#fic: a terrible game

[hirazuki]

Clematis or marjoram for Melkor?

Thanks!

Clematis | Mental Beauty | Your mind vs. my mind

•────────────────────⋅☾ ☽⋅────────────────────•

He descends the stairs to the lowest level; the long hall at the bottom takes him lower still, past the smithies and furnaces, the vast storerooms and the deeper mines and the opening to the caverns below the mountains, where molten rock sits spewing fire up at the shielded sky.

The light underground is warm, here, in Angband -- candles and torches and liquid flame; a merry union with the air that lives inside the fortress. It is a far cry from the cold cradle of Utumno, subterranean dark swathed in blue-green lucency, the seat from where poison and peril once flowed out to stain all the land, and fear walked abroad in his name.

It sickens him.

It is not Utumno the Deep-hidden (and fear no longer leaves his side), and in the moments where spite threatens to soak his thought and touch wholly, as a corpse-sack laden with gathered blood, he craves to strangle it: choke it all out until everyone is suffocating from ash and from ice, as though that would recall old power; as though it would bring back a time when the pain was a sleepless, aching thing in his mind and soul only. Now, it is in his skin and in his bones, tightly sewn into this charred flesh he cannot shed, which, to all of Angband, he pretends does not bother him.

He walks, and his steps fall with less thunder and more substance together than they once did -- as they do yet with each passing day -- and he pretends that this does not bother him either.

Melkor slows, feet edging the doorway to his destination: a yawning room, empty save for the single lantern burning low on the floor, the shadows it casts, and the elf in chains, shackled to a wall.

Maedhros -- Maitimo; Nelyafinwë -- the first son of Fëanor and newly vested High King of the Noldor. The commanding piece on the battlefield against his own.

Anger blazes anew in Melkor, as fresh as the blood that blackens his ever-blackened hand from where he had stuck it through an orc, mere moments ago. The creature had fallen to the ground in a clatter of iron and ivory, to join the already-rotting answer to his missive.

So, the elf is not to be bartered. Nor sapped for information: he knows nothing of import; Melkor has already wrung him dry. 

What, then, is to be done with him?

Melkor longs for the release, however temporary it will prove, that he knows violence will bring; to rework flesh and mind and spirit until they are recognizable only with mounting horror as a guide, fragmented visions in broken glass.

And it has always served well, as example and as warning.

However... there is something to be said about a much different kind of blow dealt to his enemies, the damage wrought by murmurs and mistrust, were their king to return to them one day, visibly -- inexplicably -- untouched, where all others have come back disfigured.

Mairon had advised the latter, before leaving -- dutifully, reluctantly -- on his orders to scout the new elven camps with his wolves, tongue tinged with something that on anyone else would have been nothing short of insolence and insubordination.

Mairon is right, of course.

How very like his own self of older days his lieutenant has become, all fluid grace and pretty words (though with an orderliness, a precision, a lack of waste, that he himself, naturally, has never possessed), while he --

Melkor clenches his jaw, and tastes metal in his mouth.

He knows what is happening to him.

Do they think he does not? Do they think he cannot see? His moods, fey and mutable always, yes, but in both directions, now grow ever more dire with no recovery. Irascible. Implacable. Insatiable. He sees it, knows it, fears it, with the bloodless terror of clinging webs and unlight, the daily dread of recognizing a dozen glinting eyes and undying hunger across a mirror, and yet is powerless to stop it.

He desires the light as he hates it, needs it as he cannot abide it, and now that he possesses it, finally, and in a manner that he can keep it all to himself, he cannot possibly cast it aside, no matter that it is the source of his decline.

They would like the jewels gone; the orcs and the balrogs, the werewolves and trolls and vampires, the elves in his service; all his servants; Mairon, most of all -- and this he knows, too.

They shield their eyes with downturned faces before him and disguise it as reverence, scuttle down dark passageways like rodents before a flood, resentful of the violation he has brought to the underbelly of Arda -- nay, to its very womb -- and the war that it has spurred to these shores.

There is no question that the assault the caged treelight wages on their senses is unbearable.

The assault it wages on his own is tenfold thus.

The glare blinds him, everything bleeding in a white haze of indistinct shapes, and the weight bows down his head, until the very idea of rest is but a distant dream of shadows among pitiless light; a memory of breath above water, above crushing rock.

