myriad of murals and designs covering nearly every inch of the walls, floor, and ceiling. Though the skulls and other common imagery of the Imperial cult were represented, the predominant image remained that of a she-dragon in various poses: curled about her eggs, watching over playful hatchlings, poised to attack, teeth bared.

The images curled about hundreds of small niches carved into the stone, each holding a tiny urn. Some were dark and dusty. Others held smoldering candles. Still others glimmered with inset jewels. Nev’ran approached one of these.

Reaching out, he ran his fingers over a name carved upon the urn, mildly surprised to find it free of dust and soot. His wife’s given name. Though, he’d rarely called her by it.

“Ruby. My Ruby.” My precious, fiery gem.

The memories he’d fought so long and so hard to resist came pouring back, irresistible as a lava flow. 

He’d already been centuries old, the last of his bloodline, when he first laid eyes on her. He’d made peace with the fact he’d never find a mate of his own, never hold children in his arms.

Then he’d returned one day to find a new medica stood tall and unafraid in the midst of his apothecarion. She’d recited her name without waiting for him to speak. The granddaughter of a brother of the First Company, she could have had any position she wished.

But she’d chosen Fleet duty.

“How can I help anyone if I’m bound to the homeworld, my lord? I wish to sail the stars, to succour those in need far from Nocturne’s fires. I am not afraid.”

She was never afraid. Not of the great empty void. Not of battle. Not of other Astartes. He smiled at the memory of her standing face to face (rather, face to stomach) with an irate Ultramarine. 

“I don’t care what the Codex dictates, Captain Sicarious! You can question the wounded after I’ve tended to them, and not one moment before!”

Slowly, she’d chipped away at the stony walls around his heart. She’d given him hope for a future filled with warmth and life after centuries in cold solitude. He’d spent weeks in the forge, toiling over her betrothal gift.

Nev’ran stood, ramrod straight, as she opened the plain metal box. The contents glittered in the candlelight.

“Oh…oh, Nev!”

She lifted the many-stranded necklace, delicate golden wire set with dozens of tiny, scarlet stones. “Rubies! My favorite!”

“I know.” He smiled, then slowly dropped to one knee. “It would be a great honor, if you would bond with me in the firelight of-”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Kisses turned to caresses, which turned to clothing discarded on the floor of his quarters. He was anxious about causing her pain. She was frustrated with his caution. When they finally settled into a rhythm….

By Vulkan’s burning eyes, it was perfection.

In hindsight, it probably hadn’t been the best idea to propose in the middle of an Ork invasion. The Chaplain hadn’t been available for several weeks, and by that time, they’d had to request an expedited ceremony.

They’d wanted to be officially bonded before the child came.

Nev’ran leaned his forehead against the niche and braced himself for the memories to come.

The Orks had been defeated, but the planet was devastated. Infrastructure crumbling, people battered, defenders exhausted. The Salamanders did what they could to aid the population. He remembered working nonstop for days, tending the wounded and extracting geneseed from the fallen.

He’d tried to convince her to remain on the Flamewrought with the serfs. She’d refused. Pregnant or not, as long as she could help, she would. He’d been so proud, watching her organize the hospital, bark orders at officers, and sooth traumatized guardsmen.

So strong. So fearless.

Then the Drukhari came. Hate reddened his vision.

Vile scavengers drawn to the scent of suffering. A raiding party swooped in under the cover of darkness one night, striking at the most vulnerable point: the hospital.

When he found her…when he’d seen what they’d left of her and his unborn child….

Nev’ran’s knees buckled.

“Master?”

He did not look up at the voice. “Hur’reth.”

“I knew I would find you here.” A second hand joined his upon his wife’s memorial shrine. “I come once a standard week.”

“Thank you for maintaining it.”

“She was like a second mother to me, during my apprenticeship.” He heard a smile in the younger Salamander’s voice. “She used to sneak me sweets when your back was turned.”

“I know.”

“I celebrated the news of your bonding. And I mourned…after.” A deep breath. “I desired to speak with you, but I had my trials. And then you left.”

Nev’ran remained silent. In the aftermath of her murder, he’d wanted nothing more than to hunt every filthy Drukhari from the galaxy. He’d badgered then-Captain Dac’tyr to let him go to the Watch, even threatening to join as a Black Shield. 

Anything to hold off the black void of grief.

“Did you find what you needed in the Death Watch?”

Nev’ran sighed and stood. “I thought so, brother. With every Drukhari I left a burning husk at my feet, I thought so.”

In time, the volcanic rage had faded to smoldering embers. He’d formed bonds with his brothers in the Watch, took pleasure in the companionship of the serfs. 

I wonder if Brother Nullus ever acted upon his feelings for his little serf girl?

