#i like the smith's design a lot too!!!

[mylifeiscomics]

Part 32 - College AU

Mickey & Rose are on good terms but not that good lol.

[chleem]

Casual /extra

One shot; college students drew x reader

Summary: “Baby, no attachments.” yet, you’re at his childhood home, laughing with his parents, bonding with his siblings. 

Genre: situation-ship, smut, fluff, slight angst

Warnings: swearing, sex, light read, drew's a player :(

⋆.˚ official one shot here | extra2

⋆.˚ don't copy or translate my work

♡⸝⸝ "it's hard being casual when my favorite bra lives in your dresser"

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“Whose bra is this?”

Drew’s eyes dart to the source, feeling wary. Who else could be in his room right now?

Oh right. The girl he met last night. She’s wearing his t-shirt like it’s his, rummaging through his dresser. She turns around holding a red bra. Your red bra. 

Drew raises an eyebrow, looking at the girl skeptically. What’s her name again? He honestly has no idea, and isn’t planning on remembering. “I..I thought you left.”

“Let’s grab breakfast together,” she happily chirps, before returning to the bra in her hands, holding it as if it contained some deadly disease. “Now, who’s bra is this?”

Drew doesn’t reply; and the girl adds on, “is it the girl you moaned out last night?” 

Drew cocks his head to the side. What is this bitch on, he thinks. He sends her a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, walks over, and snatches the bra out of her hands. He tugs it back in his dresser, pushing it close. “You should leave.”

He turns around and sees the graphic design that's on the shirt the girl's currently wearing. That’s the shirt you got him. One of his favorite. “Um, leave the shirt here.” 

It’s the girl’s turn to look at him skeptically. “What?”

“Yeah, uh, leave the shirt here, and forget this ever happened, alright?” 

Drew throws his towel over his gaming chair, and grabs his sweatpants. He puts it on, ignoring the shocked expression on her face. He lays down on his bed, picks up his phone, and starts scrolling through his messages. 

When she realizes that he doesn’t give a shit, she angrily takes the t-shirt off, throwing it into his face. “Thanks,” Drew says rather sourly, putting it to the side. She puts on her dress from last night, grabbing any remaining clothing around the place. 

“We have class together, you dick!” She yells, as if that would make Drew care. 

He hums, obviously too focused on his phone. Only the slam of his room door makes him slightly flinch, but even so, his eyes go back to his phone.

Now, what was he so focused on? Well, texting you. 

——

I’m at the soccer field

This simple text was enough to get Drew out of his dorm, walking as fast as he could to go see you. 

A smile on his lips that appear on its own, just from seeing you sit on the bleachers, watching the soccer team practice. Or more, get yelled at by their coach. 

You don’t even notice him sit down beside you; too engrossed in the music coming from your AirPods. 

It’s when he takes one AirPod out of your ear, when you finally notice him. “Hey,” he breathes out, putting the AirPod into his own ear.

“Hi,” you smile, your eyes landing on his shirt. Oh. He’s wearing the shirt you got him as a gift a few months ago, for Christmas. He wears it quite often, but every time you see it on him, warmth still fills your stomach. “Nice shirt, handsome.”

“Really?” He nudges your knee with his. “An amazing girl got me this.”

He says stuff like this; that makes you wonder if it’s still casual. 

“Interesting,” you lean in closer to him, your eyes glancing down at his lips and then at his eyes. You haven’t seen him in almost two weeks; due to spring break. Mentally, you were glad to be away from Drew, to clear your mind a bit. Physically? Well, let’s just say sexting was not as satisfying as the real thing. 

“What song is this again?” He suddenly asks, smiling fondly at you. You get ready to answer, but Drew beats you to it, replying to his own question. “The Smiths, right?” 

You mimic the ding noise, making him chuckle under his breath. “You know me so well,” you say, bit of sarcasm in your voice. Duh, he knows a lot about you; casual for more than five months at this point.

“Of course.” he’s smiling ear to ear. 

You roll your eyes at his response, but feel your own smile growing. You lean down against his shoulder, looking out onto the field. The weight of looking into his eyes was getting heavy. 

It’s quiet for a few seconds, until you speak up. 

“That guy has been yelled at by the coach ten times already.”

You feel Drew’s chest vibrate against you, his laughter erupting softly. “Ten times? What a retard.”

You chuckle softly, only because Drew finds it funny. “But the coach was being a meanie.”

The said guy has the ball now, and when he attempts to score it in, he misses and falls onto the ground. That causes the coach to yell at him again. “Well, eleventh time,” Drew adds on. 

“Next Fifa champion,” you add on. Drew laughs again, as if that joke was the funniest thing he’s ever heard. You pull away from leaning on his shoulder, and stare at his smile. “Was it that funny?” You ask. 

He turns his head over to you, the smile still there. Or more like, ever since he sat down, his lips were always curled up. “You should be a comedian.”

That makes you laugh, and you push his shoulder, “nonsense.”

Your laughter dies down when you see how smitten his stare on you is. 

His eyes glance down at your lips, then back to your eyes, “I missed you.”

Casual, casual, casual.

“You did?” You cock your head to the side flirtatiously. Part of you thought it was fun to flirt with Drew; to hear the nice things he has to say about you. The other part of you hated how sweet Drew was with you; when the two of you were just ‘casually’ sleeping together. 

“Think I’ve already said that over text though,” his voice drops low, and he starts to lean close to you. The look on his face says it all; he wants to kiss you.

“Flatter me and tell me in person too, won’t you?” You continue to say, a smirk on your lips. 

He leans forward and kisses your cheek gently, “how ‘bout I show you instead?”

Oh. Oh. The butterflies are throwing up in your stomach right now, because of this man’s sly mouth. How he just casually brings up wanting to have sex with you, within minutes of seeing each other. 

Seems like he really does miss you. 

Casual, casual, casual. 

“How is one suppose to refuse to that?”

“Hmm,” he hums, and his eyes glued to your lips tell you everything; his mind is already elsewhere, imagining the most dirty things to do with you. Or, what he’s going to do with you. 

He leans in, this time, kissing you on the lips. His tongue meets yours hungrily and lustfully, exploring every corner. He kisses you as if it’s the only way for him to breathe, only way for him to live on. 

You hate that; yet you kiss him back with the same eagerness. 

Make-out session at the bleachers? How romantic. How sweet. How casual. 

You pull away, feeling breathless from how good his kisses are. And you too realize that you missed him too, something you don’t want to admit. Because, who misses someone you only see casually? That’s weird.

His eyes are still glued to your lips, and you see a small trail of saliva near the corner of it. You chuckle softly, wiping it off with your thumb. “You know…”

He hums yet again, even though you haven’t even gotten to the main point of your sentence. “…I got a gift for you….in my room,” you manage to breathe out, and he kisses your jaw. 

Aka, let’s go have sex in my room, right now. 

“How lovely,” he smiles against your neck, planting a kiss there. 

“You wanna see it?” You run your hands through his hair, down his nape, fingertips scratching it lightly. That makes him bury himself deeper into your neck, his arms wrapping around you.

“Yes please.”

——

The moment you unlocked your room, Drew rushes you inside, until you land on the soft cushions of your couch. 

You giggle, watching him take his top off, his legs on either side of you, caging you onto the couch. “Should I continue my story or no?”

“Mmm, lemme guess,” Drew remains eye contact with you, but his hands focus on undoing the zipper of your shorts. “Everyone got food poisoning, just because of you.”

You lift your hips, him pulling your shorts down, “everyone was rushed into the ER.”

Drew laughs, ushering you to sit up. He pulls your top over your head, leaving you only in your bra and underwear. “And still you insist on cooking for me.”

“Only because you always ask to stay in,” you reply, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Making me improvise on dinner.”

“Mmhm,” he stares down at your lips, distracted like always. He kisses you sloppily, his hands running along your back. You moan into his mouth, as he pushes you down onto the pillows. 

“I miss you,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down your neck, sucking gently on the area around there;

The angel on your shoulder likes the sweet things he says; the devil on the other side likes to doubt his every word, repeating the phrase in your ear:

Casual, casual, casual. 

One hand kneads your thigh, the other pinning your waist to the couch. His lips move onto your breasts, where they skillfully move around the bra. He wraps his lips around your nipples, making you gasp in pleasure. 

But the bra starts to feel itchy, which you breathe out, “just take it off.”

He smirks against your nipples, pulling away just to unclip your bra. You help him, pushing the bra off, discarding it on the floor. He leans down again, this time, sucking on the other breast. 

“Fuck..” You moan, as he stops, trailing his lips down your stomach. He leaves soft kisses along your belly button, his fingers working with pulling your underwear down. 

“Missed you.” 

This time, he says it while looking down at your pussy. 

The air hits your wet pussy, soon cut off by Drew’s warm palm. 

“Wet already,” he chuckles, his fingers playing with your folds. Too consumed with lust, you don’t even reply to that comment. 

He sticks two fingers into you, thrusting in a slow pace. “You’re tight,” he breathes out, kissing your neck. 

You wrap your arms around his neck lazily, “haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Forever, huh?”

“C’mon, don’t act like its not the same for you-“ he adds the third finger, cutting off your sentence. You moan loudly, as he starts to move in a faster pace. Swear, you can cum just on his fingers alone. 

He smiles against your face, and kisses your ear. Occasionally, he grunts, trying to stretch you out as much as he can. 

Okay. Maybe you could cum on his fingers alone, but it wouldn’t be as good as the real thing. “I want you,” you manage to say between moans, his fingers working hard on your pussy. 

He kisses your forehead, “good to know.”

What a teasing prick. You squeeze his bicep, hoping he gets the message. It’s not easy to talk when he’s got his fingers deep in you. You give him a lazy glare; and he just laughs, “I’know.”

He pulls out of you, and you immediately clench around nothing, your folds missing Drew. He gets entirely off of you, and walks into your bedroom.

Drew knew where you kept the condoms; since, well, he’s constantly fucking you. 

You stare at the ceiling while waiting for him. 

A few seconds of silence passes.

“Y/n!” He yells, before walking out a few seconds later. You turn your gaze to him, who’s holding the entire box of condoms in his hands. He smiles wryly, “it’s expired.”

You furrow your eyebrows, sitting up slightly. He walks over to you, showing you the date on the box. Yeah, it is expired. But you bought this a few weeks ago. Wait…

“No wonder it was so cheap,” you groan, throwing your head back on the couch pillow. 

“This shit…won’t break that easily, right?”

You glance at Drew. He looks at you, hoping you would agree to his thought. His eyes shine in anticipation, the curl of his lips upwards. “…I guess?”

“I’ll…even pull out before I cum,” he shrugs, also hoping you would agree. 

“I… I take pills,” you add on, ignoring the calls of ‘bad idea!’ going on in your mind. Lust was in charge now, and it’s commanding you to get fucked by Drew, even with the huge amount of risks it comes with. 

He breaks into a smile, leaning down and kissing you. “Hey…so it’s okay?” He murmurs against your lips, an adoring look painted all over his face. 

“Have I ever said no though?” You say, which makes him chuckle. 

“True,” he replies, before taking a condom out of the box. You help him, by pulling his sweatpants off. He steps out of them, and you see his fully erected dick, screaming to be released from his boxers. 

“All fours,” his voice drops deeper, commanding you into the position he wants. 

You obey; shrugging your underwear off your knees, getting on your knees and elbows. You arch your back, to make your ass higher. You feel him dip on the couch behind you. 

He stays behind you, the noises of him preparing the only sound in the room. It feels like minutes have passed, and he still hasn't stick it in. “You done?” You ask, unable to mask the impatience in it. 

Drew replies with a hard slap to your ass, making you groan. He then asks, “did you buy this for someone else?”

“What?”

“Not only is it expired…but you got a smaller size,” he plants a kiss on your lower back. 

“What?” You say again, turning your head to look behind you. He holds the packaging in his hands; an M written on it. Oh. “That isn’t your size?”

He snickers, “you serious?” You must have just grabbed the first pack on the shelf, not checking anything. Drew delivers another rough slap to your asscheek when he doesn’t get a reply from you. It hurt, but in a good way. “Babe, you serious?”

“Dead serious,” you sarcastically reply, before laying your head onto the couch pillow in front of you. At this point, you’re pretty sure your pussy isn’t even wet anymore. 

