#consort coal

[vamp-emp-yume]

when im FINALLY arisen amongst these BLUD BAGSS ♡૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა💢 . . .

i wanna be painted JUST LIKE THISSS (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)

well . . . . . not PAINTEDDD cause thats espensive (💢⪖ ⩋⪕) but maybeeee coal could use his ai thingtyt to paint me ꒰๑•̥﹏•̥๑��

UGHHHH just make your GODDESS alreadyyyyy (´∀｀•) (´∀｀•)

The Demon’s Flight by The Phantom Painter † La Femme Chauve-Souris (The Bat-Woman) by Albert Joseph Penot

[brucewaynehater101]

emperor tim and his consorts all have those subtle blessings from santa, Tim's is useful to help him figure out who most wants to honestly help their people. Kon's is very useful to help tim set up local and national government systems on the various planets and make sure the officials are trustworthy. Cassie's is useful for promoting understanding. Bart accidentally mentions and spreads stories of Christmas, making their tiny seed of invulnerability, which would prevent darkseid from destroying them when the give him coal, stronger with more people who celebrate christmas or incorporate aspects of it into their winter traditions.

I don't quite remember what the blessings for each one were, but it's cool to combine these two AUs! Since Santa gave cool to Darkseid, did Santa Clause also visit other planets? Does YJ need to worry about delivering gifts to multiple planets until they find a replacement Santa?

[lemmetreatya]

Change and Her Consorts — Miguel x Fem!reader

SYNOPSIS: 13 Minutes. 13 minutes was all it took for Miguel to (metaphorically) loose everything. Getting back onto his feet wasn’t easy, especially when life was changing and all he felt was stuck. But once you come back into his life, Witty, Hot and everything in between, Miguel wonders that maybe it was the change in others he needed to witness first before he could even consider making change for himself.

WORD COUNT: 5.6k+

CONTENT: modern au, childhood friends, afab reader, mature themes of death, grief, mental health issues, slightly angsty, hurt/comfort, is it a comedy? it’s a comedy, fluff, smut, sex, male penetration, mating press, blowjob, protected sex, nice ending i promise!!, i wouldn’t say reader is oc but she has a character for definite, also miguel is very??? difficult in this and his character can also be classed as ooc but its modern au and he’s been through it so bare with

Miguel knew he had to change. 

Ever since he lost both his wife and kid to childbirth, it’d been so hard to piece things together again. 

It’s honestly all bullshit. Finally thinking things were going good for him just for life to chew him up and spit him out like a fleshy plum seed all within the space of 13 minutes felt dehumanising to say the least. It left him fist fighting Depression, backing liquor shots of Sorrow and occasionally sharing a bed with Anxiety. That would fuck anyone up mentally and emotionally — And it did that to Miguel for a long time. He’s just grateful he had a good enough support system to crutch him through to the other side. 

He sold the house he brought with his late wife and moved back in with his parents around eight months ago. That was a whole thing in itself. Left his job and hasn’t worked full-time since. He had a whole phase where he ‘no longer had anything to work for’ and therefore just…didn’t. 

His parents were nice about it for a bit. Said he always had a home under their roof and that he could use the money he got from the insurance payout and house to cruise by while he healed. But then after about 3 months of Miguel taking the absolute piss with being unemployed, heartbroken, undriven and essentially a‘bum’ (Jessica Drew’s exact words), he found work in the local dairy produce factory as the ‘Payroll Guy’. 

Despite none of this being his ideal picture of how life was supposed to look at this point of time, Miguel knew he had to change in order to survive. Having being so wrapped up within his own world, he knew that moving on in some capacity was his next step. Getting comfortable with the shell of a life he had now and the things he once knew were true would help with that.

The only issue is that Miguel forgot that others changed too. 

An oof leaves Miguel’s mouth as his stomach is suddenly burdened with a paper sack to it. He looks down at his mother, more than a foot shorter than him, who’s passing him a bag of coals. 

“I need this done.” She vaguely says. 

“For the grill?”

Miguel asks it as an inquisitive question but he’s implying it more as disbelief that he’s been asked. His mother catches on and therefore explains her reasoning.

“I wouldn’t usually (‘ask you’, she implies but doesn’t say) but your fathers quickly gone to the shop and we need to start putting things on the grill. People will be arriving any minute now.” She dusts her hands before already moving elsewhere within the garden. 

Miguel jogs the bag of coal in his arms and stagnantly turns his body in his mother’s direction; like a sunflower to the sun. 

“Then I don’t have to do it?” He tried. 

His mother gives him a quick look. It was sharp but she didn’t follow the intention through. 

“I would like to start grilling things soon.” She  stresses. 

Miguel doesn’t reply right away since he’s been told he needs to think before he speaks. And so he thinks, hard, about what his mother was asking him and then answers accordingly to how he thinks he should. 

“So I don’t have to put the coal in now?” He slowly enunciates.

“Ay, coño— Si! Si, Miguel! You have to put them in now, I’m telling you to put the charcoal in now! Vamos!” 

Miguel lets out a haggard sigh. 

He doesn’t like how he always get in trouble for these sort of things. He was bordering thirty and still had trouble depicting what his mother actually meant when she made implicit remarks. 

The doorbell rings and so Miguel’s mother is shooting off back inside to open up for the guests, all not before giving Miguel certain The Nike Slogan eyes and a jabbing finger point towards the barbecue.  

Begrudgingly, he gets a start on filling the bottom of the grill with sooty rocks. 

As he’s detaching the rack, Miguel can hear high pitched welcoming and multiple voices towards the front of the house. He faintly hears someone ask for him, followed by his mother directing them towards the backyard where he was. At that, Miguel groans. 

It’s not like he hated gatherings, but Miguel would definitely prefer a phone call or the occasional text message. Or just no communication at all. 

But to his avail, he had no way of avoiding this. His parents were adamant to host a casual cookout of some sort and they knew he had nothing better to do so by default he had to be present. There wasn’t even a reason for the function. Just Something about opening up the home and having more laughter flow through it. Sounds cliche but Miguel didn’t care much for laughter anymore. Not that he never laughed — there were some humorously dark memes either Peter or Jess would send him that were subjectively funny and occasionally earned a breathy snort out of him. But it was no question that joy was definitely void in his life. It was hard to look forward to things and the days seemed to drag on and lack meaning. 

No matter what way he looked at it, life was dull. There just wasn’t shit to be happy about. 

“Miggy!” 

Miguel perks up. 

He recognises that voice anywhere. 

He didn’t know you were coming but it definitely made sense for you to be here. His parents were making a bigger than usual deal out of this gathering so of course old faces would be present. 

Miguel hears your voice call him by that juvenile nickname over and over again as you venture throughout the house. It’d been well over a decade since he last saw you but he knows both your parents keep in touch. Because of that, he doesn’t immediately turn around to address you once you enter the garden because he’s not expecting much and he’s still trying to evenly set up the coal rocks at the bottom of the grill. 

“Miggy.” You say with perky tone. 

The man’s sighing as he brings his head up, dusting his hands and wiping the apple of his cheek with the smudge of his palm.

“Till this day, what’d I tell you about calling…me...” 

Miguel’s words are cut off short as soon as he turns to see you.  

He opens and closes his mouth several time but nothing comes out. He’s adamant he looks so stupid right now but his shock is so genuine that he doesn’t blame himself for the reaction. Honestly, awestruck didn’t even cover half of what he was. 

There you stood, in all your adulthood glory, a finer woman than he could have ever imagined you’d turn out to be. 

Nothing about you was the same to how it was over a decade ago yet it was all so classically you. Or, whatever that meant. He’s not sure. If you’d given him creative direction over what he’d envisioned mid-20s you to look like, he definitely wouldn’t have come up with this. 

Fuck, not like it matters what he thought. Why would anyone give him creative direction over anything? No, he’s not trying to say he wanted to control how you grew but he is saying whatever did, did a good job. 

Oh, Miguel hates trying to justify things to himself. He knew what he wanted to say but he just didn’t know how to say it and it was pissing him off because this was all happening inside of his head and God, he probably looked crazy to you right now but he just couldn’t compute this change. 

To put it plainly: You were hot now.

A soft tinkly chuckle leaves your throat as you notice the man’s frozen reaction. 

“Hello to you too, Miguel. Everything okay out here?”

Miguel’s still freaking out mentally because man, even your laugh was the same but it was just so different and maturer and older and hot. 

You amusingly side eye him, no longer calling him Miggy and cautious of his behaviour. You take a few steps round the back of him which ultimately puts you outside of his vision and peripheral. You end up on the opposite side, hands on your hips and face curious as you inspect the barbecue. 

As soon as you’re out of his eyesight Miguel snaps out of the trance. His mind starts to catch him up to speed and he’s stuttering like crazy when he turns to you to try and explain himself. 

“I—Ee—I…yeah. I…I’m setting up some rocks. For the grill. Not…Not just any rocks, like actual— actual charcoal, coal rocks that you…that you light barbecues with and…yeah.” 

“I see.” Your tone is sarcastic, lightly teasing even, and Miguel has to curse himself for acting so lame. 

He blinks at you a few times (Hot.) before casting his eyes back to the grill (Not hot. Yet). He occupies himself with the task. 

“Of course. You know what coal is...” He mumbles the last bit to himself, a reminder that you weren’t an incompetent bristling teen anymore to whom he had to explain everything. 

Miguel spends the majority of the barbecue in your company. 

Not like he had much choice; you two were the only people around the same caliber. Everyone else was either middle aged, a couple, or a bustling child weaving between adult’s legs. 

Chatting to each other wasn’t all that bad. You both nursed several bottled drinks between you and straddled garden chairs towards the bottom of the yard as you caught up with each other’s lives. Whilst he would have preferred hulling up in his room, having someone new to talk to as opposed to the same two people was rejuvenating. 

Over the duration of your conversation, Miguel finds out that you’re a Data Analyst and it somehow makes him feel insecure about his crappy Payroll job. You however assure him that it was nothing to be ashamed of (“You’re a Finance Bro and I’m a Finance Girly. We go hand-in-hand!”). He also opens up about how he’s attending group therapy sessions — through which he met Peter and Jess. He also, speaks about Peter and Jess, but he quickly found out that apart from Peter and Jess, there wasn’t much else for him to talk about. 

But surprisingly it was enough for convo because you always had new discussions to talk through with him anyways. Some were silly, (“Come on, you’ve got to admit it! The Teletubbbies having kids is just weird.”) some were trivial (“Cats or Dogs? — And be honest!”) and others reminiscent (“Remember how we tried to build a secret hide out in this very tree?”).

Miguel also found out that you were single.

“I know you mentioned you’re doing therapy and stuff but…how are you holding up? Like, really holding up?”

An automatic groan leaves Miguel’s mouth. There it was — three hours into the conversation. The million dollar question. 

He hates gatherings and functions for this very reason. No matter how much people smiled in his general direction or pretended that they weren’t tiptoeing eggshells around him, they would always ask how he was in relation to That event in his life. 

Not like they cared. If they cared, they would go out of their way to ask him, routinely check up on him, and not just when he was conveniently in front of them. They only asked because they were aware of the situation. Aware of his misfortune. 

The guy who lost everything in 13 minutes. 

The survivor of a freak accident. 

Someone you’d pity from a far but thanked whoever that the situation never happened to you. 

For that reason alone Miguel always lied and said he was ‘fine’ or that he was ‘holding up okay’. They’d give him pitying eyes, tell him that ‘things will get better’ and then kept it pushing. Usually, when it came to these questions, Miguel’s automatic response is to lie. But there was just something about you; Changed yet The Same you, where Miguel felt that he owed the honest and naked truth to. 

