#i know the story is long as hell and i'm asking for it to be even longer

[curiouspupsicle]

Good Omens Fan Fiction Friday (1/31/25) - Resistance!!

Being a well informed American living under an administration determined to dismantle our democracy (already stressed) and cause as much damage as possible has even my comfort moments turning to resistance. After all, evil people have always existed. And good people have always resisted. So is there anything my Good Omens fixation has to say about resistance? Given Terry Pratchett's moral universe, we could argue that all of Good Omens is steeped in resistance. But I'm going to limit myself to a few specific favorite fics that highlight different forms of resistance.

Let's start with the series that got me thinking in this direction: Demon and Angel Professors (G) by Ghostinthehouse (@ineffableghost). This is 200 ficlets, each exactly 666 words, hanging on a silly premise. Everyone loves literature Professor Fell who goes on regular tangents about his sweet husband Anthony. Everyone fears grumpy botany Professor Crowley who treats his students like he treats his plants. And anytime Crowley goes near Fell, the first-year students go into protective mode. Because surely Crowley must be up to no good and a potential harm to dear Prof Fell and his precious Anthony. But beyond that bit of fun repeated every year with a new group of incoming students are amazing stories of resistance against those who would cause mental harm or physical violence to disabled people, folks with a variety of gender identities and presentations, queer individuals, people dealing with trauma--basically anyone who might be vulnerable in a thoughtless and even wicked society.

Sometimes resistance is persuading someone to do better. Other times it's offering a hint that makes someone think. It may involve a hands-on approach to someone who only knows violence. Or it may be getting someone to a safe place as quickly as possible.

I read it over a weekend. But I think there's a better approach to reading this long series--bookmark it in your phone when you are doing a hurry-up-and-wait activity (jury duty, medical treatments, picking up kids at school, etc.). The short length of each fic makes it easy to pick up and put down. The variety of "ducklings" tales (what the ineffable pair call the students they help) will keep you interested. And the sense of joy and hope will make it a good way to spend time on a challenging day. Resistance fics aren't all human AUs. Check out The Last Angel (E) by @bellisima-writes. For millennia, Crowley has been Hell's Grand Inquisitor. He never served on earth. After Hell won their war against Heaven, they finally track down the last remaining Angel, Aziraphale. Crowley's given the job of torturing him for information. I don't want to give too much away. But Crowley's form of resistance involves being true to himself no matter what Hell demands. And Aziraphale has a more direct form of resistance planned. It's an exciting read as well as thought-provoking.

@snae-b writes the kind of fics you don't want to start reading before bed--at least not if you plan on getting up early the next day. Echo (E) is no exception. Each day, barista Aziraphale wakes up and goes into work. He serves a chauffeur, Crowley, who seems strangely familiar. Asking questions like "what makes one human" and "how do you fight against an evil activity that no one knows about," Echo is also just a plain old compelling story. And a resistance tale that, despite its futuristic setting, would not feel out of place beside a tale of the French underground resisting Nazis.

Mutual Aid (T) by malicegeres predates the Good Omens tv show. So presumably that makes it part of the Book!Omens universe. In it, radical bookseller Ezra Fell ends up hiding anarchist Crowley from the police after he's injured by skinheads. As the title indicates, they find a common cause and start working together. Loved the depiction of Adam as a leader. And the fic includes a listing of leftist political resources at the end.

Many consider The False and the Fair (E) by @princip1914 to be one of the best human AUs in the Good Omens universe. I certainly do. Aziraphale Wright's family runs a coal mine. Anthony Crowley, his former best friend, is the son of a mine worker. I don't want to spoil the story if you haven't read it. But what appears to be a story of regrets and making amends has a strong thread of accountability that results in wrongs being made right after a powerful act of resistance (with some help from the press). If you haven't read it, check it out. And if you have, read it again--with an eye towards resistance.

Finally, I'll end with a WIP, Good Works (E) by @majnoonathelibrarian. Set in 1987, Aziraphale is an assistant parliamentary secretary in the Thatcher government who finds something strange in the documents he's handling. Crowley is a mysterious "fixer" for a consulting firm who finds himself drawn into queer activism. Both of them have to navigate their day jobs along with increasing activism in a couple of different streams. The characterization is fascinating and the writer strings out the mysteries through the tale. This WIP is regularly updated and nearly complete. Remember, the fan fic community is a COMMUNITY. So don't forget to encourage writers of works underway by leaving kudos and comments. Writers are a gift to fans and we need to show them our appreciation. Finally, I'll give my pitch as someone who has been around much longer than most of you reading this. The yucky things happening in the world can be overwhelming. But it's a backlash. Because we've already made so much progress (both The False and the Fair and Good Works are good reminders of just how deadly the 1980s were for queer people). So resist. By making art and telling stories. By protesting. By contacting the people in power making decisions you disagree with. By caring for the vulnerable. By speaking out at local political meetings. By amplifying the voices of marginalized people. By using any of your unearned benefits to advocate for others. And by just existing as the beautiful and unique individual you are.

[oh-no-its-bird]

Gonna ramble a bit here, sorry in advance for that

With the rise in worry about the permanence of online media (books / music / video content / art / online chat history / etc.) I've been thinking about wanting to print out some of my favorite fics, or catologue some of my longer (months and years long tbh) conversations about ocs. Or maybe try and learn how to burn cds so I can save my music and favorite shows / videos n stuff

Mm,, download a show online and burn it into a cd so I never have to look for it again,, easily accessible physical copy,, I love pirating things

Obviously, with printing out fics I'd want to ask for explicit permission from the author and then keep the printed volume to myself. Gotta be careful to be respectful ab that sort of thing.

I'd also be interested in printing out some of my own shit too, just for fun. Those old conversations about ocs won't last forever, discord will eventually fail and when it does I know I for one will be crushed to lose all that chat history.

Obviously, I'm an American, and like the current political state in America is uhhh. Deeply worrying for all of us over here. So I won't lie, that's also adding a layer of worry from that angle. Things are already looking ugly, and if they get uglier, you know, I for one don't want my information to be completley ripped away from me

Turning back to the fic thing again, there's also a good amount of American fic writers who have / are planning to / are thinking about taking down some of their fics, due to fear of potential laws that threaten to make pornography illegal, and alao laws that classify anything homosexual as pornography.

Now, to be clear, I don't think they'll really do this. I think that even if they try, there're literally no fucking way it would pass. The backlash alone would be insane. But that doesn't change the fact that people are scared— that people got scared, and some have already taken things down

So there's another layer of just, shit man, I don't wanna lose my fics. There's always a risk that even if you download it, you could one day lose it too.

Also printed and bound fics are just cool as hell. What do you mean I have a copy of my very favorite fics, right there on my shelf in physical form, which I can open any time to any page I want without fear of ao3 one day crashing?

The ideal world tbh

Besides that, there's also a sort of time capsule aspect to it.

The other day, my dad whipped out his old tape recordings he made when he was a kid, just of him rambling about shit to mail to a cousin. He put them in to a record player he apparently just had, and I lost my fucking mind seeing it.

Both of my parents were laughing at how excited I was to see both the tapes and the boom box— and to listen to my dad's tinny, muffled voice sounding just like the vintage tapes might be portrayed on TV. Faint static and old timey tv lilt in his voice and all.

To them, it was just a small, slightly nostalgic thing. To me, it was cool as hell and totally retro

The things I save today, that I print, that I burn into cds; Stories I'm scared might get deleted, conversations I dont want to lose, tv shows I could never afford to maintain a subscription to see, playlists of music I worried I'd lose; They may someday be some day be a real relic of the past, however many years in the future. If not for other people, than yeah, for me

So just, I dunno. It's important to save things in a way that they can't be taken away from you.

It's supposed to be the "age of information," isn't it? Well then, let me keep my goddamn information

[just-some-random-blogger]

ME TRYNA GIVE YOUR FIC ALL THE HEARTS IN THE FUCKING WORLD

WHAT THE FUCK ALLLIEEEE WHAT THE FUCK

Unfortunately I have to requote your entire fic back to you I'm so sorry

“Quit squirming or I’m going to turn this constellation into a penis,” you griped, lifting your machine from Sirius’ leg.

HOW COULD YOU START YOUR FIC LIKE THIS????? HOW COULD YOU BE SO FUNNY AND WITTY AND ENDEARING AND WELL-WRITTEN WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU 😭😭😭😭😭😭🤚🤚🤚🤚🤚🤚

“Sadist,” he hissed.

🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦 SO WHAT????

“Said the masochist that paid me to stab him a million times.”

EAT HIM UP. ALLIE ARE YOU CONVERTING ME INTO A SIRIUS GIRLIE????? I FEAR I FEAR HIM COS GART OLDMAN WAS SO SCARY TO ME IN THE FILMS I FEAR I FEAR I FEAR THE CHILD IN ME CAN SEE HIM IN MY MINDS EYES BUT THE WOMAN IN ME IS LIKE 🤪 I LIKE SCARY MEN NOW THO?????? AHHAHAHAHAAHNSIDDNNCJDKKD

He glanced down at you. “Are you flirting with me?”

🗣️AND🗣️WHAT🗣️IF🗣️I🗣️AM🗣️ 👏AND👏WHAT👏IF👏I👏AM👏 PUNK ASS LOSER WHAT THEN

Just then, the bell on the front door or you shop chimed. A tall man with sandy hair, dressed in jeans and thick sweater stood in the foyer, looking around at the art and plants strewn about. Given your profession, you immediately noticed his lack of tattoos, and the scars marring his hands and neck, one even stretching from his sharp jaw towards his nose.

Das my ride yall

“Moony!” Sirius called, jerking his leg and nearly inking himself.

YOU MEAN MY HUSBAND 🤬🤬 GET IT RIGHT BLACK ITS FIRST NAME MY LAST NAME HUSBAND. YOU DONT KNOW ANYTHING ALSO STOP FUCKING MOVING YOU LARVA YOU WORM

Then, his eyes flicked to you, a deep brown and sallow with exhaustion, but his beauty struck you like a blow, the lines of his face coalescing in a way that would make the great painters weep.