But another hard slap to your other asscheek makes you jolt up, your brain betraying you by making you moan out. “Barely fits me.”

Can’t believe you’re attracted to this whiny man. “I’ll pay more attention next time,” you try to hide your annoyance, “just fuck me already.”

His hands grab the side of your hips, moving your ass to the right position. “Might slip off.”

What’s up with him right now? Is he seriously offended? You just bought the wrong size by accident, was it that big of a deal? “It won’t,” you assure him, “my fault, okay? Just put it in.”

“Fine. Fine, sorry,” he murmurs. 

You feel the tip of him against your hole, as he aligns his dick. And then, he sticks his entire dick inside of you. You moan out in pleasure, clenching around it. Fuck. He was right; you were tight, and you needed a few seconds to adjust to him. 

But Drew doesn’t let you; starting to slam his lower body into you, in a rather rough manner. 

Clearly, he’s not sorry for being whiny. 

“Shit,” you grip on the pillow harshly. “Slow the fuck down-“

He ignores your comment, continuing his pace. Drew rarely fucked you liked this, only if he’s putting his frustration or anger towards you. “Does this feel like an M?” You hear him grunt out, between thrusts. 

Who knew wrong sized and expired condoms could frustrate Drew this much?

You're forced to adjust to his size and pace, ignoring how each thrust that directly hits your core hurts a bit. “Fuck,” you breathe out, the pleasure inside of you building. His hands grip on your waist tightly; soft bruises might form later. 

His grunts and your soft moans fill the room, as well as loud, aggressive skin-slapping. 

He leaves sloppy kisses along your spine, causing your goosebumps to rise. You weren't going to lie; it felt good to be roughly handled by Drew.

You’re close; feeling the orgasm building inside of you. He knows it too; you clench around his dick. “Someone likes getting fucked roughly,” the tease in his voice is evident, “fucked like a slut, huh?”

Yeah. When Drew was mad or angry, he degrades you in bed. 

But you liked it, a moan you fail to repress escaping your lips. He slaps your ass again, a chuckle heard. “Cum then.”

He slams himself into you, his pace never slowing. The knot in your stomach eventually goes undone, your cum coating his dick. “Fuck..” He groans, as you relax yourself. He holds your ass up, continuing to thrust to help his own orgasm. 

He twitches inside of you; he’s close. 

Drew slows down after a few more, and you fell him pull out of you rather urgently. You completely fall on your stomach on the couch, your body giving up. 

But you force yourself to turn around, laying on your back. Drew sits back on the couch, his head leaned back as his cum fills the condom. He’s right; the M size condom covers 2/3 of his dick, probably not even half when he was erected. 

“I’m sorry,” you coo, a lazily smile on your lips. 

His expression softens; “Come here,” he takes the condom off, wrapping it and throwing it in the garbage can nearby. You force yourself up with the little energy left inside of you, snuggling yourself in Drew’s arms. You trace your fingertips along the lines of his lower stomach, laying your head on his chest. You and Drew’s legs tangled together, due to the small couch. 

The two of you stay silent, just enjoying the feeling of simply being in each other’s arms. 

This was casual, apparently. Cuddling after sex. Something people who have no attachments with each other usually do. 

Then, you suddenly joint up, causing Drew to look at you amusingly. “Wait, I actually do have a gift for you.”

“Really? You didn’t have to,” he murmurs, but the look on his face betrays him. He likes how you think of him when you’re away. You hum, getting off him and walking to your room. 

You come back with a small box, straddling yourself around his waist. You bite down on your lips in anticipation, hoping he likes it. He takes it; opening the box to reveal a men’s chained bracelet. 

It wasn’t from a luxurious brand, but you found it while shopping in your hometown, and thought it would look good on Drew.

He smiles ear-to-ear, “I love it.”

“No you don’t,” you chuckle, helping him put it on on his wrist. 

“I do; I love it, thank you,” he kisses your cheek, raising his hand and wrapping it around your nape. He pulls you down, and kisses you, almost in a loving way. Besides from seeing the smile Drew has whenever you get him something, the way he kisses you after also drives you insane. 

Casual, casual, casual.  

“Round two,” you murmur with a smirk on your lips, pulling away. He chuckles, before his eyes look down to your breasts. 

He bites down on his lip, obviously liking what he's seeing. Then, he shares the same look as you from earlier, remembering something. “Oh, your favorite bra, the red one?”

“...Yeah?” You cock your head to the side, wondering where this was going.

“It was in my dresser this entire time.”

“I knew it!”

“Found it the other day.”

“And… are you going to return it to me?”

“No.”

You slap his chest playfully, him sending you a cocky grin. “You got a bunch of other bras anyways.”

“Doesn’t compare to that one,” you pout, leaning down on his chest, hugging him. You lay your ear close to his heart, hearing the soft rhythm of it. 

It’s moments like this; that doesn’t feel casual at all. 

And maybe, it never will feel casual. At least for you. You weren’t the chill, flirtatious girl Drew knew, no, deep down, you were constantly doubting this situation-ship with him. Letting it drag so long, so long that it didn’t feel real anymore. 

Your stupid mind, constantly dreaming of the future with him. A shared apartment, shared furniture, shared everything. Him showing you off to his friends, admitting you’re someone special to him. 

You loser, he doesn’t even refer to you as a friend in front of others. Simply, a classmate. Fuck, you even visited his parents! Yet, he still denies. Everyone knows you two have something going on, except for Drew. Was he doing this on purpose? 

You don’t know; and honestly, too scared ask.

Because somehow, staying casual with him was better than not having him at all. 

The soft rhythm of his heartbeat helps you to slowly drift off into sleep, the thoughts disappearing. Hopefully, you don’t dream of Drew again, in a nice shared apartment, him showing you off to everyone, as his girlfriend. 

Was this dumb love? Maybe. Possibly. Most definitely. 

-------------------------------

word count: 3.5k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: hope you enjoyed reading this! and this isnt an official part two, but rather, another 'pov' into being in a situationship with kinda-toxic drew. for better context, you can read the actual oneshot here. i don't think there is going to be an official part two, bc i like this the way it is (sry!) and yes, inspired by chappell roan.

ngl...i dont like this writing as much....but i love the fluff parts! also, the smut scenes might feel wayyy too fast but swear they lasted longer than that (just got lazy to write🥲) anyways, thx for reading and pls ignore any mistakes <3

[strixludica]

The unappreciated art of making mecha look inhuman

Something I noticed lately, by browsing lots of lancer homebrew and fanart and comparing it to the official art, is that a lot of third party artists, across levels of artistic competence, made mechs that looked plain to me for a reason I couldn't pin down. Again, this was only weakly correlated with other metrics for artistic quality, like posing, shading, and linework. After comparing them closely with other art that didn't give me that vibe and art from 1st party material, I realized what gave me that feeling: their mechs looked too human; they looked like they could be convincingly portrayed by a person in a costume.

If you look closely at official Lancer art and the best fanart, you will notice there are always details making sure the subject is unequivocably a giant robot and not a person in sci-fi armor.

One strange but effective way this is achieved is the legs: each manufacturer has one or more distinct style of legs, with the only overlap being between SSC and RKF (which makes sense because SSC has close ties tot he Baronies). Let's go through them and see what about them makes sure you know this is a mech:

Smith-Shimano Corpro + Royal Karrakin Foundries: SSC has three kinds of lower limbs: the Horse Leg, which they share with RKF; the Foot Without Heel, and the Anatomically Correct Human Leg With Toes.

The Horse Leg is not only obviously inhuman, but also obviously unnatural, bacause no biped would be able to move properly standing on horse hooves: it would be like contantly doing a ballerina tip-walk using clown shoes; that is something only a mechanical device assisted by top-of-the-line automatic balancing could achieve.

The Heel-less foot, due to being used almost only for their spider-mechs Death's Head and Swallowtail, has little dehumanization work to do, but it does cover that function when used on the Dusk Wink, which *is* in fact a person in power armour, but still the artist took care of reminding us of how mechanical it is, by giving it feet which have little in common with boots or any other footwear. The Toed Leg seems, at first, to be the opposite of dehumanizing: it looks the most like an actual human bodypart, it feeds into SSCs fetishization of the Human Form (phrasing entirely intended). However, that is also the reason why it very clearly shows the Monarch and Mourning Cloak are robots: because no suit of armor would ever look like a naked leg; this level of anatomical fidelity only makes sense for something mechanical, whose skin *is* armor and as such doesn't need to cover itself.

Horus: Horus is mostly the easy one, with how most of the art gives their mechs beastly paws and hooves, gecko-like foot pads, or long, amphibian fingers whose vague semblance to human hands only contrasts with the blatantly monstous shapes of the Pegasus and Gorgon. However, they have four mechs portaryed with human-like legs.

The Hydra has little need to mask its mechanical nature, but the Lich commits the grave sin of being clothed, one of the biggest risk factor in making mechs look like dudes in armor. To counteract this problem, it's feet have two very evident inhuman characteristics: they have only two long, slender toes, and they touch the ground only with their futhest tarsus, in a way that makes it obvious they aren't bearing any actual weight, as if both Lich and Hydra were alway hovering a couple feet above the ground and used their feet only to skip along it, like a venetian boatman might do with their pole.

The other two exceptions are the Calendula, which being an RKF design has their trademark horse legs, and the Kobold, which already looks inarguably like a robot thanks to the barrel shae of its main body, the Horus-patented Pikey Blobs Aesthetic(tm), but still has feet with actual toes, which achieve the same effect as those from SSC.

GMS: For the longest time, GMS did not have art at all, but let's look at the [G] Type Everest from Op. Solstice Rain:

While the Boot with Auxiliary Side-Toes shape of the foot could potentially belong to a suit of armor, if we look up at the knee it's a different story: look at the slabs on either side of the joint which restrict it to one degree of freedom, as opposed to the frontal protection typical of armor for humans; look at the opposite bends of hip and shin, which almost makes the leg look digitgrade. Inequivocably robotic despite the clearly humanistic design. However, the lower parts of mechs are not the only way their design is dehumanized: we come now to Inter Planetary Shipping - Northstar and Harrison Armory, and in a curious inversion they take the opposite approach.

Although some legs of IPS-N mechs use the above principle (the Blackbeard's angular feet whose toes almost look like retractable claws, Drake's heel-less boots, and Lancaster and Kidd's SPOT-like hooves), a lot of their mecha have quite human-looking armoured boots. HA goes a step further, likely due to a deliberate stylistic choice stemming from the anthrochauvinist ideals: Their mechs look very much like armoured warriors, often even with little skirts like the Iskander or Sherman or reinforced *baltei* like Genghis and Tokugawa. With one important exception: their head.

IPS-N has a very distinctive One-Eyed Cylinder with Another Eye on the Top shape for their mecha, it's probably a deliberate par of their brand; it sees some variation like Drake's looking more liek a helmeted facemask and Stortebecker's tricorn, but even Lancaster and Kidd have a sort of vestigial head on the front with a single eye coming out of a slit.

HA's mecha have greater variation, but nevertheless for all that their body is as human-shaped as possible, their heads are always distinctly not: Barbarossa has a flat prism with a this transparent section on top, looking more like the control tower of an aircraft carrier than a head; Genghis, Tokugawa, and Gilgamesh both have canopies recessed into their bodies; Napoleon also has a barely-extruding canopy with a strange shape and covered in Blinkshield emitters that make it look like a bug-eyed little freak; Sherman is quite literally built around having a cannon for a face; and Sunzi has its drum-looking Blinkspace device. The only HA mech that has a "head" region separate from the rest of the body is Saladin, and even then it's a flat cylinder with a rectangular window in the middle: a design which would never work as a helmet but makes sense as a rotatitng cockpit with a canopy.

The observant among you will have notice that I left out four mechs: Nelson, Vlad, Enkidu, and Iskander. That is admittedly because they are those whose design asserts its inhumanity the least.

Of the first two, despite Nelson committing the sin of clothing, it also compensates hard by leaving a gap in its tabard to show the hatch for the pilot, while Vlad unfortunately does not, and with the weirldy human-looking eye, if there wasn't a pilot for scale one might legitimately not know it's a robot without context.

