#armie hammer imagine

[almostg]

When Candace Owens, Megyn Kelly, women-voting-has-been-a-disaster Colonel Kurtz & Andrew fucking Tate are on your side, maybe, I don't know, interrogate that a bit???

[dollygale]

now what does the average piltover citizen think is happening in arcane. civically speaking. you have 7 council members (a seemingly life-long, non-elected position) and then one of them decides to court pack with her fwb, the in-world equivalent of thomas edison (a few years after the same council almost banished him) and then weeks after his historic appointment, the same guy ousts the immortal founder of your country with absolutely no political pushback from the public (despite the fact that he might have been on this council since its inception?) but ig this evens things out back to 7 seats. your founder disappears and is never seen again btw.

then three of your council members die in a terrorist attack and there is no attempt made to fill their seats. 3 of the remaining council members vote 2-1 to start a war on the city’s most impoverished citizens without the 4th living council member, who morally opposed the invasion. a council members’ mom shows up to incite violence and her daughter is actively trying to get her to leave. despite not even being a resident, this general from another country names a deceased council members’ daughter the New Military Dictator. (unclear why she didn’t just assume her mother’s seat on the council because it’s an inherited position but ig the sheriff was a more important position to fill??) and again no opposition from the general public as she starts gassing citizens. then one council member kills the other with a big hammer but who knows if this is ever reported because then nicola tesla jesus shows up with an army to fight a war on your soil with 1 million robots.

then edison and tesla disappear into a big ball of light, meaning only 2 of your og council members are still alive and at this point it has taken months to get back to a functioning government. imagine being a city employee during all that. who do you even ask to sign your checks. i just know the bathroom of the local newspaper office is swimming in like. steampunk cocaine

[enviedear]

𓆰𓆪 what a waste, army dreamers

jacaerys velaryon

- ˏˋ 🎧ྀི 1.3k words, no use of y/n, no specified house, childhood friends to lovers, team black victory!au ˊˎ -

in which the war ends in favor of the realms’ delight and life attempts to return back to what it was before the war—only, you pray a naive oath of love—spoken in haste before the fight grew old—still rings true.

the red keep almost feels like a figment of your imagination. the castle, still reminiscent of your first moons in these halls, and shockingly unchanged by the recent war. you met the seasons again and again away from these walls, waiting for the war to end—a mere girl the last you strode these halls, but the memories are as vivid as ever. glimpses of the past seem etched invisibly in the stone around you, coaxing you back to a time when the world was simpler. before the war had upended everything.

your household's return to the capital had been met with all the formalities expected of a family in favor with the crown. your father, newly appointed to queen rhaenyra’s council, had brought you along.

the red keep was your home once more, yet it felt strangely uncharted and distant—much like the young prince you had once known so well. jacaerys.

he had been a constant in your life, his presence as usual to you as the castle itself. you grew together, shared secrets, and once, when the fight was still young, he had confessed something you're unsure you'll ever be able to forget—“i think i’m in love with you.”

it had been spoken so softly, you remember. the same softness you recall him showing when his duties kept him from you. but his eyes, dark and brimming with a genuine kindness unparalleled by any other, are what you remember most.

those words had hung between the both of you, hearts heavy by the sentiment. you had left him that night with a promise to speak on the matter when the war was over. a practical choice, you had told yourself. but the war had taken longer than anyone anticipated. by the time it was over, everything had changed. he had changed. youth had changed—turned into the morbid realities of maturity, and with it, ended your puerile prayers for the prince.

you hadn’t dared seek him out since your return. so much time had passed, too many things left unsaid. Most of all, you weren’t sure you could face him again without surrendering entirely to what might have been. transfigured into a ghost of the past.

despite your efforts, you know that the castle walls are not large enough for you to evade him forever. no matter how hard you try.

you're standing in front of your chamber door, hand resting on the cool brass handle. the day had been long, filled with courtiers and formalities, and all you've yearned for is a moment of peace. still, you stand there, frozen in place by the steady beat of footfalls. undeniably heading your way.

you hadn’t sought him out. wouldn't have dared.

but he had sought you.

the footsteps echo softly from behind you, and you let out a tense breath. you don't have to turn around to know who it is. his presence still feels as keen as your own shadow.

your name falls from his lips, voice low and rough around the edges. you turn slowly, heart hammering in your chest, and meet his gaze.

jacaerys stands there, just a few paces away, his expression a mix of emotions you can’t read. the moonlight from a nearby window casts soft shadows on his face, underlining the sharp angles and his deep, tempestuous eyes. they've always been able to see through your defenses.

“my prince.” you rush, his title slipping out before you can stop it, habit now.

he withdraws, the reaction so slight you might've missed it if you weren’t watching so closely. “don’t.” he starts, voice softer now, almost pleading. “not when it’s just us.”

you hesitate, a flicker of uncertainty crossing your face. for that moment, everything feels suspended. stuck in that delicate space between what was and what could have been. a space you're all too familiar with.

he takes a tentative step closer, gaze fixed on you as though he fears you might vanish if he moves too quickly. the warmth of his presence is a bright contrast to the cold stone surrounding you, and you find yourself drawn to him, despite the years and the changes that have come between you.

"you're well, i hope?" you ask, the words escaping before you can reconsider. it’s a question laden with too much civility, but it’s all you can manage in the face of his lingering brown eyes.

jacaerys offers a small, rueful smile. "it has been… a challenge." he admits. "but i’ve managed, as has the realm. and now, seeing you here—"

he stops himself as if searching for the right words. you can see the struggle etched across his face, the inner turmoil battling with the calm exterior he tries so very hard to maintain.

"seeing me?" you prompt, gently, eyes softening as you look at him. the years have changed him, but the boy you once knew is still there, just beneath the surface. still sweet and delicate with his words, and playful and jovial in actions.

he exhales slowly, and the breath seems to release the tension in his shoulders, only slightly. "it’s strange." he decides finally. "to see you again after so long. i did not expect—" he shakes his head, frustration evident in his voice. "for it to be this difficult."

the openness in his tone catches you off guard, there's a swirl of bittersweet confusion swimming in your mind.

"it has been difficult for me as well." you confess quietly, your gaze dropping to the floor. "i do not know if you still—"

"still what?" he interrupts, taking yet another step closer. his eyes search yours, filled with a hope that appears fragile and fervent. "if i still care for you?" he finally lets his smile peek through, "i do. i’ve thought of you in every moment and prayed for you in those inbetween."

the sincerity in his voice makes your heart ache, a bittersweet pang that is both reassuring and painful. you look up at him, meeting his eyes with a meld of apprehension and longing.

"i never thought you would." you confide, a hint of a smile touching your lips despite the nervous flutter in your chest. "i conceded to the belief you'd come to forget me."

he reaches out, closing the minimal distance between you, his hand brushing yours in a tender, almost hesitant touch. "i never could." he whispers, voice steadying as he holds your gaze. "i was hurt at the gullet, you know. the maester's said it was the mercy of the gods that let me live." a pause, "but it wasn’t. it was you. i heard your voice, saw your face. no gods, only you. i knew i just had to wait."

your pulse quickens at his words. all at once, you feel the warmth of his hand against yours. such a gentle pressure and still, it seems strong enough to bridge the gap that had grown between you over the many moons apart.

"wait for what?" you question, nearly heady for his words.

he looks at you with a vehemence that makes your heart race, gaze unwavering. "for you." he says softly. "i told you i thought i loved you, and yet it wasn't the truth. i always knew it was as true then as it is now. my love for you seems to come easier than breathing and it always has."

your breath hitches as his words hang in the air, a promise and a confession all at once. the warmth of his hand on yours feels like a lifeline, and for a moment, everything else falls away.

"i don’t know what to say." you admit, voice soft. "it all feels more like a dream."

jacaerys’s eyes soften, and he ambles closer, his hand still gently clasping yours. "it's no dream, issa prūmia." he murmurs, his voice a tender caress. "let me show you that i meant every word. from every moment i spent waiting."

unable to stop yourself, you reach out and cup his cheek in your hand, inclining at the feeling of his warm skin beneath your fingertips. his eyes soften even further at the gesture, a small smile dancing at the corners of his lips.

"i've missed you." you whispered, fingers slipping up to his dark hair. you let yourself card your fingers through the soft tresses—just as you would moons prior.

jacaerys leans into your touch, closing his eyes briefly—as if savoring the moment like a hearty meal. and when he opens them again, they’re gleaming with the same utter adoration you remember so vividly.

[auspicioustidings]

Savage

Summary: Request for some Scottish warrior Soap taking an English maiden as a prize.

Words: 3.7k

CWs: Violent non-con (I am so serious, do not ready this if it's not your thing), hardcore smut

–

Authors Note: This is very much a rape fantasy. Traditionally rape fantasies have historical grounding in minorities who felt ashamed of their own desires so had to fantasise a situation in which they were blameless for engaging in a stigmatised action because it was forced. It’s sort of where a lot of the noncon trope in bodice rippers comes from because women in unhappy marriages need a fantasy in which they can get rid of the shame for wanting passionate or rough sex because they imagine they fought against it. A lot more people have rape fantasies than people generally realise and truly a miniscule barely there number of them would ever think it was ok to actually assault someone. All that to say, this is not me condoning anything in real life. If you find fantasies like this don’t do it for you, then do not read it, but don’t then shame people who do. There is psychology behind why people fantasise about these things, it’s pretty normal and you don’t need to be worried that it is some moral failing. Mind your business.

It was a miraculously good match for you, a high ranking soldier of the King’s army. You were technically of noble blood, but just barely. You lived simply, not in a large house but in a small village where you held no sway over anyone else and were treated as common. But the village was close to the border between England and Scotland and every day it became more tense as whispers of raids from villages to the West skittered between houses like rats.

You didn’t know how your uncle had made arrangements for this beneficial marriage for you, but it would get you moving South in a few days time to marry and then you would finally be able to relax with this war much further away from you. You had heard horror stories of what happened to young maidens when savages came pillaging. They said that they didn’t wear anything under those kilts, they said it was to make it easy to bury their cocks in any hot hole they could find. They said they didn’t have any tame qualities, not like the English. Scottish men were feral, the comparison to dogs not holding water because at least dogs could be trained. 

When you retreated to bed you got on your knees to say your prayers. As always you had to beg forgiveness for the licentious thoughts that sent thrills straight to your cunt whenever you thought about the images all those rumours put in your head.

–

The noise of chaos woke you in a panic, heart hammering against your ribcage as the smell of smoke drifted on the air and war cries sounded. You recognised your own kinfolk of course, the battalion of soldiers stationed here to keep eyes on the border. But it was the cries of those animals from the country to the North that sent you scrambling out of bed in only your chemise, knowing you had to run and hide before they could see you.

You slipped out of the bedroom, a frightened little rabbit looking for a burrow to hop into. The smell of smoke was stronger in the main room and you could see the orange glow of flames through the window. Going outside would be a risk, but hiding in here may get you burned to a crisp should this building be lit up. You did not have time to make the decision as the door burst off of its hinges, a muscular man in a blood spattered kilt with a warrior's mohawk and wild eyes panting like a dog as he caught sight of you.

You were frozen, unable to even breathe. And then after a beat his mouth stretched into a horrid manic grin as he bounded towards you. That finally shifted you from freeze to flight as you scrambled back through to the bedroom, trying to get to the small window. You threw the top half of your body through the gap but his rough hands grabbed your naked ankles and yanked you back, hard. You felt the chemise catch on the window frame, the fabric bunching up to completely expose you to him before he let go of your ankles letting you crash to the ground. 

Your knees throbbed from the hard floor and by the time you were trying to crawl away he had his hand in your hair, brutally pulling your head up and craning it to look at him leaning over and getting into your face.

“Hear I have a wee noble bitch on my hands.”

Of course he would know. There were families here who would tell them anything to save themselves and pointing them in the direction of a noble maiden, one who was betrothed to an English soldier at that, would certainly be information that could spare them. The shouts outside sounded more heavily weighted towards those in his own gruff and growling accent now. The English soldiers were losing.

“I-I don’t know what you are talking about ser” you cried gently, not knowing how else to save yourself. 

“Bonnie words” he growled, pulling so sharply at your hair that you thought your scalp might be bleeding and using his other hand to grope meanly at one of your breasts through the rough fabric of your nightwear.

You cried out, feeling the tears immediately spill over and stream down your face. He was so strong, you could barely budge against his hold, and he reeked of blood and fire and sweat and hot arousal. You squeezed your eyes shut and he only growled at you.

“Ye’ll keep those eyes open, yer going tae watch yer wee English cunt take me like a whore or I’ll take yer tight arse instead.”

You choked on a sob and opened your eyes, seeing that his were full of sick glee and heat. The hand groping at your tits moved under the chemise to cup roughly at your sex and he pulled you to your feet by that hand. You screamed at how it felt as he abused you with his hand, grinding the heel against you. You felt a hot flood of bitter shame as he swiped a finger violently through your folds. What he found there made him pause for a moment, his face lighting up in unrestrained glee.

“Fucking English slut. Y’er dripping.”

You had heard women who said it would be better to be wet if they were to be taken against their will. You did not agree. Him knowing that your traitorous body found his rough abuse of it arousing was so humiliating you felt you would rather die. He was so oppressive in his demeanour, so big and aggressive above you that you imagined he may break your bed with what he was about to do to you. How foolish of you to think he would have that level of mercy.

“Going tae show all those bastards how their women take Scottish cock” he laughed, spearing two fingers inside you to their full length with no softness at all and pulling you by them.

You could not breathe. You had never had anything inside you and those two fat fingers felt like they were stretching you so much you would tear. He walked backwards so he could keep them firmly inside you and you stumbled pathetically after him, needing to keep as close to him as possible to stop the painful press against your walls that came from him pulling if you did not move. 

The shame was overwhelming as you emerged, full of his fingers and stumbling after him with tears streaming down your face, to find that your country's soldiers had been defeated with the survivors on their knees, hands bound. You were being paraded in front of them you realised, they had been put right here in the town square so they could bear witness, the Scottish soldiers standing behind them feral and full of lust as they took in their leader pulling you in front of them by the cunt. 

When he ripped his fingers out of you, your knees buckled and a high whine left you. You had went from feeling too full to feeling far, far too empty. You could barely hear anything but the blood rushing through you as your heart hammered. That and him as he taunted the soldiers on their knees. 

“Our women would ne’er let ye touch them, they’d die first. Yer clean wee English princess on the ither hand?” he said, planting a booted foot to your chest and pushing until he had you pinned on your back underfoot, “she’s gagging fir it. Foaming at the gusset tae take strong Scottish cock, put a real warrior in her belly.”