But the wound never truly healed.

Before he could say so, a metallic voice screeched over the chapel’s vox. “ALL BROTHERS ARMOR YOURSELVES AND GATHER ON THE BRIDGE.”

***

“We have received a distress signal.” Captain Xavus leaned over the communications table. “It’s fragmented, and weak, but close.”

He hit a button and a panicked voice pierced the air. “shhhh…breached our hull in numerous…shhhh…captain dead…shhhh…hunting us…shhhh…Emperor, save us! Someone help…shhhh….”

The final words, screamed in terror, sent lightning up Nev’ran’s spine. 

“Dark Eldar!”

Xavus ended the transmission. “That was the last of it. We sent transmissions of our own, but received no further communication.”

Nev’ran spoke even before the Lieutenant standing next to him. “How soon will we arrive?”

“We should be within Thunderhawk range in less than an hour.”

The Lieutenant eyed him. “I will prepare a squad.”

Nev’ran turned to the unfamiliar brother. “I will accompany you.”

“This is no job for an Apothecary.”

Fury flashed through him, but Xavus spoke before he could. “Apothecary Nev’ran is recently returned from the Death Watch, Lieutenant. His knowledge of the xenos will prove valuable.”

Thank you, brother.

The Captain continued, face grim. “And, in the unlikely case there are survivors, they will need medical aid.”

***

The silence. As Nev’ran exited the Thunderhawk in the hangar of the large merchant transport, bolter raised, the silence struck him. Void ships were never silent.

His mind flashed back to that terrible dawn, outside the hospital camp. It had been silent then too.

“Brother Apothecary, what insight do you have for us?”

He ignored the irritation in the Lieutenant’s voice. “Trust nothing you see or hear. Keep a lookout in all directions at all times.”

Another brother spoke. “We saw no ships on our approach. Perhaps the foul xenos are gone?”

“Do not be certain of that.”

The abominations were nothing if not cunning.

The five man squad moved quickly through the empty halls. Scorch marks and twisted metal marked a fierce fight. Bright red blood dripped from every surface.

“Where are the bodies?” Another of the team spoke.

“Taken.” Nev’ran growled. “Fuel for foul experiments. Pray to the Emperor they were killed first.”

“Brothers!”

Nev’ran turned toward the shout. One of his squadmates stood before an open door. He heard a few faint gurgles coming from within.

“Dear Emperor….”

The Apothecary could guess what he saw. “Can any be saved?”

A short shake of his helmeted head.

“Then give them mercy, brother.”

The Salamander aimed his flamer into the chamber. “You will be avenged, I swear it.”

Searing, cleansing heat. Then silence once again. The Salamander came to stand next to Nev’ran, head lowered, chest heaving. 

He put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Steel yourself. There will be more.”

There were.

By the time his squad reached the bowels of the ship, all were silent. Nev’ran knew each battle brother had seen horrors to blast mortal minds. But the charnel houses left in the Drukhari’s wake could shake the most stalwart Astartes. 

They had shaken him. 

The dragon in him roared for battle. He desired nothing more than to rip the perpetrators of these atrocities in half with his bare hands. Another part of him wept for the victims.

Emperor, is this my punishment for failing to save my mate and child? To be forced to arrive too late time and time again? 

Inside his helmet, he closed his eyes and channeled every ounce of faith he still possessed into one prayer. 

Please. Just one. Let me save just one.

A light flashed on in his helmet display. “I have a life sign!”

“Xenos?” The Lieutenant growled.

“Human.”

The other Salamanders gathered around. “Where?”

“Toward the far hull.”

As he spoke, the already flickering lights in the hall went out. Nev’ran activated his firesight, and each brother came alive with unique heat patterns.

“The life support systems are failing,” one Salamander remarked.

Nev’ran pressed ahead. “Then we must move quickly!”

More systems failed as they continued. The air grew frigid, frost forming along every metal surface. Nev’ran barely noticed. His eyes fixed upon the life sign as it turned from green to orange, then orange to red.

No. Not this time!

At last they turned a corner to find a barricade constructed before an ornate set of doors. Only here did bodies lay where they’d fallen. Men and woman in fine uniforms, wielding pristine weapons.

“House guards.” One of the brothers muttered.

Another nodded. “A final stand.”

The Lieutenant kicked a lanky body in spiked armor. “They took a few of the foul creatures with them, at least.”

“No mutilations.” Nev’ran rumbled. “The xenos must have detected our ship and fled before they had time to…enjoy themselves.”

“Cowards.”

The Apothecary clenched his fists around his weapon until the metal creaked. “If we had only gotten here sooner.” He shook himself. “Help me brothers, the life sign is behind that door.”

