#i'm so proud of this you don't even know

[dulciedeleche]

Did one of my favorite old deviantArt memes with Peppinoooooooo

Here’s the original if you wanna try it: https://www.deviantart.com/miimiiakatsuki/art/blushing-faces-meme-from-PIXIV-148053577

[ghost-proofbaby]

It's summer for you, winter for me. Warm me up with strawberry fluff! As always, my muse, your muse, the one and only, Eddie.

Midsummer's night, because I don't have a lot to inspire you with. I'm thinking something cute but weird? Maybe some human body softness where Eddie is a bit of a freak and we love him for it. And we're told our bodies are lovely, even when they're doing weird shit.

I lalalove youuuuu. xo Rhi

RHI!!!! <3 i adore you. thank you for this prompt - i had far too many ideas for it, but ended up on settling for this one, which coincidentally feels like the most subtle of them all? either way, it definitely turned out being the softest. give me an eddie munson who just wants to sniff me like a dog. this definitely got a bit long but i hope you enjoy, my dear <3

the smell of you

warnings: weirdos in love? idk. i have a skewed sense of what is actually weird i think. mentions of death and coffins jokingly. eddie 'manhandles' reader sort of. not edited.

wc: 2.2k+

come enjoy a sweet summer treat with me <3

“Eddie?”

The entire apartment is quiet – too quiet – as you drop your keys into the old crystal bowl on the counter. The clink resonates through the air, louder than the soft murmur of the stereo static you can hear from down the hall. 

“You dead?” you call out again, slipping off your running shoes and tossing down your headphones onto the counter as well now, “Do I need to call the coroner?” 

Your tone is lilted, teasing with airiness as you continue to wander deeper into the apartment and head straight for the room you know Eddie has to be in. Like the waves pulled by the moon, there’s an incessant string tied around one end of your soul that connects you to his, and you follow it all the way down the hallway. The bedroom door is wide open, and you can hear his mumbled yell of a response without clarity before you even cross the threshold. 

You wouldn’t have even needed him to verbally respond to find him in this tiny apartment. You two could get separated on the streets of a bustling city, of a buzzing New York sidewalk, and you still wouldn’t properly lose him. It’s more than just soul ties and his gravity that keeps you pulled to him. 

Something unspoken. Something homely. 

“Sorry, what was that?” you hum as you spy him face-down in the bed, pillow muting him by the mouthful, “Say it one more time, and this time not into the pillow.” 

When he finally properly turns over, he’s a vision. Sleep lines folded into his skin and a bit of drool in the corner of his mouth, eyes squinting in irritation not at you but the sunlight flooding in through the bedroom window. Messy hair, messy shirt, messy everything. A kind of mess you just want to collapse into currently, curling up in all that he is from the day’s exhaustion. 

He’d mentioned wanting to take a nap before you’d left for the gym. Something about the summer heat draining him, trailing off as he’d rambled about how he’d probably thrive as a vampire. 

“I said,” he huffs, sitting up, the frizz of his hair becoming a makeshift halo, “If you call the coroner, request the comfiest coffin possible.”

“Why do you need a comfy coffin if you’re already dead?” 

“You dare deny me of being buried in tempurpedic memory foam? In my hour of need?” 

You roll your eyes as you huff out a little laugh, forcing yourself to turn away from him long enough to strip out of your socks. But just as you reach down for the pieces of clothing, you catch sight of the source of that stereo static flooding the room. 

Your shared record player, spinning a blood red pressing of one of your more recent vinyl purchases. The album has been played through, but the player no longer had an automatic stop mechanism, probably from years of use. 

The center of the record is probably scratched, and Eddie knows it, from how sheepish he looks when you glance over your shoulder at him. 

“Speaking of death,” you walk over quickly, purposefully, before carefully lifting the needle and cutting the static finally, “Care to explain why you’re burning scratches into my Momento Mori vinyl?” 

“I’m sorry,” he quickly apologizes, nearly flinging himself off the bed as he scooches quickly to the end, clearly fully awake now, “I put it on and thought I’d just lay down for a quick second, but then the bed was so comfy, and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick nap, and then…” he trails off, looking up at you through his lashes with big eyes already pleading for forgiveness, “I’ll buy you a new one. Swear it.” 

It’s impossible to be mad at him when he’s looking like this, inhumanely soft and easily forgiven, “You’re lucky you’re cute, or you really would be dead.” 

He doesn’t respond with words, but instead the outstretch of his hands, fingers flexing as he beckons to you. The needle rests on its perch, the vinyl left behind to gather dust for a few extra moments, as you go straight to him. 

When his palms slip beneath your old t-shirt and meet your skin, they’re pleasantly warm. 