To bear the Silmarils is excruciating. How to let them go, when to bear their loss would be even more so?

How to see them fall back into elven hands?

Melkor has always begrudged the elves their existence, but his hatred of them was not always such. He had entertained himself with them, in the beginning, when all they had known was stars and dark, slumbering woods and the shadow-shapes that walked in the hills. But the war that led to his wreck and ruin was made for their sake, and this he will never forgive. After Angainor, after three ages in Mandos, after Fëanor and the accursed creations of his hands -- he has nothing but hatred left.

This one, though, he thinks, regarding red waves spilling over bare skin like open wounds, glistening dark in the candlelight, this one is different.

Mairon has the right of it -- this one, Fëanor's eldest that burns with the same fire as his sire, yet more tempered and therefore more dangerous, is of rare value, despite his apparent worthlessness as leverage. He may benefit greatly from a different touch than the heavy hand of slag and slaughter that has become Melkor's fare.

Surely, he remembers how; he's not so far gone as that.

He may not be able to discard this body anymore, but he can still craft illusion -- and so he wraps an image around himself that hearkens back to shapes of old, larger but not too large, imposing yet sinuous, like black smoke coiling in the air, hair dancing around his head in tendrils with the languor of oil in water. He keeps his face constant, eyes glowing like the ice of the northern wastes, but little else: hands and limbs, all materialize and dissipate in dark mists as he pleases, as needed to caress, to cajole, to taunt.

Melkor is not certain what he is aiming to achieve with this, how this will aid in his deciding the fate of Fëanor's son; but, then again, there never has been much purpose beyond impulse. It is his nature, after all, and he merely follows it.

He allows himself a prick or two; a scratch, here and there, carved so shallow that not even his lieutenant can complain.

There is no response to his attentions.

It is only a matter of time before he teases the elf with those much-sought after jewels that live upon his head, the first time since donning his crown that he has removed it, in an effort to provoke a reaction -- any reaction, to break that stony composure that has quickly turned from amusing to aggravating until it crumbles like dry clay beneath his gaze -- and he presses them against his face, in the space between eyes and jaw.

Maedhros screams.

He recoils as he is burned, viciously cracking his shoulder on the wall behind him, and the acrid stench of seared flesh fills the air: it is a scent Melkor knows well.

They stand there in stillness, elf and Vala, one heaving with enough force to empty out his innards, the other regarding the iron in his hand, both silent; both surprised.

It is Melkor who recovers first -- and he laughs.

"Oh, this is precious," he finally breathes, returning the crown to his head and shedding his guise in his elation.

Maedhros is hissing and swiping -- like a cub, belonging to one of those long-fanged beasts of horn and plated bone that he had fashioned in the dark beyond the Lamps, that has been deprived of its morsel -- and saying something, but Melkor is no longer listening.

He runs his hand through hair red like blood, tangling his fingers in the strands, claws grazing skin gently, the urge to harm sated -- briefly; a mere flake of snow before open flame; never fully -- by this new knowledge. For no thing he can visit upon the spawn of Fëanor could ever surpass this.

It has been a terrible game, this affair of theirs, he thinks -- Fëanor's mind against his own -- absentmindedly continuing to stroke the elf's head, as though it is one of Angband's cats that he is soothing through a restless night.

But, however this ends -- whatever becomes of him; no matter if they throw down his towers, wrench the wretched West from its dim horizon to these far shores and hew his feet from under him -- he is secure in the certainty of one single thing:

His mind has already won.

• ────────────────────────────────────────── •

Anon, I hope you like this!!! Thanks so much for sending this in and giving me a chance to show my actual serious take on canon-verse Melkor instead of the humorous comic version I keep throwing at all of you ♡

[tagidearte]

My internship has started and I'm overloaded with doing historical illustration + writing a whole ass roman history of the region book for children, so... No time for finished stuff any time soon (except one I've already started and will probs post within the next few days). Take this quick messy shippy little concept.

If they ever got separate bodies, I know they would be touchy. Trying to get as close as they once were.