Iskander is the one mech in the entire Compendium which can be cosplayed without altering its proportion: cyclopism aside, this could be a person in future armor.

Enkidu also has a look which could work just as well for a human-scale cyborg, but given that it's a deliberate statement of intent it gets a pass. At the very least it's elongated head and pad-less feet make it obvious that this is not a person in armor.

Conclusion:

Although I cannot prove it without some double-blind polls, I think one of the secrets to a good mech design is making it look not only obviously like a robot, but also giving it pose, proportions, and details such that it would look big not just on a white background with no context, but that if you tried to shrink it and put it in a scene as though it was more or less the size of a person, people would realize that it's supposed to be larger.

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

Kill and make up (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which you and your husband discover that Celebrimbor has escaped with the Nine, and it brings out the uglier side of your relationship

Warnings: evil!reader, brief eye injury, intense argument between spouses: reader and Sauron aren’t physically violent with each other (only like a hand grab and a shove), but they scream and throw things towards each other (he does it by accident, she does it on purpose, neither get hit); seeing and touching a severed finger, sadistic tendencies, lots of violence, murder, allusions to smut, fucked up relationship dynamics (as usual with these two but this may be the most deranged one I’ve written to date)

Note: part of the evil!reader collection. For context, reader has been married/soulbound to Sauron since before Adar killed him and infiltrated herself in Eregion as a smith while she waited for his return.

Sometimes you wonder if, when you and your husband bound yourselves to one another and part of his power was bestowed upon you, he had not let some of his short temper trickle into you as well.

But you never were entirely level-headed, even before Morgoth took you. The difference now is that you have tasted the fulfillment of giving in to your more violent urges in the past, which makes for even greater frustration when you must, for practical reasons, withhold.

Hence why you are now striding down the chaos-filled streets of Eregion, rather than watching over Celebrimbor whilst your husband commands the city’s defences. You do not trust yourself to leave him intact so he can finish the Nine unless you take the time to cool down after the little stunt he tried to pull on you.

He was only just applying the final touches to the very last of the Rings, and not a moment too soon. The siege had gone on into the night, and soon there may not be much of Eregion’s people left for your husband to promise he would spare so long as Celebrimbor provides him with the Rings. You meant it as a gesture of encouragement, truly—the way you idly fiddled with the keys to Celebrimbor’s shackles as you sat by his side, all but dangling his freedom before his eyes.

He must have noticed, though he did his best not to glance your way. You supposed he was taking some refuge in the work, throwing himself into it so that he might forget his less than savoury circumstances. That was fine by you. The thoughts in his mind were of little consequence, so long as his hands performed their duty with their usual skill.

And skilled they were indeed. Your eyes had drifted to the distance, glazed over with boredom at some point after your husband had left you alone with Celebrimbor, but you were pulled out of your little reveries of ruling Middle-Earth when you realized eight of the Nine now stood each in their holder on the other side of Celebrimbor, all shiny and brand new. Your fiddling with the keys had stopped then, and you stood to walk there and lean over Celebrimbor’s shoulder, touching the cool metal of one Ring in awe as you admired them.

“You have outdone yourself, really,” you praised, and meant it. The designs of the Rings varied, but they all possessed the same utterly impeccable kind of beauty, and the fact that you knew they had been made with your husband’s precious blood... you would wear and cherish them forever yourself if they weren’t meant for more practical purposes.

Celebrimbor, however, didn’t seem as proud of his own work.

“I had little choice,” he muttered, not looking away from the Ring in his hand.

You straightened yourself with a little sigh, and placed a hand upon his shoulder.

“This really is a pity,” you confessed. “I always hated being your so-called ‘subject’, but I can’t say you ever gave me another reason to dislike you. And your talents are bound to prove most useful in the future as well.”

At that, he looked up at you with a fresh kind of disbelief in his eyes.

“Am I to be your prisoner for the rest of my days, then?” he asked, nearly a challenge.

“That would be quite bothersome for everyone involved, wouldn’t it?” you said, perfectly pragmatic. “Hopefully, we can come to... understand each other. My husband and I are more than willing to make some allies of your value.”

By which you meant conveniently skilled or powerful beings who would serve your purposes blindly, much like you expected the Orcs to do, but the word ‘ally’ had a better ring to it.

It was plain to see in Celebrimbor’s eyes that he was hardly convinced, though, as he kept his stubborn silence. The time was fast approaching when your true conquest of Middle-Earth would begin, and it was never too early to plant the seeds for the network of opportune connections you planned on weaving all throughout it.

But also, you did enjoy being the equivalent of a cat playing with a mouse.

“How about a peace offering, then?” you said, plastering an inviting smile on your face. “A little show of good faith, to prove that your suffering in itself is far from our end in all this. Once you finish the Nine,” you made a show of holding up the keys, then tucking them safely away in a discreet pocket at the waist of your dress, “I leave you free to roam about the room, and merely lock the doors behind me whilst I deliver the Rings to my husband. Not that you’d make it two steps into the streets without being dragged back here by your own guards, but, as I said—in good faith—I shall spare you the humiliation of trying.”

There was a slight furrow in Celebrimbor’s brow as he hesitated. How confusing it must have been for him, to reconcile the kind tone of your voice he’d heard so many times with the cruel reality of who you are.

“Well,” he said tentatively, “I suppose that would be a bit better than my... current position.”

You gave him a bright smile, satisfied you had managed to bring him in agreement with you for the first time since he learned the truth. That was how it began—small victories, little ‘yeses’ here and there, until the intended target settled into a collaboration, or rather subservience, that was most convenient to your plans.

As you passed by Celebrimbor to return to your seat, he turned around on his stool and grabbed your hand, calling your name with sudden urgency. Your instinct was to shake off the touch, but, with only a tick in your jaw, you stopped to indulge him. You were playing nice, after all.

“Was truly all of it a lie?” he asked in a disheartened breath. “Was there no part of you that... wanted this life you have made for yourself here with us? The craft and the friendship we shared?”

He was quite the pitiful sight, looking up at you with that glint of hope in his eyes. You were quite sure that had been snuffed out the moment you had told him the story of how the bond between you and your husband had been forged, the salvation you had found in it from Morgoth’s cruelty, erasing all doubts that you and him might ever betray one another now.

Even Celebrimbor wouldn’t be so foolish as to believe he might still sway you with his words. You suspected what he was truly after—but you played along. In fact, you even stepped a little closer, and held up the hand with which he had grabbed yours, patting his knuckles condescendingly.

“Why would I want to serve you as a smith of Eregion,” you said, “when I could be served by all others?”

Celebrimbor’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, containing the nervous tremble of his voice as he spoke, “I may have been Lord of Eregion, and as such above you in station, but I never thought of you as anything less than my peer and my companion. Sauron—your husband,” he corrected, perceiving your ire at the less than savoury Elvish term, “he may believe even himself when he claims to consider you his equal, but with time... with the Rings...” He sighed, closing his eyes as if it pained him to speak the words, but in the end met your gaze and said with all the sincerity he could muster, “I do not wish to see you hurt.”

You tilted your head and knitted your brow in sympathy, softening your gaze as well as your voice.

“Oh, Celebrimbor,” you sighed, “have you come to care for me so much that my fate still concerns you after all I’ve put you through?”

“I’m afraid I have,” he confessed quietly.

You were meant to be surprised, intrigued, perhaps even touched. Distracted, in any case, your focus drawn to his face and the one hand of his you held within your grasp. That was his intent, which you had sensed since the very beginning of his entreating speech. He had some reason to believe his idea would work. His smith’s fingers are, after all, nimble and quick, as his craft demand them to be. But unlike you, he is a stranger to deceit and the mere attempt at it suits him ill. The only reason he succeeded in his little misguided endeavour was because you preferred to end his satisfaction, rather than prevent it altogether.

“They say imitation is the highest form of flattery,” you all but purred to him. “Alas, you have not the talent for treachery that I do.”

With that, you wrenched your hand from his and grabbed his other one. His struggle was brief and futile as you forced that fist to open, and retrieved the keys he had just subtly slipped out of your pocket.

Any trace of poorly feigned concern vanished from his face, replaced by the frustration of defeat. You tsk-ed to yourself as you shoved the keys back into your pocket.

“And here I thought you were becoming reasonable,” you lamented, leaning against the table by his side with your other hand planted onto your hip, much like an irritated teacher. “What did you imagine? That you would unlock yourself when my back was turned and then... what? Outrun me? Fight me? I know you’ve never seen that particular side of me, but I assure you, I am as skilled in combat as you are in your craft.”

He couldn’t hold your scolding gaze. He turned back towards the table and leaned his elbows on it, resting his forehead upon his clenched fists, no doubt trying to stave off a stress-induced headache and crushing sense of hopelessness. Still, to ensure he knew better than to underestimate you next time, you intended to grab his chin and make him look you in the eye as you made one final threat, but he spoke before you had the chance to.

“In that case,” he admitted, lifting his head, “I suppose I was going about it all wrong.”

This time, you didn’t see it coming. By the time you jumped out of the way, he had already grabbed a small recipient on the table and projected the powdered metal inside straight into your eyes—real powdered metal, not the blood your husband had passed as mithril. The burn of the fine shards in your eyes was instant, forced them shut and ripped a cry from your throat as you scrambled away, one hand covering them—

Celebrimbor grabbed that elbow to yank you into his lap, but that only made it all the easier to drive it into his ribs, knocking the breath and a short scream out of him. You needed no eyesight for that—only sharp instincts and red-hot anger, and you had quite enough of both. He hadn’t even managed to find your pocket again before you escaped his grasp and stumbled out of his reach, even without seeing where you were going.

A quick thinker, the bastard. The moment he understood he could not defeat you by sheer strength or deceit, he had attempted to blind you instead.

With a string of anguished grunts, you fumbled around blindly until you knocked into what must have been the railing to the upper side of the forge where you and Celebrimbor were, with enough force that you might have toppled over it if you hadn’t caught yourself. Gripping the metal, you squeezed your already shut eyes, and tried to concentrate through the pain and mend the damage. You may not have had to do it in recent years, but you’d had enough such experience under Morgoth’s rule. Gradually, the burn dimmed, and the metal in your eyes dissolved, and you were left shaking with wrath as you opened your eyes.

In different circumstances, you might have slowly turned towards him first, made him cower in terror under your murderous gaze before you sprung into action. But you were beyond such theatrics now. With the swiftness of a snake lunging to sink its fangs into a victim, you whipped around, marched over to Celebrimbor and grabbed his throat so quickly he didn’t even get to gasp before your other hand yanked his head back by the hair.

“You are going to regret that,” you growled. Rage boiled within you, a furious thirst for revenge, an all-consuming urge to return the pain he had given you tenfold and hear him scream—

But the Nine were not finished.

It was with tremendous self-restraint that you slowly lowered your face an inch away from Celebrimbor’s, your ragged breath hitting his quivering lips.

“...later,” you whispered viciously. “Finish!”

He gasped for the breath you had denied him the moment you released him with a shove, nearly falling from his chair with the force of it. No amount of deep breathing in his presence would stop the blood roaring in your ears. So, you stormed down the stairs and out of the forge, slamming the doors shut behind you without even locking them.

He was in shackles, after all.

As you reenter the forge room some time later, you are pleased to say you have regained your composure. Nothing like a stroll through a raging battle to calm the senses, especially when you were briefly treated to the sight of your beloved standing upon a distant rampart, tall and fair as he commanded the forces of Eregion.

If not for the need to maintain appearances, you’d have called for his attention through your bond and blown him a loving kiss from below.

“All right, Celebrimbor,” you say now, shutting the doors behind you, “I believe we must clarify some—”

He’s gone.

Heart pounding, you practically fly across the room, running up the stairs to the empty desk where Celebrimbor had been sitting before. Your husband could not have freed him. Could he? You had only just seen him outside, and the Rings are gone as well. Had they been finished, surely he would have reached for you through your bond the moment he had learned of it, called you to bask in the victory at his side. You scramble through every object on the desk, turning them over, opening cases, looking for any sign of the Rings.

Something squelches beneath your foot. But before you lower your gaze all the way down there, something else catches your eye on the floor—Celebrimbor’s shackle. Still locked. Blood-stained.

Entirely mechanical, you reach down and pinch the wet thing beneath the sole of your foot between two fingers, lifting it to your eyes to confirm your suspicion of what it is.