He pushed his way through the hastily constructed barricade. Reaching the door, he realized it had been welded shut. His pauldron met metal with a ringing crash.

“Allow me, brother.” The Lieutenant came up beside. “On the count of three….”

Two rams later, and the door buckled. A gust of icy air blew past them as they stepped into the chamber. It may have been beautiful once, with ornate furniture and hanging tapestries. Now frost covered every surface, including the figure huddled by the dead fireplace.

“Warp damn it.” The Lieutenant growled. “The coolant system here must have ruptured.”

Nev’ran barely heard him. A blanket covered the still body, only revealing a frail, feminine hand. The blue fingers twitched.

A cry from behind stopped him mid-step.

“Throne! The xenos lives!”

Swift and deadly as a thrown blade, the Drukhari “corpse” leapt into the chamber. Nev’ran caught the glimmer of mad eyes through its half-demolished helm before they focused on the figure on the floor.

A hiss of vicious delight, a flicker of movement, and it stood over the prone form. The blanket was torn away, revealing….

You. A young woman. Helpless. Staring up at your death with calm acceptance.

The dragon within awoke. “NO!”

Afterwards, he never could explain how he reached the Drukhari in time. He only felt the thin throat in his fist, wrenching it away from you like a ragdoll. Again and again and again he slammed it to the floor, continuing long after it ceased to resemble any kind of humanoid. Until, at last, a soft gasp drew him out of the blood rage.

You stared up at him with wide eyes. He expected to see fear in your gaze. But there was only awe. Something in his hearts burned at that look, a feeling he had not experienced in decades.

You reached your tiny, fragile hand out to him, blue-tinted lips opening. “C-cold. So…cold….”

He knew nothing about you, not even your name, and yet it felt natural to hold you close. As if you belonged in his arms.

“Fear not, little one. This dragon will keep you warm.”

@remembrancer-of-heresy @solspina @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

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[booteddaily]

Working from home today in unbranded riding boots. Just because these boots have no brand name doesn't mean they're any less appealing. Takes me back to my days in San Francisco. The Loading Dock or the Eagle. Full leather. Both of us. I didn't know (or need to know) his name but I knew I liked the visual. Unnamed. Very appealing. 🖤 Can you relate? 😈 Have a great day, bootmen. 👊

[poinsciuri]

i found an image dump of pins from LIVE Remix, many of which i had never seen before. Here's a few of my favorites. Many of these new pins are from the brands Mithril Scale and Maiden Innocence, which were both exclusive to this game, but there's also a lot that are probably unbranded. The spreadsheet linked in the reddit post unfortunately does not cover most of the new pins, so if anyone knows any of the names of these pins, feel free to share!

[yup-thats-me]

—his princess • Edgar Allan Poe

pairing; bf!Poe x gf!reader summary; sugar daddy or lover; Poe doesn't mind any label as long as he's called yours♡ warning; none

“Baby~” Y/n could almost make out the way Poe’s ear and cheek flushed at her nickname through the screen.

No matter how long they’ve been together, he’d still blush at all the nicknames she called him; It's adorable. Giggling, she blew him a kiss. “You’re such a dork.”

Poe just nodded at her remark, his hands never stopping from writing. After talking about her day, Y/n fell quiet. Only then did Poe look up from the paper. “What happened, Y/n?” He asked so sweetly.

Y/n shrugged. “Don’t know. Feeling down for some reason.”

Poe felt around his screen for something Y/n paid no mind to. After a while, her curiosity got the best of her. “What are you writing, love?”

Poe smiled, a rare sight for others but not so for you. “Making you eternal.”

His answer made her smile in confusion. “Love, what?”

He put his pen down. “I’m writing a novel about you. Everyone needs to know how divine you are.”

Before she could answer him, a notification made her stop. Then suddenly, she cried out in half disbelief and half amazed. “Edgar Alan Poe! Why. Did. You. Send. Me. 1000$?” She called out, enunciating each word.

Poe shyly looked away, picking up Karl who was perfectly minding his own business. “You said…you were sad. So…don’t be sad?”

There was nothing Y/n could say to the man. This was not the first time he did something like this and each time she reprimanded him, he would think she was not satisfied and would send even more money. In the end, she had to accept in order to make this pointless cycle end.

Y/n just smiled. “You know, love. You are not beating down the allegations when my friends call you my sugar daddy and not my boyfriend.”

Poe did not mind it quite frankly. He liked it rather. He loved seeing his princess spend his money. By his logic, why would Y/n ever spend a penny of her own? If she did, he would be a failure of a man.

“What’s the problem in that?”

ₒₒₒ

Y/n had not wished to take Poe shopping with her knowing how unreasonably he would spend on her. But it was urgent. They had to attend a formal party in two days and she needed a dress.