[luvmeanyway]

hi there dan and phil tumblr

i'm iovecanglan on dnptwt, but that community has fostered a terribly toxic environment so i wanted to try my hand at tumblr for a bit :)

my name is jay and i'm a 23-year-old lesbian from texas :3 i will be at tit austin as well as london (friday + saturday) !! i have been watching dnp since 2013 and i am the #1 enjoyer of the dan and phil's traumatic golf incident video :P

even though dnp are my biggest interest atm i am also technically a multifandom account on every platform, so i will post about other things i enjoy too (like chappell roan, atla, studio ghibli, cdramas, books, etc.)

i also write!! i'm ivylakes on ao3 and i have an ongoing one-shot series where i write about canon events that have happened post-hiatus (such as what i believe dan's immediate reaction was to phil dyeing his hair blonde) <3 i have something really special in the works rn so stay tuned!

i don't want to make this too long lol so i think that covers everything for now... it's nice to meet you all and i'm super excited to be here ♥

[hips-dont-lieculosis]

Ok I had a thought, I feel like dan and Phil’s relationship with the phandom at this point is like sitcom “were secretly together but we can’t let our friends know” vibes and we are the friends. They think that they’re doing a great job at hiding it because they’re saying they’re friends and they tease each other all the time and pretend that they’re sooo annoyed by the other, but really everyone knows what’s going on and we’re just waiting for them to actually say it so we’re not beating them to the punch, and then when it finally is revealed it’s gonna be a “we love you guys and we’re so happy and proud of you for telling us but…. We knew”, also I feel like this would make a great fan fic

[dvrcos]

The Fox couples taking shifts on Valentine’s Day to babysit/hangout with a sad Nicky who misses Erick

Dan and Matt take him to a nice breakfast/brunch restaurant with mimosas and plenty of pancakes

Renee and Allison watch a sappy romantic comedy movie with him to try and cheer him up while he nurses a bottle of vodka

Kevin and Aaron cook a nice dinner for him to cushion all the alcohol and set him up on a FaceTime dinner date with Erick before they leave for their own date

Neil and Andrew load him up with ice cream and makes sure there’s plenty water and painkillers on his nightstand when he eventually passes out

[moonriver080]

【The strange food Wild has eaten】Part.2(2/3)〈completed〉

Early picture(2023.11.17)

❗️Warning:Terrible English and Early Immature Paintings.

Sorry I don't know how to reply to the forwarded comments, thank you for your encouragement.💖💖💖

[inkymoonbunny]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @xxnashiraxx @verbenaa @kalmiaphlox @roguishcat @heylittleriotact

This won't be coming out for some time, but I've started working on a sequel to Branded Blood. Here's Ascended tiefling Astarion 💕

No pressure tags if you'd like to share @pinkberrytea @khywren @ladyduellist @justabiteofspite @preciouslittlebhaalbae @pickel182

[fiona-fififi]

Seven Sentence Sunday

Well, I wasn't going to post anything else from this fic until I was sure I was going to finish it, but then @inell tagged me (thank you for the tag!) in Seven Sentence Sunday, and the chunk I just finished writing was exactly seven sentences, so it felt like fate.

Anyway, here's a little more of the smut fic I may never finish that I previewed at the end of this ask.

“You're still so pent up, huh, baby?” Buck's words are slow and sweet as they wash over him, thick like honey as Eddie tries to process the pet name, and he can't help the gasp that falls from his lips or the way his thighs spread just a little at the quiet promise in Buck's words.

“Buck.” He means it as a warning. It comes out more like a plea.

At the desperation in Eddie's voice, Buck shifts closer, eyes darkening with want in a way Eddie's never seen on him, as he lets a hand fall heavy on Eddie's thigh, fingers digging in gently, and Eddie wants him to touch. Feels himself lift his hips to try to shift Buck's fingers closer to where he needs them, and he knows he should feel ashamed and embarrassed, but Buck's wearing the prettiest smile and pinning him with that wanton gaze, and Eddie just wants more.

Tagging (no pressure!) @messyhairdiaz @spotsandsocks @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz and anyone who wants to participate. (Also, I am so sorry, I know I am forgetting half my tag list, but it's late here and my brain isn't working.)