A severed finger.

When you wish to, or when the circumstances demand such a thing, you have many more vicious and sophisticated ways of expressing anger than mere spoken words. However, at times such a predicament arises where you are simply reduced to plain old foul language.

“Fuck,” you breathe out.

If the Rings were not finished, that is going to be a problem. But you have a feeling that they are, which is precisely why Celebrimbor has resorted to such a desperate gesture to withhold them from you and your husband.

Speaking of whom—his familiar steps are echoing down the hall.

Nearly releasing another expletive, you rush right back the way you came, down the stairs and across the room and out the door just in the nick of time to slam it shut before your husband would have stepped inside. He halts before you, taken aback.

“Love,” you greet him with a small smile. He’s seen enough of those to know which ones are fake. Not to mention the slight tremor in your voice, the alarm you’re attempting to conceal on your end of the bond, and—if those weren’t quite enough—the severed digit in your grasp which you seem to have acquired in your husband’s absence.

It’s endearing, really, how your skills of deception vanish like smoke in the wind when it comes to fooling your husband in any regard.

“I see our friend has upset you once more,” he remarks calmly, eyeing the finger in your hand. “However, I should hope you allowed him to finish the Rings before you claimed your little trophy, beloved.”

His smile is ever-so-slightly tense, his tone ever-so-slighty warning, and you are a lot more than slightly flustered to realize that in your haste, it had slipped your mind to do something so simple as to toss away the bloody finger in your hand.

You do so now, furiously wiping off the mess on your dress for lack of a better outlet for your nerves.

“I did not...” you begin. “Celebrimbor has apparently...”

“What is it?” your husband demands briskly. He knows something is wrong, wrong enough to have you acting so flustered, and that can only mean it will anger him beyond belief.

You release a sharp sigh, and quite frankly, give up. There is no way to break the news to him gently. So, you fix your husband with as stern a look as you can. “If you could just refrain from tearing this whole place to the ground—”

But he has already pushed past you and burst into the forge room.

“—that would be nice,” you finish to the empty hall, then follow him inside.

“Where is he?” your husband growls, storming up the stairs and staring at the empty desk with wide, crazed eyes as he shouts, “Where are the Rings?”

“He must have taken them,” you tell him, angered but far more level-headed than him as you climb the stairs as well. “They were nearly finished, and—”

An entire wooden cabinet clatters to the ground, furiously toppled by your husband. But the sound is barely the buzz of a fly compared to the deafening roar that tears out of his throat. You halt near the top of the stairs and wince, waiting for the sound to die down. No doubt it echoed to every Elf below, even through the ruckus of battle.

This... is the sort of thing you were hoping to avoid.

How nice of you to inform Celebrimbor that his absence has been noticed, you think, simply because such quips are in your nature. You know better than to say it—but you are both fraught with powerful emotions, and your bond turns volatile, and things slip through. You know he’s felt the reproach the moment his furious gaze turns upon you.

“Perhaps I should ask...” he says, eerily quiet as he approaches you, “where were you?”

Someone else might have fled, or fallen to their knees to plead for mercy under such a withering glare. You, however, have the luxury of knowing that you are the only being who has or ever will remain perfectly unscathed despite incurring your husband’s wrath. So, you climb the last of the steps and meet his gaze head on, unintimidated by such theatrics.

“Celebrimbor attempted a most distasteful treachery,” you declare, arms crossed defiantly as your husband comes to tower above you. “He tried to steal the keys to his shackles by blinding me with powdered metal. I knew better than to risk damaging his precious fingers—or worse—in retaliation before his work was finished. As such, I stepped outside.”

“You left him alone,” your husband fumes in disbelief, “because you couldn’t keep your daggers sheathed?”

“Oh please,” you scoff. “You’ve made far more strategically inconvenient kills for far less. I was merely being practical.”

“Practical, you say?” he mocks, whipping away and striding back to Celebrimbor’s work table. “Pray tell, how come you were within his reach to begin with?” He proceeds to toss every item away and open every possible compartment, his voice growing to a hoarse shout with each accusation he spits. “Were you perhaps taunting him, goading him, playing with your food as you can never seem to refrain from doing?”

“Oh, so when you do it, it’s fine,” you raise your voice right back, uncrossing your arms so you can gesture as frantically as he behaves while he moves to deface another table. “When I do it, it’s irresponsible.”

“What is irresponsible,” he points a finger at you, “is that you left the Nine and our most valuable asset unattended so you could go for a stroll!”

You’ve seen dragons with less fire on their hottest breath than that of the rage ignited in your chest. You surge towards him and snatch his accusatory finger in a death grip.

“I needed a break,” you scream in his face, “and he was in shackles! And he’s obsessed with his craft—which very much requires hands! How was I to imagine he’d be idiotic enough to chop off his own fucking finger?!”

“Enough!” he roars over your screech, prying your hand from around his with a powerful shove. Your calf hits Celebrimbor’s desk stool as you shuffle back, and you kick it with a yell and a burst of your power that sends it flying over the railing and splintering to pieces on the steps all the way at the entrance to the forge room. The same destructive force is behind the glare with which you fix your husband.

Forget not tearing this place to the ground. You feel as if you could crack every table in two with your bare hands, you could shatter all the windows with nothing but a shriek, you could crumble the stone floors with the stomp of your foot, you could— you could—

You turn on your heel and storm away. The moment you do, your husband demands in a gruff shout, “Where are you going?”

“To fix this!” you snarl. You whip around to face him, your voice dropping to mocking sweetness before it builds right back into a hoarse scream. “But please, do keep smashing to pieces every single object in your sight. I’m sure Celebrimbor simply stashed the Rings in some hidden corner whilst he went for a nine-fingered stroll in the rubble!”

With that, you leave again. The sounds of destruction resume behind you, but you block them out the same way you do your husband’s inflamed end of your bond. Until you’ve nearly reached the stairs, and some glass object hits the railing with a loud smash, shattering to pieces. Relatively close to you.

You don’t even look down. You simply stop, take a breath in the sudden silence. Turn around. Then, chin high, perfectly poised and in the most controlled of tones, you ask your husband:

“Did you just throw that in my direction?”

Rage rolls off him in waves—but he has ceased his rampage, and there is the subtlest hesitant crease of his brow as he looks at you.

“Don’t be absurd,” he says stiffly. “I was hardly even looking your way—”

But then he’s dodging a projectile—a metal case you had picked off the ground and chucked his way in the blink of an eye.

“You weren’t looking?” you growl, already snatching a creasing hammer from the table to throw his way next. “You weren’t looking? Well, I am!”

He catches the hammer, swats away the chisel that follows with his power, advancing through the enemy fire until he can grip your wrists and pull them to his chest to stop you from gathering further ammunition.

“Save you energy, love,” he growls as you struggle in his grip. “Try as you might, you cannot harm my flesh.”

“I know! That’s why I’m trying!”

You wrest yourself out of his hold, chest heaving as you stumble back a couple of steps. For a moment, your ragged breaths are all there is. But the storm is far from over, and the moment you open your mouths again, your voices escalate into screams once more.

“You, on the other hand,” you accuse, nearly in tears, “the moment my back was turned—”

“You know very well I cannot hurt you!”

“But you wish to hurt me?”

“I wish to hurt something!”

“So do I!”

Your roar echoes in the chamber, your throat raw, your every muscle trembling with rage. You cannot harm my flesh. But you could harm his soul. You could, simply by doubting him. You have. It brings no satisfaction. It isn’t what you want. What you want is for him to kneel and beg forgiveness for his words, or maybe to fuck you so hard you forget he ever said them at all.

But you can have neither, because you are no longer alone.

They must have arrived when you and your husband were at the height of your screaming match, thus why you only now turn your heads to see them entering the room—ten or so guards, led by Captain Malendol and, supported by him as he limps to a stop, Celebrimbor himself.

“Marital spat?” he derides flatly, a shred of defiance in his voice even as he cradles his thumb-less left hand to his chest. From the appalled way in which Malendol looks at you, it’s plain to see that Celebrimbor has somehow regained the trust of his guards and exposed you for who you are, once and for all. Or perhaps the glimpse he’d caught of your lover’s quarrel had been proof enough. Either way, you’re so ablaze with rage, you can’t even bask in the grand reveal.

“Foreplay,” you reply dryly—and there is, after all, a bit of satisfaction in the various degrees of shock and discomfort that flash across the guards’ faces.

“Where are the Rings?” your husband demands, ice cold as he passes by you and descends the stairs.

“Not here,” Celebrimbor answers. “They will be far  from your reach by now.”

“Oh, come now, Celebrimbor,” you coax with all the goodwill of a viper as you join your husband down the stairs. “It was such a silly thing you did to that precious hand of yours. If you return the Rings, maybe we can find a way to mend it.”

His eyes shine with tears, which he holds proudly back.

“The loss shall be well worth it,” he says, pained, “so long as it ensures that neither of you will ever touch a Ring again.”

You grit your teeth, his audacity adding fuel to the already blazing fire of your rage. Whatever retort you and your husband might have made, you are rudely interrupted.

“Seize them!” Malendol orders, and his soldiers march forward. “By order of the true Lord of Eregion, you, Sauron and—”

The words die in his throat. He’s choked out, jaw slack and quivering as he struggles against your husband’s power. The soldiers halt, gazes shifting hesitantly between you and your husband and their captain.

“I believe you’ve spoken my wife’s name quite enough times already,” your husband says. Any other time, you would be delighted. With Mirdania gone, it’s time for the Elf whose affections you had entertained only closely enough to grate your husband’s nerves to meet his own end. Perfect symmetry, mutual satisfaction. But you are beyond being assuaged by such games in this moment.

You grip your husband’s arm, and fix him with a gaze which demands that he meet it. It would be so easy for him to flick that wrist of his and have the guards fall upon their own swords. But that would leave the issue of your unconsummated lust for violence, and when such a volatile feeling bounced off each other in an endless loop through the bond without release, it led to nothing good, not even for you.

So, staring in your husband’s eyes, you hiss, “Let us hurt something.”

You need not say a word more. Your husband narrows his eyes at you briefly, but the suggestion immediately sinks in. Malendol sputters a panicked breath as his throat is released from your husband’s power, a look of even deeper dread than before written on his face, but he repeats his order.

“Seize them!”

And his soldiers, now valiantly joined by their captain, advance on you once more. The sight of them circling you with swords drawn as you and your husband stand back to back is quite invigorating. It even brings a little smile and a quip to your lips.

“Might you be so kind as to lend me that?” You point to the sword of the guard facing you.

And answer your own question—with lightning-fast mayhem.

A concealed dagger is brandished from your sleeve and you swiftly send it flying to its new home in the guard’s skull. A quick pull of your power draws the hilt of his sword to your hand whilst your other imitates the dagger-throw and sword-stealing with another guard, and by the time three others have attacked, you have more than enough steel in your hands to meet their own with a loud clang. Behind you, similar sounds of confrontation are made by your husband and his own side of opponents.

It is to be noted that the ensuing fight is by no means a desperate struggle for escape on you and your husband’s part. In fact, the guards are hardly your main focus, even as you single-handedly hold your own against several of them at the same time and, over the course of the following few minutes, decimate them one by one. You simply wish to feel your bones rattle with each blow you land, to hear the tearing of flesh under your blade, to give yourself an outlet of your anger whom you have no reservation to make bleed, when the true source of your rage is quite off-limits in that regard—and driven by the same compulsion to inflict pain as you.

Now, you can really have a go at each other.

“You realize,” your husband begins between easily placed parries, wielding a guard’s sword to which he had helped himself, “this only serves to prove my point.”

You glance briefly at him, kicking a guard in the shin whilst you block another’s blade. “Which is?”

“There is work,” he grabs one by the helmet, “and there is play,” then slits his throat before attacking another. “And you, my love, tend to confuse them.”

“Yet here you are,” you retort through grunts of effort, “indulging me as though you take no joy in it yourself.” You are as triumphant in your words as you are in thrusting your sword into a guard’s gut. But your husband does not relent.

“There would be nothing to indulge,” he growls, “if you hadn’t allowed the Rings to be taken!”

With a furious wave of his hand, a guard flies out the window, screaming on his long way down.