His own men cheered at that and you watched on with horror as he cocked his head at one of them and he began to approach you. 

“Naw a monster though am I my wee slut? Ye’d be wet enough fir one of their small English cocks nae doubt, but fir mine? Going tae need something to help me sink in good and deep.”

The other soldier went to his knees between your legs and you watched as he pulled his throbbing cock from under his kilt, jerking it violently. You tried to move away, his cock so close you could feel the heat of it between your legs, but the boot on your chest held you still. When you tried to close your legs the man touching himself used his other hand to wrench one of your knees until it was touching the ground, using his own knees between your thighs to help him keep your glistening cunt fully on display.

When the head of his cock stroked through your folks, slicking you with his pre-cum and bumping at your clit, you were so overwhelmed that you didn’t quite manage to bite back your moan. They laughed meanly at you as the man found his release, spurting hot cum all over your pussy, smacking his cock against your stomach when he was done to shake off the last drops.

It was filthy, you felt sticky and like you were on fire. The next soldier took his place and spat right on your already disgusting cunt as he began to stroke himself. By the time he had painted you with his seed and the third was started, the man above pressed his foot harder to get your attention and all you could do was stare up into his taunting eyes, trying to focus on him so you could not think of what was going on between your legs. You cried up at him, trying to find any level of sympathy in him.

“Keep crying and I’ll gie ye something tae cry about princess.”

Oh you hated him calling you that when you were pinned down in the dirt, defeated soldiers of your country watching as their enemies smeared their cum all over your exposed body. Watching as they made a sloppy mess out of you in preparation for their leader to shove his cock deep inside and pump you full of his savage children.

You did not know how long you stared up at him, not able to look away as you felt the heat of his men on your body, your own body getting hotter and hotter with each slide of velvety throbbing skin against your own. He had started to talk to you, his eyes not budging. It wasn’t the defeated soldiers he was taunting, it was you, ruined and disgraced under his boot.

“See how good I am tae ye little whore? Letting my men make ye flush wi pleasure. Don’t deny it, think I cannae see yer face whenever ye feel a cock on that wee untouched pussy? Like a fucking bitch in heat. I’ll fuck ye like one. Get ye on yer hands and knees so ye can look yer precious King’s soldiers in the eye when ye fall apart on my cock. When ye’r fucking begging for my cum. Wilnae even have tae dae any work, ye’ll be fucking yourself back on me ye needy slut.”

You shook your head in horror at his claims, the true fear being that he would make them true. Already you felt in a daze, felt empty and desperate. But you felt fear as well as he put his arm under his kilt, rucking the fabric up to grab at his cock. It was huge and you found yourself panicked and squirming as the last of his soldiers grunted and slapped the meat of your thigh to get you to stay still. You were rambling incoherently as the man above stroked slowly at himself, causing that thick weapon between his legs to throb and seem even bigger. 

“It won’t fit, it’s not going to fit, please I’ll die, you’ll split me open. It’s so big no no I can’t, I can’t!”

You didn’t even feel the last of his soldier’s loads splatter onto you, didn’t notice when his hands left your flesh. You would have rapidly purpling skin in the shape of fingerprints all over your thighs from how you had been held still by all of them, but you could not feel the dull pain of it through your fear of what was to come.

“Ye’ll take whit I gie ye and ye’ll fucking thank me princess.”

He removed his foot and it was only then you realised that he had been pressing down hard enough that your breaths had been shallow. The rush of oxygen from being able to fully expand your lungs again made you horribly dizzy, but it also flooded right down to your clit and made your body jerk violently with the sensation. 

He didn’t take his hand from his cock and he bent so he could use the other to grab your ruined hair again, yanking your head up and shoving himself into your mouth. You choked, legs scrambling to get underneath you to give you some stability with which to batter your fists against his thighs, trying to pull away. He laughed meanly at your attempts, moving the hand that was touching himself to join the one tangled in your hair on the back of your head and pulling your head at the same time as he thrust forward, settling himself fully in your throat. 

You were gagging around him, tears really streaming down your face now as you begged him with your eyes to let you breathe. He held you there, his own eyes glittering with satisfaction, until your muscles started to give in and you felt your eyes dropping closed as your brain became cottony. Then all at once he pulled you off and you were gulping in oxygen around your coughing and sputtering, the rush much more intense this time. 

He held your head tilted up at him so he could watch your face as he shoved his boot between your legs and got you over the edge. Oh weren’t you a delicious little thing for him, getting off so hard on how he used you, moaning shakily and wantonly in the dirt beneath him in front of his triumphant soldiers and your defeated ones. 

“Good fucking girl” he growled with a feral grin, letting you ride it out with little aborted thrusts on his boot, unable to control your body. 

You looked gone, eyes glazed and body slack. Couldn’t have that, he needed you screaming for him. He needed your blood fighting between being frozen with terror and boiling with need. And he needed you full of him, needed to be able to feel his own cock through your stomach so fucking clearly that he could jerk it. 

You were thrown forward, top half of your body collapsing pathetically into the dirt right where it was covered in the sweat and cum of his soldiers. He manhandled your hips up, leaving your face crushed into the dirt and your ass up high for him, cunt presented. You felt his hot breath at your ear and it was a sudden shock when you realised he was growling lowly into your ear, his words for you and you only.

“S’going tae hurt, yer going tae scream yerself hoarse for me and then I’ll get ye tae milk me when I rip pleasure out of all that pain. Will treat ye right after little princess, like one of my good Scottish lassies, but right now ye’r my fucking English whore.”

The confusing mix of sentiments cleared some of the fuzziness from your mind but you had no time to dwell. He was right, it did hurt and you did scream yourself hoarse. He had lined himself up and plunged into you, cock coated and slick from the cum of his soldiers but no less huge inside your tight virgin pussy. He had split you in two, you were sure of it. His cock must have broken through you, was sitting in your ribcage and punching all the air from your lungs.

You blacked out for a moment, coming right back to when he pulled out to fuck brutally back into you again, slapping your ass so hard that you felt the sting all the way up to your fingertips and making you choke on the sob that fought through the screaming. He ripped at your hair, making you look at the defeated soldiers on their knees. Making you watch their own cocks swell at your treatment. Your utter ruination was making them hard. Your head being wrenched back meant you had to go to your hands as he pounded you, and you saw how they looked as one of your breasts was fucked right out of the chemise, bouncing lewdly for them to see with every hard thrust.

The humiliation had you digging into the dirt like you had claws, feeling the bite of the earth pushing under your nails. It sparked something in your brain, almost like you could see them sharpen. Like you could feel your shoulder blades become more pronounced, become something sinewy and sleek and animal. He was fucking you like a predator and you were drooling and howling and panting like his prey, back bowed as he pulled your hair harder and had to staring at the sky babbling prayers into the night air. 

“S’too much, can’t, I can’t. Full, too full.”

“Ye fucking can. Yer tight fucking cunts trying tae strangle me, wants my cum so bad naw? Perfect English pussy, so slutty and needy for a real cock” he growled, hand letting go of your hair and smacking your ass right over where he had before, causing you to howl at the pain. 

The pain and something else, something that had no place here and yet had been lingering from the moment he had caught you. Something that had been getting closer and brighter and more insistent with every abuse you were subject to. Something that he invited in when your arms collapsed beneath you without him holding your heads weight anymore and he ground your face into the ground before bringing his hand to your clit and pinching. 

Your scream was raw and hoarse, throat well past being able to produce a clear sound. The orgasm was blinding and every bone felt like it had liquified. You saw white and then you saw hardly anything, only vague shapes and colours. The only thing now was how his cock filled you. The shame was gone, replaced with the truth that you loved this. You loved how he used you like this, how he violated you in front of these soldiers just because he could.

“That’s it princess, fucking take it” he hissed, stopping his thrusts and letting you do all the work.

You didn’t even realise now how you wildly fucked yourself back on his cock trying to chase the pain of overstimulation, addicted to the way it made you feel some sick hazy pleasure. You were drooling onto the dirt, tasting the earth mixed with cum and finding the disgust of it only felt right now. When his hand came to your stomach and pushed to feel himself bulging there you came again, harder, babbling thank yous to him.

He bit out a string of curses above you as your pussy squeezed so hard it was forcing him out, but he was strong as he forced himself balls deep and held there, finding his release as you milked everything out of him and into your womb. The liquid heat of it was the last thing you felt as you passed out, blissed and fucked out of your mind. 

–

John MacTavish allowed himself a moment to lean his body against your back, inhaling the scent of sweat and dirt and cum and fear and lust from your limp body. So good for him, took it perfectly. He hissed when he finally pulled out, resisting the temptation to just keep going beyond what would feel good because fuck, being inside you had been a religious experience. 

He was nothing if not a man of his word though, and he scooped your body gently into his arms to get you onto a horse and ready for him to take over the border where he could give you that princess treatment he had promised. The surviving soldiers they would leave beaten and bloodied but not dead. After all, someone had to tell your betrothed all the details.

-

“Fucking MacTavish” he hissed after excusing the man who had given the report.

He had made him give it in full detail, told him to leave nothing out. 

“Kept her alive by the sounds of it, maybe looking to get a bastard out of her” Garrick mused.

“Knowing him he’ll keep her near the border to taunt us instead of moving her further up North” Price added.

Simon Riley would not be letting his betrothed get away with allowing MacTavish of all people to take the maidenhood that rightfully belonged to him. She needed a proper punishing fuck from an English man to learn better.

“Doesn’t matter where he keeps her. I’m going to take her, and she’s going to learn what happens to sluts who spread their legs for those Scottish bastards”.

[elbiotipo]

Project Zomboid is very effective at curbing the "Badass Lone Hero with a Cool Gun" kind of fantasy. Guns are a hinderance. They're loud and completely kill the stealth that is the base of the game, dozens of zombies swarm to you the moment you fire one. If you're an untrained person, reloading them is a hassle, even aiming is terrible (yes, I've played the 42 beta). They're heavy to carry (maybe too heavy) so they prevent you from carrying more vital stuff. Finding ammo is a pain, and this is set in the gun crazy US, I can't imagine how it must be in other countries. Even without all that, they're just very poor weapons, not every hit lands, they jam easily, you can't really use them with other weapons, you're ten times better using your bare hands.

The only way guns work in Project Zomboid is if you have an organized team behind you, covering while you reload, using tactics, etc. Otherwise, they're just a hassle. When I'm searching for loot and I find a cabinet full of guns, in any other game it would be cause for celebration, but in Zomboid I just groan, I'd much rather have found a screwdriver or a hammer, not even as weapons, as tools. (and if you really think about it, finding cabinets full of guns outside a police station or a military base is such an Usamerican thing)

The design choices that led to this are very interesting to me because it's a subversion of something that is prevalent not only in zombie media but in videogames in general: one Guy with a Gun can just mow down entire armies no problem. This is because most games featuring guns, despite all the customization options that border on fetishism (but that's something to be said about Usamerican gun culture that sees guns as fashion items), don't really show how guns are used, besides a token "press R to reload" button, all the difficulties are stripped away so the player can get to mow down as many enemies as possible. Understandable, for the sake of gameplay, perhaps, but I think that a game that shows just how difficult using guns in a stressful or post-apocalyptic situation, and in general, is an interesting subversion.

[gallusrostromegalus]

Soul Society is top heavy when it comes to power. With rare exceptions (Ikkaku), the gap between captains and rank-and-file troops, let alone normal citizens, is astronomical. How does Soul Society handle the reiryoku classism problem in and out of the Rukongai? Do the lower seats think of themselves as cannon fodder? Are there any major political factions that try to tackle the issue (ethically or not)?

So the gotei-13 is actually kind of a solution to this problem on accident.

The thing is, as powerful as the captains are, there usually only about a dozen of them, and a maximum of 2600 shinigami total. They are VASTLY outnumbered by literally everyone else, and because they need drastically more food than others (everyone in soul society needs to eat, but shinigami are at a drastically higher calorie demand and risk of starvation), they are VERY dependent on the rest of society. Zaraki made a fair fist of being a roaming menace but even he had to bow to the economy and work jobs to eat.

Hence, there IS reiryoku discrimination but it's largely in the other direction- shinigami are extremely exploited as workers, and that's the GOOD job. Other psychics are frequently drafted, kidnapped, enslaved for imprisoned so the rich and politically powerful can exploit their abilities. Even if a captain class individual were to say, take out a whole clan in self-defense, the rest of society would come down on them like a hammer and kill them or let them starve.

Yamamoto didn't found the Gotei-13 all at once. Originally it was just him, Sasakibe, the 200 spiritually aware students in his dojo, and the dojo was there to train the postal workers how to defend themselves against people trying to kill them for the messages they were carrying, but secondarily so spiritually powerful people didn't get press-ganged into serving the noble houses.

The first organization for psychic souls Yamamoto ever made was a... Relatively Safe Haven. He was also up against a wall dealing with the noble houses and other political factions so he needed anyone who could push back to do so, so a psychic would be expected to serve in at least some capacity. But the souls under his care were free to marry who they chose if they wanted or have children or not, or travel if they felt safe doing so, and even to just be weird without major repercussions, which was a vast improvement over the way they'd be treated as livestock by the noble houses. Even 1000 years later, Byakuya had to fight his family to marry who he wanted. Imagine what a psychic born in a random village and no legal protections would be facing.

So everyone with even an ounce of spiritual capacity was joining the postal service for his protection. It was a boon to the non-psychic messengers too- not knowing if a random Mail carrier could set would-be attackers on fire with their mind made all carriers safer.

...and them the Quincy attacked.

Yamamoto was now even more up against a wall because while having a united front had been helping him it was now a problem-the Quincy were attacking psychics specifically, something that endangered his ENTIRE organization.

...so he hired every spiritually powerful person he could find, including thriteen real bastards directly off of death row and organized them into an army to fucking deal with Yhwach.

Once yhwach was gone though, he had an army. And a lot of nobles looking to exploit or destroy that army.

Fortunately, one of the real bastards he'd hired had fallen for his peculiar charms and become his wife, and what Lady Tsubaki lacked in battle prowess, she more than made up for in political shrewdness. Be magnanimous, she explained. Be generous and speak of peace in our lifetimes and extend the olive branch to those who harassed you for so long. They won't realize it's bait.

So with her help, Yamamoto proposed that his army become the COURT GUARD in charge of protecting the very real and definitely alive Soul King, as well as all the people of soul society from the hollows and other misfortunes that may befall them. Finally, *proper* employment for all those spare heirs and potentially dangerous village psychics, doing the noble work of protecting society.

Why, he even helped found the central 46, a council of sages and scholars and general brain trust to work on the greater problems of soul society (a problem later but at the time, a VAST improvement over the eternally warring clans), that Yamamoto himself would be beholden to, just to show how civic-minded he was.