“Honestly?” He drags a hand down his face. “I’m barely holding up at all. Everyday I feel like shit and if one day I surprisingly don’t, I know it’s a fluke and that I will definitely feel like shit tomorrow. It’s just a constant state of feeling off and never truly yourself.” 

There’s a slight pause. It’s comfortable. 

During that pause, you’re both privy to the music of party life. Chortling men, gossiping woman, squealing kids. It’s bittersweet because it kinda reminds Miguel of what he could have had. 

Taking a swig of your drink, you make a humming noise before you’re replying to his triad. 

“Damn. That’s rough, buddy.” 

Miguel snorts. 

Not because he likes how you’ve brushed off his miniature melancholy rant but because he gets the reference. Throughout the course of the barbecue, he thinks that’s one of his favourite things he’s noticed about you. 

You both fall into another comfortable silence, before you’re adding:

“You know, being a widow kinda suits you.” 

Maybe he spoke too soon about what his favourite thing about you was because now Miguel’s choking on his cider and wondering whether this too was a pop culture reference. 

“I— wha— you can’t just say that kinda shit!” He turns to you and exclaims.  

You scoff before rolling your eyes.

“You know I don’t mean it like that. Not that I like what’s happened to you — Rest in Peace to them — but as in the reverence that’s come with the trauma? It suits you. It’s matured you.” 

You lull into another short pause but Miguel knows you weren’t finished. He also wonders if you’ve always been this harsh. 

“Not sure if you’re aware but you were a real tool growing up, Miguel. Utter pure, soft, sheltered muck. This whole thing? It’s pushed you to survive. Moulded you. Given you a bit of character building, if you like.”

Your voice is much more calmer but it doesn’t change the fact that you just landed him with the most self-dismantling piece of information he’s heard in a while. 

And yet it’s so bizarre because Miguel can’t help but find himself laughing. 

Not one of those nose snorts when the group chat send subjectively funny memes or when he watches silly animal videos on his phone. No, Miguel’s caving over, free arm clutching to his stomach as he lets out a hefty guffaw. It doesn’t last long though. After about several seconds he completely stops laughing and sits back up regularly. 

Initially, you think he was about to tell you it was all an act and what you said was in fact highly offensive. But it’s when he reverts back to his original position and continues to let out small huffs of laughter that you realise he’s just not used to reacting to things he finds extremely funny.  

Which you’re questioning because nothing you said was a joke, but anything to get the sad man to smile, right?

But alas, seeing as he found humour in what you said, you let out a dry accompaniment of a laugh. 

The two of you probably looked crazy, or at least drunk, as you each mildly chuckled away, weakly swaying side to side. When you both found it funny enough to stop laughing, Miguel spoke up first. 

“Character building…” He huffs before taking another swig of his cider. “Well, that’s one way to put it.” 

You turn your body in the man’s direction and he knows you have something profound to say. Miguel realises within some meta existence outside of himself that your company is oddly easy to keep. 

“How else can you view it?” You warmly reply. “That it was meant to be? That you simply have bad luck? I dunno but every other option is just too demeaning and lifeless to live by. With this explanation at least it gives you a reason to carry on.” 

Miguel nods solemnly with a pondering look on his face. 

“I never saw it that way.”

“Of course you didn’t. You were grieving.”

There’s a pause but it’s not like the others you’ve shared so far. This silence was slightly uncomfortable, uncalled for even. Miguel didn’t mind it because he feels he’s already gone pass the point of feeling embarrassment with you but he could tell it put you in a compromising position. 

Looking over to him, your face vacates something undetectable. 

“And about that…” 

You softly clear your throat. Miguel is about to take another swing of his drink, but it’s when he sees a glint of something in your eyes, that he decides to slowly lower the bottle neck from his mouth. 

“I’m sorry for not being there for you. In all honesty I was around when it happened and definitely knew what was going on I just…I didn’t know how to approach you about it. We’d grown apart for a bit and it was just…it felt strange to give my condolences after being distant from you for so long.”

There’s a tingling sensation scratching at the cage of Miguel’s chest. 

He doesn’t know what the feeling is. All he knows is that he hasn’t felt it in awhile. But then again, Miguel hasn’t felt a lot of things in awhile so he’s not questioning what it is. But most of all, Miguel is surprised that he’s feeling things for once. He’s not sure if he wants to confront himself about them but he knows that they’re influencing his thought process. 

Miguel tries to take a sip of his drink, but suddenly the liquid felt foreign in his mouth and his throat seemed unwilling to gulp it down.  

He contemplates backwashing it back into the bottle but he’s suddenly subconscious about his image in front of you and how you perceive him. 

Weird. 

He forces the cider down. 

“It’s whatever. Shit happens.” He says while squeezing the edges of his lips clean. 

You make a noise of disagreeal. You used to make it all the time as a teen. Miguel wonders if you continued using it after all these years or if you just redeveloped the habit having being in his presence. He also notices how your chair seems to be a lot closer to his despite you never moving once. 

“I know.” You say with slow and downward enunciation. “But either way, I’m sorry. I should have done better by you.” 

You’re trying to stress something to him. He knows that now for sure but Miguel doesn’t know what you’re putting down or what he’s allowed to pick up. 

He watches over at you with firm determination to find out what you’re insinuating but once he sees the way your eyes reflect the fiery dances of ambers, oranges and borderline crimson reds, he turns his head forwards again and clears his throat.

“I hear it. I appreciate your honesty.”

 

Miguel doesn’t know how he got into this position. 

Actually, he does. He very clearly remembers how he asked you if you wanted to carry on talking inside, within his room specifically, and how he smooth talked you into getting on your knees.

But in all honesty, he didn’t mean for it to turn out this way (or maybe he did). Yeah, he may have walked up those stairs with his dick lurching colourfully within his pants at the insinuation, but his initial intentions was to give you a safer space to talk. He’s honest when he says his invitation was powered by a lot more than just pure unadulterated lust.

“Fuck…” He hisses once you scrape your bottom teeth ever so lightly against his shaft. 

Miguel doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He doesn’t think animalisticaly stuffing them in your hair will do him any good and he thinks a hand on the cheek is too intimate. All he can find appropriate is to splay his hands behind him and slightly lean back to watch you work. 

It’s almost alien seeing how your cheeks hollow over his cock and how your eyes fluttered shut as you manoeuvre your mouth up and down the length of his member, your hand helping you with what your mouth couldn’t reach. 

Miguel doesn’t think there’s anything dehumanising about this.

He was so sure you were giving him the eyes back in the garden. And with the way your lips quipped to one side when he invited you into his room? Yeah, you were big people now. Adults. These sort of things weren’t like hushed secrets or tales of promiscuous old — these were You Either Do or Don’ts — and you both decided to Do. 

“I-I’m close.”

No, there was nothing dehumanising about having your now super hot (and single!) childhood friend suck your cock within your childhood bedroom whilst your parents backyard party went on just outside your window. 

Whether it felt right or not was for Later Miguel to worry about. 

Despite his heed, you were still working your mouth over his cock. Your lips were so prettily spaced around his girth — almost a perfect fit, and Miguel knows he could easily finish this way but he’s making an active decision not to. 

He wants to be mildly selfish and ask for more.  

“I-I said I’m…nrgh.” Miguel sits forward before laying a few fingers to your forehead. “I don’t want to finish like this.” 

You release Miguel’s cock from your mouth with a pop but you don’t leave him hanging dry. Your hand continues to stroke at his wet shaft and fuck, the way your lips glisten with your spit and his precum is legitimately going to push him off the edge, but he has to refrain himself.  

“How else did you plan on finishing?” You quip. 

Miguel seems to freeze as he gives you a look of expected understanding, and at first, he’s so sure you were going to make him spell it out but as predicted, you caught on quick and your eyes widen in realisation. 

“Oh.”

Your hand discontinues stroking Miguel’s cock and he mildly panics at your response. 

That didn’t seem like a good ‘oh’. Miguel doesn’t mean to be an enemy of his own progress but trust for him to end the day with a fractured friendship and blue balls. Suddenly, Miguels backpedalling on his initial stance of being selfish and getting what he wants. 

“We don’t have to. I—Only if it’s okay with you, if you’re comfortable with it.” 

“No. It’s fine.” Your tongue pokes out to swipe at your lips. Fuck. “Might as well get something out of this.” You quip. 

Miguel wonders whether he should have been cautious of how rusty his pipe game had gotten. He hadn’t been intimate with anyone since his late wife and even then, he stayed off of her most of her pregnancy. Either way, as he’s thrusting his cock in and out of you, all he can think of is how forward you were with telling him about himself outside in the garden. 

It’s not like he was a masochist or into degradation, but there was something about the way you were so bold and open in highlighting his flaws despite the satellite silence for well over a decade.

“How’s this for maturity, huh? For character building?” He grunts into your ear. 

Okay, so maybe Miguel’s sex talk has gotten only a bit rustier, but with the way whimpering whines dribble from your lips, he knows he’s got you wrapped around his finger like a promise string. He folds you into a deeper mating press, your feet cuddling his upper back and his body pressed against the warmth of your breasts. 

“M-Miggy.” You moan into his collarbone. 

The nickname causes an innate and deep annoyance to sprout from Miguel’s chest — so much so that he replies inadequately.  

“Shut up.” 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he notices your stilling against his body and he immediately regrets his words. He however continues to fuck into you. 

“S-sorry. I di-didn’t me—“

“Miggy.” You moan again, this time with even more intentional lust and immediately he knows what you’re doing. 

“Don’t.”

His warning is solid, and inertly tinged with concern, because Miguel’s unsure how he’s supposed to look you in the eyes after this. You’re playing devious games, dangerous ones as you nail at his back.  

“T-t-touch me, Miggy.”

Now, you’re really testing his patience but also his limits because Miguel is taking everything in him not to go all out. 

And so he complies. Despite him knowing that it was going to rot at his brain for eons and eons to come, that he wasn’t going to be able to back away from this now that he’s had a taste, that he couldn’t go back to be being just Childhood Friends with you, he complies. 

One of Miguel’s hands reaches down between the both of you and once he wedges it close enough, he allows his thumb to swipe at the meat of your swollen clit. 

The mewl you let out is instant and makes Miguel’s dick hiccup inside of you and suddenly he’s seeing stars. Had you no concern for the party still very much going on? The possibility of someone hearing you? The issue of getting caught?! 

A devious grin finds its way onto Miguel’s lips and he’s pressing wet open mouth kisses just below your earlobe. 

“You’re so fucking dirty.” He breathes. 

Quite frankly he’s lying through his teeth. 

There is nothing about this experience or your request or your wanton reaction that was dirty. It was all in fact very sexy, lucrative. Hot. Miguel would be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying every wet second of it. 

The man can’t help but look down and watch as he bounces his hips harder against your seeping cunt. White froth forms around the base of his dick and he can’t deny that the sight arouses him. 

“Is this who you really are, huh? All this time…all this time.” 

It’s implicit what he accuses that you’re so called hiding, as if you haven’t been transparent with him this whole time. A breathy laugh leaves your throat. 

“You’re…pro-projecting.” You mutter. 

All Miguel can moan in reply is: 

“I know.” 

It doesn’t take long after that before you’re cumming around Miguel’s dick and him into the wryly rubber of the condom. 

“Where do we go from here?”

Miguel is first to speak. 

The two of you have been chilling out in silence for the most of twenty minutes. He was kind enough to let you stay underneath his covers. You were comfortable as you used his bed as your own, scrolling through your phone with one hand underneath your head and your feet rubbing like cricket legs. There was enough room for both of you to lie under there but you said something about not wanting to touch him just after sex. 

Miguel deadpanned and then proceeded to call you things like spoilt and bratty in Spanish, but he still let you have your way. 

Now he was sat at the foot of his own bed (can you believe!), back against the wall as he idly played a game on his console. 