[VIOLENTLY SHAKING] I NEED TO WRAP HIM LIKE A BURRITO

Based on the countless stories Sirius had told you in the hours spent on your table, you surmised that this was Remus Lupin, his level-headed, long-suffering schoolmate.

Wrong. That's my chair. My comfy beefy bed. My warm biteable pillow. You fool. You imbecile. You misguided spirit

You sighed and set your machine aside. Clearly, you were taking a break.

😭😭😭😭😭😭🤚 IM CRYING YOU WRITE SO BEAUTIFULLY SO WELL SO AMAZING SO VIVID IM BITING YOUR BRAIN NOM NOM NOM

“Remus, this is y/n, the architect of my beauty,” Sirius said, gesturing grandly in your direction.

Sigh. Fine. Smash. Give me Sirius right now. I'm gonna eat him up

HO IS YOU A POET WHY YOU SPEAK LIKE THAT

“Well, then there’s no where to go but up,” he said with a cheeky wink, and your heart damn near leaped out of your mouth.

🤞 hoping it's up

“Moony wants to know if you can tattoo over scars,” Sirius said, earning a glare from Remus.

With my thighs????? I thought you'd never ask

“Really. I’ve tattooed over dozens of scars, cover-ups, or decorations. I’d love to work with you.” Merlin, did you just say that out loud? You needed to get it together; you were a professional.

WRONG YOU SHOULD HAVE JUMPED HIS BONES THE MOMENT YOW SAW HIM. WEAK PIECE OF SHIT 👎👎👎👎🍅🍅🍅🍅

“AHH YOU WITCH!” Sirius wailed.

🤨 says the witch?

“Bloody hell, I knew you two would get along. You’ve got twin scowls,” Sirius chuckled, leaning back against the table with his hands behind his head.

The fact you didn't do this sooner is criminal

“You’re really good,” he murmured, close enough that you could smell the wool of his sweater, the lingering notes of cinnamon and tea from his cologne. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks, Rem,”

❓❓❓❓❓ REM YOU JUST MET AND YOURE CALLING HIM REMMMMMMM SKSKSKKSKJSKSJSJSJSBSHSBSBSISKKSSK 🫡🫡🫡🫡 RIZZLER I FEAR

He was like an anxious thundercloud, tense and unsteady, and it made your chest tight with empathy.

AN ANXIOUS THUNDERCLOUD IS CRAZY WHAT RHE FUCK

He sat down, coiled in on himself despite his long limbs. Like he was afraid to take up too much space.

HES SO

“It's just—” he sighed, lifting his arm. He started to roll up his shirt sleeve, dexterous fingers folding the fabric neatly over itself, revealing inch after inch of his forearm. Lightly tanned and taut with lean muscle, veins tangling with the map of scars littering his skin.

Lick. ((I am nothing but a dog))

You tried to stay neutral, but you were practically salivating. He was so beautiful.

YOU AND ME BOTH SISTER IM GNAWING AT THE BARS OF ME ENCLOSURE 👹👹👹👹🤤🤤🤤🤤🫠🫠🫠🫠

Remus’ profile floated into your minds eye, sorrowful and striking, and your pen started to move of it’s own accord. His expression came to life under your hand, with long lashes and a crooked nose and that jagged scar.

🫵I🫵KNOW🫵WHAT🫵YOU🫵ARE🫵SIMMMPPPPP🫵

“Whatever you say, love,” he murmured, getting comfortable. Entirely oblivious to the way the petname made your thoughts turn to static.

“No wonder Sirius like this so much,” he said, tracing your face with his eyes. “Watching you work is fascinating.”

Sirius is also in love with me 😞 it's hard being THAT gworl 😣

“That does sound like Sirius,” he chuckled. “I like your focused face much more than that scowl.”

Sit on it. HUH WHO SAID THAT (me)

“Charming? Sweet? Clever?” You asked, glancing up at him. “Sirius talks about you like you hung the moon.”

🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫SHE GETS ME YOU TELL HIM GIRLIE RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

You shrugged. “I figured you’d tell me if you felt comfortable. I’m not here to pry, just help.”

We love an emotionally intelligent girlie

Before leaving, he placed another appointment on your books for the following week, this time asking for a tree along the back of his calf, the roots spreading across the scaring he had there.

I dont remember what I wanted to say but I bet it was something inappropriate 🫦

Your sketchbook was filling with sketches of him, like you mind needed a place to spill your overflowing thoughts of him. With him, it was like every sound was heightened, every movement sharper, the very colors in the room more vibrant. Overwhelming in the best way.

🫵 SIMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPPP

He huffed a laugh, seeming a bit shy himself. “Yes ma’am.” In a fluid motion, he hooked his fingers under his sweater and tugged it overhead. His chest was tanned and lined with lean muscle, the kind built outdoors, not in the gym. The scaring was worse, deeper gauges in softer flesh, but you barely registered it, too busy staring at the half-healed red slash across his ribs.

😰😰😰😰😰😨😨😨😨😳😳😳😳😃😃😃🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵 SLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-

You were already starting to gather that Remus was…different. And you'd only met one other person with scars that matched his, and they also always cancelled around the full moon.

We got blue's clues up in here

Remus seemed to pick up on your dilemma and slowly spread his knees, allowing you to step between them. The heat of his body was intense, drawing you closer, but you swallowed your impulse, trying to focus instead on the moon and constellations you were mapping out.

🫵 WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-

“You smell nice,” he hummed, close enough that you felt his breath tickle the hair around your ear.

Eat me then 🙄

“Y’know, I probably shouldn’t say this, but I—I missed you the last two weeks.” Remus’ voice was low, just above a whisper, resonant like a drum in his chest. You wanted to wrap it around you like a blanket.

WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN SHOULDNT SAY THIS YOU BUFFOON YOU ABSOLUTE CANDLESTICK YOU NINNYHAMER YOU JOBBERNOWL

“Brilliant. I love them, and they’re very effective.” He waggled his eyebrows, and you and Remus rolled your eyes.

BROTHER EUGH WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEYRE VERY EFFECTIVE

James lifted his shirt, revealing a peak of his washboard abs, framed by a pair of sprawling antlers across his hip bones. You leaned a bit closer, checking for any faded spots or ink spreading.

FUCKING hell

Was he…jealous?

HE BETTER FUCKING BE

“Would you ever get a tattoo like that?” You asked, glancing up at him through your lashes.

LICKING HIM SO MUCH

You met his eyes. “You should give me a little more credit, Moony.”

She really said

And I respect her for it. She a bsddie

“It's risky, y’know, to flirt with your tattoo artist,” you murmured, grazing your fingers over the mostly healed goldenrod tattoo. “You've got a permanent reminder of me.”

She's so smart I love her I will shove my tongue down her throat. So hot. She is me. Holy shit am I a narcissist

He smirked, his hand sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck. “Well, the thing about werewolves…” he was so close, warm breath fanning across your lips. “We're a possessive sort, territorial. So having your mark on my skin…” he sighed, eyes dark with desire. “I'm finding it hard to hold myself back.”

WHAT THE FUCKING SHIT IS STOPPING YOU COS IT AINT FUCKING ME

Remus surged forward, lips colliding in a heady, toe-curling kiss. You immediately gave into him, his tongue caressing the seam of your mouth, dipping past your lips to taste you, claim you.

“Be gentle with me,” he grated, kissing along your cheek, down towards your throat. He craned your head back, grazing his teeth along your pulse, and you shivered. “I’m trying to savor this, not devour you.”

I CAN BE GENTLE BUT DONT GET IT TWISTED IVE BEEN TRYNA DEVOUR YOU THE MOMENT YOU WALKED IN FUCKER 🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕

“Patience, dove,” he chastised affectionately, lifting his head. “Just be good for me, yeah? You’ll get what you want.”

Your brain emptied. Seeing this dominant side of Remus had you folding like origami. You nodded, letting him drag you in for another languid, bone-melting kiss.

✍️ FOLDED✍️LIKE✍️ORIGAMI✍️ IM CRYINGGGGGGG WHAT THE FUCKKKK 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 IM GOING TO CREAM MY PANTS ON HOW GOOD IT IS

“Tell me if you want me stop,” he said, shifting to kiss around your navel.

THE DAY I TELL YOU TO STOP THEY NEED TO PUT ME DOWN

“Don't stop. Please don't stop,” you pleaded, and he smiled against your hip before sucking the skin between his teeth, biting at your flesh just hard enough you make you keen.

🫠😃🤓🫨🤪😣😫👹 IM FINE THIS IS FINE. SHE PASSED THE TEST THAT IS THE ONLY CORRECT RESPONSE

The table shifted, rocking back a bit, and you looked past Remus' hair tangled in your fingers to his body. He was rocking his hips against the edge of the table, so turned on by the act of eating you out that he needed some relief.

IM GONNA GET PREGNANT IF YOU DONT STOP

“Rem, baby,” you whined, the sight dragging you that much closer to release. He glanced up at you, his eyes glazed and pussydrunk, and he whimpered against you.

I'm legally obligated to say I feel so bad for Britney I nearly use this gif but I don't like using people I don't kin as meme reactions and I love women so #freebritney

“Good fucking girl,” he growled, withdrawing his fingers to lap directly from you, savoring every drop of his efforts. “That's it, love. Relax f’me.” He brought you back to earth with his tongue, long, languid licks and kisses around your trembling center, across your inner thigh slung over his shoulder.

Little did he know I would give him 10000000000 babies. Fucking hell I need a blunt (don't smoke)

He made his way up your body, catching your words in a messy, top-lip kiss. “Got your mark all over me now, dove,” he purred, pecking your cheek with a cheeky grin.