“Maybe the Rings would not have been taken, had you not grown negligent with your illusion in the first place!” you growl right back, snapping a neck. “Maybe if you had spared a thought to the way candles function, we would not be here!”

Your husband crushes a skull. “You have not the slightest idea of the skill required to maintain such an intricate illusion. You had one simple task of—”

“One simple task? One?” A well-placed kick relieves a guard of the future children he might have had, if you didn’t cut his throat next. “Was it one simple task to spend centuries insinuating myself by Celebrimbor’s side—”

“Not this again—”

“Yes, this again! This, forever!” you scream over the guard whose leg you break. “I put myself through years of suffering based on nothing but blind faith that you would return!”

“And yet,” your husband presses on cruelly, plunging his blade into a heart, “you could not perform the simple task of ensuring Celebrimbor remained in his shackles.”

You slash a throat, screaming. Speaking of Celebrimbor—in the quick glimpse you catch of him, he looks like he might be questioning his reality all over again in the face of your ‘marital spat’.

And he thought you licking your husband’s blood was deranged.

A guard nearly stabs you in the side, and you resume fighting fueled by a brand new bout of anger.

“You do this... every time!” you yell at your husband. “The moment something doesn’t go to plan, you blame everything and everyone but yourself.” Having stripped the guard of his weapon and helmet, you are now in the process of forcing him to his knees. “And since I’m the closest at hand, you blame me!” For good measure, you emphasize each word with a smash of the guard’s head into a nearby table. “Every,” smash, “single,” smash, “time!”

Smash and thud, when the guard’s limp body hits the ground.

Your husband watches, his lips twitching into a snarl as he flings a guard into a wall.

“Very well,” he grunts. “We are both to blame. But if you could restrain your sadistic tendencies—”

“Oh, please! Nothing gets you harder than your wife wreaking havoc, even when it’s in defiance of you. Especially then.” You put a guard in a chokehold, throwing your husband a most flirtatious smile. “If it was in my nature to ‘restrain my sadistic tendencies’, you would not have wed me.”

Snap goes the guard’s neck. Another struggles on the ground, much like a roach beneath your husband’s boot on his chest.

“If I wished only to sate my carnal desires,” he rasps out, “I would have wed no one at all.”

He crushes said chest as he steps over it to lunge at another guard. You cackle like a mad woman as you break a nose. “You are a Maia! You had no carnal desire until I invented it!” You feel the retort on his tongue, no doubt a claim that you are exaggerating—which maybe you are, but not in what you say next, between the occasional pants and grunts of the fight.

“There was always me, or no one—and from the moment you first had me, you could never go back to not having me.” Your current opponent drops to the ground, his heart pierced by your blade. “So blame me all you want, love. I could inconvenience you a thousand times, and you’d adore me still.”

There is no retort. No screams, or clangs of metal, or broken bones, or any noise at all—for all your foes are dead, and your fight consummated. All that is left is you and your husband, standing before each other in the aftermath of your destruction. Panting, covered in blood. Sated.

Gazes locked, you move towards each other, sparing not the slightest of glances to the rubble and bodies over which you step until you are close enough to breathe each other’s air. Weapons lowered to your sides, you do not touch, or speak. One last confrontation, to see which one of you will break first.

“I spoke in anger,” your husband yields.

As he very well should. Still, you eye him with a not-quite-convinced look. “Is that your idea of an apology?”

“What is yours?” he challenges, but his words have no true bite. Not anymore.

It would be less of an apology and more of something you would have done anyway, but the timing is poetically symbolic when the guard whose chest your husband had crushed under his boot suddenly takes a whizzing breath. Captain Malendol himsef, as a quick glance tells you, is still alive—barely—and picking himself off the ground a few feet to your side with staggering resolve.

He raises his sword, charging towards you with one last, valiant cry, and manages the great feat of having his throat swiftly cut by with your blade. A most tragically heroic sight, surely, but you wouldn’t know, since you never once took your eyes off your husband’s while you did it.

The captain’s armored body clatters to the ground, the same time as your weapons. Your husband’s eyes dart to him, visibly satisfied, but not fully so. His gaze meets yours, then lowers to your lips, and he leans in—only half the way, in invitation.

With an indulgent little hum, you close the distance and give him a kiss. No more than a little peck, really. A token of reconciliation. Something clicks back into place within you as the tension in your bond subsides, and you feel a matching sense of relief on your husband’s end of it. Fighting each other always feels like tearing out your own flesh, yet you do it anyway, with lethal consequences—to others, of course.

Towards others, in fact, is the only direction in which you and your beloved should ever direct your fury, as you feel him agree now that you have finally murdered your way to making up.

“Look at us,” you lament, “blaming each other, when the fault is all his.”

The last word is as venomous as the look with which you then fix Celebrimbor, glued to the same spot where he had been standing since he entered. Defiance and terror battle in his eyes as he stares back, mouth slightly open in disbelief at your display, surely aware that any attempt to escape would only end in more suffering than is already in store for him—should he refuse to obey your husband’s command, that is.

“How right you are, my love,” your husband says as you face Celebrimbor, standing as one once more. “You will give us the Nine,” he orders darkly.

Celebrimbor shuts his mouth, clenches his jaw, as if that would be enough to keep the secret of the Nine’s whereabouts locked behind his lips. His eyes dart to the fallen soldiers decorating the floor of his once beautiful forge, and you can practically hear him resolve to ensure that those sacrifices will not have been in vain.

“Oh, my love...” A most wicked smile blooms on your lips. “I think he wants us to play with him, too.”

Your husband’s voice is lethal.

“He shall have his wish.”

Previous fic with same reader -> Old wounds

Next fic with same reader -> Defied

[crosscheckings]

the passenger - screening and q&a with carter smith | horrorigins fest 9/28/24

so there was a screening of the passenger at horrorigins fest in tucson, az over this weekend that had a theater screening of the passenger and then a live q&a with carter smith afterward!

there were some really good questions and there's some video on horrorigins instagram (here and here, they haven't posted a full but i know there were several people recording and the festival is ongoing through today so they may post full video later) but some highlights:

he reiterated a lot of things that he's said in interviews about the script (so i won't go into detail about that)

he talked about his background at FIT and how benson's wardrobe was extremely intentionally chosen, and that the costume designer wanted to kill him bc the exact shade of his cardigan took three times to dye to get it right, it's also acrylic and very itchy (he has one too lmao)

he said that he gave johnny and kyle freedom to improvise on the script as much as they needed/wanted but that for the most part they stuck to it

burgers burgers burgers was a convenience store that they cleaned out and the stuffed animal place was in an actual empty mall that was "abandoned" (he mentioned there were like 7 empty malls they could have used, this one was completely empty so they didn't have to shut it down but idk if it was abandoned in the traditional sense)

he talked about the close ups and how much he loved kyle and johnny's faces and how he could shoot the whole thing in close up

the script was originally called "Randolph Bradley" which he did like but marketing didn't think would grab people and he also likes The Passenger for the movie they ended up making

i wish they had given the audience members mics when they asked their questions bc i'm watching the recording back to make sure i don't misquote something so i can't really hear some of the questions :( they also didn't upload the whole thing as of yet so the rest of this isn't verbatim but:

he agrees that at its core its a love story! when i asked my question i said "i wanted to touch on the love story comment from earlier" (bc someone else briefly mentioned it before asking a diff question) and he was like "i ALSO want to talk about the love story more!!" and was very excited that i brought up that "there's obviously a queer undertone to the film" and he just talked about what he saw in the script and how that came about, again said that jack stanley was like there's no romance but carter was like ummm anyway

he said that "this was the best thing to happen to either of them" (randy and benson) and agreed with someone who had described them as two sides of the same coin

he said that blumhouse also wanted them to lean into the weird romance aspect of it (or were okay with it), kyle was incredibly down to lean into the weird romance and was like "can we make it MORE gay"

afterward the fest went to a bar and mostly everyone went! so we actually got to hang out with carter just me and my friend and we talked a little bit more about the film and just other movies that he's enjoyed, we talked about his weekly newsletter, just random stuff like that. some highlights of that:

he said that kyle was all in on the queer undertone and was like can i touch johnny MORE

he said that there is a scene where benson touches randy again in a way that is similar in vibe to the scene in the mall parking lot where he touches his neck/wipes his tears but that they ended up cutting it because he (Carter) felt like it would undermine the emotional impact of that particular touch! he didn't expand on what the touch was or where exactly it went (he said it was after the teacher but didn't specify if it was after shepherd or mrs beard but i imagine he meant shepherd)

carter said that he would absolutely do a full up and down queer movie with kyle (if it was ever the right fit rather than writing a role for that reason)

it was really great and so interesting to hear his thoughts on the film and on filmmaking as a whole! he is really friendly and super nice and really knowledgeable. he had so much good stuff to say about the industry and he couldn't get enough of praising johnny and kyle both for their performances (rightly so) and what a good time he had making the movie.

bonus:

carter was kind enough to sign my poster (which he reposted the picture of on instagram). (i go into more detail about this event and stuff here) he also gleefully took photos of the saint randy and saint benson candles i made (because i am insane) and said he was going to send them to johnny and kyle because they would love them. kyle also reposted the picture of me and my friend the festival posted of us with the candles so now i am just dryheaving in my room. <3

anyway! support your local film festivals!! without horrorigns this wouldn't have been possible so support local and indie filmmakers and local and independent film festivals! <33

[come-see-our-show]

I saw an early screening of the Mean Girls movie last night, so here is a summary of my thoughts, comparing the movie musical to the Broadway musical, which I was lucky enough to see live in 2018!

Changed that I liked:

The usage of social media in the Broadway show made it very clear that it was written by adults who didn’t know much about Gen-Z. It was probably one of the worst parts of the show in my opinion. But Tina Fey must have done her research since 2018, because the way the movie uses TikTok, memes, vlogging, and FaceTime to push the story forward worked VERY well. I think there were some influencer cameos, but it didn’t feel they were included to show how “young and hip” they were, It actually added authenticity.

The diversity within the cast and changing last names to reflect the characters’ backgrounds (Karen Smith ➡️ Karen Shetty, Janis Sarkisian ➡️ Janis 'Imi'ike)

Cutting down “Meet the Plastics.” It’s a very exposition-heavy song and doesn’t need to be super long, even though the full version is quite catchy and fun.

All of the new jokes landed so well, probably because Tina Fey’s writing style is better suited for the screen as opposed to the stage.

This is more of a comparison of the musical vs. the original film, but a big change was The Plastics’ weaponized wokeness (which I talk about here).

The production design for most of the songs was very different. The stage musical has a lot of rock songs, which were changed to a pop sound for the movie. I personally prefer rock musicals, but it was a good way to give the movie a separate identity from its predecessor so it doesn’t risk becoming a carbon copy. It worked on some songs (“Someone Gets Hurt” and “World Burn”) but not on others (“A Cautionary Tale” and “Revenge Party”).

Cutting the joke about Regina’s ass being big. It was a very low-brow joke, which I’m not a fan of, and was just really immature. Thank God that was changed to her falling, which still shows her being embarrassed without her body being the joke.

Explicitly making Janis a lesbian! (It’s only implied in the stage show with “It’s not even true… I only have one butt”) And she goes to prom with a girl while Damien dances with a boy! ALSO THERE’S REJANIS LORE AND IT’S SO HEARTBREAKING I LOVE IT

megan thee stallion just… being there

Miss Norbury and Principal Duvall being a couple and owning a dog together!!!

As a low mezzo, I appreciated whoever decided to lower the key for “I’d Rather Be Me.” I felt very represented 🩷

Having Cady be raised in a single-parent household so it focuses in more on her relationship with her mom. Jenna Fischer was so motherly and sincere and brought a warmth to the movie. Their scene together near the end made me emotional (you’re never too old to ask your parent to stay with you until you fall asleep) (also this is my request to make jenna fischer my mom)

Changes that I didn’t like:

Cutting BOTH of Damian’s solos??? (SHE’S LEAVING!!!!!!!! JUST LIKE MY DAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Cutting “More Is Better.” It wasn’t necessarily a memorable song, but it did give both Cady and Aaron more depth, both as separate characters and within their relationship.

While cutting some of the songs helped with pacing, cutting HALF of the score made me forget that it was a musical sometimes, which sucks because I really like musicals!!!