Rushing all around the designer shops, she stopped at last. Not caring which brand it was, she rushed in. She knew the man by her side would not let her shop anywhere unbranded.

An attendant had come forward to help Y/n pick out the one she liked. But Poe did not like the way the attendant was touching his girl. It didn’t matter the gender; he just won’t let anyone near his princess. If it was in his power, he would even keep Karl from cuddling with Y/n. If only Y/n would allow it.

The two picked out at least thirty dresses. When Y/n went in the trail room to try them on, Poe was not willing to wait outside. He instead made sure there were no staff around and had sneaked in with her. It was risky but Poe was willing to get kicked out but he would not let the chance of seeing his girl change in front of him slip. He’s pretty perverted; more than people would think.

At the end, Poe had literally forced Y/n to buy all the dresses that Y/n liked, even if there was only a certain part of the dress she liked. It's simple, really. Anything his princess likes, no one else should be allowed to have it, if not Y/n.

Before they left the shop, Y/n made Poe stand outside saying she found something that caught her eyes. He had obviously made a fuss to tag along and buy it for her but Y/n had threatened. “If you come, Poe, no kisses or touching for a week.”

He had to oblige, unfortunately.

When she returned, she made then sit on nearby bench, taking out a exquisitely packed small box. “It’s small but,” she spoke as she opened the box to reveal a beautifully crafted brooch. “I hope you like it.”

Poe nearly cried when he took the brooch in his hand. This was also not the first time Y/n got something for him; what touched him was that she knew which one he’d like. She knew him so well. Even more so than himself.

He pulled her in a tight embrace, basking in her loving warmth. “Thank you,” he pecked her cheek. “Has it ever happened that I do not like anything you brought for me?”

True; no matter if it was a hand-made card for him, a love letter, a little trinket Y/n made when bored— all were treasured by him. So much so, he had dedicated an entire vault for all the things she gave him. Call him fanatic or psychotic, it doesn't matter.

Be assured, everyone who approached him to talk at the party, even if it was off-topic, he would let no opportunity to show off the brooch Y/n gifted him.

He’s such a loverboy for his princess.

do not steal, copy or translate my work on any other site, all belong to yup-thats-me™️ on tumblr

[moonshynecybin]

oh to see the scenes going down at borgo panigale when in a few years marc retired and all their riders are now racing for another team. like i fear what they have not quite understood yet is that if these two years turn out to be a disaster for pecco (not in terms of performance but in terms of not winning the championship lol) his ass is leavingggg

sorryyyy this doesnt answer this ask at ALL but imagine if marc starts his own team post retirement. imagine if they continue to proxy war that way. just drive to survive level real housewives cuntery across the paddock… cheating accusations bitchy press releases fights over riders…. lined, serious faces… alllll the contrast in their branding… still somehow defining themselves in relation to the other because it’s the only way they know how to BE anymore… marc with a lil ant logo polo on as a HRC independent team owner/manager (control freak.) greying at the temples and vale across the way carefully unbranded except for the monster energy hat… excruciatingly aware of each other but not making eye contact… a wind blows and they think about looking… they don’t…

[noctylisse]

Back To You, I Will

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ A promise he whispers to his lady, the night before he departs.

Clive Rosfield x Fem Reader [Set before the Night of Flames. Takes place the night before Clive sets off to Stillwind.]

You feel the cold rush of the wind on your skin as you lay in bed. Moonlight shines across the room, tiny specks of dust floating in its wake like little fairies.

Rosalith is silent now, save for the occasional gentle sound of wagon wheels moving across the pavements.

The curtains of your bedroom window dance softly with the wind’s command. It is peaceful. And slowly, your eyes close as sleep washes over you.

Not long after you drift asleep, a loud crash sounds from outside and jolts you awake.

“Fucking bearer! Quiet down!” a slavemaster’s gravelly voice could be heard from outside, followed by the immediate defense of his slave in a trembly voice. “I-it wasn’t me! I w-was just..!” 

“I don’t give a shit! Just be fucking quiet you damned thing! And clean up your mess!” The slavemaster shuts his doors, leaving the slave to clean up whatever mess was there.

You sigh. It’s unfortunate how these bearers are branded and treated as such. A recent memory sparks in your mind. One of Clive Rosfield, the Archduke’s son, helping and smiling at a bearer who had dropped fruit from a carton. He treated the man with respect as he should be, despite the beliefs of the non-branded common folk. 

“Ever so kind, he is.” You whisper, smiling at the memory and facing the wall. “How lucky I must be to have his eyes on me…”

Quite forbidden, your love is. The difference in status would ruin Clive's reputation all the way through. But it didn’t matter to him, it never did. He has never failed to reassure you no matter what doubt you had. 