HES INSANE ACTUALLY OK THX

“I’m, ah, a bit embarrassed to say that I did.” He straightened with a sheepish smile, revealing the dark spot leaking through his jeans.

YOU DONT EVEN KNOW YOU DONT EVEN KNOW YOU DONT EVEN KNOW

I WANT HIM SO BAD I WANT HIM SO BAD

HI ALLIE CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR 1000 FOLLOWERS I THINK ABSOLUTELY DESERVED BECAUSE YOUR WORK IS INCREDIBLE YOU ATE THAT UP SLAYYYYYYYYYYYYY

I............ I have never submitted a request, unless I was explicitly asked by the writer because ksjdjdjjjsjsj ME ASKING FOR SOMETHING?????? SNSJSJSJ ANYWAY I was like it should be fine because it's for your celebration SOOO hear me out. Remus Lupin ? IM GOING THRU A REMUS THING ? 1000 scars/1000 glances???? WHICHEVER IS FINE YOURE GONNA EAT WITH THAT

WEE OK BYE I LOVE YOU BYE

xxx

ilysm and I hope this only deepens your Remus fixation 🫶🏻 thank you so much for all of your love and support, I genuinely get excited when I see you pop up in my feed or notifs. my favorite hanni 🤍

1000 inked scars | R.L.

feat. Remus Lupin x tattooartist!reader

cw: mdni 18+, possessive!Remus, marking kink, oral (fem receiving), tattoo needles and tattooing, mentions of injury and scars, probably inaccurate representation of tattooing in the 70's, no war

1000 things prompt list (closes feb 1!) | masterlist

“Quit squirming or I’m going to turn this constellation into a penis,” you griped, lifting your machine from Sirius’ leg.

“Maybe if you didn’t handle that gun like a cudgel—”

You slapped his fresh tattoo and he yelped. “Pull yourself together, Black. You’re almost done.”

He groaned, slumping back onto the table with his arms slung over his head. “Sadist,” he hissed.

You resumed your tattooing, packing black ink to the map of stars. “Said the masochist that paid me to stab him a million times.”

He glanced down at you. “Are you flirting with me?”

You glared up at him.

Just then, the bell on the front door or you shop chimed. A tall man with sandy hair, dressed in jeans and thick sweater stood in the foyer, looking around at the art and plants strewn about. Given your profession, you immediately noticed his lack of tattoos, and the scars marring his hands and neck, one even stretching from his sharp jaw towards his nose.

“Moony!” Sirius called, jerking his leg and nearly inking himself.

“Sirius,” you bit, but he was already out of the chair.

“What’s—uh, what’s up, Pads?” the stranger, Moony?, said, glancing down at Sirius’ rolled up pant leg and the nearly finished tattoo on his calf. Then, his eyes flicked to you, a deep brown and sallow with exhaustion, but his beauty struck you like a blow, the lines of his face coalescing in a way that would make the great painters weep.

Based on the countless stories Sirius had told you in the hours spent on your table, you surmised that this was Remus Lupin, his level-headed, long-suffering schoolmate.

“I wanted you to meet my friend!” Sirius grabbed his by the elbow and dragged him towards your station.

You sighed and set your machine aside. Clearly, you were taking a break.

“Remus, this is y/n, the architect of my beauty,” Sirius said, gesturing grandly in your direction.

You slid off one of your gloves and extended it to Remus. “Pleasure. I’ve heard loads about you.”

“Oh?” Remus asked, shaking your hand with a light touch, his skin warm and a bit rough. “Terrible things, I wager?”

“The worst,” you chuckled, and the corner of his mouth twitched up into a half-smile.

“Well, then there’s no where to go but up,” he said with a cheeky wink, and your heart damn near leaped out of your mouth.

“I asked Moony to come hang out for the last bit of the tattoo so he could pick your brain,” Sirius said, hopping back up onto the table.

“Sirius—”

“Pick my brain about what?” You asked, pulling up a chair for Remus and sitting back onto your stool, putting on a fresh pair of gloves.

“I, uh—”

“Moony wants to know if you can tattoo over scars,” Sirius said, earning a glare from Remus.

“Absolutely!” you chirped, hoping to dispel Remus’ clear discomfort. “Just takes a few extra passes, but it shouldn’t be an issue.”

Remus gave you a small, grateful smile. “Really?”

“Really. I’ve tattooed over dozens of scars, cover-ups, or decorations. I’d love to work with you.” Merlin, did you just say that out loud? You needed to get it together; you were a professional.

“See, Moons? I told you!” Sirius propped his leg back up, and you fired up the machine. “And it doesn’t even hurt.”

You lowered the machine back to his leg, taking a few quick warm up strokes.

“AHH YOU WITCH!” Sirius wailed. You and Remus both jumped at his shouting, but he quickly dissolved into laughter. “Bloody hell, I knew you two would get along. You’ve got twin scowls,” Sirius chuckled, leaning back against the table with his hands behind his head.

You glanced at Remus, and he looked back at you. A flicker of connection flared between you, and heat rose in your cheeks. Quickly, you looked away, turning your attention back to Sirius’ tattoo.

“So, what are you thinking you want to get, Rem?” Sirius asked after a few moments of quiet, the buzzing of the machine filling the air.

Remus shrugged. “Hadn’t really thought about it. Just wanted to do…something.”

“Well, if you want, we can try and cover any up. But I find that people really get more out of going the decorative route,” you supplied, looking at Remus while you picked up more ink. “I can hand draw a few designs that flow with the scar, turn it into an art piece itself.”

Remus was quiet for a moment, contemplative, and Sirius gave you a knowing smile. “I think I might like that, yeah,” Remus said, his voice soft, almost awestruck. Like he’d never ever considered the possibility before.

As a tattoo artist, you were intimately aware of how much a person’s skin could impact their well being, scars in particular weighed heavily on many people’s spirit. Remus, it seemed, was no exception.

Sirius guided the conversation in another direction, giving Remus a chance to process the implications of what you offered, and you finished the tattoo half-an-hour later. While you were wiping it down, Remus hovered over you, looking down at the piece.

“You’re really good,” he murmured, close enough that you could smell the wool of his sweater, the lingering notes of cinnamon and tea from his cologne. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks, Rem,” you said, smiling up at him, and he smiled back, a flush creeping up his neck before he hurriedly stepped away.

You patched up Sirius and sent the boys on their way, an appointment for Remus on the books for the following week. All he’d given you to work with was placement, his forearm, and that he wanted something natural, like a plant.

Having no more appointments for the evening, you folded yourself into your studio couch with your sketchbook. You sketched a few things, lavender and roses and chamomile, but your fingers itched to draw something else. Remus’ profile floated into your minds eye, sorrowful and striking, and your pen started to move of it’s own accord. His expression came to life under your hand, with long lashes and a crooked nose and that jagged scar.

You clapped your sketchbook shut, sitting back with a sigh.

Next week couldn’t come quickly enough.

You paced around your shop, pouring over your sketch for Remus. You wanted it to be perfect for him, lest you scare him off a tattooing forever.

The door chimes, startling you out of your concentration, and Remus strode in, carrying a tray of drinks and a paper bag

“Morning!” You chirped, hugging your sketchbook to your chest.

“Morning,” he said, passing you one of the cups. “I asked Sirius what you liked, so if it's awful, blame him.”

Butterflies fluttered to life in your stomach. It wasn't unusual for clients to bring you coffee and food, but with Remus it felt…different.

“Oh! You didn't have to do that. Thank you, Remus,” you said, taking a sip. It was your favorite drink, and it's familiar warmth settled some of your nerves.

He gave you a small smile, but you could tell he was nervous. He set the bag on your desk. “I also brought some pastries. Sirius mentioned you like chocolate?”

“I love chocolate.” You beamed. “Come on in, we can sit over here and go over the design.”

Remus nodded, shirking his coat and following you over to the couch. He was like an anxious thundercloud, tense and unsteady, and it made your chest tight with empathy.

“How are you feeling?” You asked, patting the spot beside you.

He sat down, coiled in on himself despite his long limbs. Like he was afraid to take up too much space. “Ah, fine,” he replied, taking a sip of his drink. Earl gray, from the smell of it.

You arched a brow. “It's okay to be nervous, Rem,” you said. “But it's just us, and nothing is set in ink. If you change your mind, it's totally fine.”

“It's just—” he sighed, lifting his arm. He started to roll up his shirt sleeve, dexterous fingers folding the fabric neatly over itself, revealing inch after inch of his forearm. Lightly tanned and taut with lean muscle, veins tangling with the map of scars littering his skin.

He watched your face, gauging your reaction. You tried to stay neutral, but you were practically salivating. He was so beautiful.

“Are they too bad?” He asked, his voice rough with tension.

You met his brown eyes. “Not at all.” You pulled out your sketchbook, flipping to the page you had ear marked. “And it's perfect for what I sketched up.”

He managed a half-smile, some of the clouds disappearing from his aura, and accepted the sketchbook when you handed it to him. His eyes widened.

“Goldenrod,” you said, shifting closer to look at the sketch over his shoulder. “Used to treat pain.”

Remus traced his finger over the tangle of stems, the delicate florals. “I take it almost everyday,” he murmured, looking over at you, his eyes warm and full of something you couldn't quite place.

“So, what do you think?” You asked, your gazes lingering on one another.

“I think it's perfect,” he said, and you smiled, genuinely thrilled that he liked it.

“Okay, ready for me to start sketching?” You asked, and he nodded. You led him over to your station, already set up and waiting for him, and he hoped up onto the chair,, his long limbs dangling near to the floor. To break the quiet, you put on a muggle record, and Remus seemed to relax a bit, sipping on his tea and watching you putter around through dark lashes.

When you settled onto your stool, ink pen in hand, anxiety bloomed in your stomach. Remus was about to watch you draw on him. You’d drawn on hundreds of clients, but like everything else, with Remus it felt…different.