His phone had been buzzing all day; Peter and Jess ultimately amusing themselves in the group chat all whilst occasionally asking where Miguel was and whether the social interactions of the barbecue had killed him yet. He could respond now, but he’s saving the reveal of what went down till after you’re out of his hair. That way he can fanboy in the peace of his own company. 

But now that the two of you were silently sharing a space, Miguel is starting to wonder whether he wanted his own isolated company now so that he could think properly. It’s when he’s failed to complete a level for the fifth time in a row (because his minds occupied on you) that he decides to lower the controller and therefore ask you that question.

Your eyes continue to stay glued to your phone screen as you answer him. 

“We don’t have to go anywhere.” You mumble plainly. “Don’t have to put a name on anything.”

Miguel sighs loudly and he’s rubbing his face with both hands. His dramatics pass over you. 

“Fuck, no, no. I’m not doing that. It’s either we are or wes isn’t. I haven’t got the capacity for any of that situationship, fuck buddies, friends with benefits bullshit people’ve got going on.” 

Miguel is scared for himself once he says the words because it’s only after they tumble out his mouth that he realises they were kinda harsh — which, technically shouldn’t be a problem concerning that was this evening’s whole weird theme. 

But he feels even more afraid because as stupid as it sounds, he can’t lose you. Another staple in his life. Despite him only reconnecting with you for the past few hours or so, Miguel has grown very attached to you and would be an idiot to deny that you meant a lot to him. 

He couldn’t afford to lose you over one fuck. 

Either way, Miguel doesn’t regret those words. They were a direct reflection of how he felt, of what he was thinking whilst he was fucking into you not even half an hour ago. He knows that this one canon event has caused a split trajectory for the both of you. Miguel thinks whatever happens after this is just another testament to how life continuously deals him rubbish cards but he can’t figure out what’s worst: having to let go of a possibly good thing or deal with the change that will now inevitably come with the relationship. 

However you, clearly not as turmoiled as Miguel, slightly lower your phone screen from your face so that you could stare at the man. 

“Then ‘wes isn’t’ anything then. Simple as.” 

It was so obvious this was affecting Miguel internally because there’s that screw up face he does when he’s inadvertently tickled by something he’s heard. He use to do that a lot growing up. 

“How can you be so calm about this?” He asks. 

“Because it’s not that deep.” You shrug. 

Now Miguel’s leaning closer to you, voice seeming to seethe but as a clear defence mechanism. 

“Whaddyou mean it’s not that deep?!” He spits. 

Because he’s acting like this, you now have to lock your phone and place it down onto the bed so that you can give him your utmost attention. You’re even thinking to back track your earlier words about him having matured. It was obvious that he was still that same young boy who sought to always get what he wanted. 

In a weird sense, it was comforting. 

“Not in that way, dummy.”

You force yourself to sit up against his headboard, the blanket sliding down to expose your naked chest. 

“I didn’t see sex with you as casual, Miguel. It was definitely something. But I’m just… Mm. I don’t wanna say I’m not in a rush to label anything but, it’s you. Lil o’ Miggy from two doors down. There’s too much to us and who we are, how long we’ve known each other, how much we’ve experienced each other to let sex completely change that.” 

You can tell he wasn’t expecting your words because his face falls and his eyes widen. He’s so unaware of his facial expressions that it’s cute. 

With a huff of laughter you shake your head before slouching backwards even more. The way your eyes doll over him was surely a testament to your lack of will power when it came to him. Always has and always will be. 

“I love you but in a much bigger way than just platonically or romantically or sexually. You mean a lot to me and I’m grateful we were able to have that experience to strengthen that.” You say softly. 

Miguel finally closes his mouth. His eyes still bore holes into you but you can see his skin start to redden in the embarrassment from the chest upwards. 

You’d figure it’d be a lot for him to take in. Granted — because hearing your childhood friend say they loved you in a much larger capacity than anyone ever could — despite having not seen each other in years, straight after sex, was definitely something. And you figure that part of it was you trying to express to him that you really were sorry, so you realise your triad can almost be viewed as borderline manipulative, but you wasn’t lying.  

You loved the man in a bigger way than fathomably possible, and that was the truth. 

Finally coming to his senses, Miguel leans back against his bedroom wall again, picks up his controller and resumes to play his game. Initially, you think he’s taken your words the wrong way and misunderstood you, but then he starts mumbling something as he’s watching the screen with a hard stare and blotchy crimson skin. 

“That’s unfair.” He mumbles, the click of the controller working in between pauses. “You can’t tell me you love me whilst showing me your boobs. It’s cheating.” 

And you laugh, because what else can you do? As hard-headed and brash as he was in his earlier days, this was who Miguel was. It’s the first version of him you ever fell in love with and didn’t stop loving. It’s the version you’re carpingly in love with now.

Lifting up a corner of the duvet, you give the man permission to join you in his own bed.  

“Miggy, just get underneath the blanket and stop pouting at me.” You say, and he can’t but help instantly crawl over and dutifully comply. 

[gojoswhitebabydolllashes]

A palace where glass met grass

Dorian havilliard x reader

Perhaps for all of the greater time you spent at Terrasen, following orders by the King consort Rowan Whitethorn, you were unable to stop thinking of what life would've been like if you had found Nehemia instead if Aelin, or Celaena as she once were.

The air smelt of daisies and fresh grass, springtime wind was blowing in quickly, and the coal shipments that meant to move fast to Perranth were now put on hold due to rougher Seas.

You met with the Queen and the King Consort a short time after your duties in the stables ended. As an emissary to the Kingdom of Adarlan, you were not unfamiliar with dirty work. You'd be sent to pit fights and to high mountains and to coal mines, all for the sake of your kingdoms safety.

Aelin loitered beside Rowan amongst the palace courtyard talking between themselves when you met them.

"There she is!" Rowan smiled widely.

Unusual it was that the king consort was so cheerful with the evening getting later. By now, he would be in the palace or out hunting deep in terrasen south forests. Beside him, Aelin stood in a green evening gown, a silver tiara upon her head of platinum braids.

"How are you enjoying your stay?" Aelin spoke.

"It's been swell. I appreciate you letting me stay in the palace" You smiled

Rowan nodded. "It's our pleasure. Have you heard anything from the king?"

The question reminded you that you hadn't infact heard from Dorian. For weeks now. You began to worry that something might have happened while you were away. And as you looked at the queen and king consort with hazy eyes, you felt a sudden shift in the wind.

"Have you?" You said cautiously.

They both shook their heads. Aelin's empathetic gaze watched you as your lips parted and your eyes glossed over.

"Oh my god," you breathed out, "you've heard from him, haven't you?"

The corners of your lips frowned. A horrified look washed over your face as the realisation finally set in. Something had infact happened at Adarlan, and the king and queen of all people were keeping it from you.

"Tell me what's going on." Your gaze hardened as you reached for the ivory dagger on your belt.

Aelin held her hands out to you as if to show sympathy or mercy. Rowan stood strong beside her, body hard, but eyes soft.

"We got a letter from Dorian a few days ago," Aelin said softly.

You scoffed. Stunned at how they betrayed your trust like this. Did they think you were some kind of fool? And if so, what made them think that their positions as royals gave them any superiority to you? Everyone is the same with or without a crown.

"You didn't tell me. WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME?!"

Trying your hardest not to rattle the very ground beneath you, you tried to stand your ground against the queen, who stood strong toward you.

"Please. Let us explain before you make a decision you'll regret" Rowan spoke.

You eyed the two of them with a fire burning in your irises. "You have two minutes to explain"

Rowan stepped forward. "The king asked us not to tell you that he wrote to us. He said it specifically in the letter that he did not want his news to be shared with you"

Crossing his arms, Rowan's eyes softened. Aelin stood beside him as they both watched you turn the cogs in your head.

"Why would he do that?"

Aelin sighed. The chill in the air began to grow, and bright green shrubbery and trees were turning deeper emerald with each passing hour. Suddenly, the cheerful and dew dropped terrasen that you had come to love and adore felt like prison.

"He is to be wed" Aelin spoke softly.

Heartbreak spread as if you were wooden and it were white hot. Wed? Dorian? Dorian havilliard? The king of adarlan, who promised you that if you were to die tomorrow, he would paint his walls the colour of your eyes. Dorian havilliard who said that you reminded him of summer because he liked summer, and he liked you. Dorian, who used to take you on long walks because he hated the idea of going anywhere without you by his side.

And Dorian, who held your hand and closed his eyes the day you were sent off to the labour camp in melisande and couldn't fathom that when he opened them that you would be gone.

"Your liars," you shook "your both filthy liars!"

You spat venom at the ground beneath them before you turned and quickly started to run. You ran like your life depended on it, like if you were to stop, you would be shot immediately. Boots pounded the dirt, grass, and gravel beneath your feet as you ran for a carriage bound for adarlan.

Hair blowing behind you as you grabbed onto the carriage, placing yourself in amongst sacks of what smelt like mangoes and fresh ginger. With a deep sigh, you rested against the Hessian sacks that itched on your skin.

You only had one thought in mind as you lied down.

Does dorian even want to see you? If what they had said was true, and Dorian was getting wed, surely he would turn you away.

You couldn't.

You couldn't ruin it for him.

You couldn't ruin his happiness.

Pushing yourself up off the sacks, you stared down at the quickly moving dirt path below you. And jumped. Your body hit the ground with a loud thud, and as the carriage sped off, tears began to well in your eyes as you lie in the dirt.

Helpless, you wondered if dying in the middle of the road would be easier than existing in a world where dorian loves someone else. The slow thudding of horse hooves approached you from behind. When you looked up to see a pure white fur chest, you knew only Rowan could be with it.

"What exactly were you going to do, Emissary?" Rowan grumbled from above you as he hops off the horse.

Rowan leant you his hand to help you up.

You shook your head and shrugged, tears still welling in your eyes as you looked at the white-haired fae male, his hard gaze never leaving your face as he stood before you.

"What do I do?" You whispered.

Fat tears slid down your face as you lost control of your emotions and fell into the whitethorn male's chest. Holding you, Rowan tried his best to comfort you.

"How do I let him go?" You sobbed.

"Sometimes it is best to imagine they were never there." The fae speaks. "But there are people who can do that and people who can't, and something tells me you cant"

You pulled off of Rowan as you wiped your tears on your blue cloak.

"Your only saying that because im crying"

Rowan shook his head and crossed his arms.

"No, I say that because I feel it in your heart, I can sense that your love is not faulty, nor is it willing to let go"

You looked at the ground. Dust and dirt lie just as dead as you felt. Brown melted into green as you looked over at the forest, and suddenly, you wish you had died when you fell out of the carriage.

"I want to see him," you whispered, "but I can not force him to love me nor will I try to. Maybe I'm just meant to be away. Perhaps it is for the best"

Looking back at Rowan, he had a thinking face on him that felt almost mischievous.

"Come with me" he speaks.

-----

6 years later

-----

Terrasen was even more beautiful in the winter. The snow blanketed the foliage in the forests and the grass below your feet.

Aela, Rowan and Aelin's 2 year old daughter, played in the snow by the courtyard, decorating a small snowman with Elide and Lorcan's son, Aryan, and Fleetfoot, who tried his absolute best to not knock it over.

You were sat wrapped in your cloak laughing with the inner circle about an embarrassing thing aedion did a few days ago on Aelin and Rowan's anniversary when the mail came by.

Aelin stood up from her chair to collect it, her light green gown dragging on the snowy cobblestone. Thanking the courier with a smile, she slowly walked in the snow back to the yard before she stopped, and her brows furrowed.

"You have a note y/n" she held it up.

You stood up and walked to the platinum haired queen and took the letter from her hand.