Other stuff:

The movie was marketed horribly. One of my friends didn’t even know it was gonna be a musical because there were no songs in the trailers 💀 (Also, this isn’t just a Mean Girls problem. The Color Purple also didn’t have any songs in the trailer. I didn’t even know Wonka was a musical until I saw it in theaters, so that was a bit of a shock.) If you’re producing a musical movie, maybe your focus groups should be musical fans, because that’s still a HUGE market.

Auliʻi Cravalho’s voice is STUNNING! She and Jaquel Spivey had great chemistry and their friendship felt so genuine!

The opening and ending transitions from the garage were everything to me

The EDITING

Angourie Rice is a great actor and fit Cady perfectly… except for her singing. Out of the entire cast she was easily the weakest in terms of vocals and it was pretty disappointing since she’s the LEAD. I could barely hear her in the new song “What Ifs” because of how quiet and breathy she was. I think it’s a better written song compared to “Roar” though.

Jon Hamm cameo!

Ashley Park cameo!

I cannot stress enough how funny this movie was. I was probably laughing louder than everyone else in the theatre.

I lost my shit during “Meet the Plastics” when Regina unzipped her jacket and Cady was staring at her boobs. She’s just like me fr 🏳️‍🌈

I know that Regina is a horrible person but I couldn’t find it in me to dislike her in the slightest. She just served too much cunt 😩

Christopher Briney is a good actor, but I don't think he was the right choice for Aaron Samuels. I would hate to ridicule anyone for their looks, but it still plays an important part in casting. Aaron is supposed to be a somewhat naive, wholesome, hot jock (and Regina has high standards, so he better be a fucking model). Briney is definitely a cutie, but gives off “smoldering badboy with a secret sensitive side” energy, which isn’t what Aaron should be.

The fantasy sequences (Stupid With Love, Revenge Party, October 3rd). I LOVE when movie musicals USE the medium to tell stories in a way that they can’t on a stage!!!

THE CHOREO!!! Everyone freezing then shaking in “Someone Get Hurt” AHHHH that entire number was HYPNOTIZING!!!!!!!!!!! My friend told me the choreographer’s name is Kyle Hanagami, so shout out to him. (also reneé rapp was so fucking hot while singing that oh my lord)

I will be calling my pimples “face breasts” from now on (avantika ilysm)

DAMIAN’S FRENCH COVER OF THE ICARLY THEME SONG 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

why was there a 0.5 camera shot of cady during revenge party 💀

“I’d Rather Be Me” was so much fun and I felt so fucking empowered. And the transition from the song to the bus was just *chef’s kiss*

“donut worry i am still your freend” 🥺

Lindsay Lohan cameo!!!!!!!!!

NOT ENOUGH RENEÉ RAPP 😭😭

Overall, the movie was not perfect, but the Broadway show already had plenty of flaws, so it’s understandably how that would affect the adaptation. I still a LOT of fun and would definitely see it again. Go stream Snow Angel by Reneé Rapp. i love women 🥰🥰🥰

[trippygalaxy]

His (Metal) Rose

A rewrite of an old headcanon! And like- my first x reader for LU in literal months if not a year-- HELLO! I AM BACK! :DDD

Summary: Four struggles with conveying his feelings verbally, so why not put his smithing skills to use?

Character: Four x Gn! Reader Warnings: No beta we die like Twi, some overthinking on Fours part? Words: 900+

Four hasn’t been the best with words in his life, stumbling through conversations and often struggling to convey his thoughts through words, which always lead to some tough conversations when it comes to personal relationships. Often his thoughts and feelings were questioned, some going as far as accusing him of actively hiding his emotions- which wasn’t true at all! Four felt a lot, he felt so much that it was so hard to single out one thought to begin verbalizing it, and it wasn’t like this was the Colours fault either– he's been like this ever since he could remember.

Four couldn’t count how many friendships -and potential courtships- he pushed away thanks to his lack of verbalization, so when he started to grow a connection with you, he was down right terrified. He was so scared of losing another person due to his own failings that he knew he had to do something. The hero could try to verbalize his thoughts, to sit you down and have a long and deep conversation but the thought of it made his skin crawl- he knows he would have to do it at some point but…he rather not now, especially when he's trying to not embarrass himself! But the longer he thought, the more he started to realize that if he can’t tell you how he felt…then maybe he could show you!

Yes, yes that is what he would do. He’ll make you something, something so full of every ounce of what he felt that he was sure you’d understand with just a simple glance!

Knowing he couldn’t act on this urge right away as the Chain was far from any nearby town, he decided on brainstorming. Taking parchment from Warriors journals and snatching the pencil that dangled from Legend’s utility belt -the hoarder cursed at him, something about mapping but Four didn’t really care in the moment- before putting his brain to work.

It didnt take him long to decide on a flower- A rose. He’s seen it time and time again, gifted petals and trimmed thorns, handed to a beloved in a show of care and understanding. Four scribbled dozens of different designs, each as elegant as the last but none of that mattered, not if he couldn’t bloom the fire forged flower with love melted into every burning vein. What was the use of a pretty rose if his love didnt keep the metal warm even on the coldest nights? If you couldnt feel the smooth petals and think of his thrumming heart for you then what was this all for? The smith spent quite a while planning the creation of the masterpiece which would be his rose- your rose- before he even THOUGHT about stepping into a forge. But, one day, with the final stroke of the graphite, the colour hero found himself satisfied.

And thankfully, it didnt take the Chain too long to finally arrive at the blessed town! Not even Time could have stopped him from running off as soon as they had booked into an inn, his energy and motivation higher than the clouds Hyila stood on. Now, to actually get access to a forge and materials…was a little harder than planned but Four wasn’t one to one for an answer when it came to fulfilling a task such as this!

It took him longer than he’d like to admit to get the hang of the new skill- and too many failed attempts that got smelt back down. Yet here he stood, rough leather gloves cradling an intricate metal rose, the petals curled like rolling waves on a calm tide with rippling edges. The rolling stem curled like a cat's tail, flowing as if blowing in the wind. Truely, a beautiful and brilliant piece yet something was still…missing. Sure, he poured every ounce of care into the vessel of his feelings and sure, he treated it as gently as he would you yet…a part of him -or many parts of him- felt like something wasn't there, wasn't representing the whole of him.

Twirling the rose in his hand gloves fingers, a pout heavy on his lips, as his eyes scanned the borrowed space, searching for something, anything to fill the missing piece.

Paint? No, it wouldn't adhere to the smooth metal. Patination? It would work, but he doubted this forge even had the equipment for such a thing. Frustration built behind the smith’s eyes. He was so close to finishing this yet he stayed slumped over this creaking workbench with a deepening pout.

Half tempted to ignore the scratching at the back of his mind that demanded perfection, Four sits up with a stretch only to stop mid way as a colourful hue glimmers under the workbench. Leaning back, the man almost jumps in joy as his eyes catch what seemed to be cut gems -likely artificial- shining up at him. It didnt take him long to find four coloured gems; red, green, blue and purple. Smiling ear to ear, the smith jumps up from his spot, grabbing all his materials and heading back to the anvil. It was time to put those jewelry classes gramps forced him through to use and to scratch that itch at the back of his head.

Finally, with sweat dripping down his brow, finally it was done.

Four admired the freshly polished, shining rose with a look of fondness. Pride swelled in his chest alongside the unimaginable adoration for you. A small thing it was, unable to even begin to tell of his love for you but even if it took thousands of bouquets to show you just that, Four was more than willing to be your smith.

[echo-bleu]

More concept sketches for Maedhros post-Angband needing skeletal support/correction. I focused more on the spine/neck braces this time, I'll draw some more slings and shoulder braces ideas at some point.

Disabled characters series

Closer look + notes/rambling under the cut

The first sketch is really just a preparatory one for the second. It's based pretty directly on an existing scoliosis brace called the Milwaukee brace, which used to be the most common and is still used sometimes for, I believe, high curvatures, which would be the case for Maedhros after being pulled by the arm for so long. The second sketch is a try at a more ornamented design, as Curufin and whichever other Noldor creating it would strive to make it beautiful.

The brace opens at the back and requires some flexibility to put on, so it wouldn't be a very early brace for Maedhros (that and the healers/smiths would need some time to attain a good design). It's geared toward correction and not immobilization, he can still somewhat turn his head but it's supported enough to lessen the pain. Leather pads can be added in various places to help with correction, so I gave him a shoulder pad, but he'd still wear some kind of sling or brace for his arm with it, I think.

The bottom sketch is a more ornamented brace meant for formal occasions, not everyday wear. It's aimed at support only, not correction, I think Maedhros could/would only wear it on a day where he's going to be sitting around and not really moving, like the Mereth Aderthad (he's in no shape or mood for dancing). And only later on, once his spine is more stable. This one also opens in the back with laces and various clasps and it's a lot lighter both visually and literally. I think brass would be a cool metal for this one to go with the leather (would it be solid enough? I have no idea).

There is a transcription of my little notes in alt, but I've basically said it all in the text.

Help I put too much research into this 😭

[hikari-kaitou]

This is Phoenix and Edgeworth's profiles as imagined by character designer Ms. Suekane. We got quite different answers from her compared to Takumi and the others!!

Phoenix's profile

Birthday: Maybe a Virgo? I kinda get the feeling he was born in September.

Blood type: O type. His attitude towards Maya and his fairly easygoing nature give me that impression.

Birthplace: Saitama, maybe? It's close to Tokyo but not on the same level because it's more rural. Maybe Saitama or Chiba or Ibaraki? But Takumi-san is from Saitama? Well, let's go with Saitama, then.

Non-work clothes: A hoodie. I want Phoenix to like wearing hoodies (lol). I can't think of anything else that would suit him. On the bottom, he'd wear cargo pants.

Living situation: He lives at his office. He's got a locker there where he keeps blankets and stuff to sleep on.

On his days off: He does nothing. He kinda just spaces out in the morning, then when noon comes he eats lunch and watches TV. When evening comes, he eats dinner, watches more TV, bathes, and sleeps. But if someone invites him out then he'll go.

Hobbies: Video games and stuff. Like fighting games (lol). I can see him with his controller going "tap tap tap tap" and smashing out combos. He might also play Dragon Quest or Final Fantasy or those types of games.

Favorite food: He's omnivorous. He'll eat whatever but he's kinda happy when there's meat in it. He loves meat.

Luxury foods: Diet cola. Beef jerky would be fine too (lol). He drinks alcohol but it doesn't show on his face much. Not beer, but like Japanese hot sake (lol)

Sports: Swimming. In general he's useless at sports but he'd be like "swimming is the only thing I'm good at." He seems like he'd get a little excited while talking about swimming.

Music: He doesn't listen to music. He'll go to karaoke if someone brings him, though.

Cellphone: He updates it fairly regularly, but because he always waits for the price to go down, he always ends up with one that's two models behind (lol).

His part time job in college: Something loose, because he doesn't commit himself to things… Like maybe he worked at a convenience store.

His type: I feel like he dreams about someone with abstract qualities like being "kind" or "domestic". Just thinking about those words gets him all starry-eyed and sighing (lol).

Edgeworth's profile

Birthday: He's an Aries, which means he was born on April 2nd or later. Let's go with April 2nd (lol).

Blood type: Type AB, because I feel like his emotions kinda have peaks and valleys.

Birthplace: Chiba. At first I thought Ace Attorney took place in Soga (a city in Chiba Prefecture).

Non-work clothes: A jacket, but not like a suit jacket, more like a casual one. Like from Paul Smith or something.

Living situation: A normal apartment. A lot of his furniture is Japanese handicraft stuff, and I feel like he'd put a lot of money into making his place feel Japanese.

On his days off: He goes shopping or on walks and has an elegant lunch. If he drives a car, it would be a silver one (lol).

Hobbies: Collecting western antiques and Japanese handicrafts.

Favorite food: Taro and meat soup (imoni). He has a favorite deli in his neighborhood that makes it.

Luxury foods: Whiskey. He enjoys it on the rocks.

Sports: He used to play soccer, but now he does weight training. He's got a defined six-pack.

Music: jazz. He listens to it while drinking his whiskey. Eminem fills him with rage.

Cellphone: A normal one. He uses his computer to send emails so he really only uses it to talk.