“It might tickle,” you warned, resting his arm where you wanted it, your fingertips tingling from the contact. “And try to stay very still.”

“Whatever you say, love,” he murmured, getting comfortable. Entirely oblivious to the way the petname made your thoughts turn to static.

You placed your sketchbook just beside his arm and made the first line, a quick stem arching alongside a scar stretching from wrist to elbow. Slowly, line after line, the sketch started to come together, flowing with the natural shape of his forearm and it’s scars. You got lost in the act, sinking into the labor of creating.

It wasn’t until Remus made a soft, approving hum in his throat that you peaked up him, breaking your focus. His eyes were almost sleepy, heavy-lidded and soft and the corners, a smile tugging at his lips.

“No wonder Sirius like this so much,” he said, tracing your face with his eyes. “Watching you work is fascinating.”

Heat roared to your cheeks. “Oh, I don’t—he seems more interested in teasing me than letting me work.”

“That does sound like Sirius,” he chuckled. “I like your focused face much more than that scowl.”

Merlin, what was happening to you? You felt like you could melt into your chair like a pile of pudding. Was he flirting with you? Or does he always talk like a romance book hero?

“How long have you guys known each other?” You asked, changing the subject and ducking back down to your work to hide your expression.

“Decade at least,” Remus said. “We met our first year at Hogwarts. Never thought I’d befriend the Sirius Black, but y’know, stranger things have happened.”

“Why’d you think that?”

Remus shrugged, the muttered a soft apology for moving. “Sirius is…Sirius, and I’m…”

“Charming? Sweet? Clever?” You asked, glancing up at him. “Sirius talks about you like you hung the moon.”

A flush creeped up his neck. “He’s dramatic.”

“And brutally honest,” you said, holding his gaze.

“Can I ask you something?” Now it was his turn to change the subject.

“Of course,” you said, capping your pen and setting it aside.

“Why haven’t you, ah, asked?” He glanced down at his scars, and you know what he was implying.

You shrugged. “I figured you’d tell me if you felt comfortable. I’m not here to pry, just help.”

His eyes flitted over your face, swallowing hard, and it seemed he was at a loss for words.

“Ready for ink?” You asked, giving him as reassuring of a smile as you could muster.

He exhaled, turning his wrist to inspect the design. “Ready.”

The rest of the appointment flew by, with Remus sitting like a stone while you tattooed him for close to four hours. You didn’t speak much, letting the music fill the empty air, but it was a comfortable silence, broken by the occasional question or annecdote. Remus seemed to appreciate being able to relax, and you were happy to give him a safe place for little while. Holding space for what this moment meant to him.

When you were finished, Remus stared at the tattoo in the mirror for a long time, and when he turned back for you to wrap it up, you could see tears collecting on his lower lashes.

"Thank you for this," he said, clearing his throat. "You were--this was amazing."

You knew he meant the art, but still, the praise made your heart glow all the same. "Of course, Remus. I'm glad I got to be the one to do this for you."

Before leaving, he placed another appointment on your books for the following week, this time asking for a tree along the back of his calf, the roots spreading across the scaring he had there.

After Remus’ second and third appointment, you noticed a change in him. He seemed more confident, a little more outspoken. He was coming to life before your eyes, and you were starting to see the fuller picture of the boy Sirius loved so much.

Already, you felt so close to him. Connected. And you were starting to miss him those days in between, his appointment becoming the highlight of your week. Your sketchbook was filling with sketches of him, like you mind needed a place to spill your overflowing thoughts of him. With him, it was like every sound was heightened, every movement sharper, the very colors in the room more vibrant. Overwhelming in the best way.

But then he cancelled your fourth appointment, citing illness, and you didn’t see him for two weeks. It wasn’t until he sent and owl requesting an appointment for this coming Friday that you finally felt like you could breathe.

Sorry again for cancelling. Are you free this Friday? Thinking a moon and stars on my chest, with those gorgeous clouds I saw in your sketchbook. Can’t wait, RL.

When Remus walked into your studio, you had to stop yourself from hugging him, you were so excited to see him. He looked tired, a little dimmer than the last time you saw him, but he greeted you with a warm smile and a bag of pastries, and that was all you needed.

You had him sit up on the table, busying yourself with the station in avoidance of the inevitable. He was going to have to take his shirt off. Your heart was palpitating just thinking about it.

“Alright, Rem. Strip for me,” you said, ripping the metaphorical bandaid off.

He huffed a laugh, seeming a bit shy himself. “Yes ma’am.” In a fluid motion, he hooked his fingers under his sweater and tugged it overhead. His chest was tanned and lined with lean muscle, the kind built outdoors, not in the gym. The scaring was worse, deeper gauges in softer flesh, but you barely registered it, too busy staring at the half-healed red slash across his ribs.

You gasped. “Rem, what happened?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was in a fight club?” He rubbed the back of his head, averting his eyes from yours.

“No, but you don’t have to tell me anything. Just that you’re alright,” you said, unable to mask the warble of concern in your voice. You were already starting to gather that Remus was…different. And you'd only met one other person with scars that matched his, and they also always cancelled around the full moon.

His eyes softened. “I’m alright, dove. Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m the only one that gets to gauge you with weapons,” you huffed, grabbing up your sketching marker.

He barked a laugh, head tipping back on his shoulders. “Fair enough. Only you get to wound me permanently from now on.”

“Glad we reached an understanding.” You propped the sketchbook on the table and leaned in to start sketching. Remus sat up as straight as he could, resulting in your head hovering around his clavicle. But, with his long legs, you couldn’t get close enough.

Remus seemed to pick up on your dilemma and slowly spread his knees, allowing you to step between them. The heat of his body was intense, drawing you closer, but you swallowed your impulse, trying to focus instead on the moon and constellations you were mapping out.

As you drew, you started to shift closer, drawn in by the work and his proximity, the clean smell of his skin, until you were practically leaning against him.

“You smell nice,” he hummed, close enough that you felt his breath tickle the hair around your ear.

You nearly dropped the marker, but managed to keep your grip steady. “So do you,” you said, unable to come up with something clever.

“Y’know, I probably shouldn’t say this, but I—I missed you the last two weeks.” Remus’ voice was low, just above a whisper, resonant like a drum in his chest. You wanted to wrap it around you like a blanket.

You looked up at him, lips slightly parted in shock, so close you could brush your nose against his if you moved a hair closer. “You did?” You asked, certain that if pupils could turn into lovehearts, yours would be beaming out of your head like a cartoon.

His hand came up to caress you jaw, tentative and gentle. “Being with you is the best I’ve felt in ages,” he said, tilting your face a little closer to his. “I don’t—”

The bell to your studio rang loudly, and you jumped back from Remus’ hold, nearly tripping over your stool.

“Hey Moony! There’s my favorite artist!” James came plowing through, wrapping you up in a bearhug that squeezed the air from your lungs. “How are you, sweetness?”

“I’m good, Jamie,” you wheezed, and he set you back on your feet.

The boys clasped hands, a quick, almost automatic handshake.

“What are you doing here, Prongs?” Remus asked, trying and failing at not looking irritated.

“Sirius said you were getting some ink today so I figured I’d swing by and have you take a peak at how mine’s healing.”

“James, it’s been like six months. Your antlers healed fine,” you reminded him.

“You did his antlers?” Remus asked, a flicker of something dark passing through his eyes.

You nodded. “Yeah, you didn’t know?”

He shook his head, glancing sidelong at his friend.

“I suppose it might be time for a touch up. Let me see,” you sighed, crossing your arms over your chest.

James lifted his shirt, revealing a peak of his washboard abs, framed by a pair of sprawling antlers across his hip bones. You leaned a bit closer, checking for any faded spots or ink spreading.

“Looks perfect, Jamie. All good,” you said, sitting back on your stool, mildly impressed with yourself.

“Brilliant. I love them, and they’re very effective.” He waggled his eyebrows, and you and Remus rolled your eyes.

James hung out for another hour, chatting with Remus while you finished the sketch of the tattoo. Your bodies were just as close as before, but with James, you were forced to keep it strictly professional. But the proximity without being allowed to touch was melting your mind, making heat pool in your lower belly. You could feel every breath Remus took, feel the rumble of his voice in your chest, the warmth of his body mingling with yours.

It was maddening, and you could tell Remus was growing more impatient by the second, the muscles around his neck taught with tension, his fingers twitching against his thighs.

At one point, you laughed at one of James’ jokes and swatted at his chest, earning a smile from him. When you glanced back at Remus, his jaw was clenched tight, eyes glaring a hole into the drink in his hands.

Was he…jealous?

He had no right to be, but still, the thought of him being possessive made your heart rate quicken.

Finally, James left, leaving you and Remus alone in the simmering tension you'd built. He watched you closely as you returned to your station, prepping the tattoo machine.

“Would you ever get a tattoo like that?” You asked, glancing up at him through your lashes.

He leaned back on the seat, bracing his hands behind him. Showing off the lean expanse of his torso, the rugged look of him that stood in sharp juxtaposition to his style and personality. “Not sure I could pull it off.”

You scoffed, allowing him to see you peruse his body. “I strongly disagree.”

He chewed on his lower lip, a nervous habit. A flush started to spread across his chest, reaching towards his cheeks. “What would you suggest?” he asked, a sultry edge of his voice.

Unhurried, you stepped back between his legs, letting your fingertips graze along the valleys of his lower abdomen. “Perhaps a snake.” You traced the shape along his skin, his muscles tensing to stop himself from shivering. “Or ferns. Maybe a wolfs jaw—”

“A wolfs jaw?” He asked, quirking an eyebrow at you.

You met his eyes. “You should give me a little more credit, Moony.”

He blinked at you, clearly taken aback that you knew his secret. “You knew.”

“I do now. I've only seen scars like yours once before, on another werewolf. And with the nickname, your tattoo choices, being MIA on the full moon…it adds up.”

His eyes searched your face. “And you don't care?”