Miss Y/N L/N Of Terrasen Court.

As you flipped it over, you immediately recognised the stamp in the blue wax seal. The Adarlan Crest. Your heart sunk as you opened it.

I hope six years wasn't too long.

D

Your brows furrowed as you read the message. Going to show the court, you were stunned to see they were all staring at you. Or rather behind you.

You turnt around.

And there he was. Standing in a black embellished suit with a cape still bright red like the day you met him, the crown of gold still sat tilted upon his messy raven curls, and his sapphire eyes still lit up with his smile.

Dorian.

[meli-writes]

Consort - Ch. 02

(Previous)

/// CW: hardcore moment, captivity, dubious consent. ///

The Princess wished there’d been a thousand flights of stairs, to be carried away warmly in her Demon’s arms. She had counted two, which made these her mother’s chambers though she felt no recognition of that awful place. The marble floor had boiled and bubbled, grasping up the walls, crystalline tendrils dripping from the ceiling.

It was the cave she had been cast into, years ago — to die, before her Demon found her — before her late mother ‘forgot’ she had done so.

How often the Princess had returned there, to her Demon, wishing to her that the world could be made better, given so many sweetened words in return.

“It’s time — consort.” she said, with only a silvered fleck of sombreness, drawing the Princess across the room on her leash — gentle only so she wouldn’t slip — into the crimson light of the fireplace. “You need not be dressed again, for a few decades.”

Rosy flames slipped from their iron cage, dragging the Princess to her knees. “Please,” she squealed. “You said it wouldn’t be like this, Áine—”

What did she promise you? Cursed cinders whispered in her ears. Her Grace. They danced her dress away as flakes of ash. Your Grace. Ancient jewels crumbled into dust. Your Grace.

They left only that bouquet her Demon had placed around her neck; of petals, and thorns, and broken promises; which her Demon used to bring their lips together. Then flinging her back, into a bed of snakes, before she could fool herself at her Demon’s tenderness.

“How such sweet fruit grows — from the most rotten of trees — that, I shall never know.”

They slithered around her — the Princess shivering at their cold, living metal. “Because I know you’re better than this, and I saw who you were — beneath tooth and claw.” They bit into her flesh, spilling blood and fury. “And you can never hide that from me, Áine.”

She stood — haloed in flames — with coal-dark eyes flickering in uncertain shadows. She crawled forth to run a pair of dulled claws along her Princess’s bared cunt, snakes splitting her legs apart. How much of herself she had bargained, to give and be taken away.

“No. To conquer, to control. That’s my nature, sweetling who knows only a name I made for her. Which you will forget, and remember— Your Grace." She pressed inside, claiming what had been surrendered long ago.

But now she pulled against the coiling snakes, as they nipped at her again and again trying to make her stop. “Fuck Your Grace. I don't know who she is, and I don’t love her.”

Her Grace paused, and withdrew, slowly — making her whimper at its absence.

“I love you, Áine. Please, just Áine.” The Princess managed to strangle one of the snakes. “I don’t care if it's the only one I’ll ever know, if you made it because you love me.”

“You—” Her Demon’s tail curled on itself, snakes disappearing into the unnatural undergrowth. “—you’re such a sweet, foolish girl.”

The Princess rubbed the marks on her arms — which were faint, and would heal. “Because I trusted you?” She took her Demon’s hands — rough, and sharp, and unforgiving of herself. But she was soft, and kind, and caring. “Oh Áine, fuck you.”

And she was honest. Because the Princess didn’t need to know Áine’s true name to compel her — to bloom in her such sweet, and sincere, promises. Áine had to make things better.

She knocked into her — horns tangling with golden, ash-covered hair. “You have bargained everything, yet still I am in your debt — Theana." The faintest tear, surviving the furnace of her heart, fell from Áine’s eye. “I love you, and I-I’m sorry that I do.”

She grasped at Theana, tugging and squeezing at her flesh. The Princess wasn’t her either; just this empty object of her instinctual, demonic desires. Áine didn’t want to own that, she wanted to own her, however Theana would let her. “I will never be as I was, when I was mortal — neither will you. And I don’t know how you will ever forgive me for that.”

Theana sighed — nuzzling into Áine’s neck. “Well first, you can take this bloody collar off and find something softer. Then, as promised, you will fucking breed me — your consort."

---

(Masterpost)

originally written on cohost 01/01/2024, in response to Making-up-Demons' prompt:

Demon who has left their mark on you, to ensure you do not forget.

[chirp-a-chirp]

Court of Darkness 12 Days of Christmas

Here’s a 12 Days of Christmas song rendition for no_one_8473 as a part of the 2023 CoD Discord Secret Santa gift exchange!

…

🎶 On the 12th day of Christmas, my consort gave to me…🎶

12 Cookies Burning!

*Smoke wafts through a crack in the kitchen*

Sherry: Oh, I meant for these cookies to be red. I suppose black will have to do.

Roy: You have time to bake another batch before the party. Perhaps dear Rio will assist.

Sherry: OK! Will you partake in these cookies then brother? *Offers plate of charred discs*

Roy: …of course.

11 Garlands Hanging!

Fenn: *Hangs garland and mistletoe over windows and doors of the S:Ranks lounge* Toa! Come here and test this mistletoe with me.

Toa: *Ignores Fenn, walks past him with stack of papers in hand. Knight scurries behind with another equally large stack*

Fenn: Oh Kniiiiiiiight…*pinches his butt*

Knight: OI!

10 Cups Aligning!

Tino: *Brings out a tray of teacups and plates* Masters Luxure and Invidia, the Christmas tree is beautifully trimmed. Wait, where is Master Lynt?

Nine Letters Signing!

Toa: We cannot delay in sending these missives Knight.

Knight: I can’t believe Idina and your father expect you to work on Christmas! They’d better get coal in their stockings.

Eight Whisks A-Turning!

Sherry: Let’s see, three cups of sugar…

Rio: *Whisks batter in a bowl* Sherry, that’s salt, not sugar. Easy to mistake though!

Sherry: Oh. *Gestures to jar of salt* But I used this jar for my last batch of cookies. I guess Roy likes salty cookies?

Grayson: *Face remains stoic* …yes.

Seven Frantic Searches!

Tino: *Wanders down the hallways AGAIN* Master Lynt where ARE YOUUUU?

Lance: Oi cease your yelling! Try searching the courtyard.

Six Pies A-Baking!

Rio: These pies turned out brilliant! But I haven’t a knack for decorating.

Sherry: Leave that to me! *Performs luminary magic so the pies glow with an ethereal yet somehow tasty light*

FIIIIIVE…SAUCY LOOKS!

Fenn: *Pats his lap invitingly* Will no one sit with me?

Sherry: Maybe you’ll have more luck if you wear this. *Sherry laughs and places a red hat and white beard on Fenn*

Rio: *Promptly sits on Fenn’s lap* Santa!

Four Mugs of Cocoa!

Tino: *Furiously destroys a snowman on a courtyard bench. Under the snow is Lynt, snoozing upright in a sleeping bag*

Lynt: *Wakes up* Hi Chino. *Blinks drowsily and drifts back to sleep*

Tino: Aaaaah! *Shoves a mug of cocoa in front of his young charge.* You need to keep warm! And get ready for the party!

Three Spell Books!

Rio: Toa, stop grading papers and join our Christmas party!

Toa: *Is about to shake his head until Tino arrives with a cup of cocoa*

Tino: This cup is made with Qelsan chocolate. I can procure more if you celebrate with us.

Toa: *Drinks cup of cocoa and smiles*

Two Scratchy Throats!

Fenn: Aren’t you two going to eat any other food?

Roy: *Continues eating Sherry’s cookies, washing them down with copious amounts of milk. Grayson joins his Master*

Roy: N-no. I prefer to eat something made with love.

Grayson: *Grimaces throughout his gaging* I agree.

And a Happy Holy Night Paaaaaarty!

Every Consort: Merry Christmas!

Sherry: Brother, you ate all my cookies! I’ll make sure to add extra salt to my next batch just like you like them!

Roy: *Chokes on his milk*

[thatndginger]

A Very Basic Overview of Aeterre

alright, buckle up babes, because my beloved @thetruearchmagos has requested more info about War Witch's worldbuilding, and this is the first time I've actually been able to consolidate some of my work!

(be warned, all this is still in the ideas stage; some ideas are more concrete than others, some are liable to change)

Aeterre: the World of War Witch

I. The History

Aeterre’s backbone, its breath and bones, lies in magic. Called from the ether by the first gods, shaped and guided by the gods that came after and formed the first of humankind, the first animals and plants and mountains. For millennia, magic was a fact of life. Seasons changed, the sun rose in the east, and magic lived in everything. The gods watched the progress of their humans, gifted them the ability to wield magic, and guided them when necessary. Not everyone could wield magic, but then again, not everyone could wield a paintbrush or bake a loaf of bread or swing a sword. Not everyone would see a god in their lifetime, just like some might never see an ocean or the northern lights or an ibex.

In this time of magic, a great empire arose. The Koric Empire, birthed in the fertile rolling hills and sea-side cliffs of Korin, backed by the twin gods Vitalex and Morsex, began a slow, steady consumption of the Chanval Peninsula and western edge of the Eruan continent. The Korics were the first to master the art of construct building, and with an army bolstered by both magic and machinery, very little could stand in their way. Their rule was ended in one fell swoop, however, in an event that would come to be known as the Shattering. In the birthplace of constructs, a mountaintop city called Carigdon nestled in the mountains that bounded the eastern edge of the empire, the witchsmith Caoine killed magic in an act of rebellion against the Koric Empire. In the aftermath of this event, empires and nations fell into chaos, and the world nearly collapsed. Without the help of magic or gods, humankind managed to claw itself back from the brink of destruction and begin anew. They mastered machinery again; machinery fueled by coal and oil and steam instead of magic - though limited by this lacking. Empires rose again, and from the smoldering ruins of the Koric Empire rose the nation of Korin. Once again the masters of machinery, Korin began expanding its borders once more, growing further and faster than the empire of old.

While there are many who have attempted to revive magic, none have succeeded in the 250-ish years since the Shattering. Many have begun to believe that magic will never return. The steady march of progress has shown that perhaps humankind does not need magic and gods anymore. A god could not raze an entire battlefield with bullets and fire, could not send messages across the world in the blink of an eye. But man can.

Modern-day Aeterre, showing the (definitely-going-to-change) borders of it's nations

II. Major Nations of Aeterre

Korin: Referred to also as the Koric Empire, or the United Nation of Korin (UNK). Government by a constitutional monarchy; a monarch descended from the Rocheforth line - currently Queen Hannah and Prince Consort Frederick- is the official head of state of the country and retains certain executive and legislative powers, while a bicameral parliament composed of the Senate and the House of Assembly are responsible for most aspects of government and state. Senate membership is primarily an inherited position, though the current monarch has the ability to appoint or demote members as they see fit. Most Senators are also hereditary nobility of various rank, as monarch-elevated members are not always granted a noble title. The House of Assembly is made up of elected officials chosen by Korin’s citizens in elections held every three years. The number of Assemblymen for a province, territory, or colony is determined by population. An Assemblyman for a given territory does not have to have ever lived in said territory, and since only Korin-born citizens are allowed to vote, territorial and colonial Assemblymen are almost never actually from the place they represent.

Suaythen Empire:  Referred to also as Suaya or Imperial Suaya. A directorial republic governed by the Sovereign Council, made up of seven councilors with equal power and head of state status. Each Councilor is the head of one of seven executive departments. Councilor elections are held every five years, and any Suaythen citizen of age - which includes the residents of Suaythen-held territories, who become citizens upon being annexed into the Empire - is allowed to vote. Councilors have no term limits. Below the council is a system of chancellors and vice-chancellors who assist in government affairs and running of the country. Chancellors and vice-chancellors are chosen by Councilors, and are generally allowed to choose the government officials below them. Councilors have the authority to remove any government official from office, though staffing decisions are usually left to chancellors/vice-chancellors.