His part time job in college: Administrative assistant. He'd help with paperwork only when the office was really busy.

His type: Someone who doesn't lie to him. I have nothing in particular to add to that.

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

I don’t really pay much attention to the actors’ interviews but I would say I understand where Charlie Vickers is coming from when he says Sauron doesn’t love Galadriel, in the human meaning of the word (because he’s a God). I would also like to point out that, since the showrunners have established that Galadriel and Sauron’s connection will remain at the core of all 5 season of “Rings of Power”, Charlie probably doesn’t want to either spoil things or doesn’t know what the future holds for his character. Just leave him be, please. I know why journalists bombard him with “shipping” questions but it’s kind of tiring, I would be so done if I was him, too. Charlie is doing an amazing job bringing Sauron to life, he deserves all the awards.

With that being said, I don’t agree with the “Sauron isn’t capable of love” argument that gets thrown around a lot. I think this comes from a deep misunderstanding of his character; and Charlie understands Sauron very well, and that’s why I think he just doesn’t want to spoil things. Sauron/Mairon has the ability to love, like all other Maiar do. This is not lore-breaking at all.

Mairon was created by Eru as a Maia of Aulë, the Vala (God) of smithing and handiwork, yes. He was among the most powerful Maiar. Eru created him to be good and trustworthy, but also to love several things: crafting, creation, beauty, order and perfection, and to dislike wastefulness.

Melkor/Morgoth used Mairon’s love of order and perfection to corrupt him, and turned it into an obsession with domination, control and power. Morgoth corrupted his goodness and loyalty into evil and treachery (turning him into “the great deceiver”). His love of beauty corrupted into ugliness, by the breeding of the Orcs. Mairon’s greatest virtues became his downfall. Tolkien wrote about all of this.

And who better embodies the qualities of “beauty” and “perfection” than Galadriel herself? Her beauty is the stuff of legends, and everyone is at awe when they first meet her. Her very gold/silver hair inspired the most legendary jewels in existence: the Silmarils. The light of the Two Trees of Valinor shine on her hair and eyes. How could Sauron/Mairon not love her? That’s the question. She’s the materialization, the physical form, of everything he was designed to love.

Which explains this expression over here, when he first lays eyes on her:

Galadriel represents the redemption Mairon/Sauron seeks and wants (but cannot have), after Morgoth’s defeat. His desire to heal Middle-earth from Morgoth’s work and his love for Galadriel are intertwined, and one of the same. Whenever he gets compared to Morgoth, it triggers him; it’s a reminder that both redemption and Galadriel are out of his reach.

However, since Mairon was corrupted by Morgoth, his love is also corrupted. I’ve said this many times, already. This is the dark side of love. Obsession, possessiveness, jealousy, insatiable lust, suffering, heartbreak, and hatred blend in the midst. And this is why I think he fell in love with her when he was on his “repentant era”, because we saw the contrast between S1 and S2.

And we saw many of this play out in both S1 and S2, already. His reaction to her rejection of him (the need to punish her)? Him obsessing over her, stalking her from afar. Him being possessive to the point of actually forcing them to bind together because he wants her at any cost? And this will probably only get darker from here on, as Sauron goes deeper into evil.

There is no fluff here (that was S1). The doves are, truly, dead, moving forward.

[levemetal]

Some refs for myself, obvs not super accurate on the left. On the right height chart for myself. No Idc that there’s a canon one. This is the one I’m using, I’m saying Mqf tiny rights- *dragged out*

Mqf has a prosthetic leg and Wqw has a glass eye he terrorizes everyone with from an accident during the disciple days. And I desperately need fics of Qqq and SJ being worsties please if anyone knows any good ones throw the link at me.

More rambling under the cut.

I see Wqw as a particularly chaotic prankster. So every new disciple gets the joke of him dramatically popping out his glass eye in front of them. His older disciples are SO tired of his puns and this particular joke. Also during lessons if someone falls asleep they can expect to wake up to the glass eye on their desk. Wqw is probably a smith's extra son, or even the son of one of the cultivators of Wan Jian who was then put back into the sect. Rascal. Probably had a lot of siblings and thusly chaotic.

Qqq I imagine is probably from a noble family, tho was likely the daughter of a concubine or so and therefore more ignored enough so she could go off to cultivate. In another universe than pidw or svsss I imagine she's besties/worsties with SJ cause these two would LOVE to bicker and slander people together

Mu Qingfang!! He has grown on me and now I have half a lore ready for him and. Idk man. We don't know shit about the guy but I am obsesseeeed. Also yes this is the final iteration of his design I'm gonna settle on. And he's now tiny sorry not sorry

For Mqf I thought it'd be fun if he were from a poorer background kinda like Yqy and SJ. Just a miserable poor farmer's son, who only lived past an accident that cost half his leg in his youth because they lived by the sect region and QCP had a clinic nearby to help. He was fascinated, the healers likely noticed his talents for cultivating and in order to help his sickly sister, he went to QCP. Unfortunately he never was able to save his sister, but now here he is, in QCP as peak lord. A bit too obsessed with experimenting and furthering the medical arts, can be very distressing to witness for secular world members. Adores poisonous plants and has been steadily making antidotes.

[in-the-multiverse]

While almost everyone carves wooden things, Golden Fool went for shiny. He was the one and only goldsmith on the server and took pride in making beautiful jewelry. It was mostly for himself: dozens of bulky rings so he could flaunt a new combination every week, chandelier earrings ranging from gothic to floral, torque and festoon necklaces when he felt extra fancy, simpler and lighter necklaces on the days that called for a minimal (but still quite stylish) look

The gemstones that were skillfully embedded in them came from…around the server. Didn’t matter where, everything was his anyways. He stood clear of the “cursed” crystals the wizard man had. Ugly plastic

No one else was allowed to wear his jewelry. There were, however, very few exceptions

Milkman isn’t one to wear big, fancy shmancy gold. He likes how they look, but honestly- they’re too clunky and noisy for him. The first thing Fool made for him were gold buttons to replace the wack plastic ones on his jacket. Just a pop of color, a little glamour with a geometric pattern. Halfway through the smithing process, Fool had an idea for a matching gold patch on his hat. Then two extra buttons for the end of his jacket sleeves as well. He tailored them in with care

They were small, dapper, perfect, and Milkman loved them. His partner admired the new look in the mirror. There was an extra shine to him —and not just literally— confidence lit up his face, he had an extra pep in his step as he walked around the server, and those long hours Fool spent making the ornaments look just right became very worth it to see Milkman a little happier

Every now and again, Milkman came to him with a sheepish request for new gold. He promised he was doing his best to not accidentally fall into the void. It held up to be true. As the months went by, void deaths become scarce and the occasional creeper was to blame for lost accessories. And every time he asked for new ones: Fool gave the same deep sigh, crossed his arms and asked “So what design would you like this time?” Milkman always complimented the speed it took for them to be created, and he was delighted by the extra surprises thrown in

Fool didn’t tell him about the hidden chest filled with an array of golden buttons, patches, gemstone hat charms, and hat pins. He saw this coming

In the early days, Vintage wanted to wear dangle earrings with cherry wood flowers. It took a lot of trial and error. During a hangout, she carved off more than expected, kept trying to save it as a smaller design, kept misjudging cuts, until her earrings became sad little chunks. It had been a long week and she almost gave up on wood carving right then and there

Fool sat down next to them and shared a handful of stories where he screwed up gold smithing. Like- taking a sip of molten gold instead of the cup of coffee that was right next to it, or that time he sneezed while etching a very complicated pattern and continued one millimeter off, one exhausted afternoon he chipped off gold from his skin instead of his project—ouch—, and boy was he glad no one else was around the day his (unchecked) workstation collapsed on itself and he had to literally play the floor is lava. With each retelling, he was met with a surprised laugh and the frustration eased from Vintage’s shoulders. She wasn’t alone in making mistakes. If Fool went through it and still made amazing works, it wasn’t hopeless for her

He taught her a couple tricks to get 3d shapes a little closer to what she imagined in her head. Gold smithing and wood carving were very different processes, but any idea began at a sketch

Two weeks later, Vintage gifted him a charm bracelet. It was decently detailed and adjusted nicely to his wrist. Not shiny, but their pride at finally making something look cute and the time they spent on it was more than enough to graciously wear it. A couple days later, Fool surprised her with a beaded bracelet, gorgeously flower themed. They could be matching!

Vintage adored it and showed it off to anyone who stopped to have a conversation with her. When the others yearned for a cool shiny thing like hers, she gave a sweet smile and teased them for being on Fool’s enemy list. Because even if birch was on neutral grounds with someone, it was only a matter of time before crime and chaos fell their way. Anyone who wasn’t a friend was kept at arm’s length. Which meant— no shiny for youuu

One day it disappeared. Must’ve gotten lost in cherry’s god awful storage system. Vintage felt so, so sorry they lost it. They knew Fool spent precious time on it and they’d hate to be a bother asking for another one. But Fool shrugged it off, it was no biggie, really. In fact, it gave him the opportunity to indulge in designs he sketched out. By the end of the week he made a new friendship bracelet, charm necklace, and cuff ring that suited her unicorn horn nicely. Vintage was so happy she nearly cried, she thanked him over and over and promised to keep them in a better place

A few weeks went by, and she was utterly distraught at losing them. All of them. She swore up and down they were in her enderchest, she did wear them out one fancy evening, must’ve forgotten to put it back. They said they checked all over cherry kingdom and retraced her steps, but no shiny :(

Again they lamented to Fool, and again he workshopped another few accessories to replace those. By the 4th time, he started to question her genuineness. His gifts never lasted longer than 3 weeks, it seemed more like a scheduled “disappearance”. It was by chance he spotted her strolling on the edge of the shopping district with her new jewelry. She clasped them off, held a fistful of his work over the edge, and let it drop

He stopped talking with Vintage after that. She’d been acting weird lately anyways. Their handcrafted bracelet went to the void, too

And when Milkman accused him of working behind his back— oohhh

Fool stormed up to the hidden chest and melted everything back into a pot of liquid gold. It was his and he could do whatever he wanted with it. Have it ready to be refurnished into new accessories for himself. Milkman would never get anything new, either

When the Halloween Ball rolled around, he made sure to wear the most exquisite gold he’s ever made. He wanted eyes on him. He wanted people to feel jealous when they looked at him. He wanted admiration like no other and hoped it would draw the others to him. Novelty was the gateway to trust. Just. Everyone to give him another chance

Look at how incredible his gold smithing was! Didn’t you want something shiny too? Didn’t you want to be his friend?

Eyes definitely looked in his direction. But the longer the night dragged on the more self conscious he became. People kept their distance. Fool swatted away any naive hope that dared fester in his lonely soul. Of course they did. They should. Everyone was hiding something, exchanging whispers and glances that could only be about him. How dare he dress himself as a spectacle, and beckon attention when none of them deserved it. Everyone had a weird thing going on with them. Everyone had it out for him. What else did the void want? More of his jewelry? His kingdom? They had to be working together. They wanted to take more from him. He couldn’t trust these…these—

A glint of gold called to him

Amongst the crowd, a singular hat pin shined underneath the chandelier lights. Milkman was lost in his own world, giggling and dancing with someone else

Fool heard the gold on his skin crack and crumble

The greedy one having a love language of gift giving was a pretty big deal

The Librarian knows this, and they know they aren’t here to be a replacement. They leave his goldsmith workshop alone

Let it collect dust

[girls--complex]

hi, love your work a lot! it manages to blend coherence with layers of esoterica, in a fun & meaningful way. do you have any big influences with your style?