“Of course not. I care about you, not your affliction.” Your hands still lingered on his hips, like your skin was magnetized together, you couldn't seem to pull them apart.

Remus straightened, his hand coming up to cup your face again. “I haven't been able to stop thinking about you,” he breathed. “You’ve gotten under my skin, dove.”

“It's risky, y’know, to flirt with your tattoo artist,” you murmured, grazing your fingers over the mostly healed goldenrod tattoo. “You've got a permanent reminder of me.”

He smirked, his hand sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck. “Well, the thing about werewolves…” he was so close, warm breath fanning across your lips. “We're a possessive sort, territorial. So having your mark on my skin…” he sighed, eyes dark with desire. “I'm finding it hard to hold myself back.”

“Then don't,” you replied, heart in your throat.

Remus surged forward, lips colliding in a heady, toe-curling kiss. You immediately gave into him, his tongue caressing the seam of your mouth, dipping past your lips to taste you, claim you.

Your arms found their way around his neck, fingers digging into his feathery hair and tugging at the roots, drawing a low groan from his chest. He nipped at your lower lip in warning before soothing it with his tongue.

“Be gentle with me,” he grated, kissing along your cheek, down towards your throat. He craned your head back, grazing his teeth along your pulse, and you shivered. “I’m trying to savor this, not devour you.”

“Do you always keep yourself on such a tight leash?” You asked, breathless as he lapped at your skin, your thighs trembling with desire.

“Patience, dove,” he chastised affectionately, lifting his head. “Just be good for me, yeah? You’ll get what you want.”

Your brain emptied. Seeing this dominant side of Remus had you folding like origami. You nodded, letting him drag you in for another languid, bone-melting kiss.

Remus slid off the table without breaking the kiss, leaning down to scoop you up by the thighs in a fluid motion.

“Rem!” You gasped in surprise when he turned and dropped you onto the table he just vacated.

He leaned over you, one hand reaching down to recline the seat so you were laying back, legs on either side of his hips. His lips found your neck again, kissing and licking his way down while his hands pushed up the hem of your shirt, fingertips cool against your fevered skin.

“Tell me if you want me stop,” he said, shifting to kiss around your navel.

“Don't stop. Please don't stop,” you pleaded, and he smiled against your hip before sucking the skin between his teeth, biting at your flesh just hard enough you make you keen.

“I won't, love. I'm not going anywhere.” His fingers hooked into the waistband of your jeans, easing them down over your hips until they fell to the ground in a pile.

Your knees tried to pull together on instinct, the vulnerability making you flush, but his hands gripped your inner thighs, spreading you apart for him. You could tell he was in his element, something having loosened from his usually reserved demeanor. It felt like you were seeing him completely for the first time. No holds barred.

“Don't hide from me, pretty girl,” he cooed, lowering to his knees. “You're gorgeous.” He trailed kisses up your thigh, charting a tingling path until his nose grazed sodden panties, making your pussy flutter and clench. “Fuck, you smell divine,” he muttered before dragging his tongue over the thin fabric.

“Oh, god—Remus,” you moaned when he sucked on the fabric over your clit, pleasure blooming from your center. Your eyes rolled back, fingers tangling in his hair as he flicked your swelling bud with his tongue.

“So responsive,” he praised, pulling your panties aside with his middle finger. “You this sweet for all of your clients?”

You shook your head. ”I've never—fuck, baby.” Your words splintered into a cry as he eased his middle finger inside of you, your dripping entrance accepting him eagerly. He nudged your clit with his nose, making you cry out again.

“Just me?” His voice almost sounded like a purr, deeply pleased by your admission.

You nodded, urging him closer by the roots of his hair, and he practically growled.

He nipped at your thigh, overpowering your meager attempt easily. “Patience, remember?”

You whined. “Remus, please. Just wanna feel you.”

He withdrew his finger, then added a second, pumping you slowly. “I know, baby. I'm right here, I've got you.” His mouth found your clit again, his tongue circling around and around, and you arched off the table, moans spilling from your lips like a song.

Steadily, the fire built, with Remus' devoted attention pouring over you like gasoline. He moaned against you, eyes screwed shut when your pussy clenched around his fingers, teetering on the edge.

The table shifted, rocking back a bit, and you looked past Remus' hair tangled in your fingers to his body. He was rocking his hips against the edge of the table, so turned on by the act of eating you out that he needed some relief.

“Rem, baby,” you whined, the sight dragging you that much closer to release. He glanced up at you, his eyes glazed and pussydrunk, and he whimpered against you.

His deliberate motions got sloppier, greedier, as he rutted against the table. Losing control of himself, like his entire being was desperate to be inside of you.

With a final curl of his fingers, you toppled over the edge, coming with a cry loud enough to rattle the windows as relief crashed over you, cool water dousing the flames beneath your skin.

“Good fucking girl,” he growled, withdrawing his fingers to lap directly from you, savoring every drop of his efforts. “That's it, love. Relax f’me.” He brought you back to earth with his tongue, long, languid licks and kisses around your trembling center, across your inner thigh slung over his shoulder.

“Fuck, Remus,” you panted, slumping back against the table. “That was—”

He made his way up your body, catching your words in a messy, top-lip kiss. “Got your mark all over me now, dove,” he purred, pecking your cheek with a cheeky grin.

“What about…” you trailed off, fingers toying with his belt, unsure of what you were asking for him to fuck you, or mark you. Or both. All you knew was that you wanted him, badly, even more so with that post-orgasm clarity.

“Patience,” he replied, chuckling at the annoyed look you shot him. “Ready to finish up this tattoo?”

“But you didn't get to—”

“I’m, ah, a bit embarrassed to say that I did.” He straightened with a sheepish smile, revealing the dark spot leaking through his jeans.

Holy shit. You'd made him cum in his pants.

You surged up, throwing your arms around his neck and tugging him down in to a ravenous kiss. “Merlin, you're so fucking hot,” you mumbled against his mouth.

He grinned, breaking the kiss to nuzzle into your neck, hiding the flush you could see staining his ears. “Says the girl that made me cum without touching me,” he muttered, almost indignant.

“I’m not sorry,” you chuckled, sighing when he pressed his plush, kiss-swollen lips to your racing pulse.

“It's alright, I'll get even,” he teased, his teeth nipping at your skin.

“Is that a promise?”

“Most normal people would interpret it as a threat.” He picked his head up, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Well, I'm not normal people,” you replied.

“And thank Godric for that.” He kissed you again, all smiles and airy pecks.

Normal was never your style anyway.

[lottiesnotebook]

Happy DADWC day!

Ok so this is weirdly specific, but feel free to be open in the interpretation. So I want more Cara, because of course I do 😅 and I saw this prompt in one of your lists : your OC’s description of their game’s events.

But I'd like to alter that slightly... So you said she was born after an ill-advised post deep roads encounter (I forget your exact words) so... Therefore she saw a lot of the DA2 narrative... As a kid... So I would like to see her interpretation of any of the DA2 events 😝

Ask for more Cara Hawke-Laidir and you shall receive! I don't know if this counts as exactly what you asked for, but the end of Dragon Age 2 is possibly the most formative moment in her whole life (pre-Veilguard, at least) so this is what you get! Apologies in advance, this turned out WAY longer than I expected...

Cara 'Rook' Hawke-Laidir & Orana, Cara 'Rook' Hawke-Laidir & Anders, Cara 'Rook' Hawke-Laidir & Rhiannon Hawke, Justice/Rhiannon Hawke/Anders (mentioned), angst, tragedy, canonical terrorism

@teine-mallaichte | @dadrunkwriting

when hell bares its teeth

Cara was curled up in her favourite window-seat when the world ended. She felt the explosion rather than heard it - a low reverberation that shook the house to its foundations and cracked the panes of the window she was snuggled against. She flinched away from it in shock and rolled onto her knees, peering out through the broken panes, her book cradled against her chest. The street outside was empty, peaceful, even - but as she glanced up, she could see the climbing column of smoke cutting the bright blue sky in two.

"Orana?" she called out, her voice trembling. There was no immediate reply. She forced herself to her feet. Orana was the grown-up, and on days when her parents were busy, she was in charge, but Orana got scared, sometimes, when people shouted or magic flared, and then Cara was meant to leave her alone or make sure she was safe and comfortable.

She took the stairs down to the kitchen two at a time, where she found more broken glass and embers knocked from the fireplace scattering the stone floor.

"Orana!" she tried again, fingers beginning to flicker in the familiar pattern of a seeking spell. A soft, sobbing sound crept from under the table. Orana was down there, curled into a ball and shaking, shaking, shaking, like her father after a bad dream.

Cara tried to make her voice low and calm and commanding, like Mama's: "Orana, don't be scared. Are you hurt?"

She didn't know what to do if a grown-up was hurt, though she knew where the elfroot potions and the bandages were stored in case of emergencies. She'd figure it out. Daddy always explained what he was doing when he patched up her cuts and bruises, and she wasn't a baby to burst into tears at the sight of blood.

She felt a little like crying when Orana looked up at her, pale and glassy-eyed, but they couldn't both sit here and cry. Well, they could - they had three years ago, when the Qunari revolted, but they had kind Master Bodahn then to take care of them: he'd hurried them into the cellar and told them all stories to keep them quiet, and Cara had tried to make rabbits out of light for Sandal until Orana flinched away from them. She'd only been six, then, though. She was nine now, and practically a grownup.

"Miss- Mistress Cara!" she said, which wasn't right - Orana wasn't supposed to call anyone Master or Mistress any more, but sometimes she got scared and forgot. "I'm sorry, I'll clean up the mess-"

"We can clean it up later," she managed to say, though there was a wobble in her voice she didn't like. "Something is wrong. We should go somewhere safe."

That was the first rule when things got scary, Master Bodahn had told her - find a safe place, or safe people, and stay with them as long as you can. Safe people would be Mama and Daddy and Justice, or maybe her uncles and aunts, but none of them were here, so she and Orana would have to find a safe place, and be safe people for each other.