III. Wait, What's a Construct?

Simply put, constructs were magical machinery. Powered by magic, constructs did not require the intricate internal structures and carefully crafted connections that modern machinery does. The most basic constructs consisted of a copper or bronze ‘skeleton’, a ‘heart’ made of a specific type of quartz, and a sturdy outer casing. The magic and skill required to create and power a construct made them costly to build and maintain, and the limited functionality of a construct’s ‘mind’ made them unsuitable for complicated tasks. A construct’s ‘mind’ was really just the magic instilled in its quartz heart that gave it direction and purpose. These quartz crystals could not contain much magic, so only simple commands could be instilled into it; “guard this door” or “push this plow” or “lift these stones”. Since magic is deeply linked to emotion, constructs were said to inherit some of the creator’s emotion upon being awoken - appearing kind or cruel in the way it performed its commands.

Nearly all constructs were built in the image of some living thing, with humans, horses, dogs, and other beasts of burden being the most common. Constructs meant more for entertainment or symbolic value were not uncommon, but were generally limited to the wealthy and important due to the cost and uselessness of them. Constructs were first and foremost tools, used to do the things living things could not. A horse construct could carry five times the weight of a regular horse, and a dog construct would never tire or become distracted from its job guarding an estate. A construct shaped like a human warrior would fight tirelessly, with the strength of three men, and only stop if its heart was damaged or it was commanded to stop. They were simple machines, but ruthlessly effective in battle.

It was the Koric Empire that perfected the art of construct building, and turned constructs from simple-minded machines into something almost living. All knowledge of their techniques has been lost, but somehow the Korics discovered how to instill complex directions and motives into the constructs. Stories of constructs that seemed almost to think and feel began to appear, and historians of the time mentioned war constructs that were capable of following complex strategy as opposed to the simple machines being pointed in a direction they were used to. Animal constructs made simply for decoration or status symbols were said to act almost exactly like the animal they were made to emulate. Records are few and far between, but it seems that these ‘living’ constructs all seemed to originate from the Tiraillfain valley, from the forges of the Aillan people who’d been consumed by the Koric Empire a century or so before the Shattering.

[kyliafanfiction]

You know, I've heard people make the case that Dark Elves as in D&D-style Drow (and anything drawing from those inspirations)* are somehow racist against black people, that drow represent Black people or... something.

That's always baffled me.

Because when I think of the stereotypes I've seen racists express towards black people, either in the modern day, or in history, what I see are all variations on the following themes: uncivilized barbarians, ape-like, smelly, dirty, criminals, rapists, lazy, stupid. Squatting in ruined cities in jungles, etc.

By contrast, the conventional depictions of Drow/Dark Elves as inspired by D&D are: Sophisticated, cruel, usually matriarchial, sexually transgressive in some form often, sometimes religiously transgressive in settings where they aren't in thrall to a Lolth-expy. Demon-consorting. Some longstanding emnity that explains the split from the regular elves. Evil. Violence based societies that create cycles of abuse. Slavery. Living underground.

(this is not every depiction of dark elves, obviously, Eberron famously stands out, but the convention is the target)

Apart from the loose notion of having dark skin (but Drow-style Dark Elves have coal black, gray, dark purple, dark blue skin, and black people IRL are generally shades of brown - there are exceptions, but not really present in the US conception of black people and every think piece I've seen calling Drow racist has been by and for Americans so...) there's not a lot of overlap between the stereotypes.

I feel like if someone was looking for the stereotype of black people in fantasy settings derived from D&D, orcs by way of conventional D&D is what you're looking for. Orcs are usually smelly, uncivilized, brutish, stupid tribal monsters destroying civilizations. Many settings often gesture in the direction of trying to put a veneer over this, and some actually succeed at portraying orcs as fully realized 3D cultures and people while still keeping them recognizably orcs, but most don't).

Like, people call the Goblins from Harry Potter antisemitic, and they can point to real overlap between the goblins and traditional antisemetic depictions - the noses, the obsession with money, the whole mess in the HP Game that shall not be named, etc). People can and have argued this was - at least at first - more JKR unconsciously engaging with tropes that were longstanding, but even if they're right about the intentions (and these days, JKR doesn't really deserve the benefit of the doubt), the overlap is still there and something that can be pointed to.

Now, yes, there are problems with Drow as often depicted - an ontologically, 'born evil' race like that, etc. And you can actually draw some overlap between the depictions of drow-style dark elves and certain Orientalist tropes, oddly enough, though I think that speaks to more how Orientalism uses tropes that predate it than anything else. YMMV there.

Of course, most variations on those conventional drow-style dark elves usually do, again, make a stab at showing that they aren't ontologically evil, born evil. The cycle of abuse and paranoia and violence and so forth of Dark Elf society is front and center of most versions of them. The influence of cosmic forces of evil on their religion and thus culture. And of course, Dark Elves that aren't evil, ones that were born into different traditions, or consciously made the choice to turn away from that culture they were raised in. There have been missteps, sometimes really honking huge ones (:glares at R.A. Salvatore and his enablers:) but even then, if there's any depth to the depiction of dark elves...

I mean, frankly, for a long time, you were a lot more likely to find a sympathetic dark elf rather than a sympathetic orc, in fantasy fiction.

So yeah. I don't get the 'dark elves as presented by D&D are racist against black people' argument.

*This does mean this post doesn't discuss 'something called a dark elf with brown or tanned or olive skin, etc', unless they share other commonalities with the D&D-style Drow depiction. Dark elf really shouldn't be used to mean 'elf of color' anyway.

[luminouslumity]

Mainland Boys: A Joseph and Billy Story

From Kendare Blake's newsletter: a snippet set on the mainland during the time that Joseph was banished there with Billy.

By the winter of his sixteenth year, Joseph Sandrin had been away from Fennbirn for what felt like a long time. But only when he thought about it. Most days, he was as any of the other mainland boys his age: concerned with his studies, and the break from his studies for the holiday, concerned with prospects of sport, concerned with whether he and his foster brother Billy Chatworth would merit an invitation to the Governor’s Ball. Most days, he was of the mainland, for that was the ground beneath his feet, and those were the lives that surrounded him.

But sometimes, and more often when he was near the sea, he thought of his old life, the one he had led as a boy on that shrouded island of magic. He would think of hot, steamed clams in butter, and birds perched on shoulders. Dogs and petulant cats with such expressive faces that they could sometimes seem to speak. He thought of fields full of barley that popped at a touch. And mostly, he thought of his girls: a dark little queen with a coal-smudged nose, and the naturalist girl with one green eye and one blue.

That day, at the start of December, he stood at the edge of a frozen pond, edged with dead, tanned reeds. Close enough to the sea, he supposed, to spark the memories of the island. Or perhaps it was only that it was December, when both of his girls would celebrate their birthdays.

“Joseph! Ho, Joseph!”

Joseph smiled, listening to the soft crunching in the snow as Billy approached from the direction of the house. Then a sharp crack, and a laughed curse: his shoe must have broken through the ice. “Stop walking on the pond, dolt,” Joseph said over his shoulder. “The ice isn’t thick enough yet.”

“Damn, my foot is freezing!” Billy threw his arm around Joseph and shook him. “What are you doing out here?”

“Thinking.”

“Thinking of Christine Hollen? Squirreled away in the privacy of the Governor’s stables?”

Joseph chuckled. Christine Hollen was the Governor’s daughter. His oldest daughter. She would not be seen cavorting with the likes of him, a foreigner, a foster-son, not even if his foster family was one of the richest in the city.

They had come north for the holiday, like many of the best, most respected families had, including the Governor. The Chatworth’s country estate, Hartford, was not far from the Governor’s own. It was actually visible from the most eastern hill. Joseph ought to know. Billy had brought him up there plenty of times, dreaming of the day he would buy it right out from underneath the Hollens at half the value.

“I’m not about to play around with the Governor’s daughter. Your father would have my head.”

Billy let go of him and tugged his scarf up farther on his neck. “Well you ought to do some playing at least. The lads are starting to talk.”

“You know I’m…waiting for someone.”

“Ah yes.” Billy grinned. “Waiting for someone. And that would be the infamous Jules Milone, wouldn’t it? The girl you haven’t laid eyes upon since you were eleven? The girl you may never see again if I don’t become king of your home country?” He cocked an eyebrow and burst out laughing. Joseph did as well. Billy Chatworth, the king-consort of Fennbirn Island. It sounded ridiculous, and seemed impossible.

Not impossible, he thought as he looked at his foster brother from the corner of his eye. Difficult. But he must have been sent to the Chatworths to groom Arsinoe’s future husband. Why else would the Goddess have sent him?  He had clung to that belief in the early years, clung to it hard, filling Billy’s ears with stories of Fennbirn. His education, in Joseph’s mind. But now that the time of the Ascension drew near, it felt more and more like fancy. Made up by his childhood imagination, to make his banishment bearable.

“Only a few months left,” Billy said. “Finally, after all this time, I get to go to your secret island. I have to admit, part of me doesn’t believe it exists. Part of me expects to board the boat and find you and my father laughing your arses off at your magnificent, five-year practical joke.”

“But we don’t know if it’s ‘we’, do we?” Joseph said. “I’m still banished. You might be on your own.”

“On my own? No, not after so long.”

“The Black Council doesn’t often let go of a grudge. Why do you think I’ve been preparing you all these years?”

Billy shrugged, the carefree mainland boy, even in the face of courting a queen. A queen who would have to murder her two sister queens, no less. But Billy had grown up on the mainland, with no gifts, and no Goddess. No queens and no Black Council looking down over everything. He had grown up with money, and with power, and with ease, and the struggle of the queens would not be real until he saw it for himself.

“You worry too much, Joseph. My father will work something out. He always does.” He blew warm breath into his cupped hands. “It’s freezing out here. Let’s go into the village and grab a pint before the party tonight.”

 ***************************************************

The walk to the village was short, but Billy insisted on taking the carriage anyway on account of his cold, wet foot. As they were let out near the pub, something in a shop window caught Joseph’s eye.

“What now?” Billy asked, following as he went to press his fingertips to the glass.

It was a ring. A simple, silver ring, set with dark green stones.

Billy leaned close. “That’s nowhere near fine enough to catch the prettiest girl in three counties.”

“Christine Hollen is not the prettiest girl in three counties. She’s only the wealthiest. And I wasn’t thinking of her.”

“Of course you weren’t. This is more to Jules’s taste, then?”

“When it caught the light, from over there…it looked like the color of her green eye.”

Billy leaned back and squinted. “So it does.”

“How would you know?”

“Well, I did have that old cat, with one blue eye and one green—”

Joseph smiled. “Stop comparing Jules to your old deaf cat.”

“I loved that cat. And I’m willing to bet that I remember the shade of that cat’s eyes better than you remember the eyes of some eleven-year-old girl. She might not even have those eyes anymore. They might have,” he wiggled his fingers vaguely, “darkened and whatnot. It’s unnatural for you to have carried on about her this long when you don’t even know what she looks like.”

“I know what she looks like.” Or at least, he thought he did. He remembered so well that girl of five years ago. Her smile. Her clothes. The sound of her voice. And as time passed, and as he grew up, so did the Jules of his imagination. Her hair grew long and tumbled down her back. Her face thinned and her eyes softened. Her laugh changed from the high, wild laugh of a child to the low, easy one of a young woman.