“You were right,” you admit as his knees spread, delegating even more room for you to stand in front of him as your hand wanders to cradle the side of his face, fingers tangling in sweaty curls from his rest. Your thumb mimics his on your own skin instinctively, tracing a large arch right up over his cheekbone, “It’s hot as balls outside.” 

“Told you so,” he murmurs, smiling softly in satisfaction as he leans lazily into your touch. 

“You did,” you agree quietly, half-entranced by his relaxed face, no sight of pride in the room currently. 

He resembles a cat as he continues to preen under your gentle hand, and you almost expect him to start purring right before you find the strength to pull away, removing his hands from where they'd wandered to your lower back. 

One swipe of his finger along your sweaty spine, and you’d remembered what your original intentions had been immediately upon getting home. 

“Wai- Where are you going?” he’s seemingly brought back down to Earth the moment he loses the pattern your thumb had been tracing, the press of your fingertips into his scalp. When he reaches back out to latch onto you again, you take a step back, “Get back here-”

“I need to shower,” you laugh, shaking your head and smacking his hands away as he continues to barter, “I’m all sweaty and smelly, let me go clean up and then we can nap togeth-” 

“You can shower after we nap,” he nearly whines, finally catching your shirt between his fingers and tugging, uncaring for if he stretches the fabric. A small price to pay to have you close to him, “C’mon, sweetheart. I know you’re just as exhausted as I am.” 

You swear you meant to take another step backwards, but somehow, you end up back between his knees, “Did you not hear me, Munson? I stink.”

“Good.” 

He doesn’t give you any time to react – in an instant, he’s throwing his face forward, burying it against your stomach as you let out a gasp and immediately try to pry him away with far too gentle of hands in his hair. 

“Eddie!”

If it were anyone else, you’d probably be mortified. But Eddie just takes a dramatic deep breath in, nose buried just shy of your belly button, and when his shoulders start to shake with muted laughter, you can’t stop the smile from breaking. Your fingers are still twisted in his hair, still pulling back in an attempt to get him away from you, but he’s resilient. 

And all your faux resistance is weak in comparison. Soon enough, you’re back to melting into him. 

Only once you’re relaxed once more, no sign of trying to pull away again any time soon as his hands once more evade the space beneath your shirt to wander up and down your sticky skin without a care in the world, does he lift his face away from you long enough to breathe and speak, “I’ll have you know – I love your stink.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious.” 

“You’re an idiot.” 

“I’m your idiot.” 

The game of banter is cut short when he goes back to pressing his nose into your clothes that surely can’t smell good. No amount of deodorant or perfume could erase that underlying stench of sweat. Hell, the shirt is still a bit moist from it all: from the walk to the gym, from your workout itself, from the walk home. It’d been through the ringer, and you’re back to tugging him away from you. 

“I refuse to believe you like how gross I smell right now,” you reinforce, eyes darting towards the bathroom connected to your master bedroom, “I promise I’ll be quick with the shower.” 

“Baby,” he fights back, wrapping his arms around you securely, no intention of losing this battle, “You remember that time we went to the fair, and you were complaining about how you were sweating, so I tried to lick your face?” 

Your nose scrunches quickly at the memory, “I do, unfortunately.”

“You really think I’d be willing to lick the sweat off your body but be afraid of you smelling a little bad while we cuddle?” his shoulders drop as he looks up at you, head tilted, almost as if amused with the conversation, “What kind of man do you take me for?” 

“The kind that gets off on annoying me.” 

His jaw drops, putting on a fake look of offense before he dramatically throws himself back onto the bed, laying flat as he makes a fist to mimic stabbing his chest, “You wound me.”

You’ve heard those words a thousand times in a hundred different ridiculous voices. You’ve seen this scene enough to have it mesmerized at this point, down to the over-exaggerated pout of his lips and the lingering of the fist against his sternum. 

You never grow tired of it. You never will. 

“Need me to kiss it better?” you joke as you prop a knee up on the bed, following the same script as always. 

And he hits his queue perfectly when he lifts his head eagerly at the expected response, wiggling his brows a bit. “Absolutely. Doctor’s orders, in fact.” 

“Great,” you see an opportunity, and take it, “I’ll get right to it, after my showe-” 

You don’t even get the final syllable of the word off your tongue before he’s clenching his thighs around your own, knees pressing hard before he wraps his legs the rest of the way around your waist to pull you in. A squeak of surprise leaves your lips as you begin to fall forward, but Eddie is quick to break the fall with ease. Catching you with his eager hands, maneuvering for you to half drop to the mattress while some of you still lands atop of him. 

He has you right where he wants you, turning his head to be face to face with you, noses nearly brushing, “Unfortunately, the doc said you have to kiss it better now, or else you’ll be comfy coffin shopping.” 