She took Orana's hand and slowly pulled her out from under the table. They were almost the same height now, but when she was stood up, Orana blinked and came back to herself, and squeezed Cara's hands.

"Very sensible, Carissima," she said, smiling, and Cara relaxed a little, just for a second. Then there was an urgent banging on the front door, and they both flinched.

"Cellar?" Cara suggested, and Orana nodded.

"Cellar indeed."

She leaned into the fireplace and grabbed something from the far side of the hearth, and chivvied Cara down the stairs as the sound of splintering wood shattered the air behind them.

Cara felt a chill go through her as she remembered her father's warnings: If you hear the Templars coming, you run, Cara-hase. You don't look back, and you don't stop. Who else would dare to knock down her mother's door, but the monsters that still haunted her father's dreams?

"Orana," she whispered, into the dark. "Did I ever teach you the Rabbit Game?"

The Rabbit Game was one of Daddy's inventions. They'd played it ever since she could remember, ever since she was small enough to toddle after him, clutching the hem of his robes. The rules were simple - you had to make it through the passage from the cellar to the clinic, as quick as you could, making no noise, leaving no footprints. When she'd been very small, he'd given her a handful of veilfire to light the way, but grownup girls and clever little rabbits had to play the game in the dark. Foxes and wolves could smell smoke or magic on the wind, and if they caught you, they would eat you all up.

When she was a baby, being eaten all up wasn't scary. It was being scooped up in her father's arms and tickled and kissed and fussed over until she squealed. But then she got older, and realised he wasn't trying to teach her to hide from foxes and wolves, and that there were worse things that could happen to a girl than to be eaten.

Still, as she crept along the narrow passage between cellars, Orana's hand gripped tight in hers, she pretended she was playing the Rabbit Game again, that the footsteps she could hear distantly were her father's, that the worst that would happen if they were caught was that she wouldn't be taken out to the market for sweets. Panicking wasn't how you won the Rabbit Game. If you froze, or you made too much noise, they'd catch you easy as anything.

Run, Cara-hase. She ran, as light on her feet as they'd practiced, making cushions of air beneath the soles of their shoes to catch them before they could clatter. She heard, distantly, a shout that sounded a little less muffled, and felt Orana squeeze her hand and try to muffle a sob. She tightened her grip, and kept running until she felt her outstretched hands catch on the false panel that led to the clinic. She closed her eyes, remembered her father's voice in her ear: Just above your head, there are three nails to press on. The second, then the third, then the first, got that, little rabbit?

She was taller now - they were on a level with her breastbone - and she pressed down on them until she heard the reassuring click of the door opening. She pulled Orana through and closed it softly, collapsing against it. The passage continued round a corner, and hopefully the- whoever was chasing them would follow it rather than them. She'd done it. She'd won the Rabbit Game, and they were in the clinic, and Daddy would be here and tell her everything was alright-

Orana was staring at her, and she realised she'd said her names three times, and she hadn't heard. Why hadn't she heard? She was meant to be listening, meant to be calm and grown up, but she felt suddenly small and shivery and scared.

"Cara," Orana said, crouching to take hold of her shoulders, as if she was a very little girl. "Do you know where your father is? He seems to have- stepped out, for a moment."

That didn't make sense. Mama had gone to the Gallows, she said, to make sure the mages were safe, but Daddy had said he'd be at the clinic. He was supposed to be at the clinic-

Cara's breath was quickening in her throat, and now she really wanted to cry, which was stupid, because nothing bad had actually happened, and at any minute her father would be back and would explain everything. Nothing was actually wrong. Nothing was actually wrong, because if something was actually wrong-

She could hear the sound of people rushing around outside, of crying and screams, of wood cracking, and she knew in her bones that something was Actually Wrong, which made no sense. If something were that badly wrong, Daddy would be at the clinic, making sure people had a safe place to go, that anyone who was hurt was taken care of. And yet, the clinic was empty, holding nothing but a silence more horrible than the noise outside when it should have held warmth, comfort, safety.

"I don't-" She swallowed, tried to make her voice less shaky, because she had to be brave, because Orana was probably more frightened, "I don't know where he is. I- he'll be back soon."

It didn't feel like he'd be back soon. The surgery was too tidy. Daddy's desk was usually piled high with papers she wasn't supposed to look at or (when she was too little to understand) draw on. Now it was swept clean, his healer's kit sat neatly on the chair, as if waiting for him to return with far more patience than Cara. It felt wrong in a way she would not have the words for for years. It felt like he was already gone, and fear sank into the hollow between her ribs and made her heart flutter like a caged bird.

"I- I'm sure he will," Orana echoed her, and squeezed her shoulder. Cara wished she hadn't. Orana was not a very good liar.

A fist slammed into the door to Darktown, and they both flinched at the sound. Orana shoved her down under the desk, so hard and so sudden she slammed her head against it and cried out.

"Ow, Orana-!"

The rapping came again, more urgent this time. Orana's hand clapped down over her mouth, her grip on her shoulder painfully tight.

"Please!" A rough voice called from outside, "For pity's sake, if we ever needed a healer, it's now!"

Cara was not a healer, was barely even a mage, but when the banging came again, she knew what her parents would have done. She wrenched herself from Orana's grip and ran to the door, yanking it open. Outside there was a small crowd of people, pressed tight against the clinic's wall to hide from the chaos outside.

She looked up at them, feeling suddenly very young and very out of place in her pretty embroidered dress with its fine ruffled petticoats. Even of the smallest of the children looked older and more tired than she'd ever felt. She swallowed, looked up at the nearest grown-up (a man, heavily scarred, bleeding from a deep cut on his scalp, and said: "He isn't here, but- I can help you, or try."

He stared down at her through his one remaining eye, and she felt a little sick. "You're just a kid," he said, with something like disgust, and she almost wanted to cry. Then she felt Orana's hand on her shoulder again, and realised that if she could be brave for Cara, when she was so much more scared of so many things, Cara would have to keep being brave for everyone else. She wondered if her mother had ever felt like this - too small and too frightened and having to do the brave thing anyway, because there was nobody else to do it. She hoped not. Being a hero shouldn't feel like this.

She swallowed down the sick she could taste at the back of her throat. "Maybe, but- I'm all there is right now."

He made a scoffing noise, moved to wheel away, but another man, shorter, face badly bruised, caught his shoulder and gave him a glare. "D'you know anything about healing?" he demanded, and she wanted to say No, she wanted to say Go away, she wanted to say I tried to be nice and you're being rude, because nobody had ever spoken harshly to her before, but that isn't what a hero would do. That isn't what her parents would do.

So she put her hands on her hips and said, in her mother's voice: "I know everything my father taught me, and Orana knows some too. And- and if I can't help you, you can wait here until he comes back."

He would come back. He always came back. It was the promise he made every time he had to leave unexpectedly, and couldn't tell her when he'd be home. He'd kiss her forehead and say: I'll be back soon, Cara-hase, and I'll bring your mama with me. He hadn't said it this morning, but then, they'd argued this morning. He'd been in one of his black moods where only Mama could reach him, and she'd pestered him for attention rather than leaving well alone. Maybe that was why she couldn't find him now.

She shook that thought off and stood aside, letting the people flood in. Some of them were limping, supported by friends or family, or favouring arms that were clearly broken. Cuts and scrapes she'd seen plenty of - she knew from memory how to clean a wound out with elfroot, and Orana, steeling herself, could close up the longer or deeper ones with neat, careful stitches. She'd never seen bruises so dark or so big, but she spread spindleweed balm across them nonetheless and said calming things like There, all better, and It'll be fine if you're careful, even if she wasn't sure it was true.

"The tunnels keep collapsing," the man with the bruised face told her while she smeared gooey spindleweed across it, as his husband swore loudly through Orana's stitching. "Whatever happened up in Hightown, it's shaken the foundations, and the Templars… they're looking for- someone."

He cut himself off as he seemed to focus on her face for the first time. "You said your daddy would be back soon?"

She nodded. "He always comes back."

He sighed, looked past and through her. "They always do, kid. Until they don't."

She shook her head, tried to remind herself that he didn't know her parents, that they always came back to her. That they were heroes, and that meant they always came home. She told herself that over and over again as the hours passed, as more people flooded through the door - some she could help, most she couldn't, even as she rationed and diluted the few elfroot potions kept aside for emergencies, and she didn't feel like a hero at all. She felt like she was a little girl again, and school had finished, and nobody had come to collect her - the cold, uncomfortable feeling of being forgotten, mingled with the fear of something Very Wrong having kept her parents away. At least now she was busy - now she was helping people, if only a little. Then she'd had to sit in the Chantry while the sisters did evening prayers, the stench of incense making her feel sick and sleepy and even more forgotten than she felt now.

Like the last time, when her mother finally came, she burst into angry, relieved tears like a baby, and flung herself into her arms. She'd been trying to be a hero, or at least a grown-up, for far too long, and suddenly she was hot and tired and hungry and scared but her mother was here and those were no longer her problem to fix.

"Where's the healer?" someone demanded over her head, and she relaxed, waiting for the reassuring answer.

Instead, her mother said: "Gone," and that was when she realised that this was nothing like the Qunari attack, that her life would never be the same again. That the world could be cut into two neat halves by a single syllable.