And just to finally, fully bury the hatchet- Yamamoto offered five of the captain's seats to the five remaining great noble houses, to be passed from scion to scion, ensuring each line would have a place in the direction of this army... Not realizing it was a trap to trick them into handing over any psychics they had, but also the high mortality rate of captains would kill scion after scion and gradually weaken the clans to the point of irrelevance.

And it WORKED.

By the time Ichigo turns up, the scion of the Shihouin clan is in exile with no plans of returning, the Shibas are reduced to a roaming band of pyromaniacs, the Tsunyashiro clan has been gone so long they don't even appear in the manga, and while the ISE and Kuchiki clans still both have representation within the captainacy... The Ise clan only has a brother-in-law and the Kuchiki are at a genetic dead end, and both those men are FAR more loyal to Yamamoto than their own clans.

Yamamoto has done what he set out to do- make a safe haven for the spiritually powerful to work the (not great but still best) protected jobs in the afterlife, destroyed his enemies the great noble houses, and largely wrested government control from them.

It's not perfect, but you can't fault the man for his accomplishment.

[moody-alcoholic]

Broken

Summary: Ghoap x Reader, throuple. Slow burn (sorry but not sorry). 3.6k words. Reader is female (she/her), army nurse, non descript physical features, names used: Ashe.

CW: Lot's of guilt, lots of self hate, but lots of fluff, hurt/comfort.

Previous parts - masterlist - next part

Enjoy <3

You don’t remember much after being moved to the medbay. You would have brief moments of consciousness, hear snippets of conversations, people moving you, poking you. Your body hurt even with the amount of drugs being pumped through your system. At first you thought it was all a dream, like you were in one of those coma’s were you’re still aware of what’s going on around you. 

“She needs to be moved to Damascus to continue treatment, they can only do so much here.” It’s Price’s voice you think, low commanding, he sounds sure in everything he’s saying. It sounds like he’s talking to someone only the other person is being too quiet for you to hear.

There is always someone holding your hand. Johnny you think, his hands are soft he massages your palm or strokes your head. There are new voices, people you don’t recognise. You never hear Jack again but you hear his name, people talking about him. You never hear Simon’s voice, maybe he thinks you’re still guilty. 

“You can’t move her without the commanders permission!” An unfamiliar voice calls.

“The same cunt who put her in this position.” It’s Johnny’s voice he sounds mad. 

“There’s a helo 15 minutes out, we’re taking her to Damascus, you can tell major Gray to contact me if he has a problem with it.” Price again. 

“You’re not her commanding officer.” The voice pleads. Are they fighting? You can’t tell, everything’s hazy. Sometimes you open your eyes, you see nothing but blinding lights, blurred vision, it sends shooting pains in your head causing you to groan in pain.

You dream too, dream about being home, it’s not your flat you dream of though it’s Johnny and Simon’s. Sometimes they’re there, sometimes they’re not and everything feels wrong. You dream about laying between them, your head resting on Johnny’s chest as Simon strokes your back. You miss him, miss hearing his voice, his kind voice the one you fell in love with.

Do you still love them? Even after everything they’ve done. They never hurt you. That was always Jack, but they let it happen. They were following orders. They would never hurt you. But they let it happen. You try to justify it in your head, thinking about it causes a pain in your chest like something you have never felt before. Betrayal? Anger? Sadness? 

Johnny never leaves your side, you can always sense him. Sometimes he talks to you, sometimes he just sits there, rubbing your hand, stroking your arm. 

“You really should get some sleep, some proper sleep.” That’s Simon, it’s the first time you’ve heard him in what feels like forever, his voice is kind, low, it’s the voice you remember.

“4 days, we let her suffer.” Johnny says, he sounds tired, his voice filled with guilt. It didn’t feel like 4 days, it felt like longer. 

The nightmare's come next, Jacks voice etched into your brain. Always the same questions. 

“Why did you betray 141?”

“Why do you hate them?”

“Are you pretending to love them?”

“Do they know you’re a traitor?” 

When you dream about Jack reality becomes warped, you remember the doctor, you remember your hands pumping on his lifeless body. New memories come, you in the store room taking out insulin. You imagine his wife, his son, sobbing, you have to stand there and watch them as Jack tells them what happened. You’re in a court room, being court marshalled, striped of your medical licence. You look up in the gallery and see Johnny and Simon, the disgust on their face as the charges are read out. The smacking of the hammer as you’re dragged to a cell to spend the rest of your life.

It’s cold you’re lonely, maybe this was all the horrible reality, you were guilty. Jack said you were guilty, Jack said you betrayed 141, he said Johnny and Simon want nothing to do with you. That makes you sad, you love them, you would never hurt them. You need to apologise to them, beg for their forgiveness, if they will even give it to you. After this nap though, your body feeling heavy, sleepy like you’re being pulled into a black pit, it feels strangely comforting as your mind goes blank. 

——————————  

This time when you come too you know you’re conscious. You can smell antiseptic in the air, you blink your eyes open looking down at your hand, the same hand you know you’ve felt Johnny holding, you’re hooked up to an IV. Your head hurts your vision still a little blurry. You turn your head to the other side of the room.

Gaz is sat in a chair reading a newspaper, he looks tired his head resting on his hand propped up by his elbow on the chair arm. You don’t want to disturb him but you’re confused, you need answers. The fever dreams you’ve been having have blurred your sense of what is real or made up. You’re about to open your mouth when he looks up and sees you. He puts the newspaper down sitting up straight in the chair. 

“Hey, how are you feeling?” You’re just staring at him with your mouth hanging open your head scans the round the room again before you look back at Gaz. 

“My head hurts.” You say, you don’t know what to say. 

“Yeah you’ve been out of it for a while.” He says reaching over for his radio on the side table.

“How long?” You ask.

“2 days, I’ll get Price.” He says. You don’t know if Gaz is aware of the situation with you and Johnny and Simon. Where are they? You want to see them, you want to apologise. You look over at Gaz talking into the radio. 

“Do you need anything?” He asks as your hand moves its way up to your head, the dull throbbing pain is making you dizzy and you lie back on the bed. 

“No, I’m okay,” you say automatically, trying to ignore the thumping. You wait for Price to come you feel more parts of your body aching, you want to reach over and grab your chart from the bottom of the bed but the thought of moving right now is horrible. Gaz sits watching you fiddling with his radio until Price walks in. 

“Nice to see you awake.” He says moving to the side of the bed. “How are you feeling?” 

“Confused.” You say, you���re desperate for answers now. Price nods and smiles.

“You’re in Damascus, you were moved yesterday, turns out your injuries were more serious then we first anticipated. You’ve been out for the past 2 days, we’ve been waiting for you to wake up.” Price explained. 

“Where are Johnny and Simon?” You ask before you can stop yourself looking up at Price’s response. He smiles, his eyes quickly switching to Gaz then back to you. 

“I’ll go get them.” Price says, heading out the room. You look back over at Gaz. 

“I remember you coming in during..” The words catch in your throat, you swallow hard. 

“You were always so kind.” A smile appears on his lips. 

“It wasn’t fair what happened to you.” He says as a matter of fact, you don’t know if you believe him, you’re not sure what you believe right now. 

“Well, thank you anyway.” You say looking away, you fidget with your hands, not knowing what to say. Johnny rushes into the room next, making you jump as you see him. It’s like everything goes in slow motion, you don’t know if he’s going to be mad at you, upset, happy. Then a smile spreads across his face and he steps over to you wrapping his arms round you as he buries his head in your neck. 

“I’m so happy you’re okay lass,” he whispers into your ear, you look over your shoulder for Simon but you can’t see him. You wince as Johnny pulls you tighter and you squeeze your eyes shut. 

“Easy Johnny.” It’s Simon's voice. You open your eyes as Johnny lets you go and goes to sit on the chair beside your bed, he takes your hand in his rubbing your palm with his thumb. You swallow, it’s almost enough to make you start crying, you don’t know why. You look up at Simon, he’s wearing the mask of course he is, you wish you could see him without it. Your eyes switch to Price who is standing at the end of the bed.    

“C’mon Gaz let’s give them some space.” Price says. You look over at Gaz, you guess he has to be aware of the situation with you, Johnny and Simon. He smiles at you as you watch him leave the room, his presence is calming, you like him being around. Simon wait’s until he hears the door close before pulling a chair over next to Johnny. You look at them both not knowing what to say, they don’t seem angry or disappointed, you can’t really tell what Simon is thinking under his mask, but his eyes look softer, kinder then the last time you saw them. 

“What happened?” You ask. Simon explains the situation while Johnny rubs your arm. It took them longer then they expected but eventually they were able to clear your name. The soldier with the twisted ankle you were treating, him and the others were able to vouch for you. The time it’s suspected the doctor was overdosed, you were on the other side of the base. The most damming evidence though was the fact that your card was swiped in the medbay store room then at the loading dock within 3 seconds of each other. 

“What about Jack?” You ask. Johnny squeezes your hand. 

“We don’t have to talk about him right now.” Johnny says. You shake your head.

“I need to know.” You say a little harsher then you want. You think back to the doctor, you want justice. 

“He’s been moved to another base, at the moment they’re still waiting for a more thorough investigation to be done before they do anything, it’s all a waiting game right now.” Simon says his voice level. You feel a tear escape down your cheek, shit. You turn away blinking and using your other hand to wipe it. No tears here, you remind yourself. You look back at them.

“Sorry, I- It must be all the drugs I’m on.” You say, Johnny looks sympathetic. Simon leans forward in his chair his hand on Johnny’s neck.

“You are not allowed to apologise for anything, you are innocent, none of this is your fault. Jack will be punished.” You dip your head at Simon’s words. His hand grips your leg squeezing it.  

“Hey, look at me.” He says, you force your head up to look at him. “He’s not going to get away with this, I promise you.” You see Johnny nodding in agreement squeezing your hand. 

“What about the doctor?” You ask. “Has his body been sent back to his family?” 

“Not yet, they need it for evidence.” Simon says, you nod sniffing.

“He has a kid, a son who’s 4 at the end of the month. A wife Alice, she loves to paint.” You squeeze Johnny’s thumb. 

“Overdose by insulin, it can be reversed, if we knew..” You sigh looking at Johnny. “I just want to get out of this hospital.”   

——————————  

It’s a few hours later when a doctor comes to check you out. You’re taken down for a scan, apparently you took a good enough beating from Jack that your brain started to swell. Although when Johnny explained it to you it to you.

 “Your head was going to explode, I’ve worked on bombs that are less temperamental.” That made you smile as you laid in the CT machine waiting for it to be finished, apparently if all this was clear you were going to be discharged. That’s all you wanted, to get out this hospital, you didn’t know what was going to happen now though. Would you be sent home? Have to finish your tour? Your body was still aching and you felt like you were going to be relying on painkillers for a while.

The thought of a medical discharge made you feel sick, you wanted to be near Simon or Johnny. When you’re taken back to the room Johnny is still there, he has never left your side and you don’t want him to, the thought of being alone makes you panic. Great, being tortured has made you clingy. Simon and Price come in a few minutes later, they insist on waiting with you for the results.

“Who’s my commanding officer now? If Jack’s been moved.” You ask. 

“Me,” Price replies. “With what happened, you’re under our protection.” 

Protection?  

The word spins around in your head what do you need protecting from?

“He came to see me, Jack. The second night on the base.” You look up at Price. 

“He wanted me to spy on you all, gather intel and tell him about you and your unit.” You shake your head looking down. “He threatened, me he knew about the flat in Canary Wharf. It could have ended badly if a random nurse hadn’t heard him.” You look back up Price who moves his eyes to Simon then back to you.

“What did you say?” Johnny asked.

“Told him the truth, that I didn’t know anything about 141 and I wasn’t going to be his spy. Then ordered him a mandatory psych evaluation. He didn’t like that.” You can’t help but smile a little. You watch as Price pats Simon on the shoulder and they both leave the room. You flick your eyes back to Johnny, who’s smiling and squeezes your hand. 

“Johnny.” You say squeezing back. “Please don’t leave me, I-I don’t want to be alone again.” His hand reaches up to your face stroking your cheek. He pulls you in for a kiss, it’s nice feeling his hot mouth on yours. You wrap your hands round his neck as he pulls you closer to him. You sink into the familiar smell and touch feeling Johnny’s fingers run up your back. He breaks away from the kiss but keeps his arms around you. 

“We’re not going anywhere.” He says, his forehead on yours. You know he won’t have a choice if he’s called to work, you too but right now it’s what you need to hear. You break as you hear the door to the room opening. A doctor walks in followed by Simon and Price. 

“Good news.” The doctor says picking up your chart. “There is no more swelling and other then a broken rib physically you’re fine.” 

“Does that mean I can be discharged?” You ask. 

“Unfortunately, you’re still dehydrated and your blood sugar is low, that’s only to be expected with you being out of it for the past 48 hours. Regardless I want to run you through one more round of IV fluids and monitor you over night. Then I will be happy to discharge you in the morning all things going well.” The doctor explains. You nod feeling slightly disappointed but understanding. You lay back in the bed feeling somewhat exhausted already you can see through the high window of the room that the sun is already setting. You thank the doctor and he says he will send some food up for you to try and eat. Price and Simon leave following him and you’re left with Johnny again, not that you mind.

You thought Price or at least Simon would be back soon but instead your food comes first. You don’t really have much of an appetite but if you want to get out of here you know you need to eat something. Johnny’s sat there slicing the mystery meat up while you picked at whatever pasta was being served with it. Typical hospital food, dry and tasteless, Johnny ended up eating most of the meat leaving you with the pasta and veggies when you said you were full after half a plate he continued to feed you spoonfuls of what tasted like bread pudding. By the time you were finished you were tired and desperate to use the bathroom. That’s a good sign at least, your bowels are all still in working order. 

“Let me find a nurse.” Johnny insisted until you grabbed his arm stopping him. 

“I am a nurse just help me to the toilets and I’ll be fine.” You insist. Johnny doesn't argue with you just helps you out of bed and to the bathroom down the hall. As you walk you can feel how stiff and sore your body is, how much pain your rib is giving you. You manage to finish up in the bathroom without assistance but lean up against Johnny the whole way back. When you get back into bed you’re exhausted. Johnny takes his seat again by the bed as you pull the covers over your legs. You look at him for a few seconds, watching as his hands run through his fluffy mohawk, his hair could do with a trim you find yourself smiling at him. 

“Johnny,” you say. He turns to look at you reaching out for your hand but you move. 

