#no no I'm coping well

[larougewrites]

apologize to my sister

hi my d&d group blew up over Christmas break so I’ve been writing fanfic using our characters as a coping mechanism. I don’t write professionally or even casually so be nice or I’ll cry.

Characters of Import:

Logan Afor (she/her) - a firbolg Hexblade Warlock, because of a sword she constantly looks on the brink of death, very nicely dressed otherwise. Epithets: The Tyract, the Uniter of the Unwilling, the Vengeful Betrayed, the Redeemer

Shadow in the Trees (she/her) - a tabaxi Oath of Vengeance Paladin, Logan’s adopted sister. Epithets: The Manumissor, the Deathless Crusader, the Slumbering Death, the Blade of Retribution

Ayla (she/her) - a kalishtar Gloomstalker Ranger, also Logan’s adopted sister. Epithets: She Who Dances With Nightmares, the Defender of Anemoia, the Sleepless Death, the Protector of the Redemptive

Emmaline (she/her) - royal from the city of Corlen, her parents thought she was kidnapped by the Party, she left on her own accord lol, married to another member of the Party, Andrena.

The Setting:

The Party is invited to a ball in a lord’s manor. Their exploits are well-known, we are not. Although we are not known by face, those in attendance would recognize our epithets.

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

This was not the Party’s first ball, and after the clusterfuck of the dinner in Potenza, they had all resolved to acquire formalwear that could double as armor as well as hide various types of weaponry on their person. 

Logan had been loitering around the food table for what felt like an hour, nibbling at the finger foods and noting which ones were good enough to bring back to Ocho when she was approached by a noble she knew quite well, Emmaline’s mother. After returning to Corlen with Emmaline sans injury and plus a wife, tensions were strained for a few months until the Party intercepted some revolutionaries’ attempt to burn their house down, after which the family mysteriously warmed up to the lot of them. 

“Logan,” she greeted with a smile, “It is good to see you healthy and hale! What has you invited to Lord Whisptell’s ball?”

As much as she, uh, didn’t mind the noblewoman, Logan still hated all the weird doublespeak that had to occur at these political events. 

“Er, we saved his prize horses a few weeks ago, and he seems to think this would be good recompense I guess?” Logan was growing more and more uncomfortable by the minute. “The food is excellent though, and I think I might try to get some of the recipes from the chef. How is the ball going for you, ma’am?”

As they continued to make very awkward small talk, Logan noticed Shadow swiftly approaching the loud group of people to her right, with a very familiar and very concerning smile on her face. It had been a while since Logan had seen that particular smile, and although it did not come out often, it always portended the reminder of what oath she had taken as a paladin. Logan quickly bowed out of the conversation as politely as she could, chasing after Shadow. She was too late to intercept her however, and only reached the group as she began to speak.

---

Sir Johnathan Pintwinzt, Duke of Northsenborg, was having a riotous time at Lord Whisptell’s ball, holding his own small court and mercilessly judging the other attendees. He had just found a new target in the awful, corpse-looking Firbolg on the other side of the aperitif table and was reciting all her disgusting flaws when all of a sudden from behind him came a soft voice.

“Could you repeat that for me?” 

A tall tabaxi woman clad in an anarkali suit fitted to look like a military coat made herself known as the speaker, and a hush fell over the room in a way that he didn’t recognize as a warning.

“I said, she should be ashamed of herself for being such a filthy little mongrel in the presence of people so obviously her superiors, such as yourself,” Jonathan sneered, grimacing at the sight of the nasty creature approaching.

“Shadow, this is unnecessary-”

“On the contrary Logan.” The tabaxi (Shadow?) cut the urchin off with a sharp look, before turning back to Johnathan.

“Thank you,” this ‘Shadow’ smiled politely, reaching up to pat his arm, “I wanted to make sure I heard that correctly. What is your name again?”

Jonathan preened, “I am, of course, Sir Johnathan Pintwinzt, Duke of Northsenborg!” This was obviously a woman with her head on her shoulders!

“Well Duke,” she purred, smile lengthening, hand tightening on his shoulder, claws beginning to detract, “Are you aware of whom you are speaking?”

“Obviously some serva- ow!” 

“Kneel in the presence of the Tyract, scum.”