“A fatal wound?” you gasp, nearly mocking him. It doesn’t offend him – if anything, his boyish grin only grows wider, “First, I’m smelly-”

“Again, I like when you’re smelly.”

“-And then I inflict a fatal wound upon my lover? Oh, how dare I.”

Slowly, all your insecurity of how you currently smell is simply fading. The entire ordeal has become an art of childlike, whimsical jokes – and Eddie is an artist. A professional at the dance, locked and loaded with his incomparable skill set equipped for disarming you this way. The ability to make someone feel loved, imperfections and weirdness aside. 

He likes you, even when you claim you don’t smell your best. And you like him, even when his hair is tangled beyond recognition and one of his socks is half-hanging off his foot from a nap.

You like him when he’s embarrassing you in public, tongue chasing after you with the threat of licking your sweat away, and he likes you when all you can do in response is a weak palm to his chest (that isn’t even making an effort to push him away) as you giggle relentlessly. 

You like each other on the good days, the bad days, the weird days. 

Disarmed entirely, you don’t even notice when his face conveniently slots itself far too close to your armpit as you two scooch further up into the bed. You’re more occupied with the way your legs tangle up, toeing each other’s socks off properly as he slings a heavy arm across your torso. 

“We’re gonna have to wash the sheets,” you mumble, exhaustion catching up as the two of you finally settle. 

He hums absentmindedly, nuzzling into your skin a bit further as he makes himself comfortable. “And wash away your sweet, sweet stink? I don’t think so, sweetheart.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, unbothered as your fingers start to trail up and down his back over the t-shirt, smoothing out wrinkles along the way, “I’m serious. We need to change them soon anyways, I think I got crumbs in the bed the other night with those crackers.” 

“Bury me in the crumbs of all your midnight snacks,” he almost slurs, clearly drifting back off. 

You snort in response, relaxing and letting your own eyes shut. Matching all your deep breaths with his own, a million different last words crossing your mind to whisper to the boy you’re sure is once again asleep. 

I love you.

I adore you. 

I would like to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’ll have me. 

And maybe some of those unspoken thoughts slip out without you realizing, because he squeezes you just a little bit tighter, presses his face just a little bit deeper into your skin as his scruff tickles you. 

The only actual thought you can know for certain that you say, though, is, “Do you think they actually make coffins with memory foam inside?” 

To your surprise, even despite the almost-snores that had been escaping him, he answers in a heartbeat. 

“Oh, definitely. We’ll order two.”

[ghostlyarchaeologist]

Eliot ensuring the girls know how to defend themselves. (And them proving that they can!)

Leverage S02E02/S04E05/Redemption S01E16/S02E03.

[lgbtlunaverse]

Thinking of the Nie disciple that told Nie Mingjue it was Meng Yao who stayed behind to clean up corpses on the battlefield today.

Nie Mingjue didn't just randomly stumble upon poor lil meowyao eating bread in the novel, he was already looking for him to thank and reward him for his work.

That's what makes it so fun that nieyao's first conflict will end up being about someone else taking credit for Meng Yao's work.

And I'm sure that Nie Mingjue's actual opinions on plagiarism are a lot more nuanced, all we really get from him in this scene is "well you shouldn't kill someone over it!" which leaves a lot of room for what punishments he thinks are appropiate. But I bet that it isn't occuring to him in this moment that the only reason he knows Meng Yao at all, the only reason he got such a capable deputy, is that he noticed someone was taking care of the dead and cared enough to want to know their name. And then the Nie disciples didn't lie to him. The disciple he asked could have said "it was me, Zongzhu" to rise in the ranks himself, but he didn't. He went and asked others, who all also could have taken the credit, but they didn't. Someone saw Meng Yao working and decided to be honest about it and that simple decision is the catalyst for Meng Yao becoming Nie Mingjue's deputy.

Meng Yao can't just work hard to get results, others have to acknowledge that work. If they don't, it's as if he didn't do anything at all.

[sophsun1]

[novirp13]

SILVER THE HEDGEHOG HUMAN VERSION PART 2~

When I watched someone play Sonic Po6 and saw Silver's movesets, I suddenly realized, 'Wait. He can throw his power like an energy beam, right? Or a physic knife, whatever. And the color of his power is blue too. That is practically firebending!' And that's how these fanarts were born :'D

...tbh I just wanna draw more Gijinka Silver lol.

And I think I started to like the yellow-blue color scheme better than the other two colors `3` 

Here's another fanarts of Gijinka Silver: 1 | 3

BONUS:

Silver is too OP, man. It's unfortunate he doesn't have his own game :'(

[phoenixcatch7]

Reading loz/lu fics and it's just so interesting how wide the spectrum is of their personalities.