[blueskittlesart]

*sigh* thoughts on Nintendo's botw/totk timeline shenanigans and tomfoolery?

tbh. my maybe-unpopular opinion is that the timeline is only important when a game's place on the timeline seriously informs the way their narrative progresses. the problem is that before botw we almost NEVER got games where it didn't matter. it matters for skyward sword because it's the beginning, and it matters for tp/ww/alttp (and their respective sequels) because the choices the hero of time makes explicitly inform the narrative of those games in one way or another. it matters which timeline we're in for those games because these cycles we're seeing are close enough to oot's cycle that they're still feeling the effects of his choices. botw, however, takes place at minimum 10 thousand years after oot, so its place on the timeline actually functionally means nothing. botw is completely divorced from the hero of time & his story, so what he does is a nonissue in the context of botw link and zelda's story. thus, which timeline botw happens in is a nonissue. honestly I kind of liked the idea that it happened in all of them. i think there's a cool idea of inevitability that can be played with there. but the point is that the timeline exists to enhance and fill in the lore of games that need it, and botw/totk don't really need it because the devs finally realized they could make a game without the hero of time in it.

[petz5]

Hey, you. Ranma blogger. How's the new ranma anime. Your answer will not make me watch it but it might make me think about watching more often which is almost the same thing.

It seems to be very pretty if nothing else.

Wanted to watch the newest episode before i replied just in case i hated it 😭

UMMMM.... hmmm. It is very pretty i agree. I am constantly flip flopping from hating to loving it ngl. When it's good its incredible and when it's bad i don't even wanna look at it 💀

I think the first episode was perfect, kuno's intro was okay, ryoga's intro was ass and i'll never forgive them for what they did to the scene where akane carries ranma home from tofu's, kodachi's was good, the ice skating arc was fantastic (outside of akane's weird lips that totally took me out of the moment....), and so far the shampoo arc is superior to the original

I think the pacing sucks ass for the first half and then it gets a lot better but they really needed an extra 5ish episodes to slow the fuck down. Like i could not tell you what dr tofu's personality is in the remake, he was barely there. We hardly spent any time on the fact akane's a tomboy to the point i've had new fans tell me "nooo don't call her that she's perfect the way she is!" (its... not an insult 😭)

I think the characterizations are way better, i think the animation is gorgeous, it's literally just the pacing that pisses me off sometimes lmao. I suppose i agree it's better than the original but like.... i think i'd want to flip between the original and the remake in a rewatch just to slow things the fuck down and not lose the moments the original had that i think made the show better

Also as much as everyone says the remake is "more faithful to the manga" it really has a lot of new scenes lmaoooo i'm not complaining i think they've all been great changes/additions but i do think it's funny. I've never been a manga purist

I guess my answer is..... it's very good. If it got anime of the year i'd desperately point at frieren and dungeon meshi but i'd understand. But 12 episodes is not enough time to let them truly shine and because of that i don't think it could replace what the original anime is to me, only supplement it

You'd probably like it if you watched it but if you've seen the old anime you'll also understand what i mean abt the lack of time to just breathe and get to know who these people are and why we should care about them. Like ranma is fully on board w being in love w akane from the start and while akane deserves that i don't think we have enough scenes of them just.... hanging out without any stakes to really get a handle on what it is ranma likes abt her so much other than Cute Girl Who Punches Hard and akane is so much more than that 😭

[dootznbootz]

opinions on helen of sparta being compared to prey animals? blink blink

*blink blinks back* Then immediately sits like this because of the question.

It's a good question that I'm happy to answer! It just makes me mad.... I sincerely hate the wording of "prey" being used to describe her.

SHE IS A VICTIM! THAT DOES NOT MEAN SHE IS "PREY"!

I can...see how people in ancient times may have used that word and still meant it in how she is a victim... but modern-day English-speaking people calling her that??? (considering how in different languages the word "prey" could have different meanings.) I'll just say that as someone who has been "prey" herself at one point, I REALLY hate that word as a descriptor. Just say victim or survivor. 👍

Honestly to call ANY victim "prey" is so fucked up. "Prey" to me, feels like "it's meant to happen." "Prey" are part of the food chain and so that's what happens. And to compare that to abduction and SA? Almost as if "that's our place"? It also kind of implies something being "eaten" or killed... Helen SURVIVES. She's traumatized and definitely needs healing and support but it's not like she can't find joy or peace ever again. Prey just feels so fucking gross.

Also, if someone calls victims "prey", I hope they know that Moose, Elk, Boars, Bovine, ZEBRAS, etc. are technically "prey". And these are VERY aggressive animals while still being "prey" for some other animals. And also that doesn't mean that "Oh, they're powerful! Clearly they should've been able to stop it." That's victim blaming :P

She is a clever, determined, caring woman who was ripped from her home for YEARS because Paris was a dipshit who decided he needed the prettiest woman in the world despite already having a wife. He didn't care about the fact that Helen didn't want to be there and was already married. He is so selfish that he will not let her go back even when THOUSANDS have died in the war! EVEN HIS BROTHER HECTOR AND PRIAM DO NOT BLAME HER! Granted, we do not know if Aphrodite would have let him undo their deal of "I want the prettiest woman" if he DID end up feeling bad for Helen and he wished to let her go home (I doubt it based on his personality though).

"Oh, if she is so independent/strong, then why didn't she just kill Paris and leave?"

AGAIN! Victim blaming!!! First thing, people who ask that have media literacy that is piss on the poor. You also have no idea about the political implications that would have happened if she DID kill Paris. She literally cries about staying there and argues with Aphrodite about seeing Paris, only to get strongarmed by Aphrodite as, guess what? A GODDESS WILL ALWAYS OVERPOWER A DEMIGOD. (This isn't Percy Jackson where he "killed" Ares as a 12 year old (Percy, you were my childhood, but that's bullshit.))

Even confined in Troy, she ARGUED with APHRODITE about going to see Paris! She is not some meek woman who just does as she's told with no pushback! She argued with a GODDESSS! Very few survive doing that!!!

She's not "Prey to fate", she's a "VICTIM of Fate".

[tenok]

.

[imagine-nerd]

The fucking disconnect is so real.

[fionnaskyborn]

pros of learning how to play fighting game:

undergoing a learning experience, trying out something entirely different from anything i have previously played

i get to look at a little guy do cool things on my screen :)

cons of learning how to play fighting game:

i am clumsy as all hell with the inputs

the order in which you press and/or hold buttons to create inputs is less like trying to get a sequence of movements right and more like playing a rhythm game (down then while not letting go of down press forward then let go of down and THEN press an attack button on the other side of the keyboard). i suck at rhythm games. hell world

sometimes, the damn things just... won't register? at all? you do a half circle to forward input and the game says "half circle forward? oh, sorry, that's ensenga :)" or, worse, "too slow, that's a regular heavy slash move :)". brother. why must you do me like this.

the area between the knuckles of my ring and little finger hurts like a motherfucker (though this has hurt in various areas since at least this morning, but i'm willing to bet that practicing quarter and half circle inputs for at least an hour did not make the situation any better)

[pocketramblr]

srimptesting??? What does that mean??

It means I can't spell "shrimptesting"

[born-to-lose]

I want to strangle this DJ for playing Reckless Love at an 80s party (not 80s inspired or glam in general, whole ass actual 80s along with ZZ Top, Cinderella etc)

[statusquoergo]

“Come on.”

“Uh?”

Diane looks up as Naomi stands and holds out her hand as if this isn't a ridiculously careless thing she's asking her to do, as if neither of them has the good sense to mention that neither one of them has any idea what they're getting themselves into. As if neither of them might be walking straight into a trap of their own making, or nothing much will change at all and they'll forget about each other in a month, or a few days. As if it's a risk worth taking to find out which.

As if there's anything else to do today.

“I'm not going to the hospital.”

“I know.” Naomi reaches a little closer. “I have a first aid kit at home.”

Enough to get them through, that's all. Enough for now.

“You know how to wrap it?” Diane asks as she takes Naomi's hand to pull herself up, as though the answer might change her mind somehow. Naomi smiles a little, as though she knows it just as well that it won't.

“Yeah.” She sets Diane's hand down on her shoulder. “It's not far, come on. I'll carry you down the stairs.”

“You'll drop me.”

“I will not.” Naomi urges her forward, along the concrete path out of the park. “I mean I'm just offering, I don't have to.”

It's a nice gesture, though, isn't it? It was a nice thought.

They walk slowly down the street, stepping more or less in sync past the general store with the baking supplies just past the doorway, turning at the corner to walk toward the coin laundry that's open even at three in the morning and also on holidays. A hand-drawn poster in the window of the discount shoe store across the street loudly advertises VACUUMS REFURBISHED while a Times New Roman printout on the telephone cubicle in the middle of the block offers “suitable compensation” in exchange for willing test subjects, No Questions Please; a few steps farther along stands an apartment building that somehow looks like it's missing a couple of stories, and Diane shifts her weight to her good leg as Naomi steps away to fumble with the lock on the front door.

“It's the door on the left,” Naomi says, the door sticking only slightly as she shoves it open. “When you get to the basement.”

She opens the first door on the right, a stairwell that only leads down.

“Upstairs is that door over there, but I don't know any of the neighbors, so. I'm not gonna introduce you to anyone.”

That's fine. Diane doesn't want to know any of them, either.

Naomi walks down the stairs first and doesn't try to carry her.

“Bathroom's at the end of the hall,” she says. “The taps aren't broken, the water's just cold when it's cold outside and warm when it isn't, but if you let it run for a little while, it'll...fix itself. And make sure you don't touch the water heater, it's metal and it gets really hot sometimes.”

Diane clutches the wooden banister nailed to the wall as she limps her way down and wonders how much of all this she's supposed to remember. All of it, probably. It isn't very complicated.

Naomi unlocks the door on the left and holds it open.

“You can sit on the bed.”

It's good of her to offer. It isn't much of a bed, really, more of a mattress pushed into the corner, but that isn't exactly a surprise, and it's good of her to offer all the same.

“Thanks,” Diane says, a little too late to seem quite natural. Naomi hums a disinterested acknowledgment and doesn't seem to mind.

“Take off your shoes.”

Diane promptly unties her sneakers, placing them on the floor beside the bed as Naomi kneels in front of her with a roll of ACE bandage in her hand and her eyes focused on Diane's ankle like she's the only attending physician in the entire complex who doesn't have better things to do with her time than tend to something as trivial as all this. Diane should count herself lucky the timing worked out the way that it did.