The man had barely gotten three words out before the tabaxi put far more pressure on his shoulder, forcing him to his knees, her voice a booming snarl. What little noise there was left in the room froze, and Duke Johnathan Pintwinzt finally picked up on the fact that not only was the woman above him in direct disagreement with him but also had the power to do something about it. The words she spoke registered after a second.

“T-the Tyract?” he stuttered out, his position dawning on him in a terrifying realization.

“The Tyract,” she whispered dangerously, “The Uniter of The Unwilling, The Vengeful Betrayed, The Redeemer… call her what you will, but her most important title is that of my sister.”

In the background, Logan buried her face in her hands. They were never being invited back to Lord Whisptell’s balls. Ever. It is easy to forget that a predator lurks in their midst when her sister so often is soft-spoken and meek, but the canines flashed at this man do not belong to prey.

“Here’s what is going to happen,” she continued, “You’re going to apologize to my sister. Genuinely. Then, you’ll keep in mind the fact that if you insult her again, you will not be alive to do so a third time.”

Logan watched as the man kneeling before her whimpered as Shadow flexed her claws, staring down at him with what looked like patience to those who had not seen this woman slice through slavers with a face as still as a pond frozen in the winter.

“Tsk, you should hurry up with that apology, your fancy white shirt is getting more stained by the second,” she stated nonchalantly as blood began to bleed around the claws digging into his shoulder.

Duke Pintwinzt whipped his head around to look at Logan and stammered out what Shadow seemed to deem an appropriate apology, since she drug him to his feet and whispered something in his ear that made the man go the color of curdled milk before letting him go with a pat to his shoulder.

“Shadow in the Trees,” Logan hissed, dragging her away, “that was so rude!” 

“Maybe, but it was so funny,” Ayla added, appearing at her shoulder.

Shadow’s jaw clenched, the crowd parting as they made their way to find James, “He insulted you.”

“People insult me all the time! You can’t just go around forcing people to their knees and, and making a scene! Emmaline’s mom barely likes us as is!”

“Yeah Logan, I know,” Shadow grinds out, “Usually, I can’t force the people insulting you to their knees and apologize. But this time I could. So I did.”

As they moved through the crowd, whispers followed in their wake.

“Did he not know-”

“He insulted the Tyract-”

“To insult a servant in front of the Manumissor-”

“Everyone knows the Deathless Crusader is the right hand of the Redeemer-”

“Is that She Who Dances With Nightmares?”

They continue to cross the ballroom, and Logan can see Shadow’s hand clenching and drift towards her sword every so often. 

[shaynesthetic]

I would still be surprised I could find you, darlin', in any life.

[rika-mortis]

Headcanon: Deep down they both want to be their fairy godparent/godkid again after losing them, but don't believe they deserve each other and feel like they aren't worthy to be their companion anymore

They both need counseling and therapy as a whole package

[kunikiiida-kuuun]

Did you know Kunikida has smiled only three times in the manga?

The first time when he's praising Ranpo

The second time when he hears about Master Carlyle

And then last when he—

[princeofmints]

checking on the boys because i hear them doing their Play Meows and i want to make sure they aren't hurting each other and this is what i see

[justplaggin]

them.

[thechekhov]

Everyone, trying to warn me: Harrow the Ninth is so complicated and so hard to get through and you won't have any idea what the hell is happening!

Me: Harrow the Ninth is peak comedy if your sense of humor is fucked beyond all sense.

[atheone-sketch]

[hopetorun]

if you do more than one just pick the one you do most often! (for instance i'm a sound off girl except for occasionally when i'm a game off refreshing the app nonstop girl)

[raileurta]

Therapy Humans

After being in a war for millions of years transformers gotta be really fucked up. So I imagine with humans being nice and soft and having therapists that we'll be therapy dog humans.

[bakudekublogblog]

bkdk can't hold hands and they can't hug so hori is going to have no choice but to give us eight panels of sloppy tongue kissing

[prettyboytsum]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ tying a tie I nanami kento pairings: nanami x reader tags: slice of life series (potentially?), fluff wc: 354

8:04 AM "darling, i know how to tie a tie."

"just—give me a second alright," you shush, hand on your hip and the other on the tie as you focus on the video tutorial playing. your brow furrowed in concentration as you repeat the steps to yourself.