Of course, anyone who knew her family could have told him that the girl he was imagining was really only the image of Jules’s aunt, Caragh, with a dash of her mother Madrigal thrown in as wishful thinking. When Joseph imagined Jules, he simply conjured up the most beautiful girl he could think of, because to him, that’s what she was.

“It’s nearly her birthday. Sixteen, just like the queens. Born in the same month.”

Billy sighed. “The same month as Arsinoe. My bride-to-be.”

“Your queen-to-be.” Joseph watched as Billy’s eyes lost focus, and the blush crept into his cheeks. Billy imagined Arsinoe the way Joseph imagined Jules. Over the years, Joseph had built Arsinoe up, highlighting her virtues: her bravery, her wit, her fierce, affectionate spirit. He may have left out some other things, like that she was stubborn as an old donkey, sarcastic and secretive. And of course he had told him she was beautiful, when he had no idea. When they were children, Arsinoe was just like Jules: dirty and running about, and she had kept her hair very short. Poor Billy. All queens are beautiful, they say, but in Billy’s mind, Arsinoe must look just like Christine Hollen, only with black hair and eyes. And though Joseph does not doubt that she will be lovely, she will not be lovely like that.

“I can’t wait to meet her for real,” Billy said, his voice wistful. Then he straightened, and tugged on his lapels. “Queen or not, one look at me and she’ll faint dead away.”

“From fright?” Joseph laughed, and Billy tugged him back down the street to the pub.

****************************************************

Despite the chilly winter air, the party was warm. It was a dinner party, and so not terribly crowded; certainly not as crowded as the Governor’s holiday ball was bound to be, though that was on more expansive grounds.

Joseph, as usual, stayed back from the dancing, content to stand by himself at the window and imagine what Jules and Arsinoe would make of the mainland dances. The mainland girls in their frilly frocks, with lace at the sleeves and ribbons in their hair. Perhaps he should have warned Billy that Arsinoe would be constantly in trousers. But no. Why ruin the surprise.

“Are you not dancing again, Joseph?”

He did not need to turn to know who that purring voice belonged to, but he did so anyway, to be polite. “I’m afraid dancing has never suited me, Miss Hollen.” Christine Hollen, the Governor’s daughter, stood before him resplendent in green satin that made her blond hair shine like spun gold. Somehow she had managed to get herself alone. Usually she was flanked by a small herd of girls of similar age and social status. Watching them Joseph was reminded of the geese that wandered to and from the pond on the Milone property.

“I could teach you,” Christine said quietly.

“So I could dance at your wedding to Billy?” he asked, and she tossed her head back and laughed.

“Billy Chatworth has not looked at me once since this summer.”

“But he speaks of you often. Just this afternoon he told me you were the prettiest girl in three counties.” She does not blush much at that. No doubt that is a lower number of counties than she is used to. “You know that if he decides not to go abroad, he will pursue you in earnest. And when he does, then I’ll learn to dance.” He excused himself quickly, and ignored her dropped open mouth.

He moved through the rest of the party, making sure to appear to be searching for Billy. If he was idle for one moment, some girl would be upon him, trying to drag him out for a turn on the floor. Room after room and he did not spy Billy; after four rooms he began to search for real. He even poked his head into the drawing room, where the men sat smoking cigars and playing cards. But Billy was nowhere in the house.

“So which girl is also missing,” Joseph muttered as he stepped out onto the porch. The winter air was cold, but still, and an earlier dusting of fresh snow coated the trees and fence posts and made everything soft. Even in the blue light of evening, it was not hard to follow Billy’s footprints.

As he walked, he heard Jules’s voice in his ear like he so often had when they tracked something as children. “Here’s where they started to hurry,” she would have said, and, “here’s where she picked up her dress to stop it dragging in the snow.” They hit a snow drift, and the girl’s prints ended. “Oh, for Goddess’s sake,” he could hear Jules sigh. “Here’s where he picked her up.”

He followed the trail to one of the stables. Not the busy one where the coach drivers were having their own bit of merriment as their horses rested and stayed dry, but the nearly deserted one that housed the horses owned by their host. He opened the door and it creaked, but not before he heard the low laughter and rustling of clothes.

Joseph shook his head. He stomped his feet. He gave them plenty of time to put themselves together before he climbed the ladder into the hayloft, but even then, Billy’s tie was undone and Penny’s dress was askew.

“Joseph!” Billy exclaimed and put his hand to his head in relief. “You gave us a fright!”

“As I should. You’re starting to be missed.” He nodded to Penny, who blushed as she brushed past him.

“Will you—will you make it back to the house all right?” Billy asked, and she paused on the ladder only long enough to glare.

“What are you doing?” Joseph asked when he heard the door open and close again. “Just this afternoon you were dreaming of queens.”

“So I’m practicing.” Billy grinned. “Besides, that festival you keep going on about isn’t for months.” He peered regretfully at the ladder after Penny. “Not terribly gallant, I suppose.”

“Not terribly.”

“I’ll be better. I will.” He threw his arm around Joseph’s shoulder.

“If you ever treat Arsinoe that way…”

“I know, I know, you’ll strike me dead. And I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Joseph clenched his jaw. “Sometimes I don’t know how I expect her to come to love you like I do.”

They walked together back to the house, and upon entering, ran directly into Billy’s father, Mr. Chatworth. Instantly, both boys straightened. Mr. Chatworth was an imposing man, though Joseph could never put his finger on why. He was handsome, but not extremely so, tall, but not towering. It was something in the eyes, perhaps. You always knew that he had the measure of you. That he saw through you, the moment you opened your mouth.

“There you are,” he said, and smiled. “Joseph, I need a moment with my son.” He led Billy without a word up the stairs and into a private office. It did not matter that it was not his house, and not his office. Chatworth did what he wanted, and somehow that earned him respect. Back in Wolf Spring, it would have earned him a punch in the face.

Content to wait, and away from the party at least, Joseph paced slowly at the bottom of the stairs. It seemed a long time before Mr. Chatworth came down again, and smiled at him, and patted his shoulder. Billy followed after, looking a bit dazed.

“What was that about?” Joseph asked.

“He received a letter,” Billy replied, and as he spoke, his face lost its paleness, and his mouth curled into a smile. “From your island. Your banishment has ended early, brother! You’re to go home before the end of the month!”

Joseph could barely breathe. He threw his arms around Billy and they shook each other hard. “I can’t believe it!”

“And that’s not the best part! I’m to come with you, and stay with your family. Get a bit of a head start with the queens.” He punched Joseph in the arm. “I told you my father would figure something out.”

Joseph’s head spun with hopes he had been too afraid to have for the last five years. He was going home. Home to his mother, and father. Home to Matthew and Jonah and Wolf Spring. Home to Jules. And to Arsinoe, with the gift of a fine husband.

Billy reached into his pocket. “And there’s this,” he said, and pulled out a small box. He opened it, and inside was the silver ring that Joseph had admired in the shop window. Even in the dimness of the hall, the green stones glittered. “I doubled back for it when I sent you home ahead.”

“I can’t afford it,” said Joseph, and pushed the box back.

Billy shook his head and placed it in Joseph’s hands. “I’m not going to let you go home with nothing for your girl.” Then he turned him back to the party, his grin wide. “Joseph my friend, we are going to take that island of yours by storm.”

[sam-glade]

Find the Words Tag

Tagged by @talesofsorrowandofruin here and @kaiusvnoir here. Thank you!

I'll pass it gently onto: @mrbexwrites @mjjune @scribe-of-stories @chayscribbles with the words: home, excited, eye, cold.

From @talesofsorrowandofruin: bandages, crawling, dull and extraordinary.

BANDAGES

“I would like to see what my left arm looks like, please.”

Reluctantly, she stood up, and as gently as she could, she helped him pull up his sleeve.

His forearm was bandaged just over the entry wound, and the bandages were needed only to hold some topical painkillers. The coal patterns spread up and down his arm, from his shoulder to his wrist, posing a stark contrast with the white cloth and his skin. He hissed at the sight and looked away.

CRAWLING

Tiredness washed over Ianim. The Prince kept watching him, and it was making him uncomfortable. He put down the empty glass, noticing how much his hand was shaking. 

“Will you manage to get to your quarters?” she asked with clear concern. Ianim wasn’t sure if it was genuine. He had never seen her show concern before.

He ground his teeth and nodded. He was going to get there on his own, even if it meant crawling. He stood up and swayed.

DULL

This was beyond her. She sat with the First Prince and her Successor, at half past three in the night, sharing drinks, wearing only night clothes, while a Humble Keeper was tidying up a person’s remains from the adjacent room. Erya swallowed half of her drink in one go. And there she thought that the life of a Prince Consort would be dull.

EXTRAORDINARY

"I would hesitate to deliberately bind a person's life to a legend like so. Legends are a precarious tool; they are difficult to control, and they can get out of hand very easily. Once set on their course, they may force changes upon a person and lead to actions one would not have chosen to take otherwise."

"Isn't that what the White Dragon has done though? Become a legend?" Lissan asked. It wasn't just the White Dragon. Ianim was nicknamed the Lord of the People's Hearts and that reputation in part made him into the extraordinary person that he was.

~*~

From @kaiusvnoir: shake, flat, palm, and away

SHAKE

She looked at Mikkel, schooling her face into a mask of fear and concern. Mikkel’s expression reflected that.

“Madam General, you have mentioned rumours about the Shadow’s unrequited love for the First Prince,” he started slowly. “Is it not plausible that this was their motive?”

Erya hid her face in her hands.

“Why kill her then? Why not me?” she asked weakly, forcing her voice to shake. She wondered for how much longer her act would be convincing.

FLAT

“Lissan. I wasn’t aware that your medical leave’s ended,” was Gullin’s greeting. This wasn’t right. He would be the first one to know if that was the case, even before Lissan. His voice was flat, and there was no excitement in it. Lissan had hoped that he had been missed at least a bit.

PALM

Khoms looked at the arena again. The younger Sword was dancing around, avoiding lighting bolts hitting all around him. He was fast, but not as fast as some Messengers whose basic form related to movement speed. Unless the Lieutenant General couldn’t hit any faster.

“Come on, Nikols! You know I can take it,” Lissander shouted, panting just a little.

Another lightning bolt shot directly towards him. He didn’t evade it. Instead… he blocked it. With his bare hand. Lieutenant General Nikols paused, waiting for Lissander to show him his presumably badly burnt palm.

AWAY

“There are rumours which people are scared to repeat. Rumours nobody dared to say before.”

“Are you scared as well?” Anthea challenged, watching her through narrowed eyes.

“No, I simply think that they are paranoid ramblings of people who are afraid, desperate, and uncertain about their future.” Anthea looked at her pointedly. “All right, they say that the Sun King has abandoned His people. They say that He has turned away and that the princes will use this opportunity to grasp for more power.”

Anthea was predictably indignant. Rime appeared on the metal basket around her mostly empty tea glass. Erya sighed and waited out her anger; it passed quickly enough.

“Don’t smite the messenger, if you’d be so kind, my prince,” Erya reminded her dryly.