Lucky, was it? It's about time.

The single bulb in the overhead light flickers a little as if a public execution has just disrupted the power grid, or someone's turned on too many air conditioners at once and blown a fuse a few floors up.

“Don't worry about it,” Naomi says. Diane doesn't bother to assure her that she wasn't.

[retiredcultistredux]

[IN-BETWEEN CHAPTERS 1-2: FINALE]

tw// eyestrain, bright colors. (also, not a tw, but this is a Very Long Post.)

Upon hearing Prince Fluff's voice, Ester turned around, looking at him in a mixture of annoyance and obvious impatience. He grumbled, placing a hand on his hip.

Prince Fluff: "You don't get to just rip my arm off, kidnap my friends and run away! You need to--"

Ester interrupted him with a scoff.

Ester: "Yeah, yeah, I know, you're mad. But what I'm doing is way more important than your stupid emotions. Now do me a favor..."

Ester brought a hand up to his amulet, which began to glow a bright purple.

With that, the light from the amulet shot outwards, forming around Prince Fluff in an orb shape and lifting him into the air.

Prince Fluff: "What the--what is--"

Before he could finish his sentence, the orb sent a shockwave throughout his body, and a smaller blue light appeared in front of him, as if being drained from the purple one.

Hyness and Kirby, watching the scene unfold, were left momentarily speechless. Kirby's usual pink color had continued to fade away, leaving a duller shade behind.

Kirby: "F-Fluff, poyo!!"

Kirby called out as his friend fell to the ground, unconscious. The purple light had faded, while the blue one absorbed itself into Ester's amulet, causing him to momentarily pause before letting out a small 'hm'. Then, as if nothing happened...

Ester...shot a yarn whip of his own out of his hand? Upon seeing this, Hyness knew what that meant. He knew he recognized the symbol on Ester's hood...it meant that...Ester was Spirit Matter. And the amulet he possessed was one of many artifacts his species was known to search for...an Absorption Amulet.

What this meant was that the owner of the amulet could drain a small bit of magic energy from someone in order to permanently copy their abilities. Unlike Kirby's Copy Ability, which served as a temporary power-up, Absorption Amulets could store this energy forever, giving the owner access to a wide variety of abilities at any given time.

However, it didn't steal the ability from the victim completely--it was like copying the data needed to perform a function, while allowing the victim to still have access to their own abilities as well. Still, knowing this now...how many different abilities did Ester have access to? Before he could say anything on the subject, Ester had made the yarn whip disappear and turned back around, continuing down the hall with Kirby and Hyness in tow, not saying anything to break the tense silence.

Meanwhile...Zan had caught up to Prince Fluff, but when she did, he was already unconscious--and the others were nowhere to be seen. She was left alone with her unconscious friend, feeling guilty that she couldn't catch up to him in time.

[END OF IN-BETWEEN CHAPTERS 1-2.]

[Prince Fluff is no longer available for questions until he wakes up (don't worry, this will be during Chapter 2, but not right away). Everyone else is still available, but as the chapter starts, the focus will be on Ester and those with him--as well as finally introducing someone else. Magolor, Fran & Flam are still on their way, they're almost at Jambandra but not quite.]

[CHAPTER 2 WILL BEGIN ON SATURDAY, 7/22/23.]

[sufficientlylargen]

It always gets me that the name "Gandalf" literally just means "Wand-Elf" or "Stick-Elf". I'm imagining old Gondorians just being like:

Librarian: I saw that weird guy at the library again today.

Guard 1: What weird guy?

Librarian: The old guy with the beard? Kinda elfy-looking, apart from the beard?

Guard 1: Oh, with the big-ass stick?

Librarian: Yeah, looked like he was carrying an entire tree branch.

Guard 2: Yeah, that's the Stick Elf.

Guard 1: Hell yeah, I fuckin' love the Stick Elf.

Librarian: The "Stick Elf"?

Guard 2: He comes by every few years, usually after some weird book or other.

Librarian: Oh. Yeah, he wanted a treatise on goblin breeding habits.

Guard 2: Like, how they have sex? We have books on that?

Librarian: Yeah, turns out we do. I was as surprised as you are.

Guard 1: What'd the Stick Elf need a fuckin' goblin-fuckin' book for?

Librarian: I didn't ask. So you just call him "Stick Elf"?

Guard 2: I mean, he looks kinda elfy and he always has that stick, so, like, yeah.

Guard 1: Dude also has some fuckin' dope pipeweed.

Guard 2: Oh yeah, his pipeweed is awesome.

Librarian: How long has he been coming here?

Guard 2: Oh, for decades. He's, like, super old.

Guard 1: More like fuckin' centuries. Dude's old as balls.

Guard 2: Wait, really?

Guard 1: Yeah, my gran-gran used to talk about him. She loved his pipeweed too.

Librarian: So he's… an immortal pipeweed dealer?

Guard 2: I think he's just, like, a connoisseur. He doesn't sell it or anything. He just always has some really top-notch pipeweed on him.

Archivist: Oh, are we talking about Stick Elf?

Guard 1: Hell yeah we are!

Librarian: You know about the Stick Elf, too?

Archivist: Oh, totally. Stick-Elf's a super chill dude. Gave me some awesome pipeweed when I was maybe 12, and tee-bee-aitch I think I'm still a little buzzed from it.

Guard 1: What'd I tell ya, fuckin' dope pipeweed!

Archivist: Also he's really old.

Guard 1: Old as balls.

Librarian: Yeah, so Éodan and Jenniforomir were telling me.

Archivist: My grandpa used to tell me stories - he said one time he saw Stick Elf enter a smoke-ring contest.

Guard 1: Ooh, I'll bet he kicked fuckin' ass.

Archivist: Apparently the guy made an entire warship out of smoke and it flew around shooting down the other rings.

Librarian: And how much of this "fuckin' dope" pipeweed had your grandfather had by this point?

Guard 1: No no, that's totally plausible. Dude's got weird elf powers and shit for sure.

Archivist: He brought fireworks for the king's birthday one year, too.

Guard 1: Oh fuck, I forgot about those! Fuckin' incredible fireworks! Dragons and knights and glowy trees and shit! I was fuckin' 6 years old or something, they totally blew my mind. Hey Éodan, did you see that shit?

Guard 2: No, I think that's before I lived in Gondor.

Guard 1: Wait, you're not from here?

Guard 2: Oh, no, I grew up in Rohan. We moved here when I was, like, thirteen because my uncle Éojeff said he could get my dad a sweet job. And also that there were houses that didn't smell like horseshit.

Guard 1: Oh shit, are you related to Éojeff and Éosteve who run that æbleskiver stand on Norndîl St?

Guard 2: Yeah, they're my uncles!

Guard 1: Shit, they cook a fuckin' great æbleskiver!

Librarian: Ok, hold up a sec, "Stick Elf" can't possibly be his real name.

Guard 1: Why not?

Librarian: What? You think his parents named him in the hopes that he would carry around a fucking tree when he got older?

Guard 2: Maybe they gave him the tree when he was born!

Archivist: I don't think a baby could carry that stick.

Guard 1: You ever seen a baby hanging onto something? They're hella strong.

Archivist: It's not a strength thing, their hands are tiny. That staff is enormous!

Guard 1: My halberd's bigger 'n I am, I can hold it just fine.

Archivist: You're not a baby.

Librarian: Also why would elf parents name their kid "stick ELF"?! Presumably they know that their kid's going to be an elf!

Archivist: Is he actually an elf? I didn't think they grew beards.

Guard 1: How'd he get old as balls if he's not an elf?

Guard 2: His ears aren't that pointy. Maybe he's just a really old guy? Like, a Numémoriam or something?

Guard 1: Did you just say "Numémoriam"?

Guard 2: Nûnenorman? Munimõrbitan? Y'know, those guys like the king that can get super old.

Guard 1: You mean the fuckin' Númenóreans?

Guard 2: Yeah, the Númenóreums.

Archivist: Even the Númenóreans don't live THAT long.

Guard 1: Plus he carries that fuckin' stick around.

Guard 2: Wait, what does the stick have to do with it?

Guard 1: That's an elf thing. Y'know, trees and shit? Very elfy.

Librarian: Ok, look, but his parents naming him "Stick Elf" would be weird whether or not he's an elf. In fact, it's even weirder if he's not - what human names their kid "elf"?

Archivist: Huh. Yeah, you're right, he probably does have another name.

Guard 2: Yeah, I guess so.

Librarian: He's been coming here for decades and nobody's ever asked his real name?

Archivist: I dunno what to tell you, he's Stick Elf. Even his library card just says 'Stick Elf'.

Guard 1: Fuck yeah, the Stick Elf!

Guard 2: Maybe we could, like, ask him his name sometime?

Guard 1: Hey, look, Elrond's over there. He's old as balls too, maybe he knows?

Guard 2: Oh, we shouldn't interru-

Guard 1: HEY ELROND, YOU'RE OLD AS BALLS, RIGHT? WHAT'S THAT OLD ELF WITH THE STICK'S NAME?

Elrond (coming over): Do you mean an old man cloaked all in grey and blue, leaning on a rough-cut staff, who came to the great library this day?

Guard 1: Yeah, the Stick-Elf!

Guard 2: (Sorry to bother you, sir...)

Librarian: He's got to have a real name besides 'the Stick Elf', right?

Elrond: Indeed, for no elf is he. You speak of the wizard Olórin, wisest of the Maiar, older even than Eä itself. Many are his names in many countries: Tharkûn among the Dwarves; Incánus to the south; Mithrandir he is called among my people, the Grey Pilgrim.

Librarian: Oh.

Elrond: And here in the North he is called Stick-Elf.

Librarian: Oh.

Guard 1: Fuck yeah!

[vdelicate]

how it feels to prep yourself for a serious conversation at work