"i loop this over this," you whisper, an amused look on nanami's face as you try to replicate the practiced steps he does every morning before work. "then i tighten—i tighten this?" "mhm, not quite," he responds jokingly, which earns a glare from you. nanami has always been capable of tying a tie. he's done it every day for more than a decade—to work, to dates, to ensuring that gojo dresses presentably when needed. but during your movie binge the other night, you had come to the (mundane) conclusion that you have never had a moment of tying a tie for him before he's off to work. "it's a cliché in every movie we've seen," you whined then as you were both getting ready for bed. nanami was already settled on his side while you lifted the shared blanket to tuck yourself in. "how are we supposed to tell our kids we fell in love!" "are we not?" "clearly, not! if i've never even tied a tie—" you grumble to yourself as turn the lampshade off with a pout. which leads you to now and your very poor attempt at getting nanami dressed for a long day at work. "there!" you say, pleased with yourself. nanami, in all his efforts, has to bite back a smile when he sees how crooked and loose the fabric is. he's been standing in the living room with his briefcase and cup of coffee in hand for the past 20 minutes while humoring you. "are we in love now?" nanami pokes, the amusement dripping over. "yes, very in love," you nod, clearly satisfied as you give him his usual goodbye kiss and a pat on the chest. his heart stutters. nanami kento, a man of routine and perfection, has his coworkers wondering why he started the day with a lovestruck smile and hastily tied tie.

author's note: head in hands...nanami my beloved...honestly thinking of making a slice of life series for him because in some universe, this man deserves a break T__T ⓒ prettyboytsum 2024. all works are posted under this account on tumblr.com and are protected by copyright laws. do not plagiarise these works on any other platform or account.

[wretchedbroth]

How it honestly feels to be a Faulkner Thesiltverses fan 😶

[carrythatwayt]

I love her, your honor.

[constantine-2005]

ooooo gutsy studios you will release one last episode of moominvalley

and ooooo gutsy studios you will make snufmin canon in said final episode ooooo

[oh-snapperss]

creature comfort

“We won’t win today,” Cleo says, and Etho knows she’s right. Knows their time has been running out since the first secret was whispered to them in voices all too familiar, has known that this day was coming, has known that all this time, it’s not been a question of if–it’s been a question of when. 

They’re going to die today. Distantly, Etho wonders if the domesticity they’ve worked for will die with them, or if it will follow them back home. 

Will his home ever be a physical place again? Home is where the hearth is, where the warmth is, where the world is shut out and it’s just the three of them. 

Home is where Cleo is. 

“That’s alright,” Etho smiles instead of voicing all of that, wishing, of all things, that he didn’t still have that awful cough that Cleo had insisted he rest over for a few days. “We’ll be alright.” 

They’ll be dead–and what are the dead, if not alright? The dead don’t have coughs, or pain, or fear. They’re just dead. Etho thinks he might not mind it so much, this time. He’s finally learned to spend his time wisely, and he’s built a home no flaming arrow could ever take down. 

Just by the cow pen, there’s a stupid little porch Etho had built a while back. They’re nowhere near it now, but every night he and Cleo had watched the sunset, drank a final cup of tea, and turned in to sleep over gossip and giggles only they could draw from each other this time ‘round. Before, Bdubs had made him laugh like that–now, Etho wonders how long before there’s a sword at his throat. 

Even so, while Cleo laughs and watches him set Scar’s porch on fire, Etho hopes he might have the privilege of watching the sunset from the porch one last time. He’d survive the day, if only for another sunset with Cleo. 

BANG. 

Tango’s gone–Etho knows it in his heart. Surely he should feel an ache for him, should ask how he went. Instead, it’s easy to accept it. 

The wardens are fun. That’s all they are, now. Before, they had been terrors, then the answer to a desperate prayer he and Grian had made. The carnage of those terrifying beasts feel muted compared to before, but with the wind flying through his hair, the elated cries of Cleo in front of him, Etho can’t care. Not this time. They lead two clear to the middle of the server before they’ve decided to finish having their fun, and Cleo’s just stepping up some rocks when she says it. 

“You’re my favorite, you know that? You’ve always been my favorite.” 