Consumed by the thoughts you had of your lover, you fail to hear the creak of your windows as they begin to be pried open fully. The curtains begin to speed up their dance as the wind gets stronger.

A leg wearing a fine leather boot swings down, finding its footing on the window stool. Its pair does the same, and the very one who occupies your mind swoops down in his entirety. He’s crouching now, both arms keeping him steady. 

“I should’ve been more careful..” He sighs as he looks downwards, to his left. The poor bearer was forced to clean the mess he had made, accidentally tripping on and breaking off a huge tile of the slavemaster’s roof as he was quickly trying to get to you.

He silently promises to give the man a gift of apologies (disguised as a spontaneous gift) before he departs in the morrow.

Your eyes narrow. That smooth voice. So familiar, so gentle. You turn around to face him. 

“Clive!” You smile. It always felt nice to say his name. All the more to have him right there in front of you. He smiles back, and you sit up, swinging your legs off the bed and opening your arms to him. He rushes into your embrace and presses a kiss on your head. 

“I wanted to see you before I depart to Stillwind tomorrow.” He says softly, letting go of you before kneeling down on the floor to embrace you again, his arms wrapped around your waist and his head on your shoulder. He presses a kiss on your shoulder while you play with his hair. 

“But you’ll be seeing me tomorrow before you go.” You start. “I’ll be there to see you off.”

“But that’s different.” He lifts his head up to look at you. “Everybody would be seeing me off. I won’t be able to embrace you like this. To be with you like this.”

He looks away to press the back of your hand to his lips, before looking back at you again.  “I only ever wish to be with you freely, my love.” 

You smile sadly. “I do as well and you know that.” You caress his cheek. “But given your position..” 

You sigh, placing a hand on his left cheek. He is a bearer, unbranded. You wish he would stay that way.

He frowns. “It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t.” He stands, gently pulling you up with him. “I promise you, my love. I will find a way.”

He begins to smile softly, deep ocean blue eyes twinkling as the both of you are bathed in moonlight. Ever so hopeful he is, you can’t help but share the same hope. For the future, for both of you. You smile.

He leans down, his forehead against yours, his smile and yours never wavering. “It is my duty to be the Shield of Rosaria…” He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. “Just as much as it is my duty to be yours. To  love you, come what may, my love.” He presses his lips against yours. Soft and gentle, the way he kisses you. So full of love. 

You pull away from one another briefly before you cup his face in your hands and give him a short but sweet kiss in return.

Your eyes look away from him for a moment, focusing on the moon. A silent agreement is made between you and the heavenly body. To keep him safe, for his safe return.

Looking back at him, you smile softly, arms around his neck. “I trust your mission to be successful, my love. I just know the soldiers will sing your praises. As they should be.” He kisses your cheek as a silent ‘thank you’.  

“Be safe, Clive.” You whisper as he leads you both toward the window. 

“I promise I will.”

"Come back in one piece, you must."

He lifts your hand up to his lips and presses a soft kiss against the back of it. “Back to you, I will, my lady.” 

And with that, he kisses your lips once more before he leaves. 

[sorin-sunchild]

It's so hard to talk about the worrisome effects of late stage capitalism on the next generation because people will insist you're just an old person hating on the young and make false comparisons.

But like, no, actually, toy kitchen sets and other household utilities especially when unbranded toy make up and little cars to ride in weren't a problem because they were tactile and imagination focused. They allowed the kids to explore things that in the future they'd have to use to get by.

The toy flip phones and other tech were maybe a yellow flag at best, better when unbranded or fake branded at least, more worrisome when basically free advertising a brand. TV ads blasted at us between every show and in our kids magazines was a warning too and yeah people actually did worry about it at the time.

And that's where we come to the worries I have now. It's weird to me how many kids toys, aimed at the young, specifically feature non-parody brand items (outside of the toy companies brand which is like a whole other talk). Mostly foodstuffs, but also things like earbuds/airpods and stanley cups or whatever they're called.

I don't care if there's toy tech or other modern play items. Mimicking adults in imaginative play is ok, but it has to be tactile and allow imagination not just yell 'pop goes the earbuds!' at a toddler.

I do care about how inescapable ads are especially if the tablet is raising your child and how kids are being raised to associate these brands with play and later nostalgia.

I do care about how hard it is to explain to people how weird it is that these brands are getting ready advertising access to your kids developing brains this way.

I get it! Kids want things that look like things they see other places! There's not bad!

But we literally have a brand called OBEY and 8 year olds think they need a skincare routine with specific brand products and 17 year olds are terrified of turning 21 and planning Botox and when the main comfort a kid gets is from brands that's all they'll want and they'll become consumers with very little critical thinking power if they're not given anything else to stimulate them or like even taken outside.