Sometimes it's got an in universe reason (different past (usually gender or species change), recent or ongoing traumatic events, a spectacularly bad first meeting), but sometimes (often) the characters are just... Weirdly angsty or peppy, there's no in between!

And I'm beginning to think less people have played more than one game than I thought XD.

Not that it's anyone's fault! One game is more than enough to be part of it all, and loz is exclusive to Nintendo consoles - and all the older stuff is frustratingly hard to get hold of. Heck, I'm still looking for wind waker, and that was really popular! And then you have to play it! They're not small games!!

But could people writing wild please ease off just a tiiiiiny bit so he can be a semi functional member of society pretty please XD? He's just as much a polite boy as any other member of the chain! He won't even run in shops! He can't attack npcs! He talks to every single person he's ever seen and remembers every single name. Yes, he's three quarters woodland creature with a hefty amount of trauma but he's also a fashionista who managed to avoid accidentally taking sides in a mayoral election and that's not easy!

[jitterbugbear]

moving out moving on ♪♫

[pink-flame]

You're my neck of the, neck of the woods Leave you, babe, I never could Ginger and gestures of goodwill go forth, let go Of sorrow and sadness and spite I'm somebody taller tonight

Neck of the Woods - Maisie Peters

[misericorsalvator]

An Epitaph

Henry didn't know where he was. It was cold, freezing, but that was all he could tell, from the sharp chill that tore through his damp clothes, to the frigid air that felt like icicles in his lungs when he breathed. Even if he was someplace familiar, it would have been impossible to tell through the veil of rime in the air, the thick hoar that coated the ground. But wherever he was, he had to find shelter. soon, before his limbs grew any number that they already were and he lost the three fingers he had left on his right hand to frostbite. It took a good deal of walking, trudging through the snow, before he found something resembling sanctuary. A rocky hovel dug deep into a mountainside he hadn't even noticed was there. The crooked mountaintop loomed far overhead like a wind-swept pine tree, towering over the barren expanse and shielding the small patch of land near the cave's entrance from the worst of the snowfall. It was a narrow fit, the opening more narrow than a coffin, but it opened up into a wide chamber beyond, dark, lit only by the little light reflecting on the snow outside.

Panic stabbed at him suddenly. That chamber felt familiar, though he couldn't recall from where. The rockface of the walls was smooth, man-made, and the stalactites hanging from the domed ceiling above were unnatural, all the same length, jagged and sharpened to fine points. But he had no time to waste on the unnerving interior. The weather outside was getting worse, the wind howling like wolves on a hunt, and soon his shelter would be just as cold and dangerous as the outside. He had to think, find a way to keep the warmth in. Henry returned to the entrance. He twisted around in the narrow space as best he could and began piling up snow with his numb hands, stacking it, pressing it into shape, mouthing breathless curses to himself, until he had built a solid wall halfway up to his neck. It should last. He didn't know for how long, but at least for now, until he could catch his breath. It had to last.

Henry slumped against the wall of the cave. The barrier he had built offered some protection, but he could still feel the cold creeping in, seeping through the gaps and cracks in the snow. A damp chill gnawed at his bones, freezing the air in his lungs. He knew he had to keep moving, to do something, anything, to stay warm and awake. He couldn’t afford to fall asleep. Not here. Not now. But his limbs were leaden and his body creaked in protest with every movement. His teeth chattered as he tried to think, tried to remember where he was and how he had gotten there. The harder he tried, however, the more his thoughts seemed to slip away, like sand through his fingers. Panic clawed at his chest once more as he looked around the cavern. The walls seemed to close in, the smooth stone shimmering with a thin layer of rime frost. The ceiling above with the unnaturally sharp stalactites, loomed over him like a mouth full of fangs. He had to get out.

Henry pushed himself off the wall, his legs shaking beneath him. The snow was piling up faster now, further in through the entrance than the wall he had built, and he frantically began to shovel it away with his hands, trying to clear a path through the narrow gap. He shovelled harder, floundered, grappled til his fingers were too numb to move, but for every tiny hopeful opening he made, more snow took its place, as if the storm outside was determined to bury him alive. The cold was unbearable now, seeping into his very soul. Outside, the wind roared, a feral sound that echoed through the cavern and made the air thick with cold. Each breath now was a knife to the chest, each inhale burning his lungs. The snow crawled closer, blocking the entrance fully, and began to cover the cave floor inch by painful inch, forcing the hunter back step by painful step.