Writing this as a narrative because my whimsicall mind can't seem to organize information logickally otherwise

So

When I was a child my Dad would show me a lot of comics/cartoons in all different styles/eras and so I was internalizing comic book logic from the very beginning. He really liked American comix both capes and Indie stuff but was also into franco belgian artists and let's be clear my papa has good taste so I was readying good stuff though I couldn't remember it all too reliably... Also Comics Journal, so I was reading comics & meta about comics. So basically I have like a deep archetypal brain stem dark spring of mind that spits out raw comic information like a dream that I can't place until I rediscover them, and a lot of deep unremembered imprintations that R kinda roiling around under the surface #Stupidsoldier

N then I was a deviantart kiddo and a reading manga at barnes and noble kiddo, and then I went and got a formal art education and learned about all these artists that sort of did pseudo comics or cartoons but didnt articulate it that way-- The German xpressionists are a big example of this -- and also about overall principles of like scale and hierarchy and time and presence -- and also just that I really like drawin the human figure in particular :)

I'm really grateful that my parents especially my dad were actually really supportive/invested in me being an artist even though they had very little faith in my character or overall competence. so I was always doing art activities to make me better at drawing because that was like the one redeeming quality I had, a lot of household resources went into me having art tutoring or doing community classes, and I was really strongly encouraged to get ma BFA

So 4 influences well I like things that are very stylish but very specific in how they represent figure N physiognomy... Naoki Urosawa & Jeff Smith were fascinations 2 me along this line... Arakawa is good too... I feel like this is a strength of American and British cartoonists generally but struggling to think of names

My favorite painter is tied between two commies: Siqueiros, who was a Mexican muralist and chaotic socialist, really specific markmaking and texture, pathos drenched figuration, charged epic landscapes, and Petrov-Vodkin, Russian ikonographer who became a propagandist for the USSR, semi-social-realist, semi-ikonographic compositions in which space is wrapping around itself to organize human figures according to a mythological logic, flattish, very cartoons/comics aligned, strange treatment of color but all really effective

History painting overall is everything to me it really doesn't show in Coward but I think it shows elsewhere some of my other dramatic sensibility is a lot from 00s action movie shlock which I would always enjoy to go see when I was younger and was somehow fascinated with the environment of government buildings and prisons and secret operations happeningunder the surface of every day life erupting into wet violence of men punching each other

I love the movie THE RAID redemption !!!!

I learned a lot of the logic of pacing N building pages around Tezuka's work as well as FMA N Death Note I think were big 1s to teach me that logic. Tezuka is a really good artist to look at for how to compose a page that supports the energy of the events that are happening on it, not that that's something I personally am good at. Favorite mangaka for tone and environment and visual identity are Katsuhiro Otomo, Tustomu Nihei, Suehiro Maruo, Nishioka siblings, Hideshi Hino

A lot of my sense of timing is also from news paper strips tbh. It's just a gut thing to me at this point hehe , Character design is also a gut thing for me I draw a little thing and I can either ensoul it with psychosexual fixation or I can't

I was born in the hospital Henry Darger worked at St. Joe's he's an ancestor to me but ofc inimitable by virtue of GOD being his sole audience

As for the esoterickal dimensions I feel like it's all it's own post let's just say I lack the inclination and ability for systematic and rigorous study but I am really interesting in gathering little packets of information and arranging them into dioramas and the longer I do it the more packets I accrue

I want to make a list of artists on here that I like/admire sometime too but that's too much for me rn. I also suspect a lot of people R mad at me for arbitrary reasons just as I also am mad at a lot of people for arbitrary reasons so I dont wanna bother no one ...

Oh well so I'm intentionally reorganizing how I draw right now because I sense a shift in my trajectory again so thanks for making me reflect

[petermorwood]

Hi, Peter! I am tossing this question at you, but I hope Diane and some other writers will toss it around, too. Do you still draft your work in longhand? What is it like? I'm asking this as someone who has written by keyboard only for almost 20 years, but started keeping a longhand journal again about four years ago. I'm feeling so blocked that I wonder if I could take up longhand creative writing again.

This got well buried, but better late than never!

I certainly do, much more than @dduane. (She makes a lot of notes in LH, but not much in the way of drafts.)

I've heard / read complaints about longhand (and typewriter) drafting that "you can't correct mistakes". Usually what this means is "you can't delete and over-write".

You can. Use one of these.

The first lays white masking fluid over the error, the other two do it with a strip of white tape, and after a few seconds to let the fluid dry, or immediately with the tape, you can re-write over the top.

I'm sure some people also remember the Tipp-Ex / Liquid Paper paint-pots with brushes, and the little sheets of white-backed correction paper used with typewriters. (Some, like my cartridge-ribbon Smith-Corona, even had a correction cartridge.)

*****

A more usual method with pen or typewriter drafting is strikethrough.

The mistake is still there, of course, and IMO that's not a bug, it's a feature and - so I've found, anyway - makes me think a bit more about what I'm going to write down before pen to paper or finger to key.

Besides, the "wrong" (often first) choice of word may well turn out to be the "right" choice of word after all, once the rest of the paragraph has developed. YMMV, but it happens often enough.

It's also why proper MS format is double-spaced.

In working drafts, this leaves room to add a correction, often using different colours of ink, which can even be done with a typewriter if it has a black-red ribbon.

In a final draft, double-space (and a clear, non-fussy font like Courier or Times Roman) is easier on an editor or test-reader's eyes.

All the business of fancy fonts, typesetting, end of chapter and between-paragraph glyphs * etc. happens afterwards.

*****

* The section-break symbol or "dinkus", can be as simple as one or several asterisks, but may be a fancy little curlicue called a "fleuron" or - if a book has a high enough profile - a appropriate custom design.

[what-eats-owls]

Show vs Tell, Or: Please Stop Making Things Difficult for Yourself

I said a while ago that I'd write a brief essay about the most misused craft advice in writing once I wrote 10k words, and for once I actually held myself to that! So now, I'm here to tell you about Show vs Tell, or why people make it more complicated than it needs to be.

First, a basic primer for anyone who hasn't heard this term before: "Show vs Tell"/"Showing vs Telling" refers to "showing" the audience information instead of "telling" it to them. You may be thinking, gosh, that sounds unspecific to the point of being readily misapplied, and you would certainly be right! Lots of folks throw it around without fully grasping what it means, how to use it, or when it doesn't actually apply. And I'd really like everyone to stop making it harder on themselves when there's a very straightforward way to conceptualize it.

So for starters, Chuck Palahniuk has an old but good essay about eliminating "thought" verbs from prose that holds the hell up. But I'm going to tell you an even simpler way to conceptualize the difference between showing and telling:

Eliminate the inner thoughts entirely.

Ask yourself, if my narrator's interior monologue was inaccessible to the audience, how would I convey the same information—literally showing it?

Forget for a moment that your medium is the word, and imagine you only have dialogue and visuals. If this was taking place on the screen or in a graphic novel, how would you convey that this character has a crush on someone in their class? That they're hotheaded? That they're struggling with a decision?

Here's a perfect example of this from the opening scene of Howl's Moving Castle.

Devoid of context, we have a girl trying on a hat in a mirror, and also trying on a fake smile. Then her expression sours and she pulls the hat down over her face until we can only see her frown. She's wearing a plain dress and the hat is simple, despite the elaborate hats and ornaments on display around her.

You don't have to know anything about this character to understand what's being conveyed in this moment: This girl is deeply uncomfortable with trying to be pretty and flirty, but in the safety of privacy she wants that, even though she feels inept and self-conscious about it. She's in this world, but she's not part of it. Even brushing up against it for a moment makes her shut down and reject it with hostility.

More importantly, it's all communicated with a simple gesture and design choices. Not by Sophie thinking to herself, I wish someone would take me dancing—no I don't! I work too hard to have time for dancing!

That's showing. And it's more resonant, because we've all felt silly trying something on in a mirror! Or, say, if you want to show a character has a crush, having them get flustered and laughing too loud. Or showing that they're a hothead by having them snap at a simple disagreement, etc. etc.

This also extends to worldbuilding, dialogue, and stakes.

Worldbuilding: If your story is set in a town run by a crooked sheriff, you could have the narrator say "everyone knows Sheriff Smith is squeezing the shops for bribes." Or the sheriff can stop the narrator for "smelling like weed" while the sheriff's drunken son speeds by, about to total his third BMW.

Dialogue: If your character is angry, they can say "I'm furious." Or they can slam dishes in the sink and insist "I'm not angry" while openly crying. They can snap "I'm not discussing this again." They can demand "What is he doing here?"

Stakes: You can have an all-seeing oracle say "If you do not return the Mystic Orb to the Sunlight Altar by the solstice, the world will plunge forever into darkness." (And as we'll get into it below, sometimes you actually need that.) You can also have intermittent but increasing periods of total darkness occurring as the party travels to the Sunlight Altar. You can have the Mystic Orb start cracking the longer it takes, and the sun getting a little dimmer with every fracture. You can have people's shadows growing bigger and bigger and acting autonomously.

But showing isn't the end-all-be-all; telling absolutely has a place. Sometimes it's better to quickly and plainly state information and move on, such as a little earlier in the scene, when the other hat shop girls have spotted Howl's castle:

"Look, it's Howl's castle!"

"I've never seen it so close!"

“Do you think Howl will go into town?”

“He’s gone!”

“No, he’s just hiding in the fog from those planes.”

“Did you hear what happened to that girl, Martha, in South Haven? They say Howl has torn her heart out.”

“Now I’m too scared to go out!”

“Don’t worry. He only preys on pretty girls.”

This tells us some stuff directly: Who owns the castle we see in the first few seconds, that he's hiding from soldiers, that he has a reputation for preying on beautiful girls. We can infer also that he's a bit of a coward, he stays away from civilization, and that his reputation for cruelty has spread over multiple regions.

This happens so quickly, and it's couched in enough character between the teasing and the gossip, that it doesn't stand out as capital-t-Telling. That's exactly what expository dialogue should do. "Showing" us all that information would take a lot of screen time that can be saved in ten seconds of dialogue.

It's also not just about saving time; it's setting up an image that Howl initially fulfills when he helps Sophie escape the soldiers... only to be punctured when she actually goes to his castle and sees the real Howl. Telling is good for setting expectations that you know will be subverted later.

So yeah, tl;dr: If you're tied up in knots about "am I showing?? am I telling??" just ask yourself how you'd convey the same information in a movie or graphic novel, without access to interior monologue, and evaluate if that'd be better. Most of the time the answer is yes, but not always!

[tathrin]

So obviously there are a lot of things I would have done differently if I had been in charge of Amazon's Rings of Power show. I could go on at length about any of them, but...

One little, little thing I would do?

I would have a cat there, in Eregion. Just in the background of various scenes, nbd, hanging out in the smithy and stuff, meandering around, curling up in Celebrimbor's lap... Not something to focus on: just a little bit of background flavor, you know, show that Celebrimbor is a softy who likes animals, or maybe it's good for the smiths' morale to have an animal around; whatever...

But. I would make sure that the cat is never ever ever seen on screen in any scene that Annatar is in. (Or perhaps sometimes is seen at the start of a scene where Annatar enters later, but disappears from the camera's sight before he arrives.)

You pan in on the smithy, and there's a cat lounging on a cushion on Celebrimbor's desk, as cats do.

Maybe it even bats or sniffs at some of the prototypes/paperwork, you know, normal cat stuff. It's certainly not interested in what Celebrimbor is working on haha. It's certainly not reading the bluprints, don't be silly, stop anthropomorphizing the cat, it's just a bit of set dressing, okay? Obviously.

Scene starts, Celebrimbor does some work, maybe gives the cat some chin-scritches or maybe is too preoccupied to notice it's even there; no big deal. Doesn't really matter. We're focusing on his work designing the Rings, okay?

So, as he works we pan across, the cat isn't there anymore...and Annatar walks over, not having made any grand entrance coming in through the door or anything; just like he's been there all along and now he's coming by for a closer look, how odd that we didn't notice him before! Oh, it's probably just an editing thing, they probably just cut-out his entrance for pacing reasons nbd.

And hey that's funny, you don't see the cat again until he leaves...

No one in the show would ever reference this. No one would, in fact, ever mention or name the cat or draw any specific direct attention to its presence, save perhaps the occasional scritch of its little head in passing. It's not a character, it's just a little cat who hangs out in the smithy. Doesn't seem to belong to anyone in particular. Probably a stray.

(Weird how you don't see it again during any of the final fighting when Annatar/Sauron's busy doing his Endgame Shit, but hey: it's a cat, it's probably just too smart to stick around during all that chaos. No doubt it bolted for safety days ago. It's not like it has anything important that it'd be doing during all that. It's just a cat, for Eru's sake!)

Now, the question is, do we list the cat(s) who played the role in the credits as just "smithy cat," or do we go full wink-and-nudge and give the cat its name?

Either way of course: we'd all know.