I want to believe that most parents will know there has to be a balance. I have to believe.

But kids are speed running brand recognition and dependency right now.

[ccghastly]

Fury Road Saga Headcanons

I finally got around to watching the new(ish) Furiosa movie and I had to revamp a bunch of my headcanons, so I thought I'd share them again!

I thought about just editing my old posts, but thought this would be nicer for everyone as I also wanted to add some new stuff.

Ages

Cub

Cubs are referred to with They/Them pronouns.  Cubs stay with their Dami until they’re about 2100 days(roughly 5 or 6 years) old. Cubs taken in from the wastes and the wretched to be given a better life in the citadel are quickly adopted by a Dami. Cubs are generally seen as ready to enter puphood when they start losing their milk-teeth and they’re potty trained. The names Cubs are given by their Dami is their Milk-name. Cubs stay in the Nursery, watched over by the Damgin if their Dami is busy.  The Nursery is a room filled with all the soft things a gnawing and falling cub could need. The health of Cubs and Damis is seen to by the Medam. Cubs: are unbranded, unshaved, don’t wear clay, and aren’t expected to attend any War-Lessons. (You will get the occasional cub wandering into a lesson, following after a littermate who became a pup before they did.)

Pup

Pups are referred to with He/They pronouns, interchangeably. Pups are communally raised by the Warboys until they're about 5500 days(15ish years) old. Pups are assigned Minders, but if they latch onto a different Warboy their Minderhood will be transferred to that Warboy. Each Minder is responsible for his own pup(s), making sure they’re doing what they’re meant to be doing and not doing what they’re not. As pups grow and lose more of their milk-teeth, they'll collect them, carefully bore holes through them, and gift them to their Dami. For her to add to her milk-bracelet. Pups taken in from the wastes and the wretched that were too old to go in the Nursery and have no Dami, will sometimes choose to give their milk-teeth to their Minder instead. Some warboys will make them into the traditional milk-bracelets, but milk-belts are popular. Pups tend to pick a new name as they get older, if they find one they like the sound of. Pups also wind up new names from other Pups and Warboys for something they've done or some distinguishing feature they have. Some pups choose to go by their milk-name for their entire lives. Pups sleep in The Kennels at night, but are allowed to run around all they like during the day, as long as they're not skipping lessons or getting underfoot. The Kennels are the level below The Court and above The Shops.  The Kennels aren't as soft as the Nursery, instead filled with every curiosity, toy, and trinket a pup can carry away. Pups get their first checkup by the Organic-Mechanic within the first 15 days of moving into the Kennels, a scar denoting their blood type is scarred high between their shoulder blades. It common for pups to be treated by the Medam rather than the Organic-Mechanic. Pups aren't barred from visiting the Nursery, but must be in the Kennels by curfew and attend their lessons. Most pups age out of this want for the Nursery. Some pups remain so attached to their Dami they grow up to become Damis themselves. War-Lessons are schoolings for Pups on how to become Warboys. Basic reading(to identify the labels on parts and suchlike, Damis have generally already taught pups letters and how to spell their milk-name), sparring, and maths are taught communally, but pups will usually independently find the niche they want to fill and find a Warboy in that trade to follow around and learn from. At this point the role of Minder will sometimes be transferred to better suit a pup’s needs.  Pups that have progressed well in their role are allowed to darken their eyesockets with soot-paint. For a pup to become a Warboy there's a ceremony where they get their brand and, if needed, any extra bits removed in one last appointment with the Organic-mechanic. Pups are: shaved, encouraged to experiment with clay and what patterns they like to wear, and expected at War-Lessons.  Pups aren't: branded, allowed any permanent mods(scarification, tattoos, piercings, embeds, etc), or allowed out of the citadel without permission and supervision. 

Warboy

Warboys are referred to with He/Him pronouns.  Warboys are considered fully grown.  Warboys live in The Pit. The Pit being all the floors beneath The Lift. The lowest level of the second tower. Some habited floors of this level are subterranean, but most are not.  Unclaimed Warboys commonly bunk in nooks within the dorms that are unofficially separated by role, or in a personal nook/nest. Claimed Warboys commonly bunk in alcoves with their crew, in their Praetorian's Territory, or in an alcove with their friends allies. If they're in an Imperator's personal crew it's very rare, but sometimes they'll bunk in their Imperator's Grotto. Usually it's just the Imperator's Second and a few of their favourites from the crew that get to bunk in the Grotto. Warboys: are branded and shaved, wear clay and soot-paint, can have permanent mods, have roles, and are allowed to leave the towers independently. Warboys in higher ranks within their role may mark their heads/faces with soot-paint beyond the traditional eyesockets. Warboys of all ranks can use soot-paint to make patterns and designs on their body.