Henry's mind was reeling. He stumbled further into the cave, away from the encroaching cold, the bones of his legs creaking in protest. The deeper he went, the more the walls seemed to close in on him, the smooth rock pressing down, suffocating. The quiet there was unnerving, an oppressive stillness that made him painfully aware of his own laboured breathing and the pounding of his heart. The silence of the grave. For what felt like an hour, he pushed himself forward against the stone walls, cowering under the stalactites which were now low enough to graze the top of his head. No matter how far he went, the snow followed close behind, blocking the way back. Henry's movements grew slower, more sluggish, until he could no longer outrun it, and that white frost began piling up around his boots. He felt the fight leave him, his breathing weakened, his heartbeat slowed.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it—a single snowflake, delicate and perfect, drifting down from the ceiling above. His breath caught in his throat as he watched it fall, impossibly slow, through solid rock. It glowed faintly in the dim light and Henry’s eyes followed its descent, almost hypnotized, until it landed softly on the ground. On something dark, something that wasn’t stone. He crouched down, his stiff knees cracking in protest, and wiped away the snow, his fingers brushing against a cold, unyielding surface.

A hand.

His hand.

His breath caught in his throat. He was looking at himself, at his own lifeless body, crumpled and broken, half-buried in the snow. The wounds were horrific—deep gashes and punctures that were draining the life out of him-- and the realization hit him like a sledgehammer.

This wasn't real.

The snow, the cold, it was all in his head, growing blurry as his brain ran out of oxygen. And the cavern wasn’t just familiar—it was the place he was dying, right now, in the real world. The place where his body was lying, bleeding out into the cold ground, his blood darkening the stone ground.

For a third time, panic surged through him, but it was laced with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. The wind howled louder, and now Henry could make out voices, battle cries, screeching and yowling in twisted satisfaction. The snow now poured into the cave through the solid ceiling above, burying everything in its path. He wanted to claw his way out, to escape this nightmare, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. The snow was too thick, too heavy, pressing down on him from all sides. As his vision began to blur, the walls of the cave pulsed, breathing with a life of their own, in tandem with his own slowed breaths. The snow continued to fall, endlessly, burying him, until all he could see was white. And then, from the heart of the storm, he saw a figure—a tall, imposing silhouette that moved with unnatural grace, cutting through the blizzard as if it were nothing. Henry tried to focus, but his mind was slipping, the edges of his consciousness fraying like old cloth.

His final thoughts drifted to Bran. A deep guilt welled up inside him. He wouldn’t make it home for Christmas this year. He wouldn’t see his boy’s face light up when he opened his presents, wouldn’t hear his laughter echoing through the house. Regret gnawed at him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. In his last moments, as the darkness closed in, Henry barely registered the sharp pain in his chest—a bite, cold and searing, as if winter itself had latched onto his heart, and his eyes froze over with unshed tears until the world faded and he breathed his last.

In a long-forgotten catacomb in Wales, as the last drop of Henry's blood soaked into the humid ground, something ancient stirred. Beneath the layers of earth and stone, within the crypt that had long been forgotten, a pair of eyes snapped open. After centuries of entombment, something awoke. The blood of the dying hunter seeped into its consciousness, filling it with the remnants of Henry's life, his memories, his regrets. And once the blood had ran dry, the ancient knight rose from his tomb, his eyes burning with a cold, unholy fire.

He tore through the killers, the blood-thirsty beasts who had chased their prey to the ancient tomb, splattering the walls with their undead blood that burnt to ash, until none were left. Then, he looked down at the broken body of the hunter who had unwittingly become his saviour. With a grim sense of purpose, the knight knelt beside Henry’s lifeless form. He whispered words in a dialect long dead, a prayer, perhaps, or a vow. Then, with a reverence reserved for fallen comrades, the knight lifted the hunter’s body and carried him deeper into the crypt, where heroes were once laid to rest, where the knight's own tomb stood, broken apart from within. The hunter was gone, his spirit entwined with the ancient knight’s own, but his legacy would live on, honoured by one of the very creatures he had once sought to destroy.

The knight sealed the tomb with a final, solemn gesture, then left the catacombs behind and stepped out into the warm summer night, into a world which had long outlived him.

[potionwine]

Thinking about Margrace as Joshua's name post-Phoenix Gate.

Mar-grace.

In FFXVI the Undying choose their own names (Cyril explains this in-game), and many of them have names drawn from Final Fantasy XII, including their leader 'Margrace' himself, from Al-Cid Margrace. The page for Al-Cid notes that Margrace is likely an alternate form of the title 'margrave', an old title for military commanders on the border.

That aside. This is the name chosen (by the boy himself?) for the boy who should have rightfully been known henceforth as 'Your Grace', 'His Grace'.

Grace (style of address), from the Oxford English Dictionary:

With a possessive adjective: a title of respect, esp. for a person of royal or noble rank. Frequently (in 'your Grace') as a form of address. Now archaic or historical. Formerly (in England until the reign of Henry VIII and in Scotland until 1707) used for a monarch or prince; now replaced by Majesty or Highness. Even so, "Majesty" for the sovereign of England was not used exclusively; it arbitrarily alternated with both "Highness" and "Grace", even in official documents, until "Majesty" finally became the official style to the exclusion of others (source).