“Come lay with me.” You say the bed is big way too big for you, plenty of room for Johnny to climb in. You move your body up to the side of the bed. Johnny takes his boots off as you pull the thin sheets back. He slips into the bed and you let him wrap his arm round your shoulders pulling you onto his chest. You can smell him the familiar musky smell you find comfort in. He pulls the sheets over you and you relax into him. He kisses your head. You know this isn’t allowed, this is a military base, you didn’t care feeling yourself in Johnny’s arms again makes you feel safe. 

“Hey Johnny,” You whisper as he kisses your head. 

“Yeah?” He asked his voice low breathing in your ear. 

“I can’t wait to go home.” You say stroking his chest, the thought of being in their flat laying on the sofa or cuddling in bed. Just being in a closed environment with them shutting the outside world off for a few days sounded like heaven on earth. 

“We’ll be home soon.” He replies kissing your head pulling you tighter into his arms. “Just get some rest.” You listen to him closing your eyes, finally feeling safe for the first time in days.

—————————— 

Johnny slips out the bed early before the doctor comes. He checks your vitals then discharges you, Johnny pops in as the doctor is leaving to drop your kit off so you could change out the hospital gown. 

“I’ll be back in 10 minutes and we’ll go see Price.” He says before darting out the room again. You debated changing into your scrubs, the thought of the tight belt round your stomach was not exactly appealing. You change into your standard uniform not wanting to do anything to show Price up. You were expecting to see him already, expecting him to tell you you’re being send home on medical leave. No one comes though, it’s been at least 20 minutes, you’ve already rearranged your bag twice you’ve been so nervous.

Price intimidated you, not in a mean way more just in a boss way. Your mind keeps going back to what he said yesterday. ‘With what happened, you’re under our protection.’ Is that what 141 did? Protection? You heard they were something to do with terrorism, probably counter terrorism. That’s a big thing, you defiantly didn’t want to get involved with that, you’re just an army nurse after all. You hear voices in the door way pulling you out of your thoughts.

“You don’t have to wait I’m changed.” You say pulling your bag off the bed onto the floor. Okay that hurt your broken rib, seems like you’ll have to avoid heavy lifting for the next few days or weeks. 

Price walks in followed by Johnny, then Simon then Gaz. You smile seeing them all. The smile is quickly wiped off your face as Johnny moves to pick your bag up. They look sad about something. Your eyes flick to Simon, he won’t look in your eyes. 

“What is it?” You ask a wave of nervousness washing over you. For a second no one talks.

“Does Chloe have a key to your flat?” Simon asks. That’s random you scoff, thinking you got yourself all nervous for nothing. 

“Yeah of course she does,” you reply shaking your head. Your eyes flick to Price, then back to Simon. Something still felt wrong. 

“She was killed yesterday.” Price says. Your breath catches in your throat, you look at him shaking your head. You feel Johnny’s hand on your shoulder. It’s like the ground beneath your feet is being sucked down, you lean up against the bed to support yourself.

“I’m so sorry.” Price says. Your hand balls up into a fist. You know who’s responsible for this. Who else would have it out for Chloe, why did they want to know about your flat? This has Jack’s name written all over it. 

“How?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steady. 

“Gunshot.” Price says. All you can think about is her dying alone, alone and scared. You should have protected her. This is your fault, you should have done something. 

“This is my fault.” You whisper looking down at your feet. You feel Johnny squeeze your shoulder. 

Chloe’s dead, your best friend is dead and it’s all your fault.

Next part

[whateveriwant]

Happy Sunday! Whatever you do, definitely don't imagine Simon stuck in a time loop, forced to relive the worst day of his life over and over again 😀

The worst day of Simon's life? you might wonder. What would that be? Good question!

How about the day that Simon, at the tender age of four, came face-to-face with the boogeyman himself? His mother had warned him of the ghoulish entity, the one who lurked in shadows, inflicting pain on those who would seek to misbehave. What she didn't tell him, and what Simon would discover for himself that night as he awoke to the sounds of screaming, was that the boogeyman was no mere specter. She didn't tell him how he punished indiscriminately, uncaring if you were a woman or child. She didn't tell him how he wielded his fist like a hammer, his breath stinking of booze and cigarettes. And she didn't tell him (because how could a mother begin to explain to her young son?) that the boogeyman would wear the face of his own father.

Or how about the day that Simon realized he made the biggest mistake of his life? When he first joined the army, he had lofty ideas of honor and glory; action and duty; responsibility and yes, if it came to it, even sacrifice. Call him naive, but what else could you expect of a boy who's been fed nothing but a trough of propaganda his whole life? Simon surely didn't realize, not as he signed his soul over for a pair of dog tags. He didn't realize, not as he queued up with other lost boys for his chance to play soldier. He didn't realize even as he was shipped out with less than two months of basic training under his belt. No, Simon didn't realize until it was already too late, until it was staring at him across the blood-soaked trench with glossy, unblinking eyes. It was only then, looking into what remained of the face of a friend, that Simon realized there is decidedly very little that is ‘dolce et decorum’ about dying in war.

Or there's the day Simon discovered hell exists right here on Earth, and it's ruled over by a devil called Roba. Simon had thought that living a life already full of pain and horror would have thickened his skin like the rings of a tree, making an impenetrable armor even a mortar couldn't dent. But all it took was the careful orchestration of one wicked man to prove that even the toughest of trees can be felled. Day in and day out, he endured a steady stream of beatings, tortures, and assaults. Day in and day out, he was forced to the brink of his sanity, tipping over it once or twice. Day in and day out, the once unbreakable soldier entered a new circle of hell, and as he descended, finding each pit worse than the last, he wondered if he would ever make it out alive.

Or there's the any number of days (and there are a dreadful many) that Simon lost the only things in his life that ever truly mattered to him. The day he came home, the taste of betrayal acrid on his tongue, to find four mangled corpses had replaced the people he called family. The day he failed, the target vanishing like smoke from a gun barrel, his hands wet with the blood of the sergeant he had come to consider a brother. The day he never saw coming, the day that smashed what was left of his heart into pieces, the day he lost the best thing to ever happen to his miserable excuse of a life; the day he lost you.

It was years later, long after he'd hung up his masks and tags, that they came for you in the dead of night. Payback, they'd said, for something he'd done when he was still in the service. Though you had no affiliation with that period of his life, they knew that by taking you – by hurting you – it was the perfect eye for an eye. All Simon could do as they bound and beat you was watch from across the room, his own chains rattling desperately. He watched as your fingers bent at odd angles, your clothes adhered to your skin with blood, the bones in your face shattered and swelled until you were unrecognizable. You were strong – stronger than Simon ever wanted you to have to be – but that didn't stop his heart from breaking with every abuse your body received. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, he tried to get through to you, even as the sickening crack of your femur threatened to drown him out.

It was hours (it felt more like decades) that you were both dragged through this misery. Simon watched the whole time, hot tears obscuring his vision, his voice keeping you awake between the syringes of adrenaline pumped into you. But eventually there came a point in which you slumped, a sort of finality to the way your limbs sagged, and Simon couldn't help how his own heart stopped pumping. The room was loud in his ears, louder than it had ever been thus far, and yet, not a single sound was made. He shook his chains to rouse you. Get up, he ordered. Get up, my love. Get up! he begged, screamed until his vocal chords shred. His pleas were met by only silence, a slowing trickle of blood leaking from your mouth, and when the ones that did this to you declared that revenge was now claimed, Simon knew the last thread that wove any sort of meaning into his life had finally been cut.

Any one of these days could be a contender for the worst day of Simon's life, an eternity of torment looped within a 24 hour cycle. And no matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries to change things, it's never enough. He is never enough.

[perlen-gold]

A MelkorxMairon story

inspired by saintstars

“Come.”

They call me Great Death, the Constrainer. Black Foe of the World, Master of Lies. They say I am merciless and proud, atrocious, barbarous, brutal and ruthless, abominable and terrible to behold, wicked and vicious. They are not wrong.

 “Come,” I whispered, my voice a phantom of its earth-cracking thunder tracing across his heated stone-skin.

I imagined him adorned lightly. Onyx-black, ink-soft lace balming his skin. A hue of jewelry, the rings he so liked, fragrant with flawless gold.

Lose, the scarlet-crimsoned whisper of his hair, embroidering the tickling shadows about him, breathing with a faint, warm glow, lose, unbound, free.

Instead, iron and steel. Rather, I felt it was the blunt taste of metal humming beneath my fingertips., winter-gray and silver-cool.

Never had I hissed at the melody of cutting cold as he, freezing snow and whirling ice. Now, as I envisioned him in soft-light fiber and warmth-glowing fabric, I nearly did.

Instead, I touched upon the spiral shell of Mairon’s armor, inch by inch.

Enough work.

I almost say it.

I feel Mairon tense the moment the words soar upon my tongue. I think his bruises, sprains and scars, so carefully withheld beneath his armor, coil.

My own injuries are throbbing as the mountain’s heart pulsates.

On the tip of my tongue I finger two different syllables, then. I taste them, long and probing. They are not familiar between my lips.

Instead, I murmur, “Come.”

Then try, taste, whisper.

“Please.”

As I stroke the sounds, I feel the remnant scars of my wounds squirm and stretch.

Enough work. I had said those words before quite differently.

He had been absorbed in a long list of parchment, winding and dry, just like now, after an endless day of meetings and councils.

War is an ever-hungry machine that constantly must be fed and patted and attended to. Not I but Mairon is its master who keeps it ever roiling and toiling. Its needs are both endless and unending.

There are weaponries to be forged, armor to be hammered. Hosts of Orcs to be commanded, captains to be instructed, recruits to be trained.

Expedient though they are, Orcs make poor comrades in arms. Constantly squabbling, perpetually fighting each other for position or food or simply the lack of distraction or wit, they are ill-made for cooperation and it takes more than a whip to tame them. Fear might control them but it takes more to make them efficient, Mairon often says.

And efficient he makes them. Orcs and goblins have a natural aptitude for battle, their fighting is simple and crude nonetheless, Mairon often also sighed, and the imbeciles end up killing each other before they even learn how to swing an axe in an accurate arch.

Then there is food and rations to be retrieved and organized, routs to scout and news from spies and traitors to be collected and molded into benefits and advantages.

I knew all of this because Mairon had told me, complained to me of these things more often than I wished and, what was worse by far, even made me listen till I was fed up and bored beyond even my unyielding power. Oh, there was relentlessness in him that heeded neither my ostentatious disregard nor my sour mood whenever he pestered me with these trifles. I might have escaped, oh yes, but he would serve me thrice the tales of battlements in need of improvement, insufficient food resources and incompetent Orc armorers designing poorer battering rams when I hungered for the naked sheen of his skin.

I have always thought Mairon mercilessly vindictive beyond even my desire for revenge.

“Your army, my lord, needs attention”, he would say lilting as skittering pearls and with a tone so quizzacious I might seize his throat eventually which would make him laugh and brush the sweetest gasp against my ear.

Once, I sank my teeth into the tender rose-petal softness of his beautiful neck and he moaned softly into me while he enumerated all the little repairs needed for some dispensable outpost in such a shuddering, smile-curving little voice that I, smeared with his gold-liquor blood, considered biting off his tongue. It made his heedless smile curve even wickeder.

There had been always only one way to silence the brazen little creature.

And for a while he writhed and arched beneath me, trembling, mouth and body sealed, only to continue his speech in the fire-gilded afterglow of our bodies, his throbbing flame-heat and shivering legs still around me.

Oh, even my fell cruelty, which I thrust into him, could not match his own.

This time, however, it was different.

I say war is a machine but, in truth, Mairon is the machine that is war.

Like the rings he so loves for their boundless, immaculate symmetry, none of his designs or schemes knew either end or beginning and it was these endless, tedious things in his fingers around which they always snaked like wild adders eternally, perpetually.

And Mairon is just as endless and snaking.

There is no detail to escape his lidless mind’s gaze. No mosaic stone unset, no jigsaw piece uncontemplated. Every piece my and his spies gathered glides between his sizzling fingertips.

Not a single piece of floating ash is unknown to him. No trifling squabble crumbled under his high boots unseen, no minor sentiment of unrest skittered across his path without his notice. He weaves a single-minded Orc’s gripe into his hair when he rises in the crisp morning, he holds an outpost’s trivial failings in his grasp when setting the chisel in his forge and he slides a letter intercepted over his skin when he undresses in the evening.

I call him my little flame, and it delights his curving dagger smile, for he is neither little nor single-tipped flame.

My troops, on the other hand, my Balrocs and generals and captains and Orcs call him the lidless, sleepless, all-seeing eye. I might be the god they serve but one single gush of wind loosening a lone scarlet-gilded, fire-whipping strand of Mairon’s hair sends them scudding and scurrying as ants.

I did not, or barely, notice at first.

So consumed was I that it was only an irksomeness in the beginning before it grated at my attention, more and more.

Always there had been a piece of something on Mairon’s mind, a roll of parchment in his long-fingered hands, a whispered request in his well-shaped ear, another meticulously drawn map, another scouting route worked out, another keen-eyes report at his sharp-angled elbow.

It was as though catching an industrious spider weaving double the nets or spotting the arctic fox growing twice the pristine fur.

And yet.

I say I heeded not the change, at first. Yet, in truth there was something vexing me outside the range of my vision, like a buzzing fly my dragons cannot see yet not quite bait either.

When then, at long last, it woke me out of my razor-riven raptness, it was like a silent shiver running through the earth meeting a mountain, a cresting wave crashing against a sheer cliff of rock after building for weeks.

Ah, I had not known it had been there.

Suddenly, however, my ire raged clear and raw.

“Enough!”

Ah.

My skin prickling as the stagnant air before a storm.

My voice, having sundered heavens and cleaved continents, a lightning bolt lit.

Plans and maps, plans and schemes, schemes, schemes and plans! I had been surge-swelling with them like a river breaking its bed.

My captains and leaders, Orcs and goblins, their heads snapped around to my seat as if I had broken their necks. However, I was no longer seated. Why had I come to this counsel at all, dark creatures in my service startling and groveling? Mairon had stopped dragging me there long ago and I rarely obliged him when he did.

I did not take notice whether it was letter parchment or outline scroll I tore from Mairon’s hands. A shattering on the onyx black floor, I felt myself towering, looming with my mounting rage.

In the breathing space between us, him and me, my body was sparking at the edges.

Never had I, quite unlike Mairon, endeavored to control my wrath, unlike him who could mask the brightest blaze of anger like ash covers the still-glowing embers within.

Instead, I felt my shape rise and my all-seeing vision expand, fraying at the edges, burn with it.

Whatever it was that I tore from him crumbled into smoke and electric sparks under my hands.

And still he would not look at me.