[bigfootsmom]

wip wednesday

i was tagged by the lovely and talented @try-set-me-on-fire and @honestlydarkprincess <3 <3 <3

have some more tarot because it's consumed my every waking thought:

The last thing Eddie can remember is sitting at the bar with Buck and then…nothing. In the middle of his murky thoughts there’s a gaping black hole.  How much did he have to drink last night? It certainly feels like he’s got the mother of all hangovers…but he only remembers having a few beers. He certainly hadn’t been in the mood for shots, and neither had Buck.  Eddie shifts, his back and side aching from how he’s lying. It feels like his arms have fallen asleep from his twisted position. Whatever he’s lying on is killing him. Did he pass out on the floor? God, he’s way too old to be doing that.  With monumental effort, Eddie manages to pry open his eyelids, his gummy lashes sticking together making the world blurry and out of focus. It’s far too bright, the light like daggers in his eyes as his headache squeezes around his temples like a vice. Hissing, he slams his eyes shut. Fuck. He is never drinking again. With a deep breath, he tries again, blinking a few times before he can finally make out what’s in front of him.  It’s not any room in his house, and it’s not Buck’s loft either.

tagging @usersiren, @swiftietartt, @holdmygum, @maygrantgf, @lovebuck, @miserykites, @princessfbi, @homerforsure, @mellaithwen, @shyaudacity, @eddiebabygirldiaz, @housewifebuck, @shortsighted-owl, @colonoscopys, @eowon, @underwater-ninja-13, @father-salmon, @devirnis, @loserdiaz, @monsterrae1, and anyone else who wants to post something! (sorry if you've been tagged already!)

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Tagged by @wildlife4life @devirnis @daffi-990 and @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove for fuck it Friday! More of Buck having a terrible time in the hospital

He’s not sure how long it takes to come back to himself, feeling trickling back into his hands and feet, vision clearing. He’s in a hard plastic chair with rough upholstery that he barely remembers seeing a few of down the hall. Maddie is on one side, clinging to his arm, and on the other- “B-Bobby… you shouldn’t-“

Bobby shakes his head, looking even paler than before. Tape peeling on his arm where the IV was. “It’s alright.”

”I-I-“ should have waited till I was in the elevator at least to throw this fit, jesus, you should be in bed. Why’d you come running, please, you need to rest, I almost lost you, too. It all buzzes against Buck’s lips but refuses to actually make it out.

“It’s alright,” Bobby repeats, rubbing his hand up and down Buck’s back. “I’m going to let everyone know you’re not up for visitors, and you don’t need food. Whatever you need, Buck, we’re- we’re gonna make that happen.”

I want Eddie back. “I want to go home. Eddie’s house.” Because he has to clarify, outside of his head, where he thinks home is.

Tagging @iinryer @chronicowboy @malewifediaz @eddiebabygirldiaz @bigfootsmom @shortsighted-owl @lover-of-mine @renecdote

[yumizurueleonora]

idk if you still want to take requests for the angsty sentence starter thing, but maybe 1 for akitoya, and then 13 and 17 for toya and harumichi? you can pick one or all of them haha

YES YES I AM THANK YOU GREAT PROMPT CHOICE I LIKED THIS :DD

1: “I’m just so afraid.”

Fuck. Fuck.

Akito can’t breathe.

He has to practice. He has to keep going.

The night stretches out, and that’s just another reminder of how Akito can’t stop.

Chasing that moon. That… gorgeous, delicate moon.

There’s so much fear in his chest. It’s suffocating.

That gentle voice is ringing in his head, saying words that make Akito’s heart shatter. Cutting him every time he tries to pick up the pieces.

“Don’t you think it’s about time you grew up and stopped chasing some tiny event that no-one’s even heard of outside of this town?”

It was a long time ago. Akito knows that. But…

But it’s still ringing in his head. He can’t stop it.

And that face is in his vision. Bruised and cold.

So cold.

He’s a terrible partner.

That voice keeps ringing in his head no matter how hard he sings.

And it’s only getting louder. Louder and louder.

“Akito!”

It’s almost like… he’s here…

His eyes flutter shut, and there are suddenly arms around him.

He doesn’t even need to see them. He knows those manicured fingers and long arms.

“…How’d you know?” Akito asks, and Toya chuckles softly.

“Partner sense.” He responds, but then his tone changes. “What are you doing, Akito?”

“Practicing.” Akito sighs.

“That wasn’t practice. That was… dangerous. Violent. Your voice was a honed blade.”

“Oh, come on. You’re exaggerating.”

“Am I?”

Akito stays silent, and Toya sighs.

“I’m afraid, Akito. I’m just so afraid for you.”