[lencra]

♛ → THE WESTERLANDS present(s) LENORA TARGARYEN née LEFFORD, the QUEEN CONSORT of THE CROWNLANDS, THE STORMLANDS AND THE STEPSTONES. when the dragons danced in the sky they thought the GREENS would still fly, but in the blink of an eye, they would all die. the TWENTY-NINE year old FEMALE who was INDEPENDENT & ELEGANT before they saw the first of the flames, is now UNPRINCIPLED & DETACHED after seeing the last. they’re often associated with the last glint of orange across the sky during sundown, the sound of coal eagerly gliding across paper, the unnerving feeling of observing hazel eyes watching patiently from a corner and the sweet smell of magnolias on the summer breeze. (hannah dodd)

STORY

lenora was married to lord gerion tarbeck for five moons until he was executed by the lannisters. she married him as she had been asked to report on his doings by her mother who knew nora did not seek a powerful match and so they found a compromise. she took measures all throughout her marriage to avoid conceiving a child. as soon as she was told of house tarbeck's role in her beloved mother's death, she fully turned on them and was pleased to see the house go extinct. after her husband's death, lenora was once again a lefford as the death was effectively treated as a divorce. nora was never happier than as a widow, the freedom of her new status suited her well, and there was a spark in her that was not there while she was betrothed or married.

after returning to golden tooth, she fully threw herself into her passion for architecture, landscaping and drawing. she could often be found with a pen with a coal core and paper in the gardens. lenora took on the task of redesigning the gardens at golden tooth, she was sketching different plans for the new design before she was made head lady-in-waiting to queen katherine.

after some time at king tyland's court, she got betrothed and wedded to prince jaehaerys targaryen in 143 ac. upon her marriage, she became the princess consort of the crownlands.

lenora became queen consort of the crownlands, the stormlands and the stepstones after her husband, now king jaehaerys ii, conquered the kingdoms and took the throne from his cousin, queen daenerys. while he was preparing to take the throne, lenora was poisoned which resulted in the loss of their unborn son.

a moon before her husband's official coronation, she discovered that she was with child again. in 144 ac she gave birth to twin boys, prince aegor, the heir to the throne, and prince tybolt, the heir to storm's end.

PERSONALITY

lenora is a calm and rational creature, it generally takes a lot to rile her up. sometimes her calmness is downright unnerving for others, a fact in which she does take some pleasure. however, her calmness can sometimes evolve into detachment and apathy.

due to her calm demeanour, she is often confided in and trusted, which is a responsibility that she takes seriously.

her secret wish in life is to be left alone to design, draw, build and be allowed to indulge in all her passions. had she not been born a daughter of house lefford, she would likely have strived to become a royal architect. but lenora has seemingly come to a quiet acceptance that some dreams will only stay dreams.

when she gets angry, she gets cold and she will cut off all contact with you if she's able. she is far more ice than fire, more head than heart.

RANDOM FACTS

if called by a nickname, she prefers to go by nora.

she is naturally left-handed but has trained herself to become somewhat ambidextrous, but while drawing nora prefers to use her left hand as she finds it easier to do detailing.

lenora was distraught by her mother's death as she admired her greatly. after her mother's death, she tried to fill lanna's shoes the best she could by taking on more responsibilities at golden tooth. it was by doing this that she unwittingly made herself a perfect candidate for a new bride for jaehaerys.

she's quite tall, taller than most ladies, at 175 cm/5'8" and she is slender. lenora has hazel eyes, more green and gold than brown, and wavy blonde hair that she sometimes curls.

WANTED CONNECTIONS

the art nerds (close but distant friends): while lenora has grown up close to her sisters and cousins, i still see her having a small group of close friends. these friends would also likely have an artistic hobby of some kind or at least be interested in art, it would be something they bond over. it can be everything from music to poetry to painting. i imagine they are spread all over the kingdoms.

a childhood sweetheart: we are talking in her teen years, so it would be quite an innocent romance, more just like a first kiss type of thing. lenora would have believed herself to be in love at the time, but now she knows that it was just the thrill of discovering romance, his feelings about it will be determined by whoever picks up the connection. they might be good friends to this day or they might not have seen each other much, if at all since, and it is a little awkward. there are many possibilities! ― taken by ser percival templeton.

friends: lenora is in need of friends outside her family, so anyone she has bonded with in the past, but that might not qualify for the art nerds group. it can range in everything from casual friends to best friends.

enemies: i don't think nora has beef with a lot of people, but she is generally a little colder towards those close to garland hightower or with a connection to the iron isles. while it is very difficult to rile her up, she can be provoked if anyone speaks ill about her immediate family ― especially if someone talks shit about her sisters. however, she might be disliked through no fault of her own for her connection to the lannisters or to the targaryens.

a false friend: perhaps someone who has faked friendship in order to get close to lenora in order to try and gain information on the lannisters or the targaryens. someone who has placed themselves in her circle of friends for a specific selfish reason.

[sezja]

Febuwhump Day 7: Made to Watch Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Characters/Ship: Original Character (Nerise the Dragonrider), Ratatoskr Triggers/Content warnings: Violence

All her life, Nerise has been plagued by visions - images dredged from the depths of time, against her will: the pain, the joy, the secrets. When she was a small child, she feared they'd cost her a chance at becoming a wyvern rider; what if she should be stricken by a vision while in the air? She'd plummet to her death, with her companion unable to save her. No dragon would have her as a companion in the first place, for wyverns trusted only strength, and she was a sickly child. Being prone to collapsing with unwanted, unexpected visions of the past did her no favors.

It was Ratatoskr, the great Mother, who first named her curse a blessing.

"There is a vast presence upon thee, little one," she'd said, lowering her enormous head to peer more closely at Nerise, through eyes as warm and bright as fresh coals, as bright as polished rubies. "Vast and bright, lying upon thy shoulders as a blanket of sunlight. Her will guides thee, child, and to greatness will it guide thy steps!"

And only then had Sohl Amh claimed Nerise: "You stand accused of harboring greatness, little one," they'd said. "And Mother is seldom wrong in these matters."

Thus her past. Thus her future.

But this is no past of her own, nor any past she would ever wish to see.

Men of Ishgard, ancient and archaic, marching on the Mists. A trap laid to capture one of the First Brood; in her vision - try thought she might to claw her way free of it - Nerise hears them scheming. Thordan. King Thordan, he will become; she has learned of what became of the city of her birth. The blood it spilled to rise to power. The endless war it began, the cycle of unending vengeance, and it all began with-

I don't want to see this!

Flailing madly, furiously, without a body to flail with. She marches with them, a faceless soldier. Or perhaps one of the Knights Twelve themselves; Nerise doesn't know. Doesn't care. She'd hurl herself - and him - from the nearest cliff's edge if only she could change the past, stay his hand, stay the passage of time-

Hydaelyn, you could have brought me here! You could have saved her! I could have saved her-

Her, Ratatoskr.

She gleams in innocent morning light, a blue so deep it's nearly black, like the ocean at night. In two hundred years, never has she ceased seeking ways to strengthen the bonds between man and dragon - this in spite of her consort's seething distrust of mankind; this in spite of Ishgard's refusal to allow dragons within her walls. Doors must be opened, Ratatoskr argues, on both sides. There must be brotherhood, kinship, love, between their worlds. In the Mists, this is known: Zenith rises as a testament to the unity between landlords and skylords...

But Ishgard has distanced itself, over the past few decades, from her savage cousins in Dravania; trade routes are neglected, few new wyvern riders are trained. And Dravania responds in kind. Trouble brews. These bridges must be mended; these bonds must not fall - Ratatoskr hopes this meeting will be but the first step on the road to restoring the glory of the past two centuries.

It is not to be.

Nerise knows, screaming, it is not to be.

Ratatoskr all but bears her heart for the blade; she did not expect violence. Unlike her brothers, she is no warrior: Ratatoskr is the wanderer, the traveler, eager to learn and discover, eager to meet others. For this, she was chosen. They thought her to be the weakest.

Even as she dies, she pleads for reason. Even as she bleeds beneath their swords, even as the stones beneath their feet turn black with dragonic blood, Ratatoskr begs them to think of the future, of peace-

Nerise would look away, if she could.. But it is her own hands that-

That-

A helpless rage seizes her, and Nerise ceases to be aware of anything at all for several long minutes - only a red haze of fury. At her own impotence. At Hydaelyn, judging other threats to be more deserving of Her attention than this. At Ratatoskr herself, for failing to lash out at her betrayers. At those betrayers themselves, cruel fools, architects of a war that will see Ishgard all but brought to her knees, and all for greed-

The last thing she sees is the knights prying Ratatoskr's eyes from her dying (but not dead, not yet, still breathing) body, preparing to feast.

And then, in mercy, she wakes.

She wakes, lying on her back beneath the churning sky of what is now called the Churning Mists, watching umbral static crackle. Sohl Amh peers down at her, concerned - and well they should be; it's been some time since a vision last took her so hard it left her nearly unconscious.

"Nerise," they say, nosing her shoulder. "You are well?"

She opens her mouth to respond... but only manages a choked sob.

She is not well; nothing will ever be well again.

[pollstuck]

You are suddenly the awesome coolkid.

In a different game session.

In the future.

-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering gallowsCalibrator [GC] --

TG: what the fuck was the point of this again TG: why did i ever agree to go along with this horseshit GC: B3C4US3 YOU H4D TO, 1T W4S 1N YOUR FUTUR3 GC: 4ND B3S1D3S YOU MUST US3 D1PLOM4CY TO W1N OV3R YOUR CONSORTS GC: S33 LOOK 1NSUFF3R4BL3, TH3Y 4LL LOV3 YOU NOW! YOU 4R3 TH3 H3RO, 1TS YOU >:] GC: NOW TH3Y W1LL G1V3 YOU 4LL TH3 S3CR3TS OF TH3 L4ND TG: what secrets TG: they dont have any secrets TG: look at them theyre morons TG: the only secret theyve got is how many times a day they accidentally flush their medical alert bracelets down the toilet GC: 1NSUFF3R4BL3, TH3Y 4R3 STUP1D 4ND Y3T V3RY W1S3 GC: YOU H4V3 MUCH TO L34RN 4ND 1 W1LL K33P H3LP1NG YOU L34RN 1T! GC: 3V3N 1F YOU 4R3 4 HUG3 CRYB4BY WHO 1S 34S1LY UPS3T BY CHOPP3D V3G3T4BL3S TG: ok im gonna change out of this wet suit TG: and into a dry shut your fucking mouth GC: >8Y BLUHHHHHHH

TG: there now i wont be satisfying your crazy red fetish either GC: >:'C GC: NOW 1 4M CRY1NG TOO YOU S33 WH4T YOU D1D TG: all you get to smell is black TG: like licorice or something TG: you hate licorice right GC: 1 LOV3 L1COR1C3 TG: shit TG: ok lets say i dont smell like licorice then TG: i smell like TG: a coal miners asshole GC: TOO L4T3! GC: 1T 4LR34DY SM3LLS L1K3 L1COR1C3 S1NC3 YOU S41D TH4T, 4ND NOW 1 C4NT UNSM3LL 1T TG: whatever TG: anyway TG: probably bout time i got on with this game TG: sans these pointless sidequests you want drag me through for kicks TG: later blart nice knowing you GC: W41T! GC: YOU C4N'T D1TCH M3, W3V3 GOT 1MPORT4NT STUFF TO DO TOG3TH3R TG: unlikely GC: OH GC: H3Y >:o GC: HOW DO YOU KNOW MY N4M3? TG: you told me remember GC: Y34H, BUT 1 THOUGHT YOU FORGOT! TG: why would i forget GC: YOU S41D YOU W3R3 GO1NG TO M4K3 4 PO1NT OF FORG3TT1NG! TG: oh TG: i guess i forgot i was supposed to forget GC: W3LL TH3N GC: M1ST3R 1NSUFF3R4BL3 PR1CK GC: 1 4M GL4D TH4T YOU FORGOT TO FORG3T >:D TG: uh alright TG: im still gonna go off and do my own thing though TG: later GC: W41T!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! TG: dammit what GC: OK 1 G3T TH4T YOU 4R3 TH1S R4D LON3R 4ND YOU TH1NK YOU H4V3 1T 4LL F1GUR3D OUT GC: BUT HOW 4BOUT TH1S GC: 1F 1 4M M34NT TO H3LP YOU, TH3N YOUR FUTUR3 S3LF OUGHT TO V1S1T YOU R1GHT NOW 4ND G1V3 YOU 4 THUMBS UP, R1GHT? GC: 1T W1LL B3 YOUR W4Y OF CONF1RM1NG TO YOURS3LF TH4T 1 C4N B3 TRUST3D GC: TH3R3 1S NO W4Y YOU WOULD PL4N TO DO TH4T 1N TH3 FUTUR3 1F YOU 3ND UP R3GR3TT1NG MY H3LP GC: DO3S TH4T SOUND F41R? TG: yeah fine but i doubt that i TG: oh fuck there i am hiding behind that column GC: >8D