Ah, there it was, the hilt and pike of my sudden temper which I was fingering like my warhammer, Mairon’s steady gaze still, still, still fastened on what he had been reading an instant before, parchment and scrolls and lesser creatures and, oh, everything without even once in weeks upon weeks and months uncounted looking up at me who was his master.

The fortress around us, the raven-black stone floor beneath our feet shivered with a ringing tremor.

I thought ages to pass but, in sooth, Mairon stared at the quivering remnants of what I had just ripped from his hands much longer while my rage sloshed and billowed into vastness.

Then, his gaze flared into mine.

It was as though a ray of morning light hit me, clear and spear-piercing.

His gold-crystal eyes were aflame as a crisp winter’s dawn. This was the only warning I was given.

I saw his transformation only in shreds ere Mairon lashed himself upon me, flame-gleaming fur and blaze-white teeth.

My wrath was sharp enough to wrap us both and Mairon’s teeth even sharper.

Fire cannot consume the mountain but it can sweep across, melt, mold and scar it beyond recognition.

Ah, and scar each other we did in our conflagration.

If any dark creature, Balrog or maggot Orc had been present, they must have fled for no insect lingers to watch whether slashing rains or whipping winds may triumph over the storm.

Had we been lesser beings, we might have easily slain each other.

Instead, the stone-blind walls around us gasped as we fought and parts of Utumno well-nigh collapsed under our rage.

When at last we both sank against opposite walls, the torches shook under our breaths as grass before the scythe.

My anger, however, fled as swiftly as it had come and his surely must have to.

The air tasted of stale smoke and departing thunder.

As we huffed, I expected him to limp toward me. Even lean against me, his inferno fury and my cosmic wilderness abated and washed away by the great tide of our fighting, leaving as brine-raw and satisfied enough to huff and touch each other’s wounds with well-practiced fingers softly and tender lips. I would have licked his wounds, and more, and his lips could have kissed mine till we shook from a different kind of fury and another quake came upon Utumno ere an unsimilar fatigue settled between us, and then we would have finally tended to each other’s injuries in a more lasting way.

What rags of his fine-woven garment had withstood his skin-changing were torn to shreds by me and fell from his bare skin.

Yes. I expected his sly smile dripping mockingly from his slyer lips.

Though rare, it had no been our first fight, after all.

As our breaths pooled in the empty counsel room, I saw Mairon rise to his staggering legs.

Instead, however, he left as abruptly as he had flared, limping.

He strode from my hall, naked, gold licking beneath the glowing soles of his feet, the hue of fire-lit blood in his whipping hair and gleaming skin the only cover to veil his lithe shape.

A single Orc stumbled from behind an onyx-carved column.

It stared.

And stared.

And stared.

And stared.

“Please”

The sounds touch queerly between my lips.

I feel my eyes, one of crystal-frozen ice and one of molten-moving magma, close against the silence of his shadow-hewn chambers.

There has been neither council nor meeting.

We have not talked since.

Mairon moves not.

My vision is obscured by the dusk of my own eyes.

The dancing darkness within me notwithstanding, I know his eyes, perusing the endless lines on the rustling scroll in his slender hands tenaciously, to have stopped, poised, on one spot alone.

Slowly.

Slowly my scarred hands begin to move.

Gradually, I touch upon what has been shaped unerringly by him. Layer by layer. Piece by piece.

I remember not undoing his or any other armor ever before. Haltingly, my fingers find few gold clasps sleeping beneath.

Iron plate and greave slither ceaselessly against each other, harness and chestplate.

I have never tasted, brushed my tongue against this creation among so many of his, immaculate in its deadly beauty as everything he invents.

But what my scorched hands find is not beauty alone.

Inch for inch, I let my scabbed finger pads slide over smooth plates of metal, one after another. Perfectly round circles of twisting iron, dark as night, black as a midnight’s dream. Slender-long gauntlets gliding sleekly against each other without the slightest hitch.

Polished, my charred fingertips find the glossy plates against his stomach.  

Not a nook or cranny on the metal stretching across the small of his back; neither scratch nor scrape beneath my quiet palms straying along his waist, down his iron-veiled flanks.

No plate hugging his legs, no piece of armor whispering, pressing against his thighs ever requires a drop of slick oil. I can feel it underneath my tingling hands. Not one part of metal will ever rub against its brothers nor bear mark or squeak. Like snake scales rising against each other’s fall.

As I wander him, a thought strikes me like a smiling fish in the presence of the diving king-fisher. That even Aulë himself would envy this. It is coiling perfection lured to making. It is usage spelled into fascination.

Another thought strikes my pricking skin, then. It is not what he has worn before.

My realization is another spell woven by the king fisher. When has Mairon created this new armor? It must have taken him an age of life to master it into being.

When did he do it? Where had I been?

But, of course, no beauty for Mairon without purpose.

I think, even Aulë will envy this.

It may be a day, it may be an age eternal till I draw his body against mine. Bare skin to skin.

Under my hands his armor is coming undone like a mountain peak, year by year, age by age.

I allow my gaze to fall on the graceful line of his neck then, note the lustrous strand of fire-lit hair that coiles around it. The smooth heel of his hand, aligned to the scroll, the tips hidden behind the faded yellow. The sharp angle of his left elbow, the serpentine line of his muscled back. The svelte shape of his ear, the cutting line of his jaw. All this, I merely graze with my gaze, light as raven feathers before I let the knuckles on the back of my fingers follow my eyes’ hushed trail.

Beneath, slashes and lacerations like gouges half-knitted, purple bruises and blood-cusped strains, half-healed.

Wroth and savage had been my violence, vicious and cruel his own.

I expect his skin, his body to be fire scolding, a blaze like a hurricane. My touch, however, evanesces upon contact with it as though one wraith reaches for another.

Somethings tugs at me then, strange-shaped and eternally coined.

He does not stir, does not move.

Still, his fire has not blazed my scarred skin. And still, Mairon’s voice of melting steel has not spoken to me.

I might pry into his mind, of course. What futility. Mairon has never given anything he did not offer first.

Last is his hair, bound tightly, wrought infinitely to the lovely shape of his neck. It is not in my nature to hesitate, not once, and like softest silk each flaming strand loosens between my stroking, combing fingers.

At last, my time is come to speak.

My eyes still veiled by the endless darkness of my own lashes, against the warm fall of his hair I lay my lips.

“Precious.” Murmurs. “It is enough.” Whispers, straight and firm. “Even you have an end to your flames. Even you must rest.” Murmers and whispers from my lips.

My darkness, a fortress. ”Even you must not be consumed by one thing alone in this world.”

Mairon stirs not. And yet, I feel it in the jolt of rigid muscles against my naked skin like a bow-string springing back.

I catch the thought he aims albeit he aims it not at me. It is the first time I hear his golden voice ever since I returned.

It is like laughter, only viler.

You are one to talk.

Around his naked waist and chest my hold tightens. In anticipation, perhaps, of another attack, wondering idly what other beastly form he might use, I look forward to whatever claws and teeth he will sink into me this time with a kind of grim satisfaction.

I palpate that almost-thought  of his idly, turn it around in my silent-grown mind seeking out its facets and angles.

His skin is cool silver light upon the parched flesh of my fingers despite the honed flames it shields within.

No beauty for Mairon without a purpose.

There.

Ah.

Here, at last. A morsel of truth.

Slowly. Gradually, I begin to comprehend. And yet, still, I understand not.

Long is the silence stretching between us, infinite as the darkened night sky, dull as the lessened moon shredded in wispy mists.

Slowly. Slowly, my arms’ force increases. Slowly, the hold of my embrace tightens.

Slowly, I force Mairon’s body around. Force him to turn. This is what I do and this is what I try.

Ah. Many are the minds and brains fooled by his appearance. He might shroud his viper shape in a robe of splendid cloth but I have seen the bare stretch of his arms and shoulders bent over the forge, his back straight and straining. The ones he seduces think him fair and beautiful alone, yet I have heard Orc sword masters threaten their fosterlings with Lord Mairon’s lust for challenge. His legs apart, sinews and muscles aglow in the sheen of the furnace. He would not even have to lift the hilt of his sword. Among the recruits, his physical strength is a legend told at night fire watches.

And with all his strength he is fighting me now, ah, what resistance against the strain of my arms around his back and sides, against my will to bind him to me, force his body around to face mine.

Vaguely, I am wondering once more if he will transform again, now, in this instant, to raise the amount of bristle and teeth and claws he can punish me with or if he will simply sink and dig his gilded nails and incandescent teeth into my flesh as he is.

Neither of us is speaking.

But this. This is more a fight of wills rather than a battle of physical force, and this once, this once in our eons of time, my will prevails over his.

I can feel him straining as his ember-honed cheek comes to rest upon my beating pulse. It is like holding a candle to my chest.

I feel the touch of his breath as warm as sun-lit honey on my chest, flecks of gold in it.

All at once, I am unable to remember. This. The wisp of his fiery hair. The width of his smooth brow. The length of his body, flush against mine. Unable. Unable to remember the last time I felt his gold-leaping warmth seep into my storm-cloud skin.

My injuries matter not. Their circling pain is forgotten like morning mists fracturing at the break of dawn. We move not and do not speak. However, this once, I will not let him escape.

Puzzled yet I am. Pondering. Wondering. I, Melkor, confess I fail to grasp his ire fully.

Would he envy another craftsman thus? Ah, I think not. Too proud Mairon is of his own prowess, too confident, too brilliant in his own skill.

Would he resent thus what he deems utter folly? He has stood and endured far greater whims of mine.

I know the fight to have seeped out of him, now. There is only the pooling of warmth, small huffs against my skin.

I am closing my eyes to darkness and stillness again.

Long is the silence stretching between us.

“Do with them as you please.”

At first, Mairon does not move.

Then, against the total blackness of my eyelids, I can see him stir. Rise. His head tilting back. His fire-honed gaze, at last, upon my face.

My hand opens for him.

They cannot burn me any more than their luminous light already has.

As I open my eyes, despite myself, my gaze falls upon them as splashing water from the sky.

Even before my eyelids lift, I know their lovely glow shedding light over my maimed, scorch-darkened hands. I know not whether Mairon’s eyes follow the lust of my eyes, become drawn and ensnared as mine. If not, I can neither examine it nor him.

Even now I cannot part my gaze with them.

If the moon had been carved into thirds in the bejeweled night, none of it, though born from that same radiance, would have glistered like any of them!

One sun-lit and citrine-hued, bright as sun-filled water. Vivid as the very heart of the earth the other, a thousand rubies aflame. The last, a brilliant, ever-shining, ever-pure, dazzling white.

Even now I am mesmerized at the luminosity of the first light, percolated through the incinerated cage of my fingeres.

Even Mairon’s light of fire-drunk gold almost dulled beside them. Almost.

This, maybe, is what makes me realize the flash of Mairon’s hand toward the blinding light.

All of a sudden, through the luminous splendor and breath-taking, sky-rendering incandescence, fear jolts through me like a thunder-spear.

No, I am no stranger to pain, not even to dread, the loathsome spider be cursed and all her descendants, but never has terror such as this seized at my hammering pulse.

The yell, the roar aimed at Mairon ignites in my throat as volcanoes erupt with spilling fire.

Almost as soon as it builds, I huff out a breath of absurd emptiness. Mairon’s supple fingers have gripped the resplendent silmarils long before my anger rushes in. Beneath his skin, like strands of his own hair, silk shimmers between him and the precious jewels.

Of course.

My chest almost tears with swallowed, frayed laughter.

Whatever rules Mairon’s black-sooted heart, greed is not a part of it.

His fiery gaze is thrumming into mine, the long-lashed gold of his eyes never once wavering to the wonders aglow between our hands. I imagine his wrist flick and a burst of radiant light clattering across the onyx floor.

Mairon’s voice is quenched iron, spitting with cooling water, “I shall cast them into the darkest sea, the deepest pit and highest sky.”

The fury of this world grows between us, gathers in the thunder lightning and earth-shading clouds, a fell music of drums and clangs.

It is arduous at first, cruelly laborious, to wretch my craving stare from them.

I can see Mairon’s eyes follow the length of my glance, the direction of my lusting breath.

They are magnificent in their effulgence, entrancing in their beauty, enrapturing in their unfathomable luster.

Long has the silence stretched between us.

Silently, I speak.

So you shall.

Mairon does blink. Now. Once. An eternity. Twice.

Finally, ultimately, I can see his gold-glittering eyes flicker toward the luminescent jewels in his hand, his gaze falling, cast down.

“I shall forge a crown fit for them and you, my lord,” he murmurs, lowly.

No love for the sea, the earth, the skies?, I think

“They are to be set in a crown by my hands already.” I speak aloud.

There it is, the sneer.

“It is like calling the elven child hoarding heaps of sand an architect.” Mairon returns, slyly as a minx.

Insolent creature, I think, letting the words flutter soft as lashes against his smile-honing lips.

“Not tonight,” I hum, drawing him closer still, pressing against his curving lips, “Tonight you are mine.”

I think, tonight I am yours alone.

Mairon’s limber shoulders rise as he lifts his hands to lay them along my face, his willowy fingers astir, roaming through my hair where there are caught the colors of the night and the light of fading stars. The light in his eyes is enough to blind and scar the whole world and everything that comes after.

They say I am merciless and proud, cruel and pitiless, tyrannical and spiteful, enviously, greedily, recklessly selfish beyond imagination. They call me Master of Lies, Great Death, Black Foe of the World. I feel giddy with delight when I think of it. It is all true.

Let them not see what else I am.

He, whom they call Sauron, whispers into my ear, his arched fingers woven into my shadow hair, his graceful limbs, the length of his pressing body pouring sun-lit heat into mine of melting ice and frozen stone, the smiling cheek of his lips thawing against my ear.

“You have yet to say ‘please’, my lord.”

[hcfiles]

It seems that HC has the worst friends. Messages from Deuxmoi and a woman saying good things about Armie Hammer and flaming HC, allegedly in Brazil, have been revealed. Apparently HC's friends were too loud and disruptive while AH was a gentleman. This proves that he was only surrounded by people who didn't know how to behave and respect his work, unlike his family. He's never known loyal people who respected his work, then or now. I bet they've done even more than has been revealed.

These rumours about Brazil are old, but nothing has been proven. And, despite who he really is, we have to admit he was always very polite and careful not to stain his image in public. He only slipped recently with this PR stunt for not knowing more about the ho**er he was going on a PR with.

I bet no one knew, for example, about the bl*w j*b picture. And, I suppose she has enemies, maybe old colleagues that were humiliated on National TV during that MTV show or fake friends, who probably know her and decided to spread tea about her dirty life. That was probably, one of those guys who were in the pic with her.