Roles

Dami

Damis are referred to with She/Her pronouns. A Dami is anyone that’s raising a Cub, whether it’s a cub they birthed or one they adopted. When not with her cub in the Nursery, a Dami stays in the Roost, within The Court.  The Court is an upper level of the second tower. The Court of the second tower encompasses: the cubs Nursery, the Damis Roost, and the lower breeders Abbey. It's common for a breeder to be a Dami after birthing a cub, and return to be a breeder in the Abbey once their cub has grown into a pup. However, not every Dami was once a breeder, and not every breeder will become a Dami.  Every Warboy is told who birthed them, to prevent inbreeding. Pups and Warboys always call their Dami 'Dami', even if she's not currently acting as a Dami.  Damis with many complete milk-bracelets are coveted and have more status, as it's recognized that more of their cubs have lived to become fully grown Warboys. The Damgin is the Dami in charge of making sure everything in the Nursery is as it should be, a sort of den-mother. The Damgin is often the one with the most milk-bracelets. The Medam is something of a midwife and a paediatrician. She sees to the health of the Cubs and Damis. The original Medam was a medicine woman brought in by the Hunters, who then trained a Dami to be her successor; this tradition is still continued. It is believed that if a Dami dies whelping a cub, they get into Valhalla. A person of any body type can be a Dami. The way this probably came about was that the warboys were trying to puzzle out what exactly a 'mother' is and concluded that it's a person that takes care of babies and uses she/her pronouns. Therefore, people that take care of babies, are mothers and use she/her pronouns.

Praetorian

Praetorians do not: wear clay, use soot-paint.  Praetorians: can be half-lives, do use grease-paint(darker than soot-paint and lasts longer), can wear their hair unshaved, can raise others to the rank of Praetorian. Praetorians build a crew of unclaimed warboy teams(teams refer to the common pairings of Lancer & Driver, Polecat & Counterweight, etc) and individuals. If they want a warboy under another Praetorian they must ask that Praetorian for him, the polite way is trading for him, but the more common way is bribing and stealing.

Imperators

Imperators do not: wear clay, use soot-paint.  Imperators: must be full-lives, use grease-paint, get a black scarf, can wear their hair unshaved, can raise others to the rank of Praetorian, get their own room, can enter any floor of the Citadel(barring the Vault and the Trove), have unlimited water, can nominate others for the rank of Imperator. Only Immortan Joe can raise someone to the rank of Imperator.  Imperators have their own personal crew and are in charge of a number of Praetorians and the Praetorians’ crews. Imperators can reassign the crews and teams of the Praetorians under them as they like without anyone's permission, but cannot alter another Imperator's crews. It's common for Imperators to trade for/steal other Imperator's Praetorians and crews.

Black-Thumb

Black-Thumbs are mechanics and repairboys and rev-heads that permanently stay in the shops. There's many sub-roles/specialties beneath the umbrella term of Black-Thumb. There's one Imperator in charge of the Garage and the WorkShop with a couple Praetorians and Praetorian's crews under him.

Green-Thumb

Green-Thumbs take care of the Greenery and the hydroponics. There's many sub-roles/specialties beneath the umbrella term of Green-Thumb. There's one Imperator and his crew that are in charge of the Greenery and all the Green-Thumbs.

Red-Thumb

Red-Thumbs work in the BloodShed beneath the Organic Mechanic, they are essentially the Organic Mechanic's crew. There's many sub-roles/specialties beneath the umbrella term of Red-Thumb.

Hunter

Hunters are Warboys that go out into the wastelands to hunt down edibles and valuables for the Citadel. Things like bloodbags, meat, cars, scrap, beforeworld things. There's one Imperator and his crew in charge, with only two Praetorians and their crews under him. There is a separate specialty Imperator and crew that is in charge of finding Chrome full-life wives for the Immortan.

Gatekeeper

Full-lives that are in charge of operating and ensuring the maintenance of the Lift. Sometimes also referred to as the Lift Guardians.

Doof Wagon Crew

The Warboys of the Doof Wagon. The Coma-Doof Warrior's crew. Includes sub-roles of Drummers, Sparkers(hooking up the wires and electricity), Lancers, Driver, Outerguard(separate bikers/drivers to defend the wagon), etc.

Sentries

The lookouts and snipers responsible of warning and defending the Citadel for anyone approaching. All Warboy Sentries are part of the Sentry Imperator's personal crew. Save for a few Wayboys and pups that are brought on to test their compatibility.