TG: ok so whats the plan GC: 1 THOUGHT YOU WOULD N3V3R 4SK GC: TH3R3 4R3 SO M4NY PL4NS GC: W3 4R3 GO1NG TO B3 SO BUSY 1NSUFF3R4BL3, YOU H4V3 NO 1D34 TG: thats cool TG: but whats the answer that doesnt have anything to do with meaningless bullshit GC: 1SNT 1T OBV1OUS? GC: NOW TH4T W3 4R3 4 T34M 1NSUFF3R4BL3 GC: YOU 4ND M3 GC: 1T 1S T1M3 TG: time TG: for GC: T1M3 TG: for TG: come on GC: FOR............ TG: ...... TG: ........... GC: ............................. GC: FOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.............. TG: god dammit GC: 4 MOTH3R FUCK1NG D4NC3 P4RTY!!!!!!! >:O!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! GC: http://tinyurl.com/OMGD4NC3P4RTY TG: whoa

TG: i TG: where the fuck did this footage come from TG: like that isnt one of your shitty drawings that's straight up footage GC: W3LL YOU S33 1NSUFF3R4BL3... GC: 1 DONT 4CTU4LLY KNOW >:? GC: 1T JUST SHOW3D UP ON MY COMPUT3R TG: look at us go TG: i cant stop watching TG: damn TG: those moves GC: TRUST M3 GC: TH3S3 MOV3S DONT STOP K33P T4K1NG PL4C3 GC: NOT 4T TH1S P4RTY TG: i can see im going to have to drop everything TG: drop it like its simultaneously hot and i just tripped over the rug TG: dedicate my undivided attention to this shit GC: 1NSUFF3R4BL3, WHY TR1P OV3R TH4T RUG... GC: WH3N YOU C4N CUT 1T????? >:] GC: T4PP4 T4P T4P 4 P4P! GC: SHOOSH SHOOSH! TG: damn youre right TG: truth be told everyone will be tripping when im done TG: once i upset this biznasty with my swift cuts TG: dudes will phalanx themselves agape like theyre offerin to store my shit in their mouths for the night TG: rows of glasseyed human fly catchers beholding categorical fucking domination of the dance floor TG: but they wont catch none cause the flys all mine GC: YOU H4V3 4LL TH3 D3L1C1OUS FL13S

TG: ok but seriously TG: who are these other guys were jammin with TG: is that a cyclops? GC: 1T'S CL34RLY 4 B1CLOPS TG: damn my bad TG: oh hold the fucking phone TG: is that nick cage??? GC: WHO 1S N1CK C4G3 TG: he's this really weird actor that zoosmell is obsessed with TG: why the fuck is he there GC: H3 MUST H4V3 PL4Y3D SGRUB TG: i guess that makes sense TG: shits already so goddamn weird TG: this might as well happen

TG: but seriously what is the real plan here TG: that has to do with not fucking around GC: YOUV3 S34D BUT S3R1OUSLY TW1C3 1N L1K3 TWO M1NUT3S GC: 4R3 W3 G3TT1NG DOUBL3 S3R1OUS TG: were getting double serious GC: GU3SS 1 N33D TO ST3P UP MY G4M3 TG: so what are we doing GC: W3LL, W3 N33D TO ST4RT M4K1NG YOU SOM3 MON3Y GC: LOTS 4ND LOTS 4ND LOTS OF 1T! TG: ok GC: WH3N YOU H4V3 S4V3D UP 3NOUGH GC: W3 W1LL BUY YOU YOUR F1RST FR4YMOT1F GC: TH3N YOU C4N ST4RT CUTT1NG OUT TRULY TH3 FLY3ST OF MOV3S GC: 4ND TH4T 1S WH3N W3 W1LL B3G1N TH3 MOST POORLY B3H4V3D D4NC3 P4RTY OF 4LL >:D TG: sounds cool GC: D3MONS 4ND D3N1Z3NS 4L1K3 W1LL TR3MBL3 B3FOR3 YOUR F1DG3TY GYR4T1ONS GC: 4ND MOST 1MPORT4NTLY, YOU W1LL PROV3 YOURS3LF TO B3 TH3 B3ST HUM4N BOY OF 4LL GC: W4Y B3TT3R TH4N TH4T DORKY POOPLORD 4ND WHO3V3R M1GHT B3 M3DDL1NG W1TH H1M 4T 4NY G1V3N MOM3NT TG: huh what an odd thing to say TG: it demands no explanation whatsoever GC: NO OF COURS3 NOT TG: so how do i start making all this money GC: P4T13NC3! GC: R3M3MB3R HOW 1 S41D YOU H4V3 PL3NTY OF T1M3 TG: tell me anyway GC: OK W3LL T4K3 WH4T YOU H4V3 S4V3D UP FROM CL1MB1NG YOUR 3CH3L4DD3R TO ST4RT W1TH GC: HOW MUCH DO YOU H4V3? TG: dont know TG: i never even looked at it GC: BL3333H, N1C3 JOB 4C3 G4M3R GC: M4YB3 YOU SHOULD H4V3 4 LOOK 4T 1T TG: k GC: 4ND TH3N 1 W1LL 4DV1S3 YOU L4T3R 4FT3R OBS3RV1NG TH3 GR4ND SCH3M3 OF 4LL TH1NGS 4ND 4LL 1NSUFF3R4BL3S GC: 1 W1LL L34V3 YOU 4LON3 FOR 4 L1TTL3 WH1L3 TO W4ND3R 4ND 3XPLOR3 GC: BUT 1 W1LL B3 B4CK! TG: awesome TG: peace out p-b GC: >:) TG: oh shit GC: >:?

GC: WH4T 1S 1T????? TG: fuck

[jackhkeynes]

London in the "Good Game" period

question and marking advice in translation from the Dijon New School 2019 Concurrence History scitation paper "Family, Tradition and Language: the Changing Culture of the Good Game Decades"

Descorrir sull'ort dy Magl Urban Novel e sur lorry sousunçon ny Collujon, ant caglou irrayant all'aðoinç de Londr lonc y traiscnant dell'epoc d'Atelier Mondial. Discuss the rise of the New Urban Mesh and their subsumption into the Collusion, with emphasis on the growth of London following the Global Workshop period.

Cos tranquessem, comparaçon fair dy racont de lorry benoç de spionnaç all'Aust por gournment dirigir lonc asmuth san cas commarç con y realtað plausibr. In particular, compare the popular account of their use of espionage in the East to steer politics in tradewise-beneficial directions with the likely reality.

----

Valour dar ag postion d'emphas sur y droug d'orðenjanç marin e cos particular sur y cavibiltað de carbon por y commarç Urban basfiar. Give credit for emphasising the role of maritime technology and especially access to coal in supporting the Urban trade.

Respos carr ci mostrant ig y stuðant es eið doutr a for y lasc d'an 1968 "Sr Desarden, Prinç Nuçal" sgardar; ig l'es aglon suet ag mesur dy seucq de James Desarden nell'Adminstration Muncever cos equal pre sell'ascreiçon a Nacon Day e posc y scandal d'an 1887 y dou. Look for responses which prove that the student has done more than watch 1968 film “Mr Desarden, Prince Consort”; that they are actually familiar with James Desarden's career in the City Administration both before his assignment to Nackon Day [Thailand] and after the scandal of 1887.

[herohikara-wol]

FFXIV Write 2k23 - Day 28

Blunt - Emperor AU

“Absolutely not.” Varis frowned as Hero sulked in his seat. “I’ve told you before, it would reflect poorly on both of us if you did.” Once again they were fighting over Hero’s potential romantic prospects, and once again, Hero was being insanely stubborn about them.

“Every single suitor I’ve met so far, I can’t trust as far as I can throw them! I’ve met half this list during the different balls, festivals, senate meetings, state dinners and even the military meeting I’ve had to attend in the last six moons. I don’t feel comfortable with any of them. Certainly not comfortable enough to bed them, much less wed them.”

“There’s the other half of the list, your Radiance.” Varis was only growling in frustration, “have you considered using your echo to do more than just reject your suitors?”

“My echo warns me of danger, ill intentions, and lies. They aren’t interested in me either, they’re interested in my power and position. I refuse to have a loveless marriage, I want a partner I can trust.”

“Zenos keeps trying to kill you every time you train with him, how is that a sign of trust?”

“All he’s doing is trying to find a way to fight me at my full strength, when we’re not in the training room he’s docile.”

“Lazy.”

“Tired and bored. I’d rather have someone smart and a bit lazy than stupid and ambitious, Varis.”

The high legatus cringed a little, he couldn’t fault Hero for that one. Smart and Lazy were a wonderful combination, they were the ones who could make a system more efficient just so it let them do less work. Smart and ambitious people made things happen, they were the go-getters who ensured everything ran smoothly, much like Asahi was. The pair were becoming a very effective combination whenever they were left alone with a single problem to focus on. It’s the people who were both ambitious and incapable of rubbing together two brain cells to spark a single idea that were the real danger. All the desire to run the world and none of the critical thinking skills to do so.

Framed like that, he could understand why Hero preferred someone like Zenos who had no desire to control him, and instead would lounge about like a feral cat who’d found a warm spot until he found something to hunt. Zenos was, relatively speaking, safe. The sons of the political upper crust in Garlean society were raised in a society that was as cold and cut throat as his grandsire once was.

Still is, if the damned ascian was so intent on hanging around and haunting the palace after his supposed demise.

He inhaled slowly, counted to ten, and tried again. “If you court Zenos officially, the senate will rake me over the coals for trying to groom you into giving me the position of power I would have had if my grandsire had chosen me to succeed him. They will see it as a naked attempt at a bid for power from me, not a choice you made willfully with all due consideration.”

“So you need me to meet, flirt with, and reject literally every other option on the table before I’m allowed to court Zenos and Asahi openly.”

Finally, progress. “Yes, exactly.”

Hero growled softly, his face contorting into the most sour look Varis had ever seen the young Viera make. Still, he picked up the data pad before him and started going through the list of potential consorts and wives he had yet to reject. “Fine, but I’m not going to enjoy it. Mark my words.”

“Does anyone ever enjoy the prospect of an arranged marriage, your Radiance? I’m sure at least a dozen people on that list are only there because their parents put them there and they had no say in the matter. Your rejection would be a blessing to them.” He noticed one of the suitors and sighed, “she’s one of them actually. Her lover is actually on the palace guard, the lovely lady on the morning Library rotation.”

“Okay we’ll make that plan b then, I marry a lesbian and fuck your son on the side.” Varis wasn’t sure how to feel about the candid way Hero mentioned it, and it had to have shown on his face because the young Emperor smirked up at him. “You told me to give it all due consideration, so I’m considering.”

“Could you consider using less vulgar language when referring to my son, your radiance?”

“And miss you making angry dad faces at me? Never.”

[rjalker]

This is how it should have gone lol.

[ID: A screenshot from the Pokemon Anime, showing Team Rocket and Brock, Misty and Ash in a coal cart, each side pointing at the other, with the subtitles reading, [all screaming].

Team Rocket has been labeled, "The Indigo Cloud court thinking Moon's an actual solitary consort".

Ash and his friends are labeled, "Moon thinking the Indigo Cloud court are all Fell".

End ID.]