One thing about pics that people usually don't question: the observer behind the cam taking the pic. 'Cause someone registered that moment and saved that pic for a reason. What was the intention in taking that pic and saving that image?

And, who is that man who practically shows his naked butt to the camera and his eggplant to her? Probably one of her gay friends who is always with her, but having it exposed gives people the freedom to think it could be Henry Cavill himself.

Why not? She doesn't seem that young in that pic and they both (HC and NV) are insisting on proving their affair. So, as the pic was public, I can imagine whatever I want about it, right?

[simplydnp]

wait speaking of not being able to make out what they’re saying, can somebody tell me what dan says after he sits down and says he’s going to eat a peach (can’t get a time stamp atm sorry). i hear ’joke’ maybe but not much else???

anon i first read this as 'wait speaking of not being able to make out' and i tried to rack my brain to see when i talked about it today 💀

uhm. anyway.

you've forced me to stumble upon something i Didn't need to read and now i must inflict my knowledge upon all of you.

this is what the captions (shoutout to the caption crew!!) said:

an excellent place to start, but not solving our mystery. so i made the unfortunate choice to google 'armie hammer peach' (some of you know where this is going).

the, uh, 'indistinct' is dan saying 'call me by your name'. i haven't seen this movie. so imagine my surprise when dan's making jokes about eating cum-filled peaches.

we should know less about each other.

[valkyriepirate]

Elrond x Reader- Always Been Yours

Summary: You and Elrond have been close for many years because of your positions on the council. When an army of orcs unexpectedly attacks Lindon while Elrond is away in the dwarven kingdom, you become near-fatally wounded in battle. Elrond rushes home to find you barely alive, calling the name of your lover in your sleep. Little does he know you are dreaming of him. 

Word count: 4.9k words

Warnings: Battle violence, fluff <3

#1- Always Been Yours

Spring had finally arrived in Lindon, and the air was thrumming with the promise of life. A fresh, warm breeze gently swayed the trees of the forest like a rebellious eddy on the open sea, lifting your long sleeves and carrying your voice to the sky. It wasn’t often that you sang on the palace grounds; while you had a beautiful voice, you never prided yourself in it, but the day was far too beautiful not to let it fill your heart with joy through song. You could almost sense the flowers readying to break the surface of the soil and taste the dew that would settle on their leaves.  

You knelt next to a tree by the river, caressing the dirt with your fingers. Your mother had always said that the forest should be greeted as your dearest friend, for it was your greatest protector. As you ran your hand through the crystalline water, you could imagine her voice intertwining with yours, just like how you two would sing together all those years ago. Being here amongst the trees and the earth made you feel closer to her, as if her spirit lived on in the forest.  

“I didn’t know you sang,” a familiar voice from behind lurched you from your thoughts. You turned around, already feeling the tips of your ears heat in embarrassment, to face your longtime friend.  

“Anyone with a voice to speak can just as well sing, can they not?” You brushed loose dirt from your dress as you stood up.  

Elrond smiled, glancing politely toward the ground. “Many can speak, but not many can sing like you. Please- don't stop on my account.”

“I’m afraid that is a song for the wind and water, not for the ears of well-meaning friends,” you teased.  

“Then it would be best I said nothing at all,” said Elrond.  

“And leave me to go on with silent listeners nearby? I think not.”

You stepped out onto the main path, Elrond falling in step beside you. Even though you were reluctant to let him hear your voice, you felt comfortable in every other way around him. You couldn’t help the little spark of gladness that flickered in your chest whenever he was near.  

“What are you doing out here in the forest?” you asked, glancing sidelong at him. The sun was casting amber hues through his hair, making him look like a crowned prince.  

“Looking for you,” he folded his hands behind him. “The High King Gil-galad is sending me to Forodwaith to establish terms of trade with Durin and the dwarves of Khazad-Dum. He expects me to leave in the morning.”

“So soon? It feels as if you just returned from your last journey,” you said, trying and failing to keep the disappointment out of your voice. Seeming to hear it, he nodded regretfully.  

“Apparently I was specifically requested by Durin. The High King fears he won’t negotiate terms with any elf other than I.”

“Ah, I see. The dwarf wants another excuse to see you.”  

Elrond laughed good-naturedly. “I doubt that. I think I’m simply the one he wants to hit with his hammer the least.”

“You give yourself too little credit, Elrond. You have a spirit more kind and gentle than anyone I know. Even a dwarf can see that.”  

He pinked in the cheeks. “And I think you give me too much credit, (Y/N). Besides, the kindest heart in Eriador certainly doesn’t belong to me. I’m afraid that title is taken by a particular elf-maiden with a lovely voice.”  

A fluttering sensation enveloped your stomach, and you bit your lip to keep from smiling. “When do you think you’ll return?” you asked evenly.  

“In a fortnight, perhaps. Though these trips always seem to take longer than initially planned. You know Disa’s hospitality.”

That you did. You considered the female dwarrow a dear friend. Your position as the general of the Sindarin army sometimes took you to distant lands across Middle-earth, and you had become acquainted with Disa in your travels long ago, before she had married Durin. Though you suspected you were in for a thorough scolding the next time you saw her, if Elrond’s account of Durin’s anger amounted to anything. Your kind were wont to lose track of the days, unlike the mortal races. It made you wonder how long it really had been since you’d seen Disa last.  

“Give her the warmest tidings from me,” you said sincerely. “I miss her dearly. How I wish I could accompany you.”

“I wish much the same,” said Elrond bashfully, not meeting your eyes. “The road travel can be quite lonely and tedious at times.”

“Here.” You bent and plucked a white-plumed daylily from a bush that was rooted in the stream, handing it to him. “Keep it with you. When you feel alone, you can pull it out and think of me.”

He handled the flower reverently, as if you had bestowed upon him a precious jewel. He looked up at you, the sweetest, humblest smile gracing his features. “I most certainly shall.”

The two of you talked far into midday, wandering the forest and ignoring the existence of your duties. Your heart began to ache the more time you spent with him, however, knowing that he was bound to disappear once more, and all too soon you bid him goodbye. There were several things concerning the Sindarin warriors to discuss with the king, and Gil-galad was not one to be kept waiting.  

You slept fitfully that night, Elrond’s face flashing in your mind every time you closed your eyes. You rose before the sun the next morning and raced as elegantly as possible to the road past the waterfall where Elrond was set to depart. Only the guards were awake, nodding respectfully to you as you passed. All of Lindon dutifully recognized your position as a war general even when you weren’t in your armor.  

As periwinkle streaks of dawn bled across the sky, you nearly began to worry that you had missed him, but your worries ameliorated when you caught sight of his robes by the front gates. Elrond was loading his supplies onto his horse, his face turned away from you. Silently, you approached him from behind, hoping you didn’t appear as if you’d rushed out to meet him in a frenzy.  

“Attempting to leave without saying goodbye, are we?” you said into the still morning air. Elrond looked up, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.  

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he tied one last knot around his knapsack. “I only wished for you to have as much rest as possible. It is early to be awake even for I.”  

“So you may say.” One side of your mouth quirked up. “Is everything prepared?”

“Yes. All I need is to collect my will to mount this horse and leave Lindon behind.” His voice caught as he said Lindon, as if he were about to say you.  

Your heart was buzzing inside your chest as if you were a restless bumblebee being separated from your flower. “Do not forget,” you reminded him softly, spotting the daylily tucked into his robe. You reached over and tenderly pressed the petals against his chest. “This flower means I am with you. You will be in my thoughts, Elrond.”

He held your gaze, his eyes filled with some deep emotion you couldn’t express. Gently, he grasped your hand and grazed your fingers with the barest of kisses. Physical affection was rare among your kind, particularly in public, though you sensed the only bystanders observing your interaction were the dandelions beneath your feet and the forest critters slipping between the trees.  

“And you will be in my heart, (Y/N),” promised Elrond. He was the embodiment of a dulcet predawn dream, the kind you wanted to get lost in forever, to never wake up from. Yet you knew both his duties and yours were to the kingdom before they answered your own desires.  

You gave his fingers a slight squeeze. “You will give Durin and Disa my best, will you not?”

He smiled. “I shall.”

“Do be safe. You have duties and friends to come back to, you know.”

“I will do my best,” he bowed. “I am sure my heart will ache with every step I take away from you.”

You parted, feeling as if you were forcing yourself awake from a pleasant dream, and watched as he mounted his horse and trotted away from the front gates. At the end of the path, he halted and turned to face you one last time.  

“Goodbye, (Y/N),” he called.  

“Goodbye, Elrond,” you returned, and didn’t allow yourself to blink until he had passed over the hill into the far reaches of the forest, where the trees seemed to lean down and caress him with their branches as if he were not simply an elf, but a king venturing into a distant land, riding away with your stolen heart.  

*****

A harsh, screeching noise tore you from your sleep. With a jolt of panic, you bolted upright in bed, trying to collect your bearings. Liquid moonlight spilled through your leaf-paned window and leaked over the floor. You judged that it was a little over two hours past midnight. The horrible, dissonant noise seemed to come from all around you. You picked out the sound of Lindon’s warning bell from among the chaos, coupled with pained screams and the sound of something shattering.  

In a heartbeat, you leaped out of bed and grabbed your silver-plated longsword by the door. You burst out of your room and flew down the stairs towards the commotion. The clanging noises intensified as you ran to the royal courtyard. You deduced the source before you saw them- orcs.  

Dozens of the grisly fiends were pouring over the gates, brandishing crude, makeshift weapons and baring their black teeth. Several other elves had already arrived on the scene, defending against the attackers with deadly grace. Swords flashed and arrows flew under the silvery light of the moon, and blood the color of the night sky painted the ground before your eyes.  

You seamlessly entered the battle, lopping the heads off one orc after the other, not stopping to ponder how or why the orcs were leading this raid. Your senses clicked into the mode of war, as familiar to you as breathing. Within seconds, you had effortlessly picked out the opening points of the battleground that were most concentrated by the enemy, and called out regiment orders as more of your brethren rushed into the courtyard. The few elves donning soldier’s gear hastened to obey your command.  

You drove your sword into the gut of a nearby orc and sliced another in half at the waist. The rest of your thoughts fell away with every kill as you allowed your sword to become a part of you, as dexterous and fluid as an extension of your arm. Any sleepiness you might have felt was replaced by an acute focus of your surroundings.  

You worked your way towards the gates to quell the flush of orcs streaming into your territory. With a spin, you dropped three of the beasts at once, moving with all the poise and accuracy of an elven warrior. As you did, you spotted Galadriel at the far side of the courtyard.

You had to step over the bodies of your victims to make berth towards her in the rushing sea, as if you were caught in a dangerous dance between life and death. “Galadriel!” you yelled. “How did this happen?”

“Someone has left the anterior parapets unfortified,” she called back, ducking to avoid a swinging club. “These gates were open when I arrived!”

“How can that be? There are guards stationed here day and night!”

“I do not know. The Dark Lord must have found out about our affairs in Númenor. We are at half our strength. He senses weakness.”

“He won’t find any,” you gritted your teeth. You stabbed a nearby orc in the neck and spun to avoid the spray of black blood. If the Dark Lord thought catching you off your guard would give him the advantage, you were prepared to prove him wrong.

“There is something adrift about this attack. Something...foul. Within the kingdom.”

You raised an eyebrow, though it was doubtful Galadriel could see it in the dark. “You think there is a traitor?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “Or an intruder yet to be detected.”

This troubled you. You were the head of the Sindarin army. It was your job to keep the kingdom safe. If there was a spy under your nose, you would be the first to know about it. Yet with half the army stationed in the Southlands aiding the Númenorians, an attack could come from any side.  

Irrationally, you found yourself becoming steeped in worry for Elrond. It had been days since his departure, and if this orc army had advanced in from the south, it was likely Elrond may have crossed paths with them. While he was more than a capable warrior, standing alone against an entire army wouldn’t be easy even for you. You hoped he had already made it to Khazad-Dum...

Suddenly you cried out in alarm. While you were worrying about Elrond, an orc had approached on your left flank and slashed you across the shoulder.  

Focus, you reprimanded yourself. Do not forget the battle in front of you.  

You dispatched the orc quickly and kicked the dismembered helmet away. Then Galadriel screamed. You whirled around to come face-to-face with the largest orc you had ever seen.  

It was almost twice your size, and armed with a cruel-looking blade. Its armor was detached in places, as if it had outgrown its battle garments too fast for them to be replaced. Galadriel had taken a swipe at the exposed part of its hide, but her sword had lodged in its armor on an angle. In a blink, the orc slammed both its fists into her arm, emitting a sickening crack.  

Her sword dropped to the dirt. You rushed to her side, ferociously stabbing your sword through its calf. The orc roared in pain and slashed at you with its blade. You deflected and thrust upward at its chest, but its height momentarily gave it leverage. It swung again and you narrowly dodged what could have been a fatal slice to the throat.

“Archers, to me!” you yelled over the din of battle. Two elves equipped with bows and arrows raced toward you, taking aim. “On my count!”

You pressed forward, trying to prompt the orc to step into the open. Galadriel took position on your right, one of her arms hanging limply at her side. Together you attacked as fiercely as you could. You needed to wound it somehow and step out of range for your archers to have a clear shot. Any head shots would be futile against its obsidian helmet.  

You moved to the left, trying to keep it distracted, but the orc was swiping at you with its sword in one hand and swatting at Galadriel with the other. You ordered the archers to fire, but most of the arrows struck harmlessly over the thick armor. The ones that buried in its skin didn’t seem to slow it down at all.  

With a growl, the orc hobbled forward and shoved Galadriel to the ground. She cried out as she landed on her broken arm. Without hesitation, you lunged to put yourself between her and your attacker. It raised its blade above its head.

“Fire!” you screamed at the archers, but it was too late. Time seemed to slow down. Arrows flew. Your sword glinted in the light of the moon, sending the world up in a flash of white, and you swung.  

There was a thump and you looked to see the orc’s meaty arm lying in the grass, separated from its body. Its crooked fingers were no longer clasped around its blade. You blinked and gasped, suddenly hit with a wave of pain, and looked down to see that the blade was buried in your stomach.  

One of the archer’s arrows struck clean through the orc’s bare neck, and it was dead before it hit the ground. The sound of it rattled your brain. You felt blood gushing from your torso and trickling down the front of your white nightgown. Your hands grasped the hilt of the orcish blade, but you didn’t have the strength to dislodge it. Your knees gave out and you crumpled.  

Galadriel was frantically calling out your name, but her voice soon melded into the sounds of swords clashing and orcs roaring in the battlefield around you. Your vision went blurry, your lungs desperately searching for air; you were drowning, and all you could see was red before the night itself bled over the trees, overtaking your body completely.  