Grace (other meanings):

1. Divine favour, benevolence, or providence bringing about worldly benefit or advantage. 2. A person's lot, destiny, or fate; luck, fortune. 3. The quality of being pleasing; attractiveness, charm; esp. (in later use) refined elegance of manner, expression, form, or movement, esp. regarded as natural or effortless; gracefulness.

Whatever the etymology of margrave, the name Margrace in-game is probably meant to call to mind the meaning of 'mar' as in damaged, spoiled, ruined. All the grace that ever belonged to his family, his home, his birthright—marred, of course.

Mar+Grace, the last heir of the oldest unbroken ruling dynasty in the Twins at the time of the opening events of the game**.

The living ghost, carrying the desecrated corpse of his legacy in his new name. Introducing himself by his humiliation: "Hello, I am Margrace", "Hello, I am the ruined dignity of my house." "Call me Margrace", "Call me the wreckage of one fallen from divine favour." "My name is Margrace", "My name is blemished fortunes and diminished nobility".

It's appropriately brutal and dramatic for such a character, especially since the game is frustratingly silent on how Joshua personally feels about the loss of his duchy which is a rant for next time.

**Footnotes:

In the Year 860 (Prologue year/Phoenix Gate), Rosaria is about 260 years old (est. Y600). Older, if you count from the time of the Rose Alliance (est. Y550). The Rosfields have been on the Rosarian throne since the inception of the duchy in Y600, and prior to that House Rosfield was already known to be the chief of/the preeminent house of the Seven High Houses that united to found the duchy. House Rosfield has held ruling power for 260-310 years at a minimum.

For reference, England's longest-reigning dynasty was the Plantagenets, who held on for 300+ years. Rosfields aren't doing half bad!

Veldemarke would have been older had it not been overthrown by Barnabas; therefore Waloed is the youngest nation state at the time of the prologue (only 17 years old). Also we do not know much about the governance of Veldemarke, although as a 'kingdom' it was likely some type of monarchy.

Sanbreque was formed 100 years after Rosaria, and at any rate is not actually a hereditary monarchy. The Holy Emperor is voted into office by his fellow Cardinals, likely the five who form the Council of Elders. We are also explicitly told that Sylvestre 'won his throne' in 865; there is no indication either way that his predecessor emperor was a Lesage. The wording suggests the throne is not Sylvestre's by lineage or birthright. How this is supposed to relate to the concept of Sanbreque having a 'crown prince' (Dion) is unclear and contradictory, since an emperor by election should probably not have the authority to unilaterally decide on the succession of the throne, and his issue—legitimate or no—should not automatically be in the line of succession.

Dhalmekia is a republic with elected officials.

The Iron Kingdom apparently has a royal family, but nothing else is known apart from it being impotent and sidelined by their state religion.

The Northern Tribes likely do have hereditary rule, and Jill is referred to as a princess, but once again little is known.

Ergo—and I am ceaseless in this propaganda—Clive and Joshua are really, properly posh! Absolutely baffling that Anabella would allow anyone to put down the pedigree of her sons when they are so blue-blooded precisely because she is! For someone with such entrenched ideas of blood purity she should not stand for it, no matter how she feels about her eldest.

[laugtherhyena]

You guys should know i sketched this imediately after that pride month shitpost

[pardonmydelays]

the funniest thing that always happens to me is that every time we have a customer who doesn't speak polish and they ask me if i speak english i'm like "no, i don't think i do" only to realize a few minutes later that i do, in fact, speak english

[carefulfears]

what's your favorite line from californication?

"i said i never read your books but i lied, i read them all. i just didn't know how to talk about them with you. i didn't like the fathers in them." is one that just knocks me in the gut every time and that i think about so often because it touches on something very personal that's hard to articulate. on that note, "to my son, the writer. something i never said too much: i love you. my father never said it much either and i thought i would be different but i guess i'm not." -> "i love you. i didn't say it to hear it back." -> "to my dear, beautiful daughter...loving you has been the most profound, intense, painful experience of my life. in fact, it's been almost too much to bear." is a progression so meaningful to me. one thing that always stands out to me about this show is that loving and being loved is painful. is too much. is unbearable.. and is still frontrunner and the leading motivator most of the time.

some more that i love....when carrie died and hank couldn't stop drinking, said that he didn't know if he could make it back, and karen said "in the meantime, i'll just dream for the both of us, i guess."

when marcy said "they fucking love you to pieces, you dumb shit. we all do." & in the pilot when hank is mean and runs off their friend and marcy just says "go home, honey. sleep it off. tomorrow's another day." and the fact that in the original script he told her to go off on him and punish him and she wouldn't.

when mia left town and hugged hank goodbye and he said "you be good out there, psycho." i just love that line. (& "aside from the fact that you're mad as a hatter, you're a good kid.")