There’s another pang in Akito’s chest, and…

And Akito doesn’t know what to do.

So he just stays silent. In Toya’s arms. Feeling the pain that’s shared between them.

“Come home with me. My parents are out, we can play Pokémon or something.”

And Akito wants to tell him that he needs to keep practicing. That he’s also afraid. That he’s scared that Toya will leave him again, for good this time.

But he knows his partner. He won’t let that go.

So instead he just laughs softly and opens his eyes.

“Okay.”

And again, the pain continues. But that’s alright.

It’s alright for now.

13. “You never listen to me.”/17. “I have to leave.”

It’s always so… messy whenever Harumichi and Toya get into a fight.

Toya’s pacing the floor back and forth, an intense expression on his face.

It’s like looking in a mirror.

“You never listen to me!” Toya starts, his eyes flashing with a cold fire. “Why?! Why can’t you understand, Father?!”

“You’ll understand when you’re older.” Harumichi simply says, keeping his own temper under control.

It should come like second nature, but there’s a strange bubbling in his chest.

He’s a child. There’s no reason to yell.

But Toya keeps going, and he can’t keep repeating the same thing over and over again.

“Insolent child! You’re so stubborn!”

“Pot, meet kettle!” Toya snaps back. “Yes, I’m so stubborn! It’ll lead me to ruin! Then to my ruin I shall go! Why do you insist on dictating my life?!”

“Because for us, there is no other path for happiness than classical music!”

“No other path?! If someone told you that your only path to happiness was to be a doctor, when you can barely stand going to the hospital to see Saki, would your heart not strain to be free?!”

That sentence… breaks something in Harumichi.

And there’s an echo in his head.

That grating voice.

“Worthless, worthless, worthless! God, why did I have to be cursed with a child like you?!”

“That’s different.” Harumichi says, almost robotically, and Toya’s entire body tenses up.

“You don’t even care, do you? All you want is for me to be made in your image! I need to leave, I’ll be at the Tenmas’!”

Toya walks out the door and slams it behind him, and Harumichi collapses onto the couch.

He’ll never understand, will he?

That this is the only path for their family. It’s what they’re meant to do, and people will try to pull them away from it all their lives.

And they’ll go, for only a pinch of that sweet thing called love.

Fate has decided it long ago.

And all Harumichi can do is try to drag Toya back from that pain, that torture before it’s too late.

[needle-noggins]

I had a bad day and had to draw my cowgirl’s cyborg girlfriend about it. Shoutout to @madnessmadness for making Thee Girl Ever

(Alternative title: Is This Seat Taken?)

[gay-robot-boyfriends]

Zero is getting pretty

I think his wedding with X will be like Felix/Tamora's Wedding in Wreck-It Ralph; everyone is with a gun to make sure that nothing will ruin the wedding

I'm months late for this, but I'm working on it. I've just been getting distracted! I made an outfit for X, and now I need to make one for Zero. My friend @raerrui wrote vows for them, y'all; they made me tear up. 🙏 taking inspiration from the wreck-it Ralph wedding sounds like a great idea, but I might be too lazy to commit to it aaaaah!! We'll see!!

Here's some sneak peak asdadsadda

[thisiswhereikeepdcthings]

Hey yeah it’s me again the beggar of the previous can you help me find the fic

I can now see I was maybe too vague with my words before. When I mean before they could catch him I meant that literally they could almost touch him if I remember correctly dick? almost did or for a hot second he did before Jason successfully extracted himself from the property.

Was he already in the manor before he ran or just from the doorway that I’m not sure.

Thank you again

[hero-of-the-wolf]

For the writer questions, what about 4 (Where do you find inspiration for new ideas), 32 (Name three of your favorite fanfic writers), and 51 (What’s your total AO3 word count)?

4. Where do you find inspiration for new ideas?

I get inspiration from all sorts of things :)

songs, other stories, yapping with my friends, sometimes dreams, being beset by the horrors—

32. Name three of your favorite fanfic writers?

three of my favorite writers are @crazylittlejester @skyward-floored and @adrift-in-thyme 💙

51. What’s your total AO3 word count?

24,294!

[psychomegify]

I'm curious; to those who have completed veilguard and weren't happy with the direction, what would you wanted the story to have been instead?

What would you keep? What would you throw out?