*****

Elrond rode on a steed of wind and rain. The sky over the next range of hills was darkening so quickly it was as if clouds of ink had been spilled from the heavens, leaking down to the earth in the form of icy droplets that stung his eyes and soaked through his cloak. His heart was pounding in tune with the beat of his horse’s hooves on the soil. Desperately, he pressed one hand against his heart, where (Y/N) had tucked the daylily. He had taken it out each morning of his journey and run his fingers over its soft petals, knowing that with every step he was farther away from her, but feeling her presence in his mind at the very thought of her face.  

He pictured her now and fervently prayed that she was unharmed. Elrond had only been in the dwarven kingdom two days when Durin informed him of the attack on Lindon. The report hadn’t come with many details, only word of casualties among the elves. Elrond was trying to ignore the fact that (Y/N) would have been on the front lines, leading the defense.  

He urged his horse faster. Lindon’s sunset-orange elm trees came into view. He sped into the kingdom, past the gates, and into the royal courtyard. The midnight battle occurred over a day ago, but Elrond could still see the bloodstains painting the ground, a canvas saturated with too much color. He averted his eyes as he dismounted his horse and rushed into the palace.  

Lindon’s exquisite halls, which usually shimmered with magic and light, were opaque and desolate, echoing the sound of thunder and rain pattering against marble. No one was about roaming the palace grounds. It almost seemed that the kingdom was deserted.  

He spotted Gil-galad as he turned the corner, standing in the hall outside the infirmary. The High King, usually so serious and serene, was gazing in concern at the inside of the room.  

“My King,” Elrond said as he approached. “I came as soon as I heard of the attack.”

Gil-galad nodded solemnly. “The Dark Lord sees too much. I’m afraid if he were to advance again, with double the forces, we may not be able to hold our position for long.”

“Our army. Is it...?”

“Intact? Yes. Yet not entirely stable. All we can do is wait and recover.”

“And the wounded?”

The King looked at Elrond and in his eyes was utter sorrow. “Perhaps you should go in.”

Elrond bowed, feeling as though his thoughts were laid bare. With his heart in his throat, he steeled his emotions and stepped into the infirmary.  

It was a wide, circular room, the far side bordered by an arched veranda that opened out onto a terrace with a view of the waterfalls. Curtains of leaves were draped over the arches to keep out the rain, cloaking the room in dim light. Cots layered with forest-green silk were placed evenly about the space. Nearly every one was occupied by a wounded elf. A handful of healers moved about the room, pressing cold cloths to foreheads and spoon-feeding herbal concoctions. A scatter of lit candles cast the place in a sleepy red hue like blood washing away in a river.  

Elrond walked among the wounded. Most of them were familiar faces. Some had sheets pulled over their heads. Others were so scarred and bloodied or covered in salve that he couldn’t recognize them. But there was one elf he was searching for in particular.  

He found her on a cot by the far wall. Her face was so gray that she looked on the verge of melting into a puddle of raindrops. Heavy gauze was wrapped around her navel up to her sternum. Her hands rested peacefully at her sides.  

Elrond’s heart broke at the very sight of her. (Y/N) looked so drained, so lifeless- the stark opposite of the lively elf maiden he knew.  

He lowered into the chair at her side and took her hand in his. Her fingers were like ice. Fighting the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes, he whispered, “I’m here, hiril vuin. It’s me.”

She didn’t stir. Elrond could almost imagine that she was a statue made of marble, carved by a delicate hand, framed in stormy light. Her breathing was so shallow it was hard to believe she was alive at all.  

Elrond didn’t know how long he sat there, staring at her unmoving form. He murmured sweet nothings under his breath as he stroked her palm, as if his whispers would coax her from her sleep.  

A healer came by at some point to check up on (Y/N), but there wasn’t much to do besides dab her forehead with a cloth and make her as comfortable as possible. The healer hummed an old elven healing song over her before moving on.  

“Come back to me,” Elrond whispered as soon as the healer was out of earshot. “You are the light in my life, (Y/N). I cannot walk the darkness alone.”

He reached into his cloak and brought out the daylily. The tips of its petals were wilting, as if responding to the condition of its giver. He leaned over and tucked the flower into (Y/N)’s hair. “There was never a moment you escaped my thoughts,” he said. “You, nin lilui, my daylily, are my dearest friend. Yet you are also so much more.” A tear traced its way down his cheek and dripped onto her fingers. Elrond caressed her cheek, his voice breaking. “You are so much more to me.”

He stayed by her side as the night passed. Soon enough rogue streaks of dawn shone through the curtains. Weariness and heartache weighed him down, but he couldn’t sleep while she was like this. Her eyes moved rapidly beneath her eyelids like she was trapped in a dream and couldn’t find the way out.  

Elrond pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Dawn is here, nin lilui. Do not let the darkness claim you.”

(Y/N) made a sound in the back of her throat. Her brow furrowed in pain. “Nin onlui mel...”

Elrond sat up straight. He searched her face for signs of life. “(Y/N)?”

She mumbled unintelligibly in Elvish. Elrond’s heart raced. “It’s me,” he said. “It’s Elrond. I’m here.”

“Nin onlui mel,” she muttered. “Mi van me, nin mel...”

Where are you, my love?

Emotions clouded Elrond’s mind in a swift blur. She was on the verge of consciousness. She was going to be okay. His daylily hadn’t left him. And yet a bitter taste filled his mouth.  

She was calling out for her true love. And it wasn’t him.  

*****

You ran through an endless forest. Black trees like twisting claws kept bursting from the dirt, redirecting your path. The hungry screams of your enemies echoed from all sides, and you spun in confusion and fear, unsure where to run. You had no weapon. Your nightgown was drenched in blood. Your heart beat frantically in your chest like you were a wild, hunted animal.  

You followed the line of trees, but shadows formed illusions in the darkness. The trees seemed to grasp at you, pulling your hair, tearing your clothes. Everything looked the same. There was no way out.  

The screams sounded closer now. You turned and ran, but the ground was wet and you slipped. When you got to your knees, you realized you had fallen in a pool of your own blood.  

Your vision was hazy, but you could see vicious shapes snarling and snapping out of the corner of your eye. You felt so weak, so tired. Looking up at the gray sky, you were ready to give up hope.

“Elrond,” you sobbed. You yearned for him with an aching you couldn’t express. The thought of him was like sunlight in this dark place. Your Elrond- kind as summer, gentle as a breeze. “Where are you?”

Your enemies howled, and the world was then no more.  

*****

You didn’t remember opening your eyes.  

At first, you weren’t sure what was a dream and what was reality. The shadows seemed to linger around your body, their wispy hands trailing against your skin. Your head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. The gray sky had disappeared, and the light of day was pouring into the room from somewhere.  

You blinked, feeling like your eyelids were made of iron. Your entire body ached. An incisive pain ripped through your stomach as you woke, bringing your surroundings into focus. You laid on a cot in the infirmary. Sitting to your left was an elf with tousled brown hair.  

“Elrond?” you groaned. It was as if your throat had been charred with firewood.

"(Y/N),” he sat forward, holding your hand. In his eyes were a million emotions.  “It’s okay. I’m here.”

The sight of him was going to make you cry. “Oh, Elrond.”

He quickly poured you a glass of water and held it to your lips. “Drink this.”

You obliged, though just the movement of your neck set your torso on fire. You had been wounded in battle countless times, though never as bad as this.  

“You came back for me,” you said. Your voice sounded scratchy to your own ears.  

Elrond looked on the verge of tears. He smiled at you, and despite your pain, giddiness fizzed in your veins. “No sooner had I been in Khazad-Dum two days when Durin gave me word of the attack. I set off again that same hour. I came as fast as I could.” He looked down. “(Y/N), I am so sorry.”

“Elrond,” you reached out and cupped his face. “I am a soldier. Battles happen. Warriors fall. Nothing is your fault.”

He closed his fingers around yours. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes were drawn and his hair was a tangled mess. You had the urge to run your fingers through it.  

“(Y/N),” he said carefully, “What were you dreaming of?”

You closed your eyes again, remembering the figures in the darkness, the gnarled trees moving you about the forest like a ghost, the way you were drenched in blood.  

“I thought I was dead,” you responded weakly. “There was darkness, and I was lost- there was so much blood...”

“You were calling out for someone in your sleep,” he said softly.

“I was? W-who?”

You saw the answer in his eyes before he spoke. “’Nin onlui mel.’”

Silence like an ocean stretched between you two. You turned to face the terrace, where the curtains had been pulled back to provide you with a view of the waterfall. “My true love,” you translated, unable to look at him.

He let go of your hand, placing it at your side. He didn’t speak for a long time. The silence was devastating.

Eventually you couldn’t take it anymore. “Elrond-”

“(Y/N)-”

You turned to face him again. He didn’t meet your eyes.  

“It would be a lie to say some part of my heart does not ache,” he said. “Yet the desire of my heart is for you to be happy. I will not get in the way of your devotion to another.”

You tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea forced you back down. “Elrond, I don’t understand.”

“I am sorry if I have been a bother. It was foolish of me to think...to think with such selfishness.”  

“What are you saying?”

He glanced at you. “Whoever he is, as much as I wish not to be, I am, shamefully, envious. I only hope that you can forgive me.”

“No.” You shook your head. “No, Elrond, you don’t understand. There isn’t someone else.” You took a deep breath, gathering your courage. “Nin onlui mel. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

His expression matched himself on the day you’d given him the daylily- as if your small kindness was as valuable to him as sparkling treasure. “Me?”

You nodded. “I cannot help it. You are the water to my soil; you have made spring bloom once more in my heart where I thought it not possible. You give me hope. My soul longs for you, nin mel. I love you as I love life.”

Tears fell from his eyes. He was beautiful. He brushed a stray curl from your face and murmured, “And to truly live is to love. Will you allow me to love you with all of myself?”

“My love,” you whispered, “I cannot live any other way.”

His lips were soft as he kissed your temple. He leaned his forehead against yours, and in that moment, you had the world.

Masterlist

[arclundarchivist]

[Spoilers C3E103] Can we talk about…

How some of the party and members of the fandom are just kinda… ignoring how bad things are right now, and it’s wholly Ludinus’s fault??

Like there is this focus on what comes next, and Ashton’s belief that things will somehow *just get better*, but look the fuck around at what Ludinus did when it just comes to him reaching Predathos.

Wards destroyed, resurrection fucked, transportation and communication hamstrung.

They Key is mangling the leylines to the point where not matter *what* happens magic is going to be altered in a way it wasn’t before.

And that’s not even getting into the aggressive alien army he’s now letting run roughshod across Marquet.

If the Gods die/vanish, why is there this concept that those magics will just be fine, when shit is already fucked from his manipulations?

Something *ate* half of the Turst Fields, a farming community that was a staple for all of Tal’Dorei.

Desirat is free, which for those not in the know was trapped beneath a volcano directly next to Beau’s hometown and was the source of about of the geometric activity in the region. I can’t imagine things went *well* there.

*Something* sent sea monsters racing in fear towards the shore in Nicordranas, I’ll give you three guesses.

We saw what happened to that bastion in the Grey Valley, *what the fuck do you think has happened at Bazzozan* the former seat of the Demon Lords?

The Empire of fucked five ways to Sunday.

The Horn of Orcus may be waking up the dead beneath Vasselheim.

And that’s just the shit *we know about*

Is all of that just, what, gonna go back to normal if the Gods die/go away? Fuck no! Now I’ll admit, that doesn’t mean things will go back to normal if the Gods are victorious of course, but I wild bet good money shit would be easier to handle if a vast chunk of the world wasn’t also going through a vast identity/cultural crisis.

Also shit since we’re on hypotheticals let me ask another one.

Folks talk a lot about how divine magic will be fine if the gods vanish, not really acknowledge the colossal amount of trauma and confusion that will afflict every culture as they are abandoned/lose their gods, and we don’t actually know what kind of effect that will have on clerics.

What about the arcane?

Matt never said the Arcane predates the Gods. (Not that I’m aware of anyway.)

In fact if anything Downfall hammered home that the arcane is a creation of Tengar. They leave or die, what happens to it?

Also, shit think about this, wouldn’t the Gods want all the power they could to possibly survive Predathos? Now the Arc Heart, the gifter, not the creator, it seems, claims to be fine with being finite.

You wanna know who isn’t?

The Spider Queen, who if how things were presented in Downfall are true, claims to have given arcane magic to the Arc Heart and regrets it.

Do you think *she* wouldn’t snatch that back out of spite to give her even a bit of a chance to survive? She’s the *most* Betrayer, Betrayer.

I just can’t grasp Ashton’s mindset at all, or those that seem to be agreeing with him and I’m just staring at all the shit that has already gone wrong and wondering how shit doesn’t just get infinitely worse if such a colossal and drastic change takes place.

[a-bucket-in-the-void]

hm.. would you like to just... talk about your au idea? even just a base. a starting platform..

also ty for sending asks about my au!

i honestly really don’t have much lol but when i did talk about it i was just kinda trying to get stuff out there so i'm gonna use this as kinda like a place to clean that up a bit

ok so…

superheroes are already a thing to begin with. im not really sure how sense there are lots of world building things you can do with it but i imagine they’re all sort of vigilantes kinda like think classic superhero comics. idk i can clean that up a bit more later

everyone in this au is based off this last session of wild life mostly

the tuff boys are like your classic comedic relief dysfunctional villain team, a nuisance to anyone who wants to get anything done really. etho engineered his own super jump boots and comically large hammer. tango has super speedy roller skates (which were entirely engineered by him and he definitely didn’t get bdubs to enchant them with his time powers definitely not)(oh and also i like to think that he has red goggles for eye protection when he’s in his in his super suit), and bdubs has a magic clock that gives him time powers because uh yeah :]

scott is a respected super hero i think maybe one who’s actively working with the government. uh his powers will be from a magic amulet too why not. as you can see i’m just kinda making this shit up. he’s mostly in reconnaissance because of his powers but i think in his day to day life he’s a big public figure, maybe a pop star like from gem and the scotts or something. he stills does do non undercover superhero work and when he does he’s almost always accompanying pearl

speaking of…

pearl would be like your friendly neighborhood superhero like spiderman, helping people across the street, making an appearance at the local middle school, etc etc as well as ya know actual superhero stuff. her wings are her own design after scott was jokingly making fun of her cause he can shape shift into anything and then she figured out how to make those wings out of shear spite and commitment to the bit

while we’re on the subject of that alliance…

cleo, also known as zombie cleo queen of the underground, is essentially a mob boss villain, aided by her small army of lackeys nicknamed ‘the hoard’. if the tuff guys are the kind of comic book villian to fail robbing a bank cleo is the kind to kidnap a famous scientist. they don’t do it just for fun tho, they’re more of a service for hire, willing to do anything for anyone at a price. she’s gathered her lackeys through a mix of blackmail, debts, fear, loyalty, and other such means

slightly adjacent to them is bigb. bigb is a bit of an enigma, only seen in the shadows and never giving a straight answer. you can always tell it’s him though by his stiff gray skin and too many bright golden eyes. and also his large twiggy body guards

uh this is getting a lot longer than i thought it would be lol so i will get to the rest the guys later if i ever remember to do that

wait i forgot to do impulse-

[yanderejustforyou]

Never Enough

Fandom: The Penguin (2024) Pairing: Sofia Falcone x Reader

The rain fell in relentless sheets, each drop a fat, cold hammer against the slick pavement. Gotham's neon signs, fractured and distorted through the downpour, painted the city in lurid, bleeding colors. It was a city perpetually shrouded in gloom, a place where the shadows felt heavier, the air thicker with unspoken betrayals. This city, with its labyrinthine alleys and towering skyscrapers, had a way of consuming people, stripping them bare and leaving only husks. It was the same city that had whispered promises of greatness, of purpose, a different life. But tonight, standing in the heart of its underbelly, you felt a chilling doubt. Had that promise been a cruel joke all along? Was this cold, unforgiving landscape all it had ever offered?