Gunsmith/Gun-Repairer

A full-life on loan from the Bullet Farm. Their services are usually only available to people of Praetorian rank and higher.

Road Warrior

A nomadic wastelander who is self-reliant, skilled in combat, resourceful in finding fuel and supplies, an expert driver, and adept at navigating the desolate, lawless roads. Warboys keep tabs on the Road Warriors that dare to regularly skirt the edges of the Citadel's territory (getting close to the Citadel wards off all but the boldest of the wasteland's scavs and vultures). Sometimes going out to hunt them down and sometimes following them to track down resources. The Hunter Imperator has a few Road Warriors that he's built up a sort of alliance with. He'll trade with them, either for physical items or information. He gave his allies a marker to display, that tells the Citadel's Warboy patrollers to leave them alone. It mostly works.

Wayboys and Bedrooms

Warboys

In the early days, when there was less space, it was tradition for warboys to carve and dig out the walls, making their own alcove to claim. This has largely fallen out of practice, as the turn over rate of the warboys leads to there almost always being empty alcoves to claim. Infighting over alcoves that are considered 'the best’ remains rampant.  Warboys are also known to carve out personal nooks just about anywhere the wall depth allows, rules were quickly implemented about what walls can and cannot be carved into, to prevent the citadel from coming down around their ears. To circumvent uncarvable walls, Warboys will embed hooks into the walls or ceiling to securely suspend beds and platforms, building these nests absolutely everywhere.

Praetorians

Praetorians usually claim some small section of the Shops level as their own Territory and customise it as they like, but have been known to claim Territory in the Pit as well. There was one bold Praetorian that befriended the GateKeepers and was allowed to claim Territory on the Lift level.

Imperators

Imperators get ‘Grottos’. They’re one of the highest levels of the second tower, have windows(not glass), bedding, doors with locks, and direct access to aquacola.

Coma-Doof

The Coma-Doof Warrior was granted his own Den as a reward from Immortan for his singular talents, most of his rooms are open to the sky, with many hammocks of varying sizes in every room. His rooms have the same amenities as an Imperator's Grotto and are connected to a smaller lower floor that he arranged to be given to his Drummers and crew.

The general opinions on the bunks goes(from least cushy chrome to most):

Nest, Nook, Alcove, Territory, Grotto, Den, Trove(Immortan & sons rooms), Vault(the Wives)

Towers

The levels (and floors) of the Citadel's Towers, Listed highest to lowest.

The First Tower

The Garden The Crown(Vault, Trove(Immortan&Sons), Gallery/Balcony) Immortan’s Court(Parlour(milkers), Aviary(high breeders))

The Second Tower

The Greenery The Doof Den(Coma-Doof's rooms, Drummers Alcove) The Grottos (Imperators Rooms) The Court(Nursery(cubs), Roost(damis), Abbey(low breeders)) The Kennels The Shops(Wheel Shrine, Blood Bank, Organic-Mechanic/Bloodshed, Garage and WorkShop, TradeHaul) The Lift(The Mill, GateKeepers Rooms)   The Pit(Wreck(recreation), Mess(cafeteria), Clay Pools, Dorms, Alcoves)

The Third Tower

Staffed by and home to lifted wretched and a few Warboys to manage them, it has no named levels but contains: The kitchens, the Mill-Rats housing, waste-workers, plumbers, tanners, etc.

The Ranks of Roles

Rankings within the Citadel According to Warboys(most important to least):

How Ranks are applied to the sub-roles of a Crew(also how Unclaimed Warboys without crews are ranked against each other):

Immortan Wife Organic-Mechanic Imperator Imperator's Second Praetorian  Imperator's Crew Praetorian's Second Praetorian's Crew Cub Coma-Doof Pups GateKeeper Dami Doof Wagon Crew  Hunters Gunsmith/Gun-Repairer Sentries Red-Thumb Black-Thumb Green-Thumb(Very important job, but garners no inherent respect. Almost a non-entity really.) Unclaimed Warboy  Road Warrior BloodBag Wretched/Wasteland Scavs 

First of any role (First Lancer, First Driver, First Polecat, etc) Car Driver Bike Driver Polecat Sniper Lancer  Counterweight  Rev-head (Rev-Head refers to any Warboy that knows how to fix cars/bikes, but if they're not in a crew or an official Black-Thumb they're low ranked) Pissboy

Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed it!

[absolutebl]

With all the Semantic Error discussion ongoing: If there was ever a Seven Days GMMTV remake, which branded/unbranded pair would you give the lead to?

No.

Turns around in a circle like 10 times.

MY BABIES

You did not just ask...

I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO HERE

this is basically the hardest question I have ever been asked

how could anyone mess with perfection?

fine, put baby (and babies) in a corner:

but i hate you right now