"now there's this feeling in my gut. she might be the one. she's completely nuts, in a way that makes me smile." hank's first letter to karen, 1994

before trial: becca saying "i don't want you to be guilty. i don't want people to look at you that way. i want them to know how great you can be." and hank replying "you shouldn't be thinking about that. that's too much for your brain."

"it's last call, pal. you should get out while the getting's good." "what if it's already too late?" "could be. i don't know. doesn't mean you shouldn't try."

there are so many lines in this show that are so simple and uniquely articulate that really just mean something to me.

my favorite reactions ever: "you're such a dirty old man." "no, i'm not."

&

"you'd look at the ocean and count the mermaids." "i did do that."

my favorite duchovny line delivery ever: when becca sobbed that she's just a kid and she's tired of parenting him and before she went off to see her boyfriend he said "you have fun, okay?" and his voice cracked

[sysig]

He was a human pirate, which you wouldn’t think you’d have to specify and yet (Patreon)

[softquietsteadylove]

HI!!!

it’s been a long time since the last doctor au. Can we get something new, please?

Thena eyes the woman chatting up her Gilgamesh. He's making friendly conversation, she knows. But the woman is obviously aiming for more than just friendly, the way she keeps laughing and smiling and putting her hand on his arm.

She has no one to blame but herself, Thena knows. The hospital fundraiser has been scheduled for months, and she's the one insisting their relationship remain secret from their coworkers. And of course Gil agreed, because it's Gil.

But watching women be all over him all night has been one hell of a just desserts. She takes a sip of her drink. Gil catches her eye and makes a bit of a face. He shrugs, which fits into the woman's story enough that she doesn't notice. But he's apologising to her - Thena - for it.

But she has no one to blame but herself.

Maybe the secrecy is overrated. She looks over to the dance floor, where Sersi is happily tucked into her husband's embrace as they sway to the music. They seem to make it work. Thena doesn't know how someone as sweet as Sersi is with someone as bullheaded as the orthopaedic specialist himself. But maybe the same could be said of her and Gil.

Thena tosses back the last of her champagne and walks straight towards Gil's table. This is why people don't like her socially--she's overly direct, chilly, has no bedside manner when it comes to her colleagues. She stares at them, "mind if I cut in?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"Not at all," Gil smiles though, and it's all the assurance she needs. He even pulls out the chair next to him for her.

His visitor visibly and audibly scoffs and rolls her eyes. Thena thinks she recognises her from HR or accounting or some other level of administration. She gets up in a huff anyway. Thena seats herself, tugging her dress around without a thought to the delicacy of the material.

But Gil sorts out the skirt of it more nicely. He even lets his hand brush the side of her leg where the slit allows him to. He sneaks his eyes up to hers, "you look beautiful."

She's glad that woman got up in a huff as she feels her face warm up several degrees. "Nothing you haven't seen before."

Because he helped her get ready, after they'd had a few good rounds in her bed, and before arriving in separate cars. Still, he compliments her, because of course he does. He swirls his own champagne, looking quite smart in his dark green suit.

All the doctors are in tuxes, but she likes how this colour brings out his eyes.

"Are you making any good connections?" he asks, like any of their colleagues would. It's as much a night for them to have off as it is for them to schmooze wealthy benefactors into donating to the hospital.

"None," she deadpans, and he laughs from his belly in response. She loves his laugh. "You?"

He snorts and throws back the last of his flute. "No one even knows us."

"That's not true," she nudges his arm as she leans back in her chair in a very unladylike way. She gestures, "Kingo knows how to work a crowd."

True, the man of the hour is in the centre of a circle of people listening to his stories. She's quite sure he's trying to convince someone to write a medical drama about his stories as an EMT.

"Well, I'm no Kingo," Gil shakes his head at his partner, not that they would have him any other way.

Thena spares a furtive glance around them, although most have moved on from the tables to search for more finger food or hit the dance floor. She risks brushing her hand over his casually, "you're better."

Gil matches her energy, though, letting his hand cup hers for just as brief a moment, "you're in a good mood tonight."

She can say it's the booze, but she's only had the one glass. It's not to her taste, but it's part of the atmosphere. "When was the last time we got a night off to do this?"

He gives her a grin that's a little mischievous on the tail end. "Our first date?"

She looks away again, because sometimes these little moments still make her feel like she's liking him from afar again. "That was a good night."

"Our only date, in some ways," he corrects, although there's no malice or ill will behind it. Even though he would love to have more proper dates to their name as a couple.