You stood now, the rain plastering your clothes to your skin, before her—Sofia Falcone. The very name sent a shiver tracing down your spine. She was the daughter of Carmine "The Roman" Falcone, the kingpin whose name echoed through the city's underbelly. More significantly, she was the woman who had woven herself into the very fabric of your being. It wasn't merely physical attraction, the magnetic pull of her dark, striking beauty. Nor was it just the intoxicating allure of power that clung to her like a second skin. It was something far deeper, a mirror reflecting the fractures in your own soul. You saw the same raw, aching vulnerability that hid beneath her carefully constructed mask. It was the broken pieces of her that called to the broken pieces of yourself, a silent, desperate plea echoing across the chasm between you.

"You shouldn’t be here," Sofia's voice cut through the storm's roar, each word sharp and cold as a shard of ice. It was a voice that could command armies and shatter hearts with equal ease. The cadence suggested a weary resignation, as if she'd spoken these words a thousand times before. "You know what this means, don’t you?" The question hung in the air, thick with unspoken threats and a bone-deep understanding of what was at stake.

Your breath hitched in your throat, the cold rain suddenly feeling like a physical weight. Her words pressed against your chest, each syllable a vise tightening around your heart. But the danger lurking in her tone, the palpable tension that crackled between you, wasn't the only thing that resonated. It was the rawness, the flicker of vulnerability that shone, however briefly, behind her calculated façade. It was that vulnerability that had always drawn you in, an irresistible siren’s song.

"I don’t care what it means," you said, the words trembling slightly, despite your desperate attempts at control. You had rehearsed this scenario countless times, imagined the words you would speak to her. Yet, faced with her icy gaze, your carefully planned bravado evaporated, revealing the stark truth beneath. "I can’t walk away from you, Sofia. I never could." The confession was raw, stripped bare of pretense - a testament to the deep hold she had on you.

She looked at you, her eyes the color of storm clouds, and you saw a kaleidoscope of emotions swirling beneath the surface. Confusion, pain, the deep, ingrained fear of allowing anyone to truly see her. You saw the wall she’d so diligently built, the carefully constructed barrier designed to keep everyone, especially you, at arm’s length. "You don’t understand," she said, her voice softer now, more fragile than you’d ever heard it. It was a whisper that bordered on a plea, a desperate attempt to convince herself as much as you. "You think you can fix me? You think you can save me from this life? It’s too late for me." Her tone carried a heavy weight of self-condemnation, a resigned acceptance of her own fate.

Instinctively, you reached out, your fingers brushing against the curve of her cheek. The contact sent a jolt through your system, an electric current that felt like both a lifeline and a death sentence. It was a burn so hot, so raw, that you had to pull back your hand, as if the intense heat would consume you entirely if you lingered. The physical sensation mirrored the burning conflict within both of you.

She looked at you, her gaze unflinching, as if she had anticipated the pain, the way your touch had managed to wound you both with its simple intimacy. It was a shared hurt, a silent testament to the impossibility of your connection.

“I never wanted this for you,” she whispered, the carefully constructed walls she had erected between you finally crumbling. The confession was a crack in her armor, revealing the woman beneath the hardened exterior. "I never wanted you to be a part of my world, because this world will ruin you." Her voice was laced with a raw vulnerability that tore at the very core of your being. It was an admission that brought with it a terrifying truth – her love for you was a burden, a curse she wished to spare you.

But you were already ruined, in ways you couldn't quite articulate. It had happened the moment you met her, the moment her darkness had entwined itself with your own. And even now, standing before the woman you loved, knowing that your very presence could be your mutual undoing, you were still unable to walk away. You were caught in her web, hopelessly, irrevocably.

“I’m already in your world, Sofia,” you said, your voice low and unwavering, your eyes locked on hers. It was a declaration, a promise you made not to her, but to yourself. “And no matter what happens, I’m not leaving.” The conviction in your voice was absolute, a defiant stand against a force that threatened to crush you both.

She closed her eyes, as if the sheer weight of your words were too much to bear. She was trying to shut you out, attempting to escape the undeniable pull of a love she knew was her own undoing. But even with her eyes tightly closed, a single tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down her cheek. It was that single tear that spoke volumes, a testament to the depth of the emotion buried beneath the surface, the feelings she had tried so desperately to suppress.

"You have no idea what you’re saying," she whispered, her voice a raw mixture of anguish and self-loathing. The pain in her voice was palpable, a confirmation of the darkness that plagued her. "I’ll destroy you, and I’ll destroy myself. It’s only a matter of time." Her words were a chilling prophecy, a stark warning of the future that awaited both of you. She had accepted her fate, resigned to a life where love was only a prelude to destruction.

And that was the truth, wasn’t it? You both knew it, deep within your bones. Your love was a doomed romance, a moth drawn to a flame, destined to be burned. No matter how much you tried to cling to it, no matter how bravely you fought for it, there would never be a happy ending for you. Your love story was a tragedy pre-written, a symphony of heartbreak playing out beneath the unforgiving gaze of Gotham’s neon lights.

The days that followed were nothing more than a blur of pain. Each moment spent with Sofia was like walking through fire. She kept her distance, kept her walls up, but the cracks were there—small, barely noticeable—but they were enough. Enough for you to see how deeply she was hurting. How much she was trying to push you away, yet how much she needed you.

But you couldn’t leave. You couldn’t.

Even when her father’s enemies circled closer. Even when the danger threatened to pull you both under.

One night, you found yourself in the back office of one of her father’s businesses. The air was thick with smoke, the tension palpable. Sofia stood at the desk, her fingers drumming nervously against the wood.

"You should leave," she said, without looking at you. Her voice was quiet, but the edge was unmistakable. "It’s not safe here."

“I’m not going anywhere, Sofia,” you said, your voice firm, but there was a tremor beneath it, betraying your own fear. "You can’t push me away."

Her eyes flicked to yours, dark and unreadable. "You don’t understand," she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. "You never will. You’re not a part of this life. You don’t belong here."

"I don’t belong anywhere without you," you said, your heart pounding as you took a step forward. "I’m not leaving you. I will never leave you."

Sofia’s breath hitched, and for a moment, you thought she might let her guard down. She might actually let you in. But then she did what she always did. She recoiled, pushing you away before you could get too close.

"You think this is love?" she asked bitterly, her words laced with scorn. "You think this is love when all I do is hurt everyone I touch? When all I do is destroy? How long do you think it’ll take before I destroy you too?"

You reached for her, but she flinched back, her face contorting with a mix of pain and rage. "You’re the one who’ll end up destroyed," she spat, her voice shaking with the weight of what she knew was coming. "This—this can’t end any other way."

You gritted your teeth, your chest tight with emotion. "I don’t care. I would rather be destroyed by you than live without you."

The silence between you two was suffocating, both of you caught in the tangled mess of love and hatred, of the past and the future that would never come. She was right—you were both doomed. But that didn’t change the fact that you would fight for her until there was nothing left.

The final time you saw Sofia, it was on a rain-soaked night much like the first. The world outside felt like it was crashing down around you, but even so, you walked toward her with that same defiance in your heart. You had never given up on her, even when you knew, deep down, that it was a lost cause.

She was standing by the window, staring out at the city. The same city that had both broken and shaped her into the woman she was. The same city that would swallow her whole, just like it would swallow you if you allowed it.

"Sofia," you whispered, your voice barely audible in the dim light. "I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. I love you. I will always love you."

She didn’t turn around, but her body trembled. "Don’t," she said softly, her voice breaking. "Don’t say that. Don’t make this harder than it already is."

Your heart ached as you walked closer to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I can’t walk away from you, Sofia. I’ve tried. But I can’t. I won’t."

She turned around then, her eyes filled with unshed tears, her face a mask of regret. "You don’t understand," she repeated, the desperation clear in her voice. "I will ruin you. I’ll drag you down into this hell I’ve made for myself. You’ll never be the same after this."

"I don’t care," you said, your voice hoarse with emotion. "I don’t care if it destroys me. I just want you to know that I will always be here. No matter what."

Sofia’s lip quivered as she took a step back. "I can’t love you like this," she said, her voice shaking. "I can’t drag you through this darkness with me."

"You’re not dragging me," you whispered, your hand reaching for hers. "I’m walking into it with you. Because I choose you."

For a moment, you thought she might actually break. That maybe, just maybe, she would give in. That the years of isolation, the years of suffering she had endured, would finally break, and she would let you love her.

But then the walls slammed down, harder than ever before.

She pulled her hand away, stepping back. "You don’t get it," Sofia whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of a thousand unsaid things. "I will destroy everything we have. I will destroy you."

And that was it. The moment when you knew that no matter how hard you fought, no matter how deeply you loved her, it was never going to be enough.

Her love—if it could even be called that—was as broken as she was. It was too late to fix either of you.

And you realized, with a shattering certainty, that you were both always doomed. Doomed to never be enough for each other. Doomed to suffer.

And so, as she walked away from you, you felt it.

The end.

The final loss.

And all you could do was stand there, shattered, broken, waiting for the emptiness to consume you whole.

Because in the end, even your love wasn’t enough to save either of you.

[the-ninjago-historian]

New Article! Scrapped Season Concepts!

We've all heard of the scrapped Cowboy inspired season of Ninjago. But few know there was many more ideas that were ultimately scrapped! Today, we'll be looking at this scrapped season, along with many other abandoned concepts from Lego Ninjago artist Matt Betteker! And try to unlock some of the mystery behind them! Let's go!

1: The Dawn Of The Devourers, Lloyd vs Pancho, The Race, and Adventure

Clearly inspired by Western movies, this epic adventure seems it would have pitted the Ninjas against a Great Devourer riding band of outlaws, (One of which is named, Pancho) in search of perhaps some sort of treasure! This concept is extremely interesting, since it shows the existence of multiple Great Devourers! One of which looks a bit like Wojira! This season also seems to take inspiration from Incan civilizations, going by the jungle tomb-like building in the concept Adventure, and the Incan style Pyramids in the background of Lloyd Vs Pancho. Overall, this seems like it would have been an epic season. I can only imagine what the concept titled, The Race would have looked like animated. I honestly wonder why it was scrapped.

(I love the little detail of Cole manning the guns and Wu driving the wagon. Good father and son teamwork. Lol.😂)

2: The Lightning Temple and ThunderTown

What are these concepts for? Who's to say. It could be a very early version of Prime Empire. Going by the circuitry style painting on the temple in the concept called Temple Of Lightning, and the overall lightning themed atmosphere. OR, it could be an early design for the Island of the Keepers. Whose to say? But either way, it's a really cool concept and I'd love if they could reuse it some day.

3: Clockwork, The Ancient Ones Return, The Gold Army Meets Fibo, and The Gold Collector

This concept looked like Crystalized, Master Of The Mountain, and Hands Of Time all rolled into one!!! The gold and white color palette seems incredibly similar to Shintaro's. Meanwhile, clockwork patterns and style are reminiscent to Hands Of Time! And last but not least, the floating island looks almost like the Crystal Kings from Crystalized! This season would have had all sorts of crazy stuff! The main villain, (Known as The Gold Collector,) seems to have been very interested in two things. Gold, and Clockwork stuff. And it seems he or she would have been collecting gold to perhaps bring back the Golden Army shown in the artwork The Gold Army Meets Fibo. Who is this mysterious Fibo? A time traveler perhaps? Look at the flowing swirls of clock styled energy surrounding him. Very intriguing.🤔

If Ninjago had a steampunk inspired season like this, I would have been thrilled! It's to bad this concept was abandoned. But I would love to see what fans do with it!

4: Hunt For The Lava Hammer, and Cole Lava Blade

An early version of Master Of The Mountain, or something else? Going by the mining style machines and side characters in the backgrounds of both these pieces, this could have been a mining themed season centered around Cole. Even Cole's outfit is designed to look like a mining or construction outfit. Almost reminiscent to Lego City's Volcano Explorers line.

5: The Dragons Tribe, and Hunt For The Elemental Shurikens

There isn't much to say about this one. As we can't really take many clues from it. But going by Lloyd's outfit, and the lush green plant life, I believe this could be an early version of The Island. What really interests me is these Elemental Shurikens. What are they? Unfortunately, it doesn't say. But I'm sure they would have been interesting! Also, look at that dragon guarding her nest. The patterns on her are beautiful!

6: The Journey of Lloyd

All these piece were under one title. The Journey Of Lloyd. How mysterious.👀 So what is this collection of concepts? Just by looking, you can tell this was no ordinary season. The muted color palette and the more mature atmosphere all seem to point to something bigger. Was this perhaps a scrapped version of the Ninjago Movie? Or something else? Perhaps a Lloyd centric story, in which he goes an epic adventure all his own! Whatever's is was, it looks amazing. The love how much more mature and darker it feels. Surely a concept worthy of a nail biting, heart racing, action movie!

7: The Dragon Mask

A single concept amongst the others caught my eye. It didn't seem to fit with any of the other concept seasons. What is this dragon mask? It could be an early version of the Dragon Forms seen in Crystalized. But whose to say? Still, a very striking design! Feel free to comment your theories about it!

Want to look at the artwork straight from Matt Betteker himself? Here's his Art Station account with the exact art pieces we went over today.

Thanks for reading everyone!