He does know, he does know now. He’d guessed it that first sunset, when Cleo sat down with a giddy smile to recount their day. He’d thought it, when she’d wrapped a blanket around his shoulders after his failures and rested her head on his shoulder without a word. He’d lived it, when she had shouted that she would kill him if he tried to kill her–but was reassured otherwise that night on the porch again, with the curse ebbing from his bones. 

Today, he knows it in the blatant rebellion against what’s supposed to be the end, the dread, the fear. 

“You’re mine too.” Etho grins back, and knows that they’ll see his smile even through the mask–knows they’ve come to recognize it in his tone and way his eyebrows scrunch together. . 

They wind up in the sky base with Grian–Grian, who hasn’t quite reached the same conclusion they have. Etho knows by the shadows under his eyes he won’t give up, that he’ll fight clear to the end. Once upon a season, Etho had been the same. 

Not this time. Never this time. 

Around ten minutes to sunset, Etho and Cleo set down their dripstone and bows, and sit on the edge of the cobblestone wall. 

“I don’t think we’re gonna make it back to our base for it this time,” Etho jokes, nudging his shoulder into Cleo’s. Cleo laughs, a carefree thing, and wrinkles her nose. 

“I don’t think we’re gonna make it back for it any time, if we’re being honest.” She leans back, one hand half behind her to support her weight. 

“I know,” Etho says. He brings his leg up to his chest, wrapping his arms around it. Behind them, cobblestone is placed–Grian, ever the survivor. “It was nice, though.” 

“It was nice!” Cleo beams. “Are you alright with this?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Etho hums. “‘s not so bad. Dying with a friend.” 

“It won’t be,” Cleo agrees. 

Because that’s just it, isn’t it? Etho’s never died like this–he’s died at the flames of an arrow shot while protecting his king, he’s died in fights after his allies were killed. Hell, he’s died hand in hand with a soulmate hellbent on killing him now–but he’d been in a frenzy then, a rage-induced thing meant to burn up the place that had never been a true home to them. 

He thinks he won’t mind dying with someone. 

The sun sets in brilliant hues of orange and pink, and they sit together, this final tradition not lost in the face of inevitability. Just as the first star twinkles, Grian comes over, hoisting them back to their feet. 

“They’re coming,” he says. 

It’s time. 

They shoot a few arrows, break some dripstone, all to no avail–but that’s alright, he’s got Cleo, and they’ve got him. 

But oh, the games are never kind, are they? Etho slips, his foot landing weird somehow–and he’s whistling through the air towards the ground at a speed too fast. It knocks the breath from his lungs when he lands–does he hit the clutch? Stars, he doesn’t actually know, because there’s arrows shot at him, shouts of glee from the hunters, and suddenly Etho’s not Etho, he’s just prey–and prey only know to do one thing. 

Run. 

Etho flies forward, dragging his sword out. There’s not many safe spaces left on the server–stars, Grian had even mentioned their base was but a crater in the hill. 

But the porch… the porch was intact. Supposedly. 

He enderpearls, and enderpearls again, and it’s still not enough. The screams behind him are closer, and closer, and then further–and oh, Etho knows it’s time. He’s dead, he’s gone, he’ll be but a wisp of the wind in a few minutes whether he likes it or not. 

And he won’t die by Cleo. 

Cleo, Cleo, Cleo. Oh, he’d not meant it to be like this. He’d meant to die with a smile, right by her side–just as they were meant to die by his. This wasn’t the plan, this wasn’t the plan. A sob claws its way up his throat, the beginnings of the blind panic he’d never meant to feel tonight. He’s going to die, alone, without the comfort of his Cleo. 

Home. He wants to go home. 

Home is in the air, a hundred blocks above him. He’ll never make it–but he can make it back to the porch, the one place of peace. Now, he can feel the twinge of something broken in his ankles, probably from the fall–and the cuts, the bruises, the blood scent thick in his nose. He’s so tired. 

He wants to die at home, he wants to die at home. 

“Oh, he sounds like a wounded animal… let’s put him out of his misery.” A voice said. Cold fear grips Etho’s heart, and he stumbles forward–the porch is in sight!

Let him die at home. Let him die at home. 

A shadow fills his vision, and Etho’s not even had time to lift his shield before blinding pain fills his stomach, and it’s over. 

He’s not allowed that creature comfort of dying at home.