Thena sighs, though, because he deserves that. He deserves to go wild to his romantic heart's desire, no matter how overwhelmed it makes her feel. She leans forward against the table, "Gil-"

"Oh, Gil!" a shrill voice singsongs over the music.

Thena scowls as her whole body knots up. His friend is back, and she's brought company. "Eros."

"Thena, darling, looking ravishing as always," the self-proclaimed 'god of love' himself grins at her. He is one of the doctors in a full blown tuxedo. "Gotten any donations?"

"No, no one donates to an emergency room unless it guarantees benefits to them personally." The two newcomers look at her uncomfortably but it's true; no one ever donates to the emergency room because it's for the public, not for the highest insured patients.

"Well, what if I make a donation?" Eros grandstands, putting on his most winsome smile and even reaching into his suit jacket pocket. Does he really have his checkbook just...in there?

Thena points, "admin will take it."

The woman gets tired of playing this game. She sidesteps Eros to put her hands on Gil's shoulders. "Oh, enough business! It's time for you two to take to the floor."

Gil just stares. Just because he's big doesn't mean he likes getting climbed on like a children's jungle gym. He shakes his head faintly at her; he's asking what to do.

Thena sighs. That's why she brought Eros with her; he's a distraction to keep her from stealing Gil's attention again. Stealing attention from her own partner is an amusing thought. But she hasn't had enough to drink for it to be thoroughly entertaining.

The woman backs up as she stands. She and Eros watch as Thena grasps Gil's tie, pulling it out from his suit jacket and using it to turn his head and drag his lips to hers. She even makes a dramatic little moan just for them.

Gil is happy to oblige. He responds, sliding his hands up her body in the way that's familiar to them. They were doing exactly this a few short hours ago. When they part he doesn't even look to see if their audience has stuck around. "Thought you'd never ask, honey."

Thena keeps her hold on Gil's tie as she moves towards the dance floor, abandoning her clutch on the table. There's nothing in it but her phone and, well, a few contraceptives (in case Gil got ahead of himself on the way home).

"Y'know, sweetie, I have no complaints," Gil voices as he closes the distance and fixes his tie again. "But you could just ask."

She sighs as they turn towards each other to dance properly. He pulls her against him as her temper simmers itself dry. "I got the feeling she wasn't going to take no for an answer."

"Well, she would have had to," he assures her, even as they begin swaying to the music. She doesn't really know how to dance, but he takes the lead, holding her hip and her hand out in his. "Although watching my girlfriend grab me like that will probably haunt her for a while."

"Good," Thena mutters darkly, still off-put by the memory of her latching onto Gil's shoulders (like she has any right).

"Are you sure?" he whispers, still holding his head up if she wants more discretion. "If she doesn't have everyone knowing before we leave for the night then Eros certainly will. I wouldn't be surprised if he's crying to HR right now."

She does laugh faintly at the mental image of Eros snotting and whining like the little boy he is. "We're technically in different departments."

Gil chuckles, "guess you're right. But I'm asking you."

He's asking if she really wants to go public, or if she wants to deny their claims to the very end. Because he'll be with her, if she does, because of course he will.

Gil is receptive as she leans up to kiss him again. Maybe she can - somewhat! - understand what people see in the romance of it all. Swaying to music, Gil's arms around her, kissing him without a care in the world. There is something that makes the pleasure centres in her brain explode with euphoria.

"I'll take that as a yes," he smiles at her, even swaying a little more in his elation.

She tries to keep her head held high instead of shrinking away from the people observing them during their own dances. She clears her throat, pretending she can't feel how hot the tips of her ears are. "If it keeps her off of you, then yes."

He bends his head down, kissing the side of her neck. But it's not any invitation to mischief or show of dominance. He emerges again and kisses her on the forehead. "Can I tell those orderlies that check you out all the time that you're my girlfriend, now?"

She smiles, because it's Gil, and their relationship is no different now than it's been for the past several months. "You don't tell them I'm your wife?"

"Oh, I do," he answers instantly, and now she laughs. And sometimes when she laughs, she catches him looking at her in a way that makes all of her insides feel like jello. "But everyone knows you're my wife. Not everyone knows you're my girlfriend."

That is true. They were long ago anointed work husband and work wife. People are used to it, and it somewhat muddies the waters on what their relationship to each other actually is. And Thena will not be un-muddying them any time soon.

She moves Gil's arm more around her for herself, tucking herself into his chest in a way that makes moving more awkward instead of easier. But he folds around her comfortingly, happy to shift from foot to foot rather than really dance. "Then all the world can know I'm your partner."

She sighs as he presses a kiss to the top of her head, "I like the sound of that."

There's no going back from this. She always says that their personal lives have no place in the hospital. But she can't think about any of that, drowning in the endorphins this one man overtakes her brain with every time he smiles. And she has no one